SMALLVILLE Fic: Little Noise -- C/W
Title: Little Noise
Rating: R
Pairing: Whitney Fordman/Clark Kent
Summary: The room is dim, but you don't really notice because the light of the single lamp makes his skin look that much more edible.
Author's Note: I'm trying my hand at that bagfulloftricks HUMPday challenge thing. In a fandom I've never, ever written. Ever. In second-person point-of-view. Um, what?
LITTLE NOISE
The room is dim, but you don't really notice because the light of the single lamp makes his skin look that much more edible. His palms are flat against the wall, and he's pushing his hips into your loose fist. You can feel his sides and arms twitching when you run the very tips of your fingers over them.
And fuck, it's hot inside him, like a goddamn furnace, and it's all you can do to keep your legs from buckling when he tightens up around you. Your face presses into the curve of his neck and you feel the warm wet of his slippery skin. Your tongue slides out to taste; your teeth follow suit and he's making this incredible sound in the back of his throat.
Never knew you could make a farm boy whimper like that.
"Come on, come on," you whisper, and you tighten your hand around him just like he's clamping down around you, and if you speed up any to hurry things along, well it's his own damn fault for being so big and hot and gorgeous.
And there's that little noise again, high-pitched and breathy, and it's more than enough to drive you over the edge with his name on your lips. Then he's pulling off you, and turning around with a dopey grin splitting his face.
"That," he says, "was incredible."
"Clark?"
"Yeah?" He's nuzzling your neck. Sniffing you. You file that line of questioning away for later. "What is it, Whit?"
Sweat runs down into your eyes and you blink it away.
When you open your eyes again, you're alone in the showers of the Smallville High locker room, one hand on your softening prick, looking at a blob of white that's slowly trickling down the wall.
Rating: R
Pairing: Whitney Fordman/Clark Kent
Summary: The room is dim, but you don't really notice because the light of the single lamp makes his skin look that much more edible.
Author's Note: I'm trying my hand at that bagfulloftricks HUMPday challenge thing. In a fandom I've never, ever written. Ever. In second-person point-of-view. Um, what?
LITTLE NOISE
The room is dim, but you don't really notice because the light of the single lamp makes his skin look that much more edible. His palms are flat against the wall, and he's pushing his hips into your loose fist. You can feel his sides and arms twitching when you run the very tips of your fingers over them.
And fuck, it's hot inside him, like a goddamn furnace, and it's all you can do to keep your legs from buckling when he tightens up around you. Your face presses into the curve of his neck and you feel the warm wet of his slippery skin. Your tongue slides out to taste; your teeth follow suit and he's making this incredible sound in the back of his throat.
Never knew you could make a farm boy whimper like that.
"Come on, come on," you whisper, and you tighten your hand around him just like he's clamping down around you, and if you speed up any to hurry things along, well it's his own damn fault for being so big and hot and gorgeous.
And there's that little noise again, high-pitched and breathy, and it's more than enough to drive you over the edge with his name on your lips. Then he's pulling off you, and turning around with a dopey grin splitting his face.
"That," he says, "was incredible."
"Clark?"
"Yeah?" He's nuzzling your neck. Sniffing you. You file that line of questioning away for later. "What is it, Whit?"
Sweat runs down into your eyes and you blink it away.
When you open your eyes again, you're alone in the showers of the Smallville High locker room, one hand on your softening prick, looking at a blob of white that's slowly trickling down the wall.