Title: Basketball Tuesdays (3/?)
Author: elgatoneun
Rating: NC-17 for language, lots of slashy, angsty thoughts and m/m sex, sort of.
Pairing: Clark/Whitney
Summary: Whitney thinks about Homecoming, Lana, Clark and other things.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, at all.
Spoilers: Everything up to and including Leech. This takes place between Leech and Kinetic. Small spoiler for Kinetic, referred to in the Notes also.
Feedback: Would be appreciated. When it's nice, it makes me happy. Please let me know what you think. Should I continue?
Notes: Thanks for all the lovely feedback, it has really inspired me to write more. Oh, and I reloaded this chapter. I didn't realize my italics didn't come up on the site so that you couldn't tell between Whitney's imagination and his, ahem, activity. So the indentation and ***Denotes Whitney's sex fantasy***. I originally did have the same reason for Whitney to lose his scholarship, but then I also saw it at the Smallville Ledger, so I eagerly used the name they provided. Thanks to Maddie, my wonderful, fantabulous beta! Yes, I know "fantabulous" is not a word, but it should be.
Ugh. His head was pounding. Whitney opened his eyes and peered into the darkness of his room. He slowly moved his head to the right; the clock read 9:24 PM. He closed his eyes again. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He knew he shouldn't have taken a nap, but he'd been so tired. He felt uncomfortable and he had that unpleasantly dry cotton sensation in his mouth.
He slowly sat up in his bed. The pain in his head intensified. Is this what a hangover felt like? He hadn't had any alcohol but he could imagine this wretchedness as the punishment for chugging too much brew. It's funny because you can't really get away from drinking when you're on the football team, but he never had more than one or two drinks at a time. He needed to be in control at all times. After all, it wouldn't do for the star quarterback to be caught making drunken passes at one of his teammates.
Whitney let his upper body fall back down onto the bed – and really regretted it. Gah! The pain. Why is God punishing me?!
Instantly, an image of Clark Kent tied to a pole in the middle of a cornfield flashed in his mind. Oh God! He felt the familiar current of lust and longing mixed with shame well up inside him at the memory.
He hadn't really wanted to tie anyone up. He'd had a speech all ready and everything. It had been the hot topic of conversation at lunch that day. He had been trying to get the guys to focus on the game instead. Their defensive line wasn't as strong as he'd like it to be … but attention kept going back to potential scarecrow candidates. Kevin, in particular kept bringing up Clark's name. Whitney knew Kevin was jealous of his relationship with Lana. Kevin kept an eye on Lana at all times. It was weird; he knew Kevin liked Lana. But, Kevin understood the workings of the established social hierarchy at school. It was okay that his friend and teammate had Lana, but watch out if some lowly freshman nobody tried to make a move. He kept ranting about how Whitney needed to teach that tall skinny freshman how to stay in his place and stay away from Lana.
Sometimes, Whitney's tired of having to protect what was "his" all the time. Lana attracted so many guys, and girls even, he wondered if it was worth it. But, hell, that's what attracted him to her, too. It wasn't so much that she was perfect and beautiful; she was just too nice for her own good. He'd wanted to protect her, felt compelled to do so.
During summer football practice, he'd seen a lot of guys hit on her and she hadn't seemed interested in any of them. But she was always so kind, never quite turning a guy down, but not really responding back to them either. And then he'd see the looks, heard the bragging from Kevin or Sean or Derek in the locker room about how they would "bag" the hot new cheerleader. She was a date rape statistic just waiting to happen. Didn't she understand that she had to be firm and say no? Be mean sometimes, so that the message "not interested" was clearly transmitted? That her sympathetic dismissals seemed like coy teasing to frustrated and horny teenage boys? That one of these days some guy was going to attack her? Obviously she didn't, or wouldn't.
So, he'd joined the crowd, separating her from some of the more unsavory elements. He would talk with her, silently warning away the guys that got too pushy. Eventually it seemed natural for Whitney to give her a ride to practice every day, to walk her to her door. And then on their first "date" when he had given her a peck on the cheek, Lana had suddenly hugged him fiercely and thanked him for watching out for her. That was it – they were officially a couple.
And it's been great. He was the most envied guy in the whole school. There were no more questions. Why don't you have a girlfriend, Whitney? Why don't you ever go out with some nice girls, Whitney? Nobody could question his sexuality, I mean, really, look at Lana, she's every straight guy's fantasy come to life. Even he could appreciate her beauty; and sometimes he thought he felt something, something physical when she looked at him a certain way, like she was trying to figure him out. He wondered if she knew. If she wondered why he never pushed her to be more intimate with him. He touched her all the time, though. He liked to wrap his arm around her – tucking her head under his chin, liked caressing her hair. Whenever he kissed her, he felt warm and comfortable, happy even. Because he truly cared for her, maybe even loved her.
So yeah, he was threatened. He was a little pissed. Lana was his girlfriend and maybe Clark did need to be taught a lesson. But stripping someone down and crucifying him in the middle of nowhere had seemed too extreme. But Kevin had been insistent and suddenly, it seemed everybody agreed. Whitney had looked around, seeing anticipation on the faces of his teammates; the excitement was almost palpable. Of course, a couple of the guys looked uncomfortable, Mark and Trevor, decent guys both, didn't look like they wanted to participate. Whitney had started to disagree and Mark had brought up the point that wasting pre-game energy on some stupid prank was lame. But then, Whitney had heard it, the word that, unfortunately, had sealed Clark's fate.
"C'mon Whitney, don't be such a wuss. While you're being all sensitive 'n shit, that faggot Kent's gonna be moving in on your girl." There had been a dull roar in his ears. He heard some of the guys goading him on with "It's tradition" and "Man, we gotta do it" and other stupid one-liners but the word "faggot" was echoing in stereo surround sound over and over in his head. It wasn't even directed at him but – that was it. Whitney had to do it.
He had even tried to psych himself up for it. Clark was trying to steal Lana away from him. It was tradition. Clark deserved it … and so on. And it had worked; some part of him had relished it – that sense of power and entitlement to just pick some random person and have them completely at his mercy. It was disturbing even now to remember how much he had enjoyed it – right up to the point he had looked up at Clark.
The picture was seared into his brain. A perfect scene stored in his memory vault, like a valuable jewel to be taken out and lovingly viewed and examined – then carefully put away until the next time.
Clark had been elevated about a foot or so above the ground, putting Whitney right at eye level with that magnificent chest. Whitney felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. In all his born days, he'd never seen a more perfect vision of male beauty. Clark was all sinewy muscle and lithe grace. Whitney had drank in the sight of him – the pale moonlight reflecting off his long body, making shadows on the angles and planes of Clark's torso. He'd wanted to run his fingers along the indentations defining the six-pack abs. He'd wanted to worship the body hanging before him with his tongue, to lick off the sweat glistening on that taut tan flesh.
And then he had looked into Clark's face. His body had been overwhelmed with lust. He had never gotten so hard so fast in his life. This was the part of that night that alarmed him the most, sickened him. Because … because, he saw the pain written all over Clark's face, the distress, the pleading in his eyes to stop, but that's what had aroused him the most. His pain had been beautiful, a siren's call that Whitney had wanted to answer with soothing kisses and soft caresses. It was hard to live with the realization that he was a bit of a sadist. That the tender caring side he thought he had was paired with the dark desire to hurt.
Then Kevin had held up the can of spray paint to the left side of Clark's chest, and he'd been enraged at the thought of marring that pristine perfection. He'd wanted to rip Kevin's arm off, but had been jerked back to attention by Sean's taunting.
"Hey, Kevin, you moron, the letter 'S' starts from right to left, not left to right." The resulting laughter gave him time to get his body back under control. But still, he'd had to bite his lip against protesting when Kevin had started spraying. And after, when he saw that ugly red 'S' on Clark's chest, he'd felt like crying.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. The game, the dance – it was one long indistinguishable loop. Well, until he saw his truck, perilously perched upon so many other vehicles. Whitney couldn't help it, it was shallow and so stereotypical but – he loved his truck. Really. It was terrible to admit but he worried about his truck almost as much as he worried about his dad.
Sometimes Whitney had this fantasy. In it he went back to untie Clark from the post and they talked … among other things. Who was he kidding, sometimes? All the time, this has been his favorite jack-off fantasy for months. He glided his hand down his chest until he reached his pants. He unhooked the fly and carefully stroked himself through his briefs as he started envisioning the scenario. He usually varied it a bit but it always started the same way:
***He's cleared the cornfield and stands right in front of Clark. Clark is still hanging there, the 'S' emblazoned on his chest. Clark gazes at him soulfully – hungrily.
"I'm sorry, Clark" he says with all the remorse and sorrow he truly feels.
"I know" Clark replies. He's sees the forgiveness in Clark's eyes.
He reaches his hand out to Clark and touches him – lays the palm side down at the beginning of the 'S'. He lovingly trails his hand down that path and the red paint magically disappears***
His hand was underneath his briefs now, firmly grasping his cock. He's slowly rubbing up and down the shaft.
***Then he repeats the design with his tongue, taking the time to suck and nibble a little on Clark's left nipple. He's playing and worrying it with his lips. He can hear Clark moaning above him, encouraging him. Next he's slowly pulling down Clark's boxers to reveal a large beautifully-shaped penis. His mouth waters at the sight. He moves forward a little and makes a teasing little swipe at the head with his tongue.
Clark groans some more. "Quit being such a tease, Whitney."
Whitney opens his mouth and takes in the head. He swirls his tongue around the ridge and sucks hard. Clark's whole body jerks. Whitney smiles around his cock. Whitney's hands have been rubbing up and down Clark's muscular legs. He moves them up further and behind to grab Clark's ass – hard. Clark jerks again and this time there's a delicious tangy taste in his mouth that's got to be 100% cornfed farmboy.
He lifts his head up.
"Clark, you've got control yourself a little … or this will be over too soon. Maybe I should stop …" he lets the sentence drift off.
"No, no, don't stop" begs Clark. Clark's panting now***
Whitney was panting now, too. He let his grip slacken a little and slowed the pace. He didn't want to cum too soon.
***Whitney moves his right hand up to the base of Clark's shaft. He gives it a little squeeze. His left hand is still kneading Clark's buttocks. His mouth opens wider to take in that luscious - ***
"Whitney? Honey, are you awake?"
Shit! Whitney fumbled with his pants and his underwear.
"Uh yeah, mom …" God, his voice sounded hoarse.
"Honey, are you getting sick? I saved you some dinner." he heard the knob of his bedroom door turning …
"No, no, uh, I'm fine, I'll be right down, mom!" He heard the click of the knob turning back.
"Okay"
Shit. Whitney reluctantly got out of bed.
Well, whaddya know, his headache was all gone. He grinned. Clark Kent, the cure for what ails ya. Whitney trudged into the bathroom attached to his room. He flipped on the light switch.
He looked at his face in the mirror. Boy, he looked like shit. He splashed a little cold water on his face.
Fifteen minutes later, he's downstairs at the kitchen table eating pot roast and mashed potatoes. The pot roast was a little rubbery and tough, it was amazing, his mother was such a great cook with everything else but couldn't cook beef at all. It always came out too burnt, or too raw. He just shoveled some potatoes in his mouth. Mm, good.
His dad was sitting across from him, looking over, more like scowling over the inventory report Whitney left for him that morning. I really don't want to hear it, dad. Whitney got up to get a drink. He opened the cabinet over the sink. All he saw were plates. Where were the damn glasses?
"Mom, where are the glasses?"
"In the cabinet, by the fridge" her answer was short, annoyed. Whitney cringed. He'd forgotten his parents' fight from the day before.
His dad had been his usually overbearing self … all the glasses should be by the refrigerator, after all, where are the drinks? (triumphant pause) The refrigerator, it just makes sense Betty, I don't know why you don't think of these things … he'd gone off and criticized her about other "misplaced" items and the inefficient layout of her kitchen.
He was surprised that his mother hadn't hurled anything at his dad yet. But she's been trying so hard to humor him, because of the heart condition.
"Whitney, are you sure you went over the flat screens properly, it doesn't seem right, we should have sold at least …" Whitney tensed up.
"I'm sure, dad"
"Did you count the display model? You know turnover for those Sony models has been pretty consistent, are you sure you changed the floor plan like I told you too? It's really important, son, that the products are placed directly in the customer's line of vision, maybe I should take a look at it – "
"Whitney, you received a letter today." He was grateful to his mom for interrupting.
"Betty, do you mind, I'm talking about the store, here, Whitney has to – "
"It's from Kansas State, dad" That shut him up. His parents were looking at him expectantly. He tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter and started reading the contents:
"Dear Mr. Fordman,
We regret to inform you that our office is unable to extend the Richard Corson Scholarship Grant for Excellence to you. We sincerely hope that this will not affect your decision to enter the freshman class of …"
He couldn't read the rest of the letter. There was a burning sensation in his gut. He wanted to throw up. His father grabbed the letter from his hand. He was vaguely cognizant of his father spluttering in outrage, if he wasn't so numb, he would laugh.
His father was yelling obscenities. He saw his mother trying vainly to calm him down.
Dad was calling the scout Larry Schonfield or Schonfeld or something.
He could hear his dad on the phone in the living room.
"What the fuck is this horseshit, Larry?! You said he had it, we just had to wait …(pause) … No! I will not fucking calm down! … (pause) … Goddamnit, Larry, Whitney's all state! Do you know what the hell you're doing? … (pause) … What?!…" Whitney's dad wasn't yelling anymore, at least not so that he could hear it.
Minutes pass, hours, days, that's what it felt like. His dad came back into the kitchen. He walked to the table where Whitney was sitting, frozen, since the letter. He placed his right hand on Whitney's shoulder and tried to give him a reassuring squeeze.
"They gave it to Darin Mark. I'm sorry, son." His dad said softly. That was all he needed to say. Darin Mark was the first pick on the all-state team. They hadn't even thought he might want to join the Wildcats. But the math was simple Darin's in and Whitney's out. Whitney couldn't stand the pity in his dad's face … for him.
His dreams of getting out – finally being free, to be his real self … were gone. He couldn't believe it. He was trapped. His mind refused to process it.
He looked up at his mom. She smiled at him sadly, he assumed it was supposed to be comforting or supportive, but it was really more horrifying than anything else.
Because it was true. It was gone ... he was trapped.