SV fic post: Property of C.K.
5/15/07 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Property of C.K.
Fandom:SV
Pairing:Clark/Whitney
Rating:NC-17
Summary: just fore fun pwp!
Happy Birthday,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rosy5000, and ladydey. You know you missed the boys! *G*
“I’m sorry. I just came by to tell you that. That what we did was stupid, and I’m sorry. I hope we didn’t hurt you…too much.” Whitney was sorry all right. Lana hadn’t let him touch her ever since she found out about that stupid stunt...first his truck and now his balls. That stunt really had been fucking stupid.
“Thanks. I’m fine--thanks to Lex. Good bye.”
‘Screw you.’ Whitney turned and started to walk away, turned back. “It’s your fault in a way--you were always looking at her, and that was damn disrespectful, you know? I mean, I know it’s wrong now…”
“I would *never* have done anything—I mean—Lana’s safe from me.”
Whit turned, angry again. “What the hell does that mean?”
Clark stood, and walked up to Whit, until he was chest to chest with him and Whit had to look up or take a step backward so he could look Clark in the eye. “It means what I said. Lana’s safe. Now leave.”
Whit whirled around and stomped down a few steps, and then turned around and stomped right back up the steps. “Look, jerk, I came to apologize and I mean it. I—okay, Lana won’t talk to me until I do.”
“You told her?”
“Kinda…anyway, just tell me what I can do to make it up to you and I’ll do it and all this shit can be behind us.”
“Geez…you just really suck at this don’t you?” Clark glared at Whit, and then…slowly began to smile. “All right, then. Take your clothes off.”
“WHAT?” Whit backed up a step. “What are you, some kind of fruit?” He glanced behind him and eased towards the stairs, he could feel his face flame red.
“Oh for—just your shirt and pants, you idiot. And I noticed no one was accusing anyone of being a fruit when they took *my* clothes off.”
Whit frowned. “That was different…” How, he couldn’t say, he just knew it was.
“Sure,” Clark smirked. “It’s not repressed homoeroticism finding a socially approved outlet-- it’s just a crowd of good old boys indulging in a little masculine bonding ritual together.” His smile faltered a little when Whit just stared. “I’ve been talking with Lex a lot,” he muttered, and his cheeks pinked a little.
“Mm, yeah.” Whit eyed Clark like he was a coiled rattler, and slowly took his shirt off. He had it halfway unbuttoned when he decided that he wished he’d just whipped it off over his head…it felt a little too much like he was performing a strip tease….
Clark shuffled his feet and his cheeks were a bit redder…Whit popped the snap on his jeans, and blushed when Clark jumped. “Heh, that was…loud.” He was about to ask Clark to put on the radio or something and thanked God he didn’t say it out loud, what the fuck—he might as well swing his jeans around his head and toss them. All he needed was a stupid bowtie and some corny cuffs. Whit took a deep breath, dropped to the floor and unlaced his boots…he hesitated and took his socks off too; he didn’t want to look like a complete dork. “Ah…Kent. What if your parents come up here?”
“They’re not home,” Clark said in a distracted tone. He was hunting around the couch cushions, and found something that made him smile.
Whit was getting to his feet and shoving his pants down to his ankles. “Not home? Oh.” He looked down, and wished that he’d worn something else besides Scooby-Doo boxers, and then felt like an enormous idiot---Clark already thought he was an ass-hole—Scooby wasn’t going to make his opinion of him any worse. When he looked at Clark, Clark was scowling…pulling his shirt over his head. The Fuck? “Clark…”
“I want you to see something.”
See something! Whit’s heart lurched. Oh my God, Clark was going to—molest him or something—his breath caught in his throat—
“Hey! Are you paying attention to me?”
He realized Clark had been calling his name and was pointing at something on his chest…“Oh. I’m--” Whit stared at the faint outline of an S on Clark’s chest. “Gosh. Really sorry.” He remembered it wet and bright, long crimson drips running toward the band of Clark’s boxers, blue plaid, and soft…he shook. “Really, really fucking sorry, believe me Clark.”
“You know what, Whit? I’m going to believe that much more, in a minute. You should have the fun of scrubbing and scrubbing your skin all night. “Yeah. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.” He grinned and Whit was struck—wow, Clark could really look sort of scary when he wanted to. There was no trace of the Boy Scout in his face...he flipped a blue magic-marker he must have found during his hunt in the couch end over end between his fingers and sneered. “So...guess what’s going to happen ne—whooops!”
There he was, Whit exhaled in relief—good old Dork Clark. The marker went flying and struck Whit in the chest.
“Crap!” Clark was on his knees, scrabbling for the marker as it rolled over the rough floor boards. “Damn it...” It rolled under the couch.
“Um…do you want me to help--” Whit knelt too and fished around under the couch with Clark.
“NO!” Clark planted a hand in the middle of Whit’s chest and pushed, and it didn’t seem as if he pushed that hard, but Whit found himself sliding across the floor on his ass, not the most comfortable thing considering the boards were unfinished. Damn. Clark was stronger than he let on—way stronger. Whit stood, rubbing his ass, and Clark grunted and stood.
“Found it…”
He looked at Whit, blushed bright red, and jabbed the marker at him. “I had to wear your stupid S, so it’s only fair that you wear my mark.”
Whit found himself blushing a little too. Mark. His mark. Why did that sound so…loaded? He found his eyes locked on Clark’s nipples in a horribly obvious way. They were really dark, and perky…could guy’s nips be perky? Sure why not, after all…hunh? Mark? “Mark? Hey, wait a minute—you want to write on me? Hell no,” he snapped and pulled up drooping Scooby boxers. “No way. That’d be stupid.”
“Ahhhh, sure—*that* would be stupid. Stripping me and hanging me on a cross half-naked at night with the possibility of me maybe croaking from hypothermia and almost definitely dislocating both my shoulders—that *wasn’t* stupid.”
Jesus, Clark was almost as bad as Lana--“Oh, god—all right! Just do it to me and shut up!”
‘Do it to me’ seemed to echo from the rafters for a long, long time. Whit swallowed, wondered if it sounded as loud to Kent as it did to him. God, he was just staring at him with those huge green eyes and how the fuck was it fair for a dude to have such fucking pretty eyes….
“…because it’s only fair.”
Fuck—he missed what Clark said again—just agree, not like Kent planned to kill him. “Yeah...okay?”
“Good. All right.” Clark was in front of him and taking the cap off the marker and leaning forward. He pressed the tip to Whit’s skin.
‘Shit. I hope he doesn’t write anything embarrassing…’ Clark wrote carefully in big block letters and in the mirror in the corner, Whit could see, in reverse, ‘I AM AN ASSHOLE’. Whit grimaced. Nice. Real nice. Clark stepped back, and grinned.
“Asshole,” Whit muttered under his breath. He rubbed his chest lightly, feeling little spots of warmth here and there on his skin and bent to pick up his shirt. Clark stopped him.
“You know Whitney, It was very cold that night…and dark. And I had nothing to protect me from the cold. And if Lex hadn’t happened by and cut me loose…” Clark blushed, deep red. “Yeah, unh…Lex…” He looked as if he lost his train of thought.
“Lex what?” Whit was curious, but Clark scowled.
“We’re not even yet, Whit, trust me—wait! I know what.” He grinned evilly and Whit felt a little chill walk down his spine. He could be kind of creepy looking, Kent.
Clark uncapped the marker again, and bent to write on him—again--steadying his writing surface with a firm hand on Whit’s hip. A big hand--warm, and surprisingly smooth and neat. Not like the hand of a farmer at all--no calluses, no snagged nails, no ground in dirt. Clark’s hand was so big that his fingers nearly wrapped around him. Whit bit the inside of his cheek. Clark had a thumb pressing against his hipbone, the rest of his fingers were resting on his skin of his back—Clark was…squeezing. Squeezing him.
“Hold still,” he muttered, and his warm breath puffed out over Whit’s almost bare hip.
The tip of Clark’s tongue tapped a little code against his bottom lip as he concentrated on what the fuck ever he was writing.
…his cock did not lift did not move did not did not did not…
Clark moved his hand down and pressed again. His thumb slid a bit in the groove of Whit’s hip and he swallowed and so did Clark—and he giggled. Giggled!
For Whit, the horrible part was not that Clark giggled at him or that Clark giggled at all—it was that Whit heard it and thought—awww. And his cock thought ‘how *you* doin’?’
The fuck?
He looked down, and Clark was staring at what he’d written and looking slowly, slowly uncomfortable… “Unh-oh.”
“Uhn-oh? What unh-oh? Clark…”
In the mirror, Whit read ‘PROPERTY OF C. K.’ and an arrow pointed down. Towards the waistband of his boxers.
“Oh my fucking god--Kent! What the fuck—shit!”
“Oh man…that seemed a lot funnier in my mind…” Clark furrowed his brow, and bit his lip…”That’s really kind of…gay looking, hunh?”
“Ya *think*?” Whit shouted, any thought of warm fingers and pink lips gone like mist. “I’m not getting naked anywhere any time soon!”
Clark turned fire engine red from his forehead to his collar bones. He reached up to scrub uselessly at the marks on Whit’s belly. “I’m sorry, that’s a little worse than you deserve…” He scrubbed and rubbed, and spit on his fingers and rubbed harder and Whit grabbed his hands. “God, stop Clark, *please*!”
Clark seemed to just realize that he was nose to…nose…with Whit’s very interested and perky cock. “Ooo-oh man—no no, don’t worry, it’s okay! It’s all the rubbing--”
*jerk*
“I mean trying to rub that off.”
*jerk*
Whitney tried to move back out of Clark’s grip—he might as well have been chained to Clark. “Every time you speak, your chin…touches…my…me.” he managed through grit teeth. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, yeah, I can understand that,” Clark said, but didn’t move, or let Whit go. “So…when I talk, like this,” and the bastard lowered his chin. “It makes you uncomfortable?” His chin was right over the head of his dick. His dick was poking Clark repeatedly in the neck. Clark wasn’t moving, or rather, he wasn’t moving backwards….
Clark was kneeling in front of him and Whit moved like he was attached to strings and some demonic puppetmaster was directing his movements. He slowly lifted his foot, between Clark’s spread knees, and touched his crotch. Clark didn’t move, so Whit pressed, slid his foot under Clark, until warm solid weight of his balls were resting on the top of his foot. He watched the front of Clark’s boxers rise. Pulled his foot back until it he could feel the rise in Clark’s boxers pushing against his foot.
Clark groaned a little and moved his head. His cheek was warm against Whit’s cock. His mouth just a breath away. Whit experienced the unique sensation of being two different persons. One person was gently kneading Clarks *cock* with his toes and letting Clark breathe all over his own cock and leaking tons into his Scooby-Doo boxers and the other person was quietly having a breakdown. Many breakdowns. One after the other.
His foot wasn’t stopping though.
Clark moved his head again, and asked Whit, “Do you want me to…” he didn’t even wait for an answer, Clark just pulled his boxers down until Scooby was crunched up around his knees, and started kind of nuzzling his thigh. Whit’s cock was trying to get Clark’s attention, bobbing and waving and spitting little hints ‘here, hi! Come here!’ trying to get Clark to let go of his leg and…and… kiss the cock. A laugh broke free and Clark stopped. “What?”
“Oh—it—it tickled, sorry.”
Clark grinned. “Let me see if I can make it stop tickling,” he said, and took the head of Whit’s cock in his mouth.
Whit sagged, and his hands flew up and buried themselves in Clark’s hair. Clark grunted in approval, and Whit grabbed hard, harder as Clark made more noise, and washed the head with his tongue.
“God! Wow!” Whit threw his head back, his knees still bent. He made a tentative thrusting motion, and Clark took the motion up, holding his hips and encouraging Whit to fuck his mouth.
“Oh yeah, do that, do that—you like that—aaaaah fuck, I know *I* do, shit!” Whit was nearly crazy with it, talking crazy stuff and saying shit out loud he’d never ever say to Lana—fuck, than again, Lana wasn’t anywhere near this good…was he going to have to reciprocate like he did for her? He looked down, Clark had his cock in his hand, jerking off…a stab of pure lust speared through him, fuck that was just so fucking hot—he felt his cock lift and pump precome down Clark’s throat.
Clark moaned around him, and his hand speeded up, Whit heard him and saw him and smelled him and there was no way an hour ago you could have told him that he’d want to suck Clark Kent off—but holy shit, he really wanted to suck Clark Kent off.
Clark had other things in mind. He got louder and louder, muffled even though his mouth was stuffed full. He jerked, and Whit yelped. Clark curled over Whit’s cock, swallowed and swallowed and groaned and came all over his knees.
That was unfair. There was no way he cold stop the freight train that was racing through him right now, no way he’d be able to hold back one minute more—tell Clark—warn Clark—“Hey, I—I’m—oh shit…coming--” He tried to pull out of Clark’s mouth and it was like trying to pull out of a vacuum cleaner, and his hands clamped down on him—Whit was just discovering he *really* liked being restrained when he experienced a full body orgasm. Explosion. Meltdown.
It was the orgasm to end all orgasms. It was an orgasm that involved breath—he completely forgot how to breathe. It involved sight—long lashes on red cheeks, red lips wrapped around his red cock and never before in his life had the sight of spit made him groan out loud and pray, It involved touch—every single bit of his skin tingled and buzzed and ran with sweat and there was one long, huge electric zap of lightning running from every nerve in his body and ending up right in his cock and it exploded—he jerked forward, curved over Clark, who was swallowing and gulping, eyes wide in surprise, until they dropped and he flushed bright red from his neck all the way down to his toes....
“Ho—holy *shit*, Clark! Wow…” Whit looked down at the flushed red cheeked, red lipped face staring back up at him. “Wow…” Whit waited for—something--fear, embarrassment, some bad thing, but all he felt was a warm twist in his gut and a feeling like—puzzle pieces falling into place. “Oh!” He said. “Clark. Now I get it.”
“Yeah? That’s good, Whit.” Clark smiled. “Told you Lana was safe from me.” He leaned close again, and nipped Whit’s belly, sucked a rosy bruise right under the point of the arrow. “You, on the other hand…not so much.”
It was amazing how truly scary Clark could look....
5-15-2007
*G*
Fandom:SV
Pairing:Clark/Whitney
Rating:NC-17
Summary: just fore fun pwp!
Happy Birthday,
rosy5000, and ladydey. You know you missed the boys! *G*“I’m sorry. I just came by to tell you that. That what we did was stupid, and I’m sorry. I hope we didn’t hurt you…too much.” Whitney was sorry all right. Lana hadn’t let him touch her ever since she found out about that stupid stunt...first his truck and now his balls. That stunt really had been fucking stupid.
“Thanks. I’m fine--thanks to Lex. Good bye.”
‘Screw you.’ Whitney turned and started to walk away, turned back. “It’s your fault in a way--you were always looking at her, and that was damn disrespectful, you know? I mean, I know it’s wrong now…”
“I would *never* have done anything—I mean—Lana’s safe from me.”
Whit turned, angry again. “What the hell does that mean?”
Clark stood, and walked up to Whit, until he was chest to chest with him and Whit had to look up or take a step backward so he could look Clark in the eye. “It means what I said. Lana’s safe. Now leave.”
Whit whirled around and stomped down a few steps, and then turned around and stomped right back up the steps. “Look, jerk, I came to apologize and I mean it. I—okay, Lana won’t talk to me until I do.”
“You told her?”
“Kinda…anyway, just tell me what I can do to make it up to you and I’ll do it and all this shit can be behind us.”
“Geez…you just really suck at this don’t you?” Clark glared at Whit, and then…slowly began to smile. “All right, then. Take your clothes off.”
“WHAT?” Whit backed up a step. “What are you, some kind of fruit?” He glanced behind him and eased towards the stairs, he could feel his face flame red.
“Oh for—just your shirt and pants, you idiot. And I noticed no one was accusing anyone of being a fruit when they took *my* clothes off.”
Whit frowned. “That was different…” How, he couldn’t say, he just knew it was.
“Sure,” Clark smirked. “It’s not repressed homoeroticism finding a socially approved outlet-- it’s just a crowd of good old boys indulging in a little masculine bonding ritual together.” His smile faltered a little when Whit just stared. “I’ve been talking with Lex a lot,” he muttered, and his cheeks pinked a little.
“Mm, yeah.” Whit eyed Clark like he was a coiled rattler, and slowly took his shirt off. He had it halfway unbuttoned when he decided that he wished he’d just whipped it off over his head…it felt a little too much like he was performing a strip tease….
Clark shuffled his feet and his cheeks were a bit redder…Whit popped the snap on his jeans, and blushed when Clark jumped. “Heh, that was…loud.” He was about to ask Clark to put on the radio or something and thanked God he didn’t say it out loud, what the fuck—he might as well swing his jeans around his head and toss them. All he needed was a stupid bowtie and some corny cuffs. Whit took a deep breath, dropped to the floor and unlaced his boots…he hesitated and took his socks off too; he didn’t want to look like a complete dork. “Ah…Kent. What if your parents come up here?”
“They’re not home,” Clark said in a distracted tone. He was hunting around the couch cushions, and found something that made him smile.
Whit was getting to his feet and shoving his pants down to his ankles. “Not home? Oh.” He looked down, and wished that he’d worn something else besides Scooby-Doo boxers, and then felt like an enormous idiot---Clark already thought he was an ass-hole—Scooby wasn’t going to make his opinion of him any worse. When he looked at Clark, Clark was scowling…pulling his shirt over his head. The Fuck? “Clark…”
“I want you to see something.”
See something! Whit’s heart lurched. Oh my God, Clark was going to—molest him or something—his breath caught in his throat—
“Hey! Are you paying attention to me?”
He realized Clark had been calling his name and was pointing at something on his chest…“Oh. I’m--” Whit stared at the faint outline of an S on Clark’s chest. “Gosh. Really sorry.” He remembered it wet and bright, long crimson drips running toward the band of Clark’s boxers, blue plaid, and soft…he shook. “Really, really fucking sorry, believe me Clark.”
“You know what, Whit? I’m going to believe that much more, in a minute. You should have the fun of scrubbing and scrubbing your skin all night. “Yeah. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.” He grinned and Whit was struck—wow, Clark could really look sort of scary when he wanted to. There was no trace of the Boy Scout in his face...he flipped a blue magic-marker he must have found during his hunt in the couch end over end between his fingers and sneered. “So...guess what’s going to happen ne—whooops!”
There he was, Whit exhaled in relief—good old Dork Clark. The marker went flying and struck Whit in the chest.
“Crap!” Clark was on his knees, scrabbling for the marker as it rolled over the rough floor boards. “Damn it...” It rolled under the couch.
“Um…do you want me to help--” Whit knelt too and fished around under the couch with Clark.
“NO!” Clark planted a hand in the middle of Whit’s chest and pushed, and it didn’t seem as if he pushed that hard, but Whit found himself sliding across the floor on his ass, not the most comfortable thing considering the boards were unfinished. Damn. Clark was stronger than he let on—way stronger. Whit stood, rubbing his ass, and Clark grunted and stood.
“Found it…”
He looked at Whit, blushed bright red, and jabbed the marker at him. “I had to wear your stupid S, so it’s only fair that you wear my mark.”
Whit found himself blushing a little too. Mark. His mark. Why did that sound so…loaded? He found his eyes locked on Clark’s nipples in a horribly obvious way. They were really dark, and perky…could guy’s nips be perky? Sure why not, after all…hunh? Mark? “Mark? Hey, wait a minute—you want to write on me? Hell no,” he snapped and pulled up drooping Scooby boxers. “No way. That’d be stupid.”
“Ahhhh, sure—*that* would be stupid. Stripping me and hanging me on a cross half-naked at night with the possibility of me maybe croaking from hypothermia and almost definitely dislocating both my shoulders—that *wasn’t* stupid.”
Jesus, Clark was almost as bad as Lana--“Oh, god—all right! Just do it to me and shut up!”
‘Do it to me’ seemed to echo from the rafters for a long, long time. Whit swallowed, wondered if it sounded as loud to Kent as it did to him. God, he was just staring at him with those huge green eyes and how the fuck was it fair for a dude to have such fucking pretty eyes….
“…because it’s only fair.”
Fuck—he missed what Clark said again—just agree, not like Kent planned to kill him. “Yeah...okay?”
“Good. All right.” Clark was in front of him and taking the cap off the marker and leaning forward. He pressed the tip to Whit’s skin.
‘Shit. I hope he doesn’t write anything embarrassing…’ Clark wrote carefully in big block letters and in the mirror in the corner, Whit could see, in reverse, ‘I AM AN ASSHOLE’. Whit grimaced. Nice. Real nice. Clark stepped back, and grinned.
“Asshole,” Whit muttered under his breath. He rubbed his chest lightly, feeling little spots of warmth here and there on his skin and bent to pick up his shirt. Clark stopped him.
“You know Whitney, It was very cold that night…and dark. And I had nothing to protect me from the cold. And if Lex hadn’t happened by and cut me loose…” Clark blushed, deep red. “Yeah, unh…Lex…” He looked as if he lost his train of thought.
“Lex what?” Whit was curious, but Clark scowled.
“We’re not even yet, Whit, trust me—wait! I know what.” He grinned evilly and Whit felt a little chill walk down his spine. He could be kind of creepy looking, Kent.
Clark uncapped the marker again, and bent to write on him—again--steadying his writing surface with a firm hand on Whit’s hip. A big hand--warm, and surprisingly smooth and neat. Not like the hand of a farmer at all--no calluses, no snagged nails, no ground in dirt. Clark’s hand was so big that his fingers nearly wrapped around him. Whit bit the inside of his cheek. Clark had a thumb pressing against his hipbone, the rest of his fingers were resting on his skin of his back—Clark was…squeezing. Squeezing him.
“Hold still,” he muttered, and his warm breath puffed out over Whit’s almost bare hip.
The tip of Clark’s tongue tapped a little code against his bottom lip as he concentrated on what the fuck ever he was writing.
…his cock did not lift did not move did not did not did not…
Clark moved his hand down and pressed again. His thumb slid a bit in the groove of Whit’s hip and he swallowed and so did Clark—and he giggled. Giggled!
For Whit, the horrible part was not that Clark giggled at him or that Clark giggled at all—it was that Whit heard it and thought—awww. And his cock thought ‘how *you* doin’?’
The fuck?
He looked down, and Clark was staring at what he’d written and looking slowly, slowly uncomfortable… “Unh-oh.”
“Uhn-oh? What unh-oh? Clark…”
In the mirror, Whit read ‘PROPERTY OF C. K.’ and an arrow pointed down. Towards the waistband of his boxers.
“Oh my fucking god--Kent! What the fuck—shit!”
“Oh man…that seemed a lot funnier in my mind…” Clark furrowed his brow, and bit his lip…”That’s really kind of…gay looking, hunh?”
“Ya *think*?” Whit shouted, any thought of warm fingers and pink lips gone like mist. “I’m not getting naked anywhere any time soon!”
Clark turned fire engine red from his forehead to his collar bones. He reached up to scrub uselessly at the marks on Whit’s belly. “I’m sorry, that’s a little worse than you deserve…” He scrubbed and rubbed, and spit on his fingers and rubbed harder and Whit grabbed his hands. “God, stop Clark, *please*!”
Clark seemed to just realize that he was nose to…nose…with Whit’s very interested and perky cock. “Ooo-oh man—no no, don’t worry, it’s okay! It’s all the rubbing--”
*jerk*
“I mean trying to rub that off.”
*jerk*
Whitney tried to move back out of Clark’s grip—he might as well have been chained to Clark. “Every time you speak, your chin…touches…my…me.” he managed through grit teeth. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, yeah, I can understand that,” Clark said, but didn’t move, or let Whit go. “So…when I talk, like this,” and the bastard lowered his chin. “It makes you uncomfortable?” His chin was right over the head of his dick. His dick was poking Clark repeatedly in the neck. Clark wasn’t moving, or rather, he wasn’t moving backwards….
Clark was kneeling in front of him and Whit moved like he was attached to strings and some demonic puppetmaster was directing his movements. He slowly lifted his foot, between Clark’s spread knees, and touched his crotch. Clark didn’t move, so Whit pressed, slid his foot under Clark, until warm solid weight of his balls were resting on the top of his foot. He watched the front of Clark’s boxers rise. Pulled his foot back until it he could feel the rise in Clark’s boxers pushing against his foot.
Clark groaned a little and moved his head. His cheek was warm against Whit’s cock. His mouth just a breath away. Whit experienced the unique sensation of being two different persons. One person was gently kneading Clarks *cock* with his toes and letting Clark breathe all over his own cock and leaking tons into his Scooby-Doo boxers and the other person was quietly having a breakdown. Many breakdowns. One after the other.
His foot wasn’t stopping though.
Clark moved his head again, and asked Whit, “Do you want me to…” he didn’t even wait for an answer, Clark just pulled his boxers down until Scooby was crunched up around his knees, and started kind of nuzzling his thigh. Whit’s cock was trying to get Clark’s attention, bobbing and waving and spitting little hints ‘here, hi! Come here!’ trying to get Clark to let go of his leg and…and… kiss the cock. A laugh broke free and Clark stopped. “What?”
“Oh—it—it tickled, sorry.”
Clark grinned. “Let me see if I can make it stop tickling,” he said, and took the head of Whit’s cock in his mouth.
Whit sagged, and his hands flew up and buried themselves in Clark’s hair. Clark grunted in approval, and Whit grabbed hard, harder as Clark made more noise, and washed the head with his tongue.
“God! Wow!” Whit threw his head back, his knees still bent. He made a tentative thrusting motion, and Clark took the motion up, holding his hips and encouraging Whit to fuck his mouth.
“Oh yeah, do that, do that—you like that—aaaaah fuck, I know *I* do, shit!” Whit was nearly crazy with it, talking crazy stuff and saying shit out loud he’d never ever say to Lana—fuck, than again, Lana wasn’t anywhere near this good…was he going to have to reciprocate like he did for her? He looked down, Clark had his cock in his hand, jerking off…a stab of pure lust speared through him, fuck that was just so fucking hot—he felt his cock lift and pump precome down Clark’s throat.
Clark moaned around him, and his hand speeded up, Whit heard him and saw him and smelled him and there was no way an hour ago you could have told him that he’d want to suck Clark Kent off—but holy shit, he really wanted to suck Clark Kent off.
Clark had other things in mind. He got louder and louder, muffled even though his mouth was stuffed full. He jerked, and Whit yelped. Clark curled over Whit’s cock, swallowed and swallowed and groaned and came all over his knees.
That was unfair. There was no way he cold stop the freight train that was racing through him right now, no way he’d be able to hold back one minute more—tell Clark—warn Clark—“Hey, I—I’m—oh shit…coming--” He tried to pull out of Clark’s mouth and it was like trying to pull out of a vacuum cleaner, and his hands clamped down on him—Whit was just discovering he *really* liked being restrained when he experienced a full body orgasm. Explosion. Meltdown.
It was the orgasm to end all orgasms. It was an orgasm that involved breath—he completely forgot how to breathe. It involved sight—long lashes on red cheeks, red lips wrapped around his red cock and never before in his life had the sight of spit made him groan out loud and pray, It involved touch—every single bit of his skin tingled and buzzed and ran with sweat and there was one long, huge electric zap of lightning running from every nerve in his body and ending up right in his cock and it exploded—he jerked forward, curved over Clark, who was swallowing and gulping, eyes wide in surprise, until they dropped and he flushed bright red from his neck all the way down to his toes....
“Ho—holy *shit*, Clark! Wow…” Whit looked down at the flushed red cheeked, red lipped face staring back up at him. “Wow…” Whit waited for—something--fear, embarrassment, some bad thing, but all he felt was a warm twist in his gut and a feeling like—puzzle pieces falling into place. “Oh!” He said. “Clark. Now I get it.”
“Yeah? That’s good, Whit.” Clark smiled. “Told you Lana was safe from me.” He leaned close again, and nipped Whit’s belly, sucked a rosy bruise right under the point of the arrow. “You, on the other hand…not so much.”
It was amazing how truly scary Clark could look....
5-15-2007
*G*
(no subject)
5/29/07 03:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/30/07 12:10 am (UTC)