Title: Basketball Tuesdays (7/?)
Author: elgatoneun
Rating: NC-17 for language, slash, m/m interaction
Pairing: Clark/Whitney
Summary: Two guys and a back alleyway.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, at all.
Spoilers: Everything up to and including Zero.
Feedback: Would be appreciated. Please let me know what you think.
Notes: This takes place at the end of Zero, the Grand Opening of the Talon.
Whitney tried to stifle a yawn as he nodded and pretended to listen to Felice talking about her last trip to Metropolis. Lana was there, sparing a moment to take a breather from all the hurried last minute details of the Talon's Grand Opening. That was easy considering that Felice was doing all the talking. He watched as Lana pretended to have an interest on Felice's news that a branch of Sephora was finally going to be opened in uptown Metropolis. He realized that Lana had the same expression on her face when he talked to her about sports. Then he saw her face light up in real pleasure; he didn't have to look to know that Clark Kent had arrived. But he did anyway.
His expression probably mirrored Lana's. He couldn't help it. Clark looked incredible. The sports jacket and button down shirt should have looked hokey, but it just made the case for business casual. His own ensemble matched Clark's but he knew he didn't look half as good in it as Clark. He smiled at Clark and received a vibrant one in return. He ruthlessly ignored the butterflies in his stomach and the squeezing sensation around his heart.
He begrudgingly turned his attention back to Felice as Lana made her way over to Clark. He continued to watch them out of the corner of his eye. He made note of their tentative posturing. Lana was nervously twirling the yellow rose he had given her earlier that evening. Clark handed her a brightly wrapped present. Whitney sighed mentally, whatever was in that package, he knew it would be perfect and Lana would love it. Clark just seemed to have that knack. Whitney had also gotten Lana a gift for the grand opening. It was a snazzy palm pilot, something he thought she could use to balance her presently hectic schedule of work, school, writing for the paper and her various community service projects. It was something useful and practical and thoughtful, damn it. She had thanked him dutifully with a smile. Okay, not dutifully, she did seem to really appreciate it. It was very hard for Lana not to be genuine. But Clark's gift, it looked like some sort of picture, made her smile in unfeigned delight. And she was gripping it as if she would hug it into herself. Whitney was envious and jealous all at the same time, and the emotions were all mixed up because they were directed at two people.
He was envious of Clark, because he wanted to be the good boyfriend. The one that effortlessly made the perfect gesture, the one that made her happy. But he can't make it natural. It's an effort for him; he has to work at it … a lot. People always say that you have to work at a relationship for it to be successful. He does. He observes the little things. He listens to her. He knows her favorite authors and music, her favorite color (not pink, actually emerald green, though who could have guessed), that she hates strawberries, she's scared of heights, she would rather take care of horses than ride them, she doesn't wear perfume and slathers on lotion instead (always fruit or vanilla essences never flowers), she wants to be a math major, she cries watching those Disney kids sports movies, that and hundreds of other little things. So how come Clark, who conceivably didn't know all these things because he only barely got up the nerve to speak to her this year, can make her smile as if he's laid out the whole world in front of her? Why is he her fucking Prince Charming? Her romantic ideal?
Because he actually wants her, you hypocrite, jeered a voice in his head.
But that's not true, not totally. He wants me too, at least a little, the thought tinged slightly with desperation. And that's where the jealously comes in. How perverse is it to be jealous of your own girlfriend? He wanted some of those grand gestures from Clark, to know that Clark would undertake something to make him happy, to try and bring a smile to his face not Lana's. He watched them break apart, but Lana had to stop and look back at him; say some final words before she left. And who can blame her? He wouldn't want to leave Clark either.
Then he saw Lex Luthor smoothly take Lana's place by Clark. Lex Luthor had that self-assured aura about him, that worldly confidence that was found only in the obscenely rich or well connected. It's weird but Lex Luthor reminded him of Mr. Graham's history lesson three weeks ago. It was all about Manifest Destiny. How in the 1800s, the United States used the belief that it had a God given right to take over and control all of North America. It came to him during Mr. Graham's explanation that Lex Luthor was the personification of that doctrine. He had that arrogant assumption that all would be his; everything was his for the taking.
It basically boiled down to the fact that Lex Luthor got whatever he wanted. And he wanted Clark Kent. Those are the two things he absolutely knew about the scion of the local billionaire. He was kidding himself; there was no chance with Clark as long as that man was around. It hadn't helped to hear Lana recount how Clark had sort of rescued Lex Luthor from the freak that had presumably left him the severed hand. Trust Lex Luthor to be the inspiration for dismembering body parts. Of course, the truly notable tidbit had been how Clark had been so worried, being unable to reach Lex at home, the office and his personal line, that he had rushed around town trying to locate him. There was something there between them, even if neither of them had acknowledged it yet. God, just watching them made him sick. Lex's sly advances, Clark's shy, pseudo-retreat accompanied by soulful glances. He must be a masochist. And what's really depressing is that his little encounter a couple of weeks ago with Clark, opening him up to the possibility of wanting another guy, may have just been the impetus to shove him right into Lex Luthor's waiting arms.
Whitney turned his attention back to Felice and realized she was gone. Great, I was so distracted I didn't even notice her leave. And she probably saw me watching Clark, wonderful. The best he could hope for was rumors flying around that he was jealous and insecure about Lana, the worst, being the truth, that he was jealous and desperate over Clark.
Whitney made his way to the back of the room and went through the kitchen to go outside. The back entrance opened to the alley between the Talon and the flower shop. He let the cool night air waft over him. He wanted to go away, far away from his unrelenting responsibilities, away from the burden of hiding who he truly was and away from this tortuous wanting of things he couldn't have. He wanted escape from Smallville and all it represented: small town, small dreams, small minds. Whitney leaned with his back against the wall debating whether or not to leave. Lana would kill him. No, she wouldn't do that, but she would be disappointed and grace him with that sad smile and those sympathetic eyes that made killing preferable.
He walked back to the door, determined to make it through the rest of the night thoroughly enjoying himself and basking in his girlfriend's success. He opened the door to reveal Clark Kent holding trash bags in his right hand.
Clark smiled.
"Hi, Whitney."
Whitney's heart leapt up to his throat. Shit. He hoped he didn't have his dad's weak heart, because being around Clark could give him heart failure.
"Hi, Clark, uh, what are you doing out here?"
Clark gave him an obvious look and held up the dark green trash bags. Could you get any lamer, Fordman?
"Want some help?" Whitney tried to recover from his embarrassment.
"I think I can handle the arduous five foot trek to the trash can, but thanks for the offer," amusement written clearly upon Clark's face. He turned and made his way to the dumpster.
Whitney berated himself for being an idiot and dejectedly moved to go inside. He felt a strong, warm hand on his shoulder.
"Whitney, don't go in yet. Will you stay out here a little while with me? Keep me company?"
"Sure" came out of Whitney's mouth normally enough. But inside, somewhere, there was the jubilation of a thirteen-year-old girl screaming and jumping up and down like she was front row center at an N'Sync concert.
"You look a little different, did you …" Clark gestured at him.
"Hm … oh yeah, I got a haircut." Whitney ran his hand through his hair.
"It looks good."
"Thanks," the thirteen-year-old girl was twirling cartwheels, "my hair kept getting in my eyes … and my mom kept bugging me about it. Said she'd like to see my face."
"I don't blame her," Clark replied in a low, sexy whisper. Okay, the thirteen-year-old girl has just keeled over. Whew, was it getting hot out here?
Clark sidled over and turned his body slightly so that he effectively had Whitney trapped with his back against the wall.
"You look pretty good tonight, Whitney. I saw you when I came in." Clark was gazing at him intently.
"I saw you, too. I was watching you." Whitney's heart was beating a thunderous tattoo, the rhythm echoed in his ears. He was mesmerized by Clark's mouth, watching those heavenly lips as they moved to form different sounds. He saw them part again and heard a soft chuckle.
"I know. I was watching you watching me. Do you know Felice almost threw her drink in your face?" Clark's amusement was evident.
"Really?" Whitney didn't give a damn because Clark moved in just a little bit closer and placed his right hand on Whitney's stomach.
"Yeah, you're lucky she spotted Mark Weaver or you could have ended the evening as one very wet quarterback."
"Really?" Clark's hand was slowly rubbing his lower abdomen.
Clark leaned in further until their lips were mere inches apart.
"You still could," Clark murmured. Whitney couldn't stand it any more. He closed the distance between them, moving slowly enough so that Clark could stop if him if he wanted. He didn't.
Elation swept through his entire body as his mouth made contact with Clark's soft, amazingly soft, lips. Clark opened his mouth a little, inviting Whitney's tongue inside. His tongue made teasing forays into the hot, wet cavern. Clark tasted rich and sweet. Darts of pleasure shot out to different parts of his body. His lips moved steadily, essentially massaging Clark's mouth. Someone moaned, he didn't know who; Clark sucked on his tongue gently, drawing him in deeper. His hands moved down to Clark's ass and kneaded the firm flesh. Clark sucked him harder. Minutes passed as they seemed to devour each other, melding their mouths and bodies together.
Finally, Whitney had to break away. He gasped in gulps of air. He was vaguely mortified at how much he was panting. Clark just looked at him steadily, not out of breath at all. He had that sleepy knowing look and sexy, swollen lips. His gaze was predatory. Whitney leaned back against the wall, partially for support.
"Fuck," Whitney whispered, dazed and a little awestruck.
Clark grinned, "I thought you'd never ask."
Jesus, where has this Clark been?
He was painfully hard, and judging by the long hot appendage pressed against his hip, Clark was too.
Clark moved his hand down between their bodies and unbuttoned Whitney's fly. He stroked Whitney's cock through the fabric of his boxers. It twitched and leapt at the contact. His breathing grew ragged as Clark's hand worked magic. His hips moved, gradually matching the rhythm. His eyes closed at the rapturous pleasure.
"Open your eyes," Clark demanded. Whitney couldn't muster up the strength to comply, bliss had inundated his senses. The stroking stopped. Whitney's eyes shot open. He looked upon the countenance of a very forceful, disgruntled and mercilessly sexy angel.
"Keep them open." Clark rubbed his thumb along the underside of his cock firmly. Whitney bit his lip to keep from moaning out loud. He was mindless, lost in pure sensation. He felt the pressure building in his balls as Clark worked him faster. He couldn't take it anymore and finally spewed his essence all over Clark's hand. Whitney sagged against the wall and laid his head down on Clark's shoulder, spent and breathless.
He finally regained his senses and looked balefully at the person who had just given him the best climax he had ever had.
"Okay, who are you, and what have you done to the real Clark Kent?"
Blinding flash of very white teeth and a semi-bashful duck of the head. Clark cleared his throat and bit his lip.
"I've been dreaming about you, about this – for weeks … ever since, you know," Whitney could have sworn he saw the blush rising on Clark's face, even though it was too dark to tell.
"And that's the reason that, you, uh," Whitney faltered, he couldn't process, couldn't describe what had just happened with mere words. Whitney felt incredibly humbled and happy. He looked into Clark's eyes. He saw insecurity and embarrassment where there had been only confidence and desire before. He tried to dispel the doubt in the only way he could.
He leaned in and kissed Clark lightly on the mouth. He murmured against Clark's lips.
"You are so hot," the husky whisper was all he could manage.
Clark kissed him back. Whitney caught Clark's plump lower lip gently with his teeth and pulled ever so slightly. He let go when he heard Clark whimper. He pulled back and smiled.
"So you've been dreaming about me?" All was right with the world.
"You've ruined a lot of sheets in the Kent household lately." Clark teased.
"Well we can't have that now, can we?"
Whitney slid down; his knees touched the pavement. His gaze was level with Clark's bulging crotch. He braced his hands on either side of Clark's hips. He nuzzled Clark's erection. Whitney angled his head and opened his mouth. He compressed his lips firmly along the hard phallus outlined by dark blue slacks. There was a hitch in Clark's breathing as Whitney glided his lips slowly up and down. He looked up and enjoyed the gorgeous sight of a thoroughly turned on and hot farm boy.
Whitney took hold of Clark firmly. He ran his hand down the zipper and freed the hardest, most tempting cock he had ever seen. It was hot and huge. It throbbed with life in his hand.
"So tell me about your dreams, Clark?"
"This is turning out to be pretty close." Clark rasped out.
"Then I'm gonna to make all your dreams come true," Whitney smiled to himself. This was going to be one hell of an enjoyable night.