[porn] snippet
Clark/Tim for thete1.
Focused on Clark's groin, Tim's stare is fairly *baleful* - his eyes are narrowed, his mouth twisted, his shoulders hunched.
Clark swallows and clears his throat. Careful not to thrust against the (cool, smooth) palm touching him, he reaches for Tim's cheek. "Are you --"
His question dies when Tim moves his hand, down Clark's shaft, fingertips twirling briefly in the hair curling around the base.
"I can't --" Tim shakes his head and pushes his thumb up the underside, nudging the edge of the head, and Clark shakes all the way to his bones. "Can't."
The muscles in Clark's thighs jump, irrationally, at every brush -- every *glance* -- from Tim. He looks down and, finally, understands what's bothering Tim.
Realizes, and can't stop the blush. "I'm sorry."
Tim's hand won't wrap all the way around. He *can't* reach.
"I'm okay," Tim says, the determination in his tone familiar from any number of streetfights over the years. He does not say, I can do this, but he doesn't have to. When he glances at Clark, eyes shining a little brightly, pupils blown wide-open, his lips part into a tight smile. "I *want* to --"
"You don't have --" Clark bites his cheek when Tim huffs out a breath and wraps his other hand around him. Tim's fingers are interlaced now, so very *pale* around his penis, and they glow the longer Clark stares down. "Oh."
"I --" Tim shifts his weight until he's up on his knees and leaning in. Clark moves with him, hand gripping the edge of the sofa. Tim's eyes flicker up through his lashes. "Want to."
Clark strokes the back of Tim's neck, two fingers in the valley between tendons, and feels the heat off his scalp, the dampness in his hair, searches for -- *distraction*.
Otherwise, he might grab and push and *shove*.
Tim's breath pools and vanishes against Clark's heated skin, his palms are callused and -- (*small*). It's almost too late when Clark realizes that Tim is waiting for a response.
His eyes are naked and blue in his upturned face, his cheeks stained with the flush Clark can feel prickling under his own skin.
"I want you to," Clark says. His chest shouldn't tighten like this, not when he's telling the truth, not when he can't remember believing anything so fervently since his wedding day. "Tim. I --"
He believes it, and he doesn't know what Tim is *waiting* for. Tim's hands are sweating around Clark, around Clark's penis, which is straining forward. His buttocks are clenching with the effort not to move.
"Do it," Clark says.
Tim's pulse jumps, his hands slip down -- then up -- and there's a spurting rush of saliva across his tongue to match the heat spiralling off Clark.
The imperative voice is -- would appear to be -- the magic word and --. Clark loses reflective thought, his fingers tightening in Tim's sweaty hair, because Tim is moving, opening his mouth, squeezing his palms tighter on the upstroke, loosening on the downstroke.
"Tim, *yes*, more --"
More magic, and slobbery noises that could be classified as keening were they not so *wet*, and Tim's spine is twisting, dipping, as he shoves his mouth forward, yanks Clark up by the root, and this is --.
Nothing like what he'd dreamed, but exactly what Tim, what Clark, must have *needed*.
He hears the rattle of Tim's heartbeat, smells the sweaty desire moving around them, and rolls his hips to thrust shallowly. He gets a higher whimper for that, a flash of Tim's eyes before his cheeks hollow again and the suction --.
"Do it," Clark says, again, and hoarser, folding his arm over his waist to hold himself still. "Tim."
A gurgle, and his nerves effervesce at the sound, at the noise of pre-come soaking the fly of Tim's briefs, at the hectic red staining Tim's cheeks, at the stuttering slide of Tim's hands down him, over his testicles, and -- Clark pushes Tim away, but Tim gargles, refuses, stays in place.
Clark's orgasm fills Tim's throat, mouth, splatters half his face. He may have shouted -- he must have shouted, because his throat is sore and hot. His hands on Tim's shoulders, mouth on Tim's cheek, licking him clean, and Tim presses his lips together. Hums, almost, in satisfaction.
He looks, if anything, *amused*. Partly smug, very satisfied, and altogether beautiful.
When Clark tells him so, however, Tim's expression pales back into something more like a mask.
Not for long, not as Clark spreads his fingers against Tim's lower back and lifts-pulls-*raises* him to his lap, his free hand sliding over Tim's thigh, thumbknuckle rasping down his fly.
"Good work," Clark whispers and Tim snorts on suppressed laughter. "Excellent."
Focused on Clark's groin, Tim's stare is fairly *baleful* - his eyes are narrowed, his mouth twisted, his shoulders hunched.
Clark swallows and clears his throat. Careful not to thrust against the (cool, smooth) palm touching him, he reaches for Tim's cheek. "Are you --"
His question dies when Tim moves his hand, down Clark's shaft, fingertips twirling briefly in the hair curling around the base.
"I can't --" Tim shakes his head and pushes his thumb up the underside, nudging the edge of the head, and Clark shakes all the way to his bones. "Can't."
The muscles in Clark's thighs jump, irrationally, at every brush -- every *glance* -- from Tim. He looks down and, finally, understands what's bothering Tim.
Realizes, and can't stop the blush. "I'm sorry."
Tim's hand won't wrap all the way around. He *can't* reach.
"I'm okay," Tim says, the determination in his tone familiar from any number of streetfights over the years. He does not say, I can do this, but he doesn't have to. When he glances at Clark, eyes shining a little brightly, pupils blown wide-open, his lips part into a tight smile. "I *want* to --"
"You don't have --" Clark bites his cheek when Tim huffs out a breath and wraps his other hand around him. Tim's fingers are interlaced now, so very *pale* around his penis, and they glow the longer Clark stares down. "Oh."
"I --" Tim shifts his weight until he's up on his knees and leaning in. Clark moves with him, hand gripping the edge of the sofa. Tim's eyes flicker up through his lashes. "Want to."
Clark strokes the back of Tim's neck, two fingers in the valley between tendons, and feels the heat off his scalp, the dampness in his hair, searches for -- *distraction*.
Otherwise, he might grab and push and *shove*.
Tim's breath pools and vanishes against Clark's heated skin, his palms are callused and -- (*small*). It's almost too late when Clark realizes that Tim is waiting for a response.
His eyes are naked and blue in his upturned face, his cheeks stained with the flush Clark can feel prickling under his own skin.
"I want you to," Clark says. His chest shouldn't tighten like this, not when he's telling the truth, not when he can't remember believing anything so fervently since his wedding day. "Tim. I --"
He believes it, and he doesn't know what Tim is *waiting* for. Tim's hands are sweating around Clark, around Clark's penis, which is straining forward. His buttocks are clenching with the effort not to move.
"Do it," Clark says.
Tim's pulse jumps, his hands slip down -- then up -- and there's a spurting rush of saliva across his tongue to match the heat spiralling off Clark.
The imperative voice is -- would appear to be -- the magic word and --. Clark loses reflective thought, his fingers tightening in Tim's sweaty hair, because Tim is moving, opening his mouth, squeezing his palms tighter on the upstroke, loosening on the downstroke.
"Tim, *yes*, more --"
More magic, and slobbery noises that could be classified as keening were they not so *wet*, and Tim's spine is twisting, dipping, as he shoves his mouth forward, yanks Clark up by the root, and this is --.
Nothing like what he'd dreamed, but exactly what Tim, what Clark, must have *needed*.
He hears the rattle of Tim's heartbeat, smells the sweaty desire moving around them, and rolls his hips to thrust shallowly. He gets a higher whimper for that, a flash of Tim's eyes before his cheeks hollow again and the suction --.
"Do it," Clark says, again, and hoarser, folding his arm over his waist to hold himself still. "Tim."
A gurgle, and his nerves effervesce at the sound, at the noise of pre-come soaking the fly of Tim's briefs, at the hectic red staining Tim's cheeks, at the stuttering slide of Tim's hands down him, over his testicles, and -- Clark pushes Tim away, but Tim gargles, refuses, stays in place.
Clark's orgasm fills Tim's throat, mouth, splatters half his face. He may have shouted -- he must have shouted, because his throat is sore and hot. His hands on Tim's shoulders, mouth on Tim's cheek, licking him clean, and Tim presses his lips together. Hums, almost, in satisfaction.
He looks, if anything, *amused*. Partly smug, very satisfied, and altogether beautiful.
When Clark tells him so, however, Tim's expression pales back into something more like a mask.
Not for long, not as Clark spreads his fingers against Tim's lower back and lifts-pulls-*raises* him to his lap, his free hand sliding over Tim's thigh, thumbknuckle rasping down his fly.
"Good work," Clark whispers and Tim snorts on suppressed laughter. "Excellent."