Fic: On Watt Street, ch 2/?
Title: On Watt Street
Chapter 2/?
Author: LadyJanelly
Fandom: Smallville/Sorority Boys
Disclaimer: I do not own the boys or the worlds they inhabit.
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentioned non-con, Slashy stuff, Adult content
Feedback: Hit me with some concrit. You know I like it rough.
Thanks to
roxymissrose for the OMG fast feedback.
Summary: Adam's weekend to get his head together takes a little longer than he thought it would.
The shower's running when Adam wakes up the next morning.
Face-down on a pillow that smells like dryer-sheets, he runs through the list he's used every time he's woken up since "The Date."
Clear-headed? Check.
Clothes on the same way they were when he fell asleep? Check.
No unexplained aches.
No pain.
He spent the night in a stranger's apartment and nothing bad happened to him.
The shower turns off in the bathroom and Adam pulls a sheet over himself--not that Clark didn't get a good look earlier, if he wanted it.
Clark steps out just a second after the water stops, dressed and groomed. There's no way he could have dried off and put clothes on that fast. Adam thinks of him standing in the bathroom, the flow of water masking the sounds of him jerking off. It's a nice thought, a "save and enjoy it later" sort of thought, even when he wonders if it was the sight of himself sleeping that got Clark in the mood.
"Morning." And if Clark was attractive on Watt Street at 1AM, he's beautiful by the light of day. He seems so much cleaner, more alive. Dressed up too, in khaki pants and a light blue dress shirt.
"Morning," Adam mumbles back, relaxing and watching as Clark bustles around, making himself a sandwich and drinking a glass of milk.
"I'm running late for work," Clark says with an apologetic smile, "But I'm only there for the lunch shift and I'll be back when my last table clears."
Being alone in the apartment doesn’t bother Adam. He sleeps a while longer, catching up on the rest that he missed on his vacation from sanity.
He's almost glad Clark isn’t there to wonder why it takes him so long in the shower. He doesn’t know when he'll have the privacy again, so he takes his time, shaving his beard with the black-handled razor from his own overnight kit, and his legs with the pink-handled one from Adina's.
In the mirror on the back of the bathroom door he checks his chest hair and the trail from navel to pubes. It'll be a week, maybe ten days before he needs to have it waxed again.
He stands there for a long time. He knows what men see in Adina--too big, too coarse, fat ass and scrawny legs. He's less sure what women see in Adam. It's always felt like a con-job anyway--the confidence, the charisma. Fast-talking them into his bed was always so easy. It's not like he'd ever planned anything more than fucking with any of them.
He stares into his own eyes for a bit more and admits that I.Q. was never apriority where women were concerned, just how impressed the guys would be with his latest conquest.
He wonders what it would take to impress Clark, what Clark would like in a man. He knows he's not flabby, but he wouldn't call himself buff. He knows he's not broad-shouldered like Clark is.
He lowers the toilet lid and sits down, leaning back against the cool of the tank. He spreads his feet a little. His toes flex against the aged tile and he kind of likes how that looks.
He runs a hand down his torso and wishes he'd had the nerve to get some gay porn so he'd have a better idea what guys are looking for, but his erotica collection had been too-often pillaged by his roomies to ever risk it.
He watches himself in the mirror, imagines Clark watching him. He strokes himself. His dick, half-hard before he even touched it, swells to full attention.
"Shit," he breathes, "Oh shit, yeah."
It's the first time he's let himself fantasize about a man, the first time ever. In his head, Clark is watching him, the open smile goodbye turned just a little bit wicked. He breathes harder, doesn’t trust himself to talk again. Too much frat-house conditioning--it's cool to yell when you're with a hot chick, not-so-cool to get loud fucking your own hand.
He's close, so close. Clark-in-his-head licks his lips, devours him with his eyes.
Clark-in-the-real-world comes home from work, keys rattling in the lock.
"Hey Adam, I'm back, are you-Whoa!"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Adina's bag is still lying out on the bed where he left it. Open.
Adam almost falls into the door in his scramble to get up, get dressed, get out there before Clark can see it, even as he knows it's too late, that Clark knows what a freak he is now.
Clark looks as uncomfortable as Adam feels, fidgeting around, straightening his bed, looking anywhere but at Adam. The bag has been put away, the wig and the makeup and the flashy spandex out of sight, before Clark tries talking again.
"Are you--"
"Hey, can we not talk about this?" Adam cuts in, sounding even sharper than he had intended.
"Hungry?" Clark finishes, and yeah, Adam feels like he should have "asshole" tattooed across his forehead. He risks a glance and Clark is smiling that smile again, bright and warm and like he doesn’t care what's in the pink bag.
If he wasn't blushing quite so red, Adam can feel the heat, he might even believe it.
Clark points to a plastic bag on the counter. "I brought lunch. Are you hungry?"
Adam tries to remember the last time he actually ate something, and the dcoffee the night before doesn’t count.
"Yeah, I am. Thanks."
Clark grins wider. "Hey, there's a park around the corner. It's not much, but better than sitting on the bed to eat. Sound good?"
Adam hesitates, feeling something more in the question. "Like a date?"
Clark sobers and Adam wants to kick himself for dimming that smile, even a little bit.
"Only if you want it to be," Clark says, but Adam is pretty sure that's hope in his eyes.
And it's scary, taking that risk, trying when it's not a sure thing.
The return of The Smile ™ when Adam says he does want to call it a date is worth it all.
The "park" is surprisingly sad, more of an empty lot than anything, but there's a picnic table, which is more than Clark's apartment can claim. The food makes up for it--pasta, salads and bread-sticks for both of them. Clark explains that he gets a low-end entrée with every shift he works and gets seventy-five percent off of take-out food.
Lunch is easy, and it's comfortable. Clark doesn’t try too hard to be charming or sexy, he just is. Second-to-second, Adam isn't sure if Clark's flirting with him or they're just two guys eating a meal. He's sure he wants Clark to flirt with him. He'd try to start it, but it's like trying to speak a language he's never heard. The closest he has is how Adina deals with men, and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want Clark to want that.
They hang out for a while at the park, BSing back and forth until the food's gone and traffic's picking up in the pre-rush-hour rush. Clark suggests a walk before they head back, and Adam gets the feeling he avoids spending any more time in the claustrophobic apartment than he has to.
Everyone in the neighborhood knows Clark, from shop-keepers to homeless guys. Everybody likes Clark, and each block they walk brings more greetings, more gossip. A few people seem worried for Clark, mentioning that somebody called Mack was looking for him, but Clark doesn't seem concerned.
They end up at an old parking lot that someone's installed a basketball hoop in. They watch the game for a while, and when two of the players have to leave, Clark nudges Adam with a grin.
"You in?"
This, this is easy. The most worry-free decision he's had to make since he hit metropolis.
It feels so good to shut his brain down, to narrow his world to the court, the ball and the hoop.
Clark's a good player, Adam decides, though not aggressive enough to be great. He can see the potential in the younger man's speed and power; he wonders what it would take to make it all come together.
Players switch out as the afternoon passes. Adam and Clark play until Clark has to limp off the court with a cramp in his calf. They stop off at a corner store for Gatoraid as a bank of clouds brings premature dusk to the city.
Adam's feeling a little tight himself as they climb the stairs, but he tells Clark to take the first shower. The guy is letting him crash at his place, after all.
He plans on showering, but by the time Clark comes out again he's too settled-in to get up and there probably isn't any hot water anyway.
He falls asleep to the sound of Clark's post-game "did you see that guy's face when..." and "that was amazing when you..." stories.
The bedroom is the one he shares with Dave and Doofer--his room, but not. Jimmy's stupid Hugh Heffner robe is on the back of the desk chair; the weird smell of his cologne is thick in the air.
Adam doesn't want to be here. He doesn’t want to be here so bad he doesn’t care who sees or who knows he just fucked, was fucked by, Jimmy. He reaches for the doorknob and it's wet, dark water pouring through the cracks all around the cheap wood, wrinkling the posters and making the carpet squish when he walks on it. Deeper it grows; puddles form and meet. Clothes, shoes, books, CDs--everything on the floor disappears under the oily opaqueness. It's cold as winter and Adam clambers on top of the bed his bed, Jimmy's bed to get away from it.
The slim heels of the teal pumps catch in the blankets, sink into the mattress, almost tripping him, and he struggles to the window. He feels constricted al over--his pantyhose has slouched down so the crotch is almost between his knees and the spandex top is so tight he can't move his arms right.
He fumbles for the lock on the window and it won't budge. "Damn it!" he shouts and scrabbles at the edge until his fingernails are broken and torn.
The water's still rising, creeping over the edge of the mattress. One by one the room's lights flicker off and the only light is coming from the window across the street.
"Hey!" he shouts, pounding on the unyielding glass.
Dave dances across the rectangle of light, Leah in his arms. He looks so proud, so handsome. He's wearing a tux and she's all in white, while Adam can feel his makeup running, knows he's ugly and pathetic, but he has to try because the water's up to his waist, his shoulders.
"Dave!" he screams, so harsh his throat burns. Something's touching him, something in the water, wrapping around his ankle, slithering up his thigh. It's squishy and cold and too strong to fight as it pulls him slowly under the surface, but he tries. He grabs one last lung-full of air before blackness closes over his head.
There's a disorienting lurch and he finds himself dry, still on a bed, still tangled in blankets, but with strong hands holding his shoulders and a man's voice calling his name. He looks up into Clark's worried green eyes even as he feels his body gathering for a fight, but Clark pulls back before he can go into full-blown freak-out mode.
Clark crouches down by the bed and watches him while Adam does a mental inventory.
Not drowned.
Not drugged.
Not ass-raped by a god-damned tentacle monster.
The knuckles of his left hand are sore, and he can't figure how he got at an angle to hit the wall like that.
Then it clicks and "Shit. Clark, man, did I punch you?"
Clark smiles and shrugs it off. "Kent men. Hard headed."
Rain from the late-spring storm patters against the small window and Adam shivers. Clark drags the blanket off of his bed and drops it over Adam's shoulders. A cool drop hits his neck and for a second he has the ridiculous idea that Clark's crying.
But no, he can see as Clark turns on a light and fills a cup of water from the sink that it's not tears. His hair's damp, the shoulders of his red t-shirt freckled with dark spots of water. Clark's been out. Adam takes the glass and his eyes glance down. Clark's jeans are soaked through at the knees. Clark's been working.
He feels sick as he sips the metallic-tasting water. He wants to say something but he can't think of what. If guys like him didn't pay for it, guys like Clark wouldn’t sell it. And what fucking right does he have to be angry or jealous or protective or whatever the hell it is he's feeling?
"Better?" Clark asks.
He nods but can't meet Clark's eyes. They're close enough to touch, but don't.
"Happen often?"
Adam coughs. His voice is rough. "Often enough."
"Since the uh, the thing?"
Adam shakes his head. "Couple of years now. The drowning part, at least.
Clark nods, just listening. "You kept saying Dave." He can see Clark trying to make sense of this. "Was Dave the guy?"
Adam snorts his amusement. "Dave isn't like that." He scooches back to make room on the bed. Clark settles in, kicks off his shoes, and tries to keep the wet on his clothes off the bedding. "Dave's my best friend, and the worst wingman in the history of KOK house."
And that is a conversation that could take hours. He tells Clark about Dave and Doofer, or at least the time before they were DOG girls. All the stupid shit they used to get into. It's a little weird, like that part of his life isn't as real as it used to be or something. Like it's been taken away and he couldn't be that way again if he tried.
Clark tells him about Chloe and Pete and the strange little town he grew up in. There's someone else too, "this guy," Clark says, instead of a name. "This guy," driving a Porsche. "This guy," buying a coffee house. And always this little flicker of hurt, like it's picking a scab to even think about it, to even talk about him.
Clark's clothes dry out, and Adam feels the black water seep away until he knows it won't come back again that night. Finally Adam can't stop the yawn, and Clark sits up a little more.
"I should uh..." Clark gestures at his bed.
And this is it. No more stalling. "Could you..." he clears his throat. "Would you, like, mind..." And god-dammit, what is he, twelve? "I'd like it if you'd sleep over here. If you're okay with it." He clenches his jaw, daring Clark to laugh at him and fearing Clark will name a price for it.
But Clark just watches him for a moment and then nods. Adam gets under the covers and slides against the wall. Clark gets in too, slithering around and taking his jeans off under the sheet like Adam hasn't already seen it all.
They twist and turn for a little bit, until Clark's on his side and Adam is nestled up against his back, knees tucked up under Clark's thighs, hand resting on his waist.
It's warm and it's safe and Adam doesn’t dream again that night.
Chapter 2/?
Author: LadyJanelly
Fandom: Smallville/Sorority Boys
Disclaimer: I do not own the boys or the worlds they inhabit.
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentioned non-con, Slashy stuff, Adult content
Feedback: Hit me with some concrit. You know I like it rough.
Thanks to
roxymissrose for the OMG fast feedback.
Summary: Adam's weekend to get his head together takes a little longer than he thought it would.
The shower's running when Adam wakes up the next morning.
Face-down on a pillow that smells like dryer-sheets, he runs through the list he's used every time he's woken up since "The Date."
Clear-headed? Check.
Clothes on the same way they were when he fell asleep? Check.
No unexplained aches.
No pain.
He spent the night in a stranger's apartment and nothing bad happened to him.
The shower turns off in the bathroom and Adam pulls a sheet over himself--not that Clark didn't get a good look earlier, if he wanted it.
Clark steps out just a second after the water stops, dressed and groomed. There's no way he could have dried off and put clothes on that fast. Adam thinks of him standing in the bathroom, the flow of water masking the sounds of him jerking off. It's a nice thought, a "save and enjoy it later" sort of thought, even when he wonders if it was the sight of himself sleeping that got Clark in the mood.
"Morning." And if Clark was attractive on Watt Street at 1AM, he's beautiful by the light of day. He seems so much cleaner, more alive. Dressed up too, in khaki pants and a light blue dress shirt.
"Morning," Adam mumbles back, relaxing and watching as Clark bustles around, making himself a sandwich and drinking a glass of milk.
"I'm running late for work," Clark says with an apologetic smile, "But I'm only there for the lunch shift and I'll be back when my last table clears."
Being alone in the apartment doesn’t bother Adam. He sleeps a while longer, catching up on the rest that he missed on his vacation from sanity.
He's almost glad Clark isn’t there to wonder why it takes him so long in the shower. He doesn’t know when he'll have the privacy again, so he takes his time, shaving his beard with the black-handled razor from his own overnight kit, and his legs with the pink-handled one from Adina's.
In the mirror on the back of the bathroom door he checks his chest hair and the trail from navel to pubes. It'll be a week, maybe ten days before he needs to have it waxed again.
He stands there for a long time. He knows what men see in Adina--too big, too coarse, fat ass and scrawny legs. He's less sure what women see in Adam. It's always felt like a con-job anyway--the confidence, the charisma. Fast-talking them into his bed was always so easy. It's not like he'd ever planned anything more than fucking with any of them.
He stares into his own eyes for a bit more and admits that I.Q. was never apriority where women were concerned, just how impressed the guys would be with his latest conquest.
He wonders what it would take to impress Clark, what Clark would like in a man. He knows he's not flabby, but he wouldn't call himself buff. He knows he's not broad-shouldered like Clark is.
He lowers the toilet lid and sits down, leaning back against the cool of the tank. He spreads his feet a little. His toes flex against the aged tile and he kind of likes how that looks.
He runs a hand down his torso and wishes he'd had the nerve to get some gay porn so he'd have a better idea what guys are looking for, but his erotica collection had been too-often pillaged by his roomies to ever risk it.
He watches himself in the mirror, imagines Clark watching him. He strokes himself. His dick, half-hard before he even touched it, swells to full attention.
"Shit," he breathes, "Oh shit, yeah."
It's the first time he's let himself fantasize about a man, the first time ever. In his head, Clark is watching him, the open smile goodbye turned just a little bit wicked. He breathes harder, doesn’t trust himself to talk again. Too much frat-house conditioning--it's cool to yell when you're with a hot chick, not-so-cool to get loud fucking your own hand.
He's close, so close. Clark-in-his-head licks his lips, devours him with his eyes.
Clark-in-the-real-world comes home from work, keys rattling in the lock.
"Hey Adam, I'm back, are you-Whoa!"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Adina's bag is still lying out on the bed where he left it. Open.
Adam almost falls into the door in his scramble to get up, get dressed, get out there before Clark can see it, even as he knows it's too late, that Clark knows what a freak he is now.
Clark looks as uncomfortable as Adam feels, fidgeting around, straightening his bed, looking anywhere but at Adam. The bag has been put away, the wig and the makeup and the flashy spandex out of sight, before Clark tries talking again.
"Are you--"
"Hey, can we not talk about this?" Adam cuts in, sounding even sharper than he had intended.
"Hungry?" Clark finishes, and yeah, Adam feels like he should have "asshole" tattooed across his forehead. He risks a glance and Clark is smiling that smile again, bright and warm and like he doesn’t care what's in the pink bag.
If he wasn't blushing quite so red, Adam can feel the heat, he might even believe it.
Clark points to a plastic bag on the counter. "I brought lunch. Are you hungry?"
Adam tries to remember the last time he actually ate something, and the dcoffee the night before doesn’t count.
"Yeah, I am. Thanks."
Clark grins wider. "Hey, there's a park around the corner. It's not much, but better than sitting on the bed to eat. Sound good?"
Adam hesitates, feeling something more in the question. "Like a date?"
Clark sobers and Adam wants to kick himself for dimming that smile, even a little bit.
"Only if you want it to be," Clark says, but Adam is pretty sure that's hope in his eyes.
And it's scary, taking that risk, trying when it's not a sure thing.
The return of The Smile ™ when Adam says he does want to call it a date is worth it all.
The "park" is surprisingly sad, more of an empty lot than anything, but there's a picnic table, which is more than Clark's apartment can claim. The food makes up for it--pasta, salads and bread-sticks for both of them. Clark explains that he gets a low-end entrée with every shift he works and gets seventy-five percent off of take-out food.
Lunch is easy, and it's comfortable. Clark doesn’t try too hard to be charming or sexy, he just is. Second-to-second, Adam isn't sure if Clark's flirting with him or they're just two guys eating a meal. He's sure he wants Clark to flirt with him. He'd try to start it, but it's like trying to speak a language he's never heard. The closest he has is how Adina deals with men, and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want Clark to want that.
They hang out for a while at the park, BSing back and forth until the food's gone and traffic's picking up in the pre-rush-hour rush. Clark suggests a walk before they head back, and Adam gets the feeling he avoids spending any more time in the claustrophobic apartment than he has to.
Everyone in the neighborhood knows Clark, from shop-keepers to homeless guys. Everybody likes Clark, and each block they walk brings more greetings, more gossip. A few people seem worried for Clark, mentioning that somebody called Mack was looking for him, but Clark doesn't seem concerned.
They end up at an old parking lot that someone's installed a basketball hoop in. They watch the game for a while, and when two of the players have to leave, Clark nudges Adam with a grin.
"You in?"
This, this is easy. The most worry-free decision he's had to make since he hit metropolis.
It feels so good to shut his brain down, to narrow his world to the court, the ball and the hoop.
Clark's a good player, Adam decides, though not aggressive enough to be great. He can see the potential in the younger man's speed and power; he wonders what it would take to make it all come together.
Players switch out as the afternoon passes. Adam and Clark play until Clark has to limp off the court with a cramp in his calf. They stop off at a corner store for Gatoraid as a bank of clouds brings premature dusk to the city.
Adam's feeling a little tight himself as they climb the stairs, but he tells Clark to take the first shower. The guy is letting him crash at his place, after all.
He plans on showering, but by the time Clark comes out again he's too settled-in to get up and there probably isn't any hot water anyway.
He falls asleep to the sound of Clark's post-game "did you see that guy's face when..." and "that was amazing when you..." stories.
The bedroom is the one he shares with Dave and Doofer--his room, but not. Jimmy's stupid Hugh Heffner robe is on the back of the desk chair; the weird smell of his cologne is thick in the air.
Adam doesn't want to be here. He doesn’t want to be here so bad he doesn’t care who sees or who knows he just fucked, was fucked by, Jimmy. He reaches for the doorknob and it's wet, dark water pouring through the cracks all around the cheap wood, wrinkling the posters and making the carpet squish when he walks on it. Deeper it grows; puddles form and meet. Clothes, shoes, books, CDs--everything on the floor disappears under the oily opaqueness. It's cold as winter and Adam clambers on top of the bed his bed, Jimmy's bed to get away from it.
The slim heels of the teal pumps catch in the blankets, sink into the mattress, almost tripping him, and he struggles to the window. He feels constricted al over--his pantyhose has slouched down so the crotch is almost between his knees and the spandex top is so tight he can't move his arms right.
He fumbles for the lock on the window and it won't budge. "Damn it!" he shouts and scrabbles at the edge until his fingernails are broken and torn.
The water's still rising, creeping over the edge of the mattress. One by one the room's lights flicker off and the only light is coming from the window across the street.
"Hey!" he shouts, pounding on the unyielding glass.
Dave dances across the rectangle of light, Leah in his arms. He looks so proud, so handsome. He's wearing a tux and she's all in white, while Adam can feel his makeup running, knows he's ugly and pathetic, but he has to try because the water's up to his waist, his shoulders.
"Dave!" he screams, so harsh his throat burns. Something's touching him, something in the water, wrapping around his ankle, slithering up his thigh. It's squishy and cold and too strong to fight as it pulls him slowly under the surface, but he tries. He grabs one last lung-full of air before blackness closes over his head.
There's a disorienting lurch and he finds himself dry, still on a bed, still tangled in blankets, but with strong hands holding his shoulders and a man's voice calling his name. He looks up into Clark's worried green eyes even as he feels his body gathering for a fight, but Clark pulls back before he can go into full-blown freak-out mode.
Clark crouches down by the bed and watches him while Adam does a mental inventory.
Not drowned.
Not drugged.
Not ass-raped by a god-damned tentacle monster.
The knuckles of his left hand are sore, and he can't figure how he got at an angle to hit the wall like that.
Then it clicks and "Shit. Clark, man, did I punch you?"
Clark smiles and shrugs it off. "Kent men. Hard headed."
Rain from the late-spring storm patters against the small window and Adam shivers. Clark drags the blanket off of his bed and drops it over Adam's shoulders. A cool drop hits his neck and for a second he has the ridiculous idea that Clark's crying.
But no, he can see as Clark turns on a light and fills a cup of water from the sink that it's not tears. His hair's damp, the shoulders of his red t-shirt freckled with dark spots of water. Clark's been out. Adam takes the glass and his eyes glance down. Clark's jeans are soaked through at the knees. Clark's been working.
He feels sick as he sips the metallic-tasting water. He wants to say something but he can't think of what. If guys like him didn't pay for it, guys like Clark wouldn’t sell it. And what fucking right does he have to be angry or jealous or protective or whatever the hell it is he's feeling?
"Better?" Clark asks.
He nods but can't meet Clark's eyes. They're close enough to touch, but don't.
"Happen often?"
Adam coughs. His voice is rough. "Often enough."
"Since the uh, the thing?"
Adam shakes his head. "Couple of years now. The drowning part, at least.
Clark nods, just listening. "You kept saying Dave." He can see Clark trying to make sense of this. "Was Dave the guy?"
Adam snorts his amusement. "Dave isn't like that." He scooches back to make room on the bed. Clark settles in, kicks off his shoes, and tries to keep the wet on his clothes off the bedding. "Dave's my best friend, and the worst wingman in the history of KOK house."
And that is a conversation that could take hours. He tells Clark about Dave and Doofer, or at least the time before they were DOG girls. All the stupid shit they used to get into. It's a little weird, like that part of his life isn't as real as it used to be or something. Like it's been taken away and he couldn't be that way again if he tried.
Clark tells him about Chloe and Pete and the strange little town he grew up in. There's someone else too, "this guy," Clark says, instead of a name. "This guy," driving a Porsche. "This guy," buying a coffee house. And always this little flicker of hurt, like it's picking a scab to even think about it, to even talk about him.
Clark's clothes dry out, and Adam feels the black water seep away until he knows it won't come back again that night. Finally Adam can't stop the yawn, and Clark sits up a little more.
"I should uh..." Clark gestures at his bed.
And this is it. No more stalling. "Could you..." he clears his throat. "Would you, like, mind..." And god-dammit, what is he, twelve? "I'd like it if you'd sleep over here. If you're okay with it." He clenches his jaw, daring Clark to laugh at him and fearing Clark will name a price for it.
But Clark just watches him for a moment and then nods. Adam gets under the covers and slides against the wall. Clark gets in too, slithering around and taking his jeans off under the sheet like Adam hasn't already seen it all.
They twist and turn for a little bit, until Clark's on his side and Adam is nestled up against his back, knees tucked up under Clark's thighs, hand resting on his waist.
It's warm and it's safe and Adam doesn’t dream again that night.