This was written for the November Slash Fanfiction Superman Returns Challenge on LiveJournal. The four prompts were chosen from columns and are listed below.
The Tempest
descriptive prose - wine - closet - present tense
"Why is it in here?" Clark asks, hovering just a bit to reach the top shelf.
"My mother was visiting last week," Richard says with a shrug, giggling a little to himself when he realizes that Clark won't be able to see the gestures. They're going for their third bottle and Clark doesn't seem phased yet, but Richard is plenty mortal and somehow forgot about eating dinner (was that before or after the strip poker?—he couldn't remember now), so he's enjoying it more than enough for the both of them.
He's also mightily enjoying the fact that Clark is wearing boxers and nothing more, while he's managed to maintain the dignity of not only a pair of pants, but his tie, as well.
"She doesn't realize you're over twenty-one?" Clark teases, floating back down with two bottles in hand, a white cradled in his left and a red cradled in his right.
"If I try to have more than one glass at Thanksgiving she slips the number for AA under my pecan pie."
"Fascinating," Clark says, stepping up close and very deliberately invading Richard's personal space.
"Isn't it?" Richard asks, holding up his glass for a re-fill.
"Amazingly so," Clark replies, holding up the bottles for inspection. Richard squints at them, annoyed by the excess of words on the labels and chooses at random.
"Do you think I drink too much?" Richard asks, leaning back against the wall, running his fingers over the texture of the paint, trying to put a look on his face that invites Clark to invade more of his personal space, and now.
Clark answers by pouring him more; the liquid gleams a brilliant ruby as it streams out of the green mouth, settling down into deep burgundy when it pools in the glass, caressing the curves and swirling up at the edges like a tide of a red sea.
"If you've drink too much then I'm doomed." Clark props his arms on either side of Richard, taking up the invitation and then some, and looks down at the stain on his boxers that is, unfortunately, innocent.
"I offered to dry it for you," Richard keeps his eyes on the spot, wondering how Clark and sauvignon blanc taste together.
"It was my fault you spilled it, though," Clark says, bringing his face closer. "It would be rude of me to expect you to clean up my mess."
Richard sips his glass, all too aware that Clark is rising up to meet his watchful eye and he decides to test a theory: Clark Kent, a dish served best with a red or a white?
He dips his finger into his glass, running his tongue over his index and tasting the wine, a deep flavor that lingers on his tongue, noting how fully he's caught Clark's attention. Dipping again, he makes eye contact with the soul-searing blue that's now mere inches from his face and traces his finger over those lips, covering the flushed pink with a glossy layer of red, smiling and dying all at once when Clark's lips fall open under his ministrations, eyes closing, head falling back. The crimson on Clark's fair skin is like a rose fallen in the snow, the virginal white only enhancing the beauty of the sinful red, making it all the more tempting. Richard gives in to it, falling, falling forward into that rich taste that dances under his tongue and hums through every nerve in his mouth, sliding his tongue on the seam of Clark's warm lips and searching for every last bit, devouring and being devoured. He falls further and their bodies tangle, fingers catching on shoulders and the groove of ribs, lungs working overtime to keep them conscious as they fumble through clothes and trip over a bottle of wine, their hard need counterpointed by the slow, sensuous flavor they create at their point of connection, tongues twining and exploring, lips fused.
Richard breaks away to draw a breath into his aching lungs, spots dancing in front of his eyes and a distinct lack of oxygen burning the lining of his chest. He leans against Clark, supported by the solid weight and relieved to hear the other man's equally ragged breathing, the beat of his heart even louder than Richard's, a fast and vibrating thrum.
It's a comfort to know that he can affect Clark this way, because sometimes he wonders if it's pure insanity how much the man can affect him. Clark's skin nearly burns him and all he wants is more.
He seeks out Clark's mouth again, but only stays long enough to give him a hard and fast kiss while he strives to balance himself so that he can lower onto his knees without keeling over. The alcohol in combination with this mild-mannered but very hot-blooded reporter is causing all sorts of malfunctions in his system. He finds himself staring dumbly at the line where smooth skin meets bunched elastic, reaching out his hands imploringly. Just as he's about to lower them he remembers his original quest, and grins, going forward and running his tongue over the damp spot on the fabric—a very conveniently placed damp spot.
The light flavor of the white wine is elevated to new heights when Clark moves under him, groans above him—he iron grips onto those jerking hips and doesn't let up, biting through the thin barrier and digging his fingers into Clark's sides, taking great pleasure in each and every sound he withdraws from him. When it seems neither of them can take it anymore, he rips the boxers down and, stopping for only the briefest instant to appreciate the view, he takes the whole of Clark in his mouth, relishing the sweet and tangy combination of man and wine, desire and abandon.
Awash in sensation, he's aware of holding on just as much to keep himself steady as to touch Clark, and they move to an instinctual rhythm, a crest and fall that beat to the ebb and flow of more, more, more, waves pulling him closer to Clark with each crash onto the shore, and he can hardly breathe, hardly keep afloat in the madness of it all. When he thinks that he might not be able to take anymore without burning up from the inside out, he feels Clark surging under him, hears his fists slamming into the walls and a strange, cold tingling on his skin as Clark's groans fill the closet, echoing all around them.
He doesn't move until his knees won't support him anymore, thighs and ankles trembling under the strain. Clark slides in slow motion down to the floor, landing heavily, and Richard tumbles beside him, stringing their fingers together, kissing him lightly. He finds a comfortable nook to rest his head in, blinking blearily in the low light of the closet. Confused, he sees that the clothes are strewn all about and half-hanging off their hangers, boxes tumbled down from their shelves—even the wine bottles have been knocked over and are spilling out tiny droplets of color onto the pale carpet. It looks as if there's been a storm in here.
Then he notices that Clark is also evaluating the mess, biting his lip, blushing faintly and looking down. Richard smiles softly and places a hand on the other side of Clark's face, pulls him closer, and Clark's lips seek his, hesitant, an unspoken question, and when he pulls back, he sees that Clark's luminous eyes are darkened with apprehension.
It's moments like these that Clark seems the most human to him.
Clark opens his mouth, probably to explain or apologize, or both. Richard just places a finger on his lips to silence him and leans forward, kissing him with everything he can give and more. He presses close and hard, leaving no room between them for doubt or fear, answering the question with his whole body and diving headfirst into the raging sea. He lets it engulf him, wind and water and fire all, committed to riding out the entirety of the storm.
Even in the heart of the tempest he knows there is nothing to fear.