Title: Basketball Tuesdays (2/?)
Author: elgatoneun
Rating: R for language and lots of slashy, angsty thoughts
Pairing: Clark/Whitney
Summary: Whitney wants to play basketball with Clark, Whitney POV
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, at all.
Spoilers: Everything up to and including Leech
Feedback: Would be appreciated
Notes: Thanks to my wonderful beta Maddie for helping me polish up this story.
Whitney Fordman was tired. He had been up until 2AM the night before to do inventory at his dad's store. He was still amazed that they carry 19 distinct models of blenders. Just how different could blenders really be from one another?
He hefted his backpack onto his right shoulder. At least now he could go home and get some sleep. He walked down towards the locker rooms. He had taken to parking his truck in the small staff parking lot behind the gym. The lot was actually reserved for part-time coaches, but hey, there were some perks to being the school's star quarterback. He didn't usually abuse those privileges but he and his truck had been having some bad luck lately. He wanted to minimize the probability of his baby getting hurt again.
Whitney entered the gym from the shortcut through the boys' locker room. His eyes immediately latched onto the only other figure in the room – Clark Kent. He stopped to appreciate the sight of that broad shouldered, slim hipped hottie with the incredible ass. Clark was turned slightly away from him, and seemed to be looking for something. Then he turned around and Whitney lost the view of those nicely rounded, firm … ah … but the front was great, too. Whitney saw Clark muttering to himself, and watched as a flush stole up his neck. Hmm, feeling a little warm, Clark? Heated? Flushed? Oh shit, better say something before he catches me drooling over him.
"Hey Kent" Look cool, be calm.
"Hi, Whitney" Clark replied flatly.
He tried to suppress that surge of annoyance at Clark's obvious displeasure in seeing him. It's okay, Fordman. So the object of your lust and desire doesn't want to talk to you. So what. Be a man. Get over it. Whitney cleared his throat. And got an impatient look from Clark.
"So, uh, Brent, Pete and I waited for you on Tuesday after school." Whitney flashed back to the basketball game two weeks ago. It had been heaven. It had been torture. He'd been covering Clark the whole time, touching him, brushing his body against Clark's.
"What?" Clark gave him a blank look. Whitney deflated a bit.
"Remember, basketball – on Tuesdays? We thought you might want to play again, so we waited" Whitney had waited for 40 minutes. Pete told him that Clark wouldn't come, that his playing had been some aberration when Clark had been "not Clark-like." But still Whitney had waited, let other guys go ahead, pretended to stretch, run laps, practice shooting – all in a vain attempt to look like he had not been waiting for Clark. As five minutes had passed into ten, Brent and Pete had hooked up as a team. When ten minutes passed into fifteen, Whitney had started getting worried that Clark might have picked up on a vibe from him and was staying away because of it. By the time he had realized Clark was definitely not coming, he had gone through two semi-panic attacks. He had been terrified that Clark had picked up on his lust, was appalled, horrified, repulsed, etc. and was telling everybody about how big queer Whitney had put the moves on him. God, he hated being a teenager.
"Oh yeah, well um, I was busy, you know … um helping Chloe with the Torch, uh yeah, she needs a lot of help, that Chloe …" Oh yeah, Chloe, that girl with the flippy blonde hair and the snippy comments. He saw the way she looked at Clark, yearned for Clark.
"Yeah, I'll just bet she does" Whitney couldn't hide the snarky tone. He saw Clark's eyes go wide. Didn't realize she had the hots for you, huh?
"So, will Chloe need help next Tuesday too? You and Pete could meet us outside next week; weather's getting a little nicer." Whitney asked pleasantly, in his best "I am a heterosexual male, let us bond in the non-homoerotic ritual known as full body contact sports" voice.
"Yeah, I gotta help her, I don't think I'll be able to play anymore" Clark sighed a little and Whitney bit his lip to prevent emitting a groan. Jesus, Clark's lips should be outlawed. They were full and so soft-looking, too luscious really to belong to a man. And to top it off, sexy little noises should not be allowed to come out of them. It was too much.
Whitney was trying hard not to lean forward, he almost felt as if some gravitational force was pulling him towards that mouth – that incredible mouth. He noticed that Clark had this happy expression on his face, thinking of something else? Whatever it was, it probably had nothing to do with Whitney.
"Well, we don't have to play on Tuesdays, what day is good for you?" Hey Clark, attention back to me, please. Any day that's good for you will be great for me. Shit, he's so eager and horny, it's laughable. That's right, folks, see Whitney Fordman, bend over backwards, sideways or forwards, uh, definitely forwards, for one Clark Kent of the gorgeous blue eyes and outlaw lips. Damn it, pay attention, Clark's lips are moving again.
"I'm really busy, what with chores, deliveries for my parents and helping Chloe with the Torch." Clark grinned. "Besides, getting beat by you guys every week would probably lose its appeal after a while." Images of "beating" Clark threaten to short-circuit his brain. His neurons were so busy uploading these delicious visuals that his tongue was no longer inhibited by the part of the brain that's supposed to prevent him from saying bad things.
"Oh, I don't know about that" he drawled. Holy Shit! I didn't just say that, and not all husky and low, like I was propositioning him. Please let that one have slipped by Clark, please, please. Clark looks surprised, confused, shit, shit shit!
"Huh? What did you say?" Clark may be naïve, but he's not stupid. Get yourself out of this – think fast Fordman.
"What I mean is that, um, it doesn't have to be you and Pete against me and Brent all the time. We could, uh, trade off. I could help you with your jump shot. I think you could be good. If you work on your outside shot, I think you might have a chance at making JV this year. You're only a freshman, you've got the height and the potential …" Whitney's mouth kicked into autopilot. He could talk about basketball strategy and technique in his sleep. Clark's still looking at me funny. He could see the gears whirring in Clark's brain. Please let me not have ruined this, keep on talking, tell him about the different positions you think he'd be good in, no, no not in … fuck, playing – positions he would be playing. Keep talking, Clark's buying it. Whew.
Whitney's still rambling on. Clark sort of smiled at him with that shy, sheepish half grin that makes him feel like someone just dropped kicked a football in his stomach. God, Clark is so gorgeous, beautiful really in the way no one should be allowed to be. When had he first noticed it (consciously, anyway)? His body, of course, knew it that wonderful horrible night of the Homecoming game. He had glanced up and saw Clark stretched out, tied to the post like some kind of pagan offering. He'd been paralyzed. Every nerve ending had felt like it was on fire. It had taken all of his willpower not to run his tongue up from the taut muscles of Clark's abdomen in a slow, sensuous path directly to that tempting lower lip.
God … I'm sorry Clark. I'm sorry that your suffering turned me on so much I'm sorry that I strung you up. He's looking into Clark's eyes trying to transmit his regret. But Clark just looks – confused?
All of a sudden Clark lips form into the sexiest smile he's ever seen … from Clark … directed at him. It's … it's … predatory. Oh God, I'm the helpless little bunny rabbit! And Clark is definitely the wolf. Clark's eyes are focused on him. Whitney has the insane urge to glance around, because this is the point in those nature shows when the pack of wild animals slowly circles their helpless prey. And he's the scared little animal waiting for them (for Clark) to pounce.
Clark's lips move to reveal his blindingly white teeth. But this isn't Clark's normal comforting "I'm the nice, unassuming boy-next-door" smile. This smile says "I'm ready for the world and it better be to my liking – or else". Okay, that's it, Whitney's just stopped talking. His brain has shut down from all this stimuli. Whitney's mouth was dry; he must swallow. Yup, basic bodily functions are about all he can handle right now. Ah, must move hair out of my eye, blocking vision of Clark, pretty Clark. That's right, blowing my hair off my face. Phhff. Phhff. Stupid hair just poked me in the eye. Damn, I gotta get a haircut.
Whitney's just realized that it's been silent for a while now. Uh, what was I saying? Am I supposed to talk? Whitney cleared his throat, stalling for time, what the hell were we talking about?
Oh yeah.
"So how 'bout it Clark? You want me to give you some pointers – in basketball?" Please say yes, please say yes, the power of the repeated mantra. Please say …
"No thanks, like I said I'm really busy."
Whoa, didn't expect that kind of tone to ever come from Clark. I didn't even know he knew how to sneer. Did I offend him? C'mon Fordman, berated his "reality" voice, get with the program. Clark doesn't like you, probably can't stand your stupid jock self. Remember the scarecrow thing? Remember how he worships Lana? You're the big lumpy obstacle he needs to kick out of the way. He's probably wishing you'd conveniently step off a cliff somewhere or fall into a nice meteor sized crater. Sigh, his "reality" voice really wasn't very nice sometimes.
"Hey, Whit, that's nice and all, but I really am busy" Clark replied again, in a much nicer tone.
Am I so fucking obvious? Clark, so innocent and painfully oblivious (painful for Whitney anyway), can tell how disappointed I am. Take your lumps like a man, Whitney.
"Nah, it's cool" I smile weakly. See, I'm okay; I'm not really hurt or anything. I'm okay, really.
"I'm actually busy, too. Gotta help at the store. I probably should be concentrating on helping my dad." That's right, I have to return to the hell that has become my life. No time for happy Clark episodes.
"Uh, so how you holding up there? How's your dad doing?" asked Clark.
This was it. This was what propelled Clark out of his secret fantasies and into this powerful desire to just be with him, near him, anything. Clark is just a genuinely nice guy – goodhearted. Here's this warm, interesting, funny person who just happens to be unbelievably gorgeous and … Wham! Whitney's hooked.
"He's doing better, thanks. He's such a control freak though, since he isn't at the store, he's driving my mom nuts rearranging stuff at the house." Dad's been fucking driving him nuts, too.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I heard my mom mutter something about knives and pantry drawers yesterday and sticking things in their proper places." Whitney thought about the look on his mother's face yesterday and laughed. Yup, Dad's not long for this world. Clark smiled. Yay!
"Well, I better go, I gotta see if I can beg, borrow or steal someone's geometry book." Book? Oh, you mean the book that's been burning a hole in my backpack for the last three hours. The book he had casually picked up from the bleachers at lunchtime? When he had been stalking, um, lurking, um, standing around in the locker room, peering through the glass watching Clark shooting balls. The book that was supposed to be his excuse, er, reason to talk to Clark. You mean that book?
Clark was already turning around to go. Oops, better give him the book.
Whitney reached out and grabbed his arm. Whitney felt tingling awareness zing straight through his arm, shoot down his body and land in his groin. Oh my God! Talk about zero to 60. Shit, his engine was all fired and ready to go.
Whitney quickly moved his backpack in front of him hoping to hide his body's reaction. He hurriedly opened his backpack and stuck his hand into the pocket to cover its trembling. His clumsy fingers finally got a hold of the book and pulled it out. He handed the green math book to Clark. Down boy, take a deep breath.
"I think this is yours. I found it on the bleachers. It has your name in it, I forgot, but I was going to give it to you." There's a lot I'd like to give you Clark. Whitney was hot. Quit getting yourself all excited and maybe, maybe, you can get through this without jumping Clark's bones.
"Uh, thanks" Clark's looking at him funny again. What else can I say? Say anything.
"Yeah, see, I wanted to talk to you, to thank you, about, you know Lana? She told me that you were the one who told her to ask me about what was going on and stuff. It really helped me - us, to talk about my dad, and she was really understanding." Lana had been understanding. Whitney was grateful to have her.
"Yeah, Lana's really great." Clark offered.
"She is great." Guilt gnawed at him for desiring this boy when Lana stood so steadfastly by him. But look at him. It can't be helped. Clark Kent is like a force of nature.
"Well, I'll see you later Whit." Clark turned and walked out of the gym.
Whitney watched him go. One day, Clark. Me and you. It has to be, because I'm going crazy like this. One day … soon.