REDgreen

Title: REDgreen
Type: Slash, bromance, lost episode scenes
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Smallville
Pairing/s: Clark/Oliver, Collie (Bart featured to some extent)
Episode Setting: Instinct (post-ep)
Word Count: 11304

Summary: After being pursued by alien queen and seductress Maxima, Clark pays a visit to Oliver who isn’t home. With thoughts of Chloe’s upcoming wedding fresh in mind, one thing leads to another and Clark finds himself dressing in one of Oliver’s suits, that is until Oliver rumbles him and things get interesting. A leisurely outing at the Ace of Clubs also sees Clark and Oliver developing their relationship, with Bart paying some audience to such events. Once Bart leaves, things escalate to a critical degree, and Oliver is left wondering what the Hell is going on.

Warnings: May be slightly spoilerish to those who have not seen the Season 8 episode “Instinct” or some other episodes aired prior to that, includes some sexual references and events of an erotic nature. Those looking for immediate excuses for spiteful smut may not have the patience needed to appreciate the series.

Disclaimer: Don't own Smallville or the characters, just like writing about it and them.

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The last twenty four hours or so had really weighed down upon Clark in a number of unexpected and surreal ways, anchoring him in what felt like an army of opposite directions. Of course the hero that went universally unsung for his efforts by dignified choice, only allowed such realisations hit ground after the fact and not because it was any easier this way, but it did allow for him to plough through his never simple emotions and circumstances without distraction hindering his attempts to serve the better good of others in ways they will never yet know. His arms folded, the modest Kryptonian made note of the fact that whenever Lois had lent her presence to the farmhouse, it left his home smelling different, although it was never an actual scent that she left behind in her wake and more of an infusion of person that seemed to influence the atmosphere in a way that tricked the nose into believing otherwise. Hers was a sense of vibrancy and adamant colour that Clark found himself missing in a way that if dwelled upon too long, could become considered as a pining.

With a small, defeated smile his eyes bowed down while his head did not, the lustre of the lit wood in the fireplace ebbing against one side of his face in slow rush of amber washes; Clark once again shed clarity upon the fact that he would never understand Lois as a friend or anything else, or how to tell her how he really saw her, or how to figure out and admit to himself how he really saw her. She was the one person he had ever felt this precise burden with, and while the bearer of a simple yet powerful brand of wisdom, Clark knew not what to do with the truths of this reality, whether they would prove to be no more than casual elements of circumstance; even when confronting his feelings towards Lana in each of the many different chapters of their continuously changing relationship, Clark had known how he had felt and where he had stood. Lois unnerved the planetary orphan in ways that no friend, romantic interest or even enemy ever had, disarmed him and made him feel approved of and frowned upon all at the same time whenever they shared company, and with no real effort demonstrated on her part. For some reason he couldn’t shed light upon, Clark liked this; her relentlessly imposing and daunting manner made a human of him, made him forget that he was born to fly in absence of wings, burn through the world’s materials with but a look, lift the weight of it in a way no other man could. She infuriated him, she confused him, and more often than not served as the walking bane of his existence that itself smiled in awareness of it’s chosen duty, but one other effect that Lois’ pointed wares had upon her supposedly simple minded farmboy friend that she might not have known the full and beneficial extent of; she kept his feet feeling that they belonged to the ground on which they stood and walked.

And just like that, the ghost of her scent had ceased to linger, and the reality of the actual world was once again inarguably surrounding him, no longer lost to weightless thought and the dreamlike calm it brought. Given most recent ordeals it was best his senses were no longer fooled; innocents had died as a result of his pursuit as a mate, the alien seductress who was responsible forcing him to once again accept a painfully uneasy sense of not belonging to the world he was not born to, but had loved so much it sometimes hurt even more than the pain he felt for that very feeling of not belonging. Kent had almost been responsible for the death of Jimmy, for which he could not have forgiven himself had Chloe been left without her lover and husband, and if that hadn’t been enough, she had entrusted him to do her the honour of giving her away at the aisle, a duty that in merely giving had blessed Clark infallibly; she had given him a trust so delicate and complete that a greater ideal would have only a father deserve it. Chloe had always been Clark’s one consistent anchor to the world and the people who inhabited it, the only one he knew would never see an outsider that didn’t belong to the human race when she looked to him, even though she knew the harsh details that would prove otherwise. His very existence had almost cost her the future she deserved, with a family of her own making and the man she loved. It kept getting harder, every day, knowing that while all Clark wanted to do was save the world, simply being in it put it at risks he would only learn of when they presented themselves. He wondered if he was worth it, how he could be, as much as he’d like to believe in the soft and beautiful optimism of his friends, even those who did not know his secret and offered their approval to him obscurely. He wondered in a cold and haunting disbelief if anybody could ever be that good of a person to justify the suffering and despair of others; perhaps his friends told lies without knowing it, even Hell’s road was paved with the best of intentions.

A lonely thinking spree had left a lonely Clark feeling vulnerable and restlessly awake, but the night’s youth had some time before it was fleeted and it’s moon had a friend that Clark himself shared. Only moments after toying with the idea Clark had become a blur of gaseous colour that would not be seen by any ordinary man, arriving once more beyond the threshold of his friend’s doorway, somewhat mischievously proud smile forming upon arrival. It had been a week or so since he’d last seen Oliver, whose home seemed to have no scent other than one of things both clean and new; scentless but notably distinct in being so. He found himself steadily wandering aimlessly, barely aware that there was yet to be a sign of his friend being present, Clark eyes and hands appreciated a number of the furnishings he passed by as he strode without a chosen path; hand painted wall art which no doubt could have instead financed more than one tractor on Kent farm, the textured leather of Oliver’s black leather sofa upon which Clark had only sat upon himself recently, smooth sculptures crafted from stone that seemed so impressive and yet so needlessly indulgent to Clark. And then his large yet gentle grasp came to but a simple picture frame, which held within it an image of it’s owner, an image that told so clear a tale of careless frivolity, the likes of which Clark himself could not imagine himself embracing in the way that his friend both could and did. And then his eyes instead saw what had been in front of them, and not beyond them; Oliver in a suit.

While Clark’s mind had yet to give true declaration of their findings or that which developed from them, his body did not share the same problem. Only seconds later Clark found himself inside a room that he had never been invited to or seen the walls of before, the bedroom of his friend, Oliver Queen. To some surprise, Clark found Oliver’s bedroom to be more minimalist than perhaps he would have imagined, although he did not recall ever imagining at all, smooth solid surfaces and modernistic yet distinctly modest throughout. He looked at himself through the full length mirror that Oliver often must have, recognizing a look of flushed inferiority flood his face as he did so, concluding how his growingly meek and simple reflection could never compare to the more impressive and refined one that truly belonged to the silvered glass before him, which seemed now to be silently mocking him for that very fact alone. Slightly compelled to run his tender palm across the fabric of his wealthy friend’s bed for just a second, Clark instead found his tentative clutches attending to a doorway adjacent to it, one that once opened, lead him to an automatically lit closet full of clothing so obviously expensive that even at first glance, each garment seemed so exotic to him. Although he didn’t notice, Clark’s exhalation was prolonged at the site of his friend’s closet, which would be more accurately described as a room, complete with the accompaniment of vintage furniture which even Clark had to admit seemed to belong there and only there; exuberant tall lamps in classical design, dapper hat stand, and even a silk upholstered chaise long with a damask pattern featured which although Clark did not recognise, admitted instantly as a work of beautiful and costly craftsmanship.

Clark’s guilty and anxious eyes lost themselves hungrily to the many garments that hung so proudly around him like trophies made not of rare metal, but only for less than a second. One pile of grouped garments had claimed his attention above all others, in spite of the fact that unlike those neighbouring they did not stand proudly but instead lay flat and casually folded over the back of a chair; perhaps it was their comparative modesty that granted Clark’s comfort towards them at all. He didn’t realize while he pondered how he would look in such a finely cut suit, that he had already began to undress, the exposure of his chest’s warm and flawless flesh startling him into that truth has he caught such unexpected glimpses in yet more silvered panes that he felt frowning down upon him, unimpressed and disapproving in ways that made something beneath his skin ripple in mild anguish. This material felt so uncommon as it slid passed his skin as Clark stood upon bare feet, softly delivering his arms through that of the shirt and jacket he aimed to fill somewhat nervously, knowing that however innocent his actions were he should not have been in Oliver’s room uninvited, let alone helping himself to any clothing he found lying around. Clark buttoned up the shirt he had claimed with his heart now racing a little, denying himself the right to witness his reflection until fully and appropriately dressed, as though the suit deserved to be worn properly, as if only then he would be worthy of looking at himself in it. As the final button became fastened to it’s intended slit, Clark took in a preparing breath as he tucked the bottom of the shirt into the rightful suit trousers that moments ago claimed his strong and often hidden legs. Reluctantly, in fear of a disappointing final image, Clark rose his head and then his eyes so that he may look upon himself in his inappropriately borrowed attire. Blunt irony struck him as instantly as he eyed the man that stood on the other side of the looking glass, his face so ridden with shock and awe however understated, even though it’s barer should have known exactly what to expect; but he didn’t. Clark had worn suits before, and he had never felt anything but a stranger to them; his frame and arms too robust, his nature too unassuming and grounded, his attitude and approach too gallant. But this suit was unlike any he had donned before, and not simply because it was more exquisite or expensive than any other that had graced him, nor even for the fact that this particular suit made him not only look, but also feel like he was worth a million dollars for every pound he weighed. The one daunting, and energetic reason why this one suit had infused Clark with a sensation of unequalled exhilaration, attractiveness and self pride was simply this; it was Oliver’s.

Clark’s head rushed with an unusually soothing buzz of thoughts that sped in at a quickness even he, who could beat a bullet in a race, was taken back by. Thoughts of how this fine clothing had known Oliver’s golden skin, how an undeniable trace of his friend must have therefore lingered within them, and how now he shared union with such traces of the man. Thoughts of how no matter what Oliver wore or didn’t wear, he always looked expensive, rich and wanton, and how his very presence in a room was like a sought after diamond to those who come to know of it. Thoughts indeed, of how now that he had touched upon such conclusions, Clark was sure that he could smell whatever there was to smell of Oliver that wasn’t simply clean or new, the unique aromatic fingerprint of his natural, light musk along with his carefully selected cologne of choice. And then there was one final, abrupt thought that fought away all the others, however nicely they warmed at his skin. Although alone, Kent was nevertheless embarrassed as his widened eyes looked down to confirm that which the tight constriction of upmarket fabric surrounding his pelvis had alerted him to; a fully formed, hotly blooded and vigorously throbbing erection too gargantuan and charged to ignore or hide from himself or anybody else that might near him. Unfortunate for him then, that even these hurried and critical thoughts be justly undermined by yet another unforeseen occurrence, one that could easily be the least desirable of all universally possible; the intrusion of his friend’s already approached voice.

“Clark…what the-”, Oliver asked in an indeterminate but strident tone that demanded Clark face and respond to him. Clark though, shamefaced for a few quickly depleting moments of obscurity, had other plans, such as developing the superhuman power to spontaneously combust and take the entire world with him if only it would mean he didn’t have to confront what he was certain he was about to.

At first dumbfounded at the peculiarity of finding his otherworldly friend in his dressing room uninvited, which also meant of course that the large superhuman had also granted himself invitation to his friend’s bedroom, the rightful territorial feelings that claimed Oliver’s active line of thought whilst happening upon his intrusive friend cavorting around in his clothing in an unexpected and unfathomable manner, such feelings were soon rendered obsolete, in the discovery of something for more captivating; the colossally built Kryptonian’s thought dominating erection.

As the usually confident Queen’s dark and soulful eyes darted upwards from Clark’s more prohibited and currently very delicate of areas, he registered the instant detonation of his larger friend’s nerves filling the room with a heavily felt sense of startling unease; Clark’s eyes seemed knowing of where Oliver’s had roamed.

“Oliver I, it’s not-”, a painfully fretful Clark struggled to speak, his own distressed tension robbing him of any fully formed sentence.

“-Not the first time you’ve raided my panty drawer?”, Oliver shot a blushing Clark with a tranquilizing smile, intending for a feigned comedic approach to remedy the potentially troublesome situation, and while his efforts would unfold as successful, initially they were met by an unsure Clark who was certain he had foreseen a far worse series of events in his immediate future, “Relax Clark, it’s not like I have a lock on my door…but in future, you might want to demonstrate some of that typical Kent hospitality you’re famous for before you start dressing yourself in my clothes.”, the secret archer spoke to Clark somewhat more firmly now in order to inject a tangible sense of rationale to the playful illusion he had just cast over the true and less bearable reality involved with his exposed and troubled ally.

“I just-”, Clark’s watered mouth failed him once more, but where his tongue found hardship his mind did not. There were two fundamental possibilities; Clark could embarrass himself by staggering through a series of shameful and uncomfortable admissions, or alternatively he could assume that Oliver had neither suspected not witnessed anything untoward as suggested and in doing so evade any unsavoury discussions as well as any turbulence towards his friendship with the golden haired man who stood so effortlessly and yet with such zeal before him. Ultimately preferring one potential outcome to another, Clark silenced his better sense of righteousness if only temporarily, “-I just came by to see you…when I realized you weren’t here, I guess I got carried away…”, Clark began to clarify, the shy rush of rose slowly starting to fade from his cheeks, “…Chloe asked me to give her away on her wedding day and -”

“-And you remembered that I have more formal wear than any single man should legally be allowed to possess?”, Oliver interrupted, helping a clumsily worded Clark to better explain the situation, rescuing him from self-sabotage, noting that Clark took full advantage of that wide eyed look of sparkling childlike innocence he often executed, which admittedly could allow him to evade almost any incrimination.

“Something like that.”, a docile looking Clark lightly grinned while speaking both warmly and as though slightly defeated, thankful that his friend could articulate an unfinished sentence which if otherwise left to spawn may not have ended quite as well, “But this is…I shouldn’t have-”, Clark began to confess a part of the guilt he had chosen to more suitably moderate.

“-It’s fine Clark, I get it…and I’d be happy to do you a favour in the wardrobe department, I know how much Chloe means to you…and no offence Clark but I think being granted the honour of giving her away deserves for something a little more refined than can be found in some generic rental store.”, Oliver beamed with generosity, although beneath such projections of genuine sentiment, the wealthy heir found himself irritated by the fact that Clark had made a conscious decision to keep his body somewhat turned away from him, denying Oliver any witness to whether his enormous appendage was still rigid in a titillated fullness of rushed blood flow. Fortunately for Oliver, being a shrewd businessman came with certain creative advantages when it came to acquiring what one wanted, “But not that.”, it took Clark a moment to realise that Oliver had referred to his current choice of attire, and how it was for whatever reason unsuitable, “For starters it’s not exactly a good fit…you may not have noticed Clark, but what we have in common when it comes to leading double lives and women troubles, we lack in any sort of general physical similarity.”.

The line of Clark’s brow raised all at once with all the adorability of a child who looked on to a parent disappointed in his own foolish yet charming mistake as the suit he once thought made him look so amazing suddenly became unfitting, as though Oliver’s claims had literally bent reality just by being spoken. The cuffs cut too prematurely at Clark’s wrist, the collar although unfastened pinched too tightly at Clark’s neck, even the buttons of the shirt were too tight, and Clark could even feel his chest pressing too tightly at the confounds of the shirt’s fabric as he continued to breathe. He felt so stupid for not being able to comprehend what had been so clearly in front of him, that he had needed Oliver to shed light on something which shouldn’t have needed his friend’s assistance to be so obvious. For a second of meekness, Clark agreed to himself that he should have expected no less of his untrained eyes, Oliver was simply more refined than him, he always would be, Oliver would know how a man should be dressed, and short of knowing that men are not traditionally meant to wear women’s clothing, Clark did not.

“Besides, I’m thinking black is not your colour…not any more. I mean the old Clark who never took risks, who looked at the world through rose coloured spectacles? Sure, black was a go…but the new and improved Clark who leaves his seatbelt unfastened for the first thirty seconds of any given car ride? Black just won’t do.”, Queen taunted Clark in a friendly manner, lightening the mood further, Clark taking note of a growing realisation that often when Oliver spoke to him, it felt like his sun kissed confidante was throwing him a playful wink when in fact he was not, and this was one of those times.

“Funny.”, Kent unknowingly and reluctantly admitted, met only by the agreeable smirk of the impressive man across from him, “So what do you suggest…I’m Clark Kent remember, I don’t think making a statement is something I was born to do at the best of times, least of all with clothing.”

The svelte bowman fought back the urge to demand that Clark stop doubting himself, after all it would lead to nowhere, “Well I think you can manage updating your look to one that more closely resembles the new millennia we’re living in, even if it’s just for a day.”, tired of Clark’s coyness, Oliver assaulted him with mild mockery just enough to keep it at bay, “Actually…”, Queen quickly turned to his side, and pushed aside a number of hanging garments with the leverage of his arm, careful fingers reaching through the space then made in pursuit of something they knew to be there, or thereabouts, “…I might have just the thing.”, the blonde playboy assertively claimed, pulling a large lidded box from a compartment previously shrouded by an assortment of neatly hanging garments. And then Clark was startled again, because as soon as he allowed his eyes to focus solely upon the rectangular container Oliver’s hands had just found, those same hands were handling him from behind, unsheathing his shoulders from the black jacket still partially covering his back.

“Oliver!”

“Not this again.”, Queen uttered lowly, remembering how their last meeting resulted in Clark using his name as a standalone sentence one too many times.

“What are you-”, Clark yelped, caught unawares, but unable to finish his reactive question.

“-Well Clark, while I fully appreciate that you are in many ways no more than a humble farmboy, I have to trust that even you are aware of the simple fact that two suits can’t be worn at once.”, Oliver’s quick tongue poked further fun in the shyer young man’s direction.

Clark’s eyes wandered without conscious decision as his mind did the same thing, in search of a course of logic to follow. This was probably an ordinary practice of behaviour amongst people like Oliver, assisting in the grooming of their friends. It didn’t feel uncomfortable or suspicious, in fact Clark was surprised at how ordinary it felt, but then Oliver’s hands went about their business so calmly, and with such a quick subtlety, that any other conclusion would have been impossible to draw.

“…Right.”, Clark consented, having given fresh decision to new and unfamiliar concepts, trying not to show any unease, and feeling much less than he thought he would have had in such a situation a few weeks ago. He did trust Oliver for whatever irregular reason, and he wanted to prove to Oliver that he could fit into his world without having to be worked around. And so, he proceeded to stand calmly as Oliver continued to undress him…although after coming around from his most previous bout of ponderings, Clark found himself to be more unclothed than he’d have expected in such a short amount of time, the direct image of his well formed torso bare and staring back at him in the reflection cast by an adjacent mirror. Apparently, for all his inhuman capabilities of rapid motion Clark had underestimated the regular human speed of certain individuals.

“You’re warm.”, Oliver offhandedly observed, as his hands gracefully tended to Clark’s trouser fastenings, and just like that, the situation had become once again changed.

Being told he was warm by Oliver, forced Clark to experience current events with an entirely different perspective. At the end of Oliver’s claim, Kent’s powerful body was overcome by a rush of heat that left a cool buzz in it’s wake; his words were making things happen again, overruling natural reality just by leaving the lips of their beautiful master. Now, each casual touch Oliver cast upon Clark, even if merely the grazing of his wrists against Clark’s waist, became felt, became known, became wanted. And then another realization forced it’s way through Kent’s reeling wits; Oliver was tending to that place, that area, and although it seemed he meant no illicit sexual imposition, Clark couldn’t help but start feeling, knowing and wanting that too. And once again, Clark had gotten himself into a potentially compromising position, as while his will tried hard to defy it, with each heartbeat his only recently relaxed cock began to throb with a force that caused it to rise and grow an unfathomable fraction of an inch with every pulse. From this point, Clark chose not to share glances with Oliver…whenever he did that seemed to be when the worst things had happened, and at least this way he would never know what his friend’s eyes had happened upon, if anything.

“What’s up Clark, you seem lost for words all of a sudden.”, Oliver asked tamely, although given Clark’s rising predicament, his selection of words were quite choice.

“No, it‘s-”, now was really not a time for Clark to exhibit a tardiness of words, any gap in his speech would be an opportunity for his colleague to become distracted from fluid interaction, which could lead to him seeing the again hard protrusion that shot from the centre of the dark haired male’s pelvis with all the inelegance and inarguable bulk of a beached whale. Clark would have to keep conversation fluid in hopes to prevent such distractions, even if it meant a divergence from typical and more idyllic standards of honesty, “-I just guess a lot of things are hitting me all at once. Chloe and Jimmy getting married, and don’t get me wrong I’m happy for them but will it mean I’m losing a friend, the first and only friend I ever really chose to trust with my secret, someone I‘ve always been able to count on. And then I got to thinking…will I ever have that? I mean how can I ever have a wife given the constant danger she’d be in just by being near me, how could I do that to someone I love enough to marry? And on top of it all, I think I just missed my only chance to ever be a father-”, Clark found a way to lie by telling the truth, although even with the softness and authenticity of his expressed sentiments, his superhuman penis still refused to yield.

“-Wait Clark, what? You, a father? When did this happen?”, Queen asked while kneeling and snaking Clark’s legs from the black dress trousers that were now gathered in a mess of sewn fabric surrounding the standing man’s feet.

“Maxima, an alien Queen who came to Earth looking for the perfect mate to continue her lineage with. In her search for a Kryptonian, she almost killed Jimmy…and Lois…”

“And I thought I was a hit with the ladies, then there’s you being sought after as a mate by a woman from across the galaxy who’s never even laid eyes on you, just for what sounds like meaningless sex.”, Oliver noticed Clark’s momentary grin reflected by the nearby mirror, but also made sure to follow up his light heartedness with some contributions that would prevent him from seeming insensitive, “I keep forgetting what a regular day in the life of Clark Kent consists of…and I’m no saint Clark…I’m hardly qualified to give myself advice and in comparison to yours, my life is pretty simple. But I’m here, if you ever need to talk.”, and Oliver knew how positively Clark responded to that golden halo of his, whenever he took it out for a polish.

“Thanks Ollie…”, he called him Ollie again, and it had been the first time this night, “…I’m not so sure that any of it can be made sense of. I don’t know if I’m even ready for the answers to the questions I have.”, although his glances continued to shy away from contact with Oliver’s, Clark’s eyes shone with a calm sadness, one that he would never allow to spawn tears, for he felt his own emotions too unimportant in the grand scheme of things, too unimportant for him to show them to the world in a way it would be forced to respond to.

“Maybe you’re not meant to be ready yet, maybe the answers are meant to come to you as you go…let‘s face it Clark none of us come with an instruction booklet, least of all you.”, the golden haired millionaire offered an alternative wisdom to the younger man that was kinder than his delicate touch, softly put and firmly received Those strong hands of his now buttoning a different white shirt over Clark’s statuesque torso, hands travelling downwards as they tended to their work, which only made the Kryptonian’s cock anticipate their nearing, and begin to throb at full force again; this time, Oliver noticed. So interesting how realms of sensation and perception shift into one another, as earlier Clark was exhilarated by Oliver’s unknowing touch, and now Oliver’s understanding of this allowed him to tap into the shared energy between them, made him start to enjoy the touches he stole from Clark’s skin that much more, as though their sensory pleasures conducted through one another, spilled through the skin at point of contact and fed the opposing energy. Apparently, upon such findings both men became stilled by an inexplicably shared connection, something that ran deeper than words or typically confirmed witness could, something beneath it all; primal, primitive, wanting answering to want. Oliver couldn’t take his eyes off Clark’s massive unearthly member; where before he had been playfully impressed, he was now fixated and awestruck. He’d never seen anything like it, in person or in porn, and not only for it’s sheer size and unthinkable bulk, but also because it made him want to look at it, want to be captivated by it. As his hand’s fasted the final button, he felt an invisible chasm threatening to tinker with the better judgement of his motor function, wanting his hands to do other work, forcing him to know it was possible. Upon awareness of salivating Oliver saw fit to break the silence, lightened by Clark’s visibly pointed coyness in contrast to the unapologetic weapon that resided between his legs, “Looks like I was right, a perfect fit.”, he changed the dreary subject and broke the ice that had came to them of late in the form of dangerous silence, still his eyes found it difficult to pry away from the super human’s meaty Kryptonian throbber.

It took Clark a moment to snap out of the lucid spell of toxic arousal that had dominated his perceptions, before responding to Queen, “Why would you even have a suit in my size lying around?”, he asked, setting a tone of innocence that seemed worlds away from the one both men surrendered to only moments ago.

“Actually Clark I was keeping it for myself-”

“But you’re not-”

“Yes I know I’m not you’re size…”, and that much had been made clear on numerous occasions, and in different ways, “…but once upon a time I was planning on bulking out. A boy can dream…he can also wake up to perfect body that’s different to the one he first thought of having.”, Clark slipped out a goofy, fanged smile, “Something funny, Clark?”, Oliver shot, guiding the new trousers over Clark’s bare, muscular legs, hands secretly appreciating the tender calves that resided there.

“It’s just…I can’t imagine you wanting to look any different.”, Clark freely explained.

“Was that a compliment?”, Oliver clearly liked the idea of his assumption being correct and the sudden glow of his face made no secret of it.

“I’m just saying…haven’t you always been perfect?”, and in Clark’s own unique way, Oliver’s assumptions were more than confirmed.

“Wow, well thanks Clark…having my body merited by a superhuman who could bench press me even without his powers will do wonders for my ego.”, those pools of chocolate he saw with sent randomly patterned expressions of appreciation and thanks all over Clark’s body, just as well then that Clark was not facing him or peering at him through use of the mirror in front of him. Now that Clark’s new trousers had been pulled up, at least that obnoxiously proportioned tool of Clark’s wouldn’t be demanding the tanned elder’s attentions quite so much.

“It’s not like I’m given much choice but to form an opinion, you’re always-”

“-Yes I know Clark, that fact has been well established.”, not that he was ashamed of it, but Oliver simply didn’t see the need to once again discuss his regular semi-nudity within the comforts of his own home.

“But you’re not now.”, then came the colossus’ realisation that Oliver was in fact clothed, at current.

“Well Clark, while the establishments I frequent at night do not have a particularly strict dress code, they share an unspoken rule against partial male nudity.”

“You were out?”

“Still am, well besides now. I only dropped by to pick something up for Bart, but little did I know you’d be-”

“-You’re out with Bart?”, Clark quickly interrupted, in part because he didn’t want to have the night’s event’s rehashed, in larger part because he wasn’t sure how he felt about Oliver spending time with the only living being faster than a Kryptonian.

“Yes Clark, and this surprises you why? I work with him on a regular basis…you know, because some of us actually agreed to be part of a team and combine our abilities and efforts. See this funny thing happens when you work alongside people…over a period of time, you develop what we earthlings call a friendship, after which we might decide to go out together for drinks once in a while.”, Oliver’s sophisticated sarcasm was gently expressed as he guided Clark’s arms upwards and fed them steadily into the sleeves of the newly gifted dress jacket. Conversation had seemed to finally tame the beast of Clark’s loins, which while slightly disappointing to Queen, also granted him a sense of relief.

“That’s not fair Oliver, I told you why I couldn’t commit to the team.”, the Kryptonian genuinely fretted, “And wait…are you saying we’re not friends?”

“You know for a ridiculously burly man, you really have a hankering for the melodramatic don’t you.”, the deviant playboy gloated, victoriously.

“Ollie!”, Clark said the magic word, more magic because he was so concerned and therefore vulnerable.

“Of course we’re friends Clark, and more so because we don’t just work together. Why else would I give you a room in my penthouse suite, and then personally dress you in a never before worn Armani after finding you jacking off in my clothes, or whatever it was you were doing in my dressing suite before I got here.”

“Ollie I wasn’t!”, Clark stressed, with underlying truths hitting too close to home, immediately provoking Oliver’s charismatic laughter, which somehow twisted all realms of possibility by making the millionaire even more attractive than he already was, “Very funny.”, Clark thankfully and swiftly resided to the apparent reality that his friend was merely mocking him again, which seemed to be a consistent and growing pattern.

After a period spent on relishing his mischievous success over Clark, Oliver gestured to the mirror before his darker haired friend to inform him that he was now fully dressed in a new, more fitting, designer outfit, “Well look at that, looks like I was right…Armani agrees with you.”

Although he was not well versed on the subject of designer clothing and how it was suited to individuals in general, Clark had to admit that he could see exactly what Oliver was saying. He looked expensive, and rare, like someone…like Oliver; the suit he’d tried on before made him look like a joke in comparison. He even felt different, the air around him seemed instantly cooler, his head clearer, a sense of confidence overcame him; he’d never seen himself look so good, he never knew he could. Of course, such feelings of self pride were unusual to Clark, and naturally he would not only feel guilty for harbouring them, but also he would be inclined to dismiss them, if not for the intervention of his friend.

“I’m not sure Ollie, the colour is-”, the Smallville native worried that the black suit with an edgy midnight blue metallic finish when under light, was a little too flamboyant for his unassuming demeanour.

“Fine Clark, the colour is fine, and Clark…I have to say, if you wear that suit for too long I might just have to turn for you.”, Oliver unceremoniously confirmed Clark’s new feelings of self worth, implementing obscure and inappropriate suggestions in a fashion that only he could, without agitating the otherworldly hero.

“Seriously? You think I look…attractive?”, how Clark couldn’t fathom himself as attractive escaped Oliver.

“Yes Clark seriously, I do…and not because of what you‘re wearing. But you, in that suit…you will practically hear all the pussies in the room getting wet…I bet you‘d even put my womanizing wares to shame.”

“Oliver!”, a shy Clark was hassled by his friend’s comfortable openness with such extrovert language and sexual suggestion whenever it was so direct and unpredicted.

“Again with the Oliver! Look, if you don’t believe me, see for yourself. Come meet Bart with me, kill two birds with one stone…break in your new look, and see if I’m wrong.”, Oliver was even prepared to initialize a wager, but he knew Clark was not the sort of person to take pleasure in the prospect of reaping the seeds of a sewn forfeit.

“I don’t know, I mean I should pay you before-”

“-Clark I am not taking any money from you, it’s a gift.”

“I can’t just-”

“-You can.”

And then there was a felt period of silence which Oliver loved, because it involved Clark‘s eyes roaming around to create a facial illustration of adorable bewilderment.

“Look it’s your’s and Bart’s night out, you should get back to him.”

“What Clark, you think we’re married or something? He’s a guy I get along with…it’s not like he cares whether you’re there with us or not, he’d probably be happy to see you.”

“Are you sure I don’t look-”

“-Yes I’m sure…so shall I grab you a pair of shoes and call up the elevator?”

“We’re the same size? How did you know?”

“Not much gets by me, Clark.”, the handsome archer informed his friend, handing him a pair of shoes taken from one of the shelved spaces of his dressing suite, “So, are you in?”

At first Clark intended to answer reluctantly, but catching another glimpse of himself in a nearby wall-mounted mirror as he walked by, he paused, gave himself a noteworthy once-over, and replied in a much varied approach to that which he first felt appropriate, “I’m in.”

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Walking in to the Ace of Clubs was intimidating enough for Clark, but having more than a dozen pair of sophisticated eyes predatorily marking him, seemingly before he even walked in, was quite something else. As Clark was paid much unexpected yet clearly determined attention, and slowly quivered in disbelief and unease, Oliver austerely sneered in his friend’s favour, offering a series of almost imperceptive gestures as onlookers gifted Kent with explicitly complimentary and incisive observations. Clark was, to say the least, uncomfortable with such unspoken praise…he never knew such approval could be given with but the strength of an eye’s reactive direction, he was not used to it, his skin ad all beneath it felt unasked for yet so automatically rewarded, causing much disorientation within the Smallville native. As though circumstances couldn’t get any worse, Clark now had to behave like he was comfortable around Bart, who was in all honesty a fundamental reprobate by impulse; while Clark had found it fairly possible to interact in the communicative yet exquisitely foreign language of Oliver Queen, forthcoming interactions with another superhumanly powered individual would not prove so possibly translatable. Clark felt his blonde and stylish friend’s eyes punching areas of his body with sentiments that told him so, as he spotted Bart by the minor assistance of Oliver’s gestures glances and took a seat in the booth that the immoral speedster inhabited, opposite him, a table creating distance between the two unordinary humanoids.

“Clark? What are you doing here? Isn’t crocheting more your thing?”, Bart asked, through an impetuous grin, much to the detest of Oliver who had just slipped him a small bubble wrapped package.

“Give it a rest Bart, Clark isn’t half as predictable as you might think…and besides, he’s my guest.”, the last half of the sharply sighted millionaire’s interjection was seriously toned, rousing the motion of the inhumanly brisk young man’s head in such a way that Bart faced Oliver.

“Geez poshboy, what gives? Protective much?”

Not wanting Oliver to have to defend him, Clark spoke out to Bart, his voice fighting through the din of music that clambered through the atmosphere in a notable strain, “It’s fine Bart, Oliver just wants us all to get along.”

“I can do that.”, Bart sniggered unknowingly, his smile both ugly and cute at the same time, “So Clark, what’s with funky threads? Hate to admit it but they’re drawing a lot more attention to this table than before you got here.”, Bart conceded per his richer superior’s unspoken request to cut the farmboy a break.

“It’s a long story…but thanks.”, Clark shied away from divulging it he depth of his luxurious appearance, afraid of becoming even a temporary egotist.

“I always meant to ask you…how do you even…”, Bart turned his head to knowingly peer at Oliver, who he was sure had occurred upon the same wonderings, “…you know…make it with someone.”

“Make it?”, the naiveté of Clark never ceased to amaze any witness.

“He means how you manage to fuck someone, Clark…without killing them.”, Oliver explained, through the brightest smile Clark had ever seen from him, which seemed perhaps in brightness alone, intent upon offending him. Clark simply shifted the direction of his gazes abruptly between Oliver and Bart, so clearly distressed with regards to how he should respond to Oliver’s comment, “Oh come on Clark, we’re all adults.”

“Barely.”, Kent insisted, frowning upon the youthful and irritating face of Bart, which didn’t do much to bother the superior speedster.

“No, seriously…I mean…couldn’t you like, impale someone with your spunk?”, Bart inappropriately and obnoxiously asked, his punishing smirk taunting Clark, who could not believe that people found it so easy to use such language in casual conversation.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Really Clark, because I heard a story about your sneezes blowing holes through walls…”, the eldest man present at the table proposed that Clark’s bodily functions were not so easy to control, much to the amusement of an impish Bart.

“That was different!”, the Kryptonian was boyishly frustrated with the ostracizing efforts of the other two men, against his otherworldly character, “Anything you can do-”

“You can do better? We know that much, Clark.”, Queen interrupted, disallowing Clark the right to give rationale to any misunderstood supposing of his advanced bodily functions.

“Come on Clark, you can melt metal with your eyes and send cars flying through the air with a cough…you expect us to believe you never had problems when it came to nutting off? It’s not like the most ordinary of us have any control over how we lose a load.”, the annoyingly unattractive Bart repellently implied, much to Clark’s chagrin. Kent’s disinclination to believe that others spoke so uncensored in place of appropriate conversation, continued, accompanied by a noble if notable frown.

“Not any more…I mean, the first few times…when I started…well, you know…”

“What Clark, your spunk broke through a wall and landed a farmhand with a mild concussion when you were nine?”, Oliver chirped in, which further agitated the large alien’s brow.

“No Oliver…”, Clark grew tired of the joint rivalry that proceeded to rise against him, however inoffensively it was intended. Still, the night sky shimmer of the suit he had donned at his friend behest seemed to help in the deflection of any infarction to Clark’s character, “…let’s just say everything you’ve learnt to do took a little bit more time and effort when I was growing up. I‘ve used your toilet, and it‘s still intact isn‘t it?”

“No fun Clark, you never spill the beans…”, Bart suggested, but unbeknownst to him, while Clark was still undoubtedly himself, he wasn’t feeling quite so inhibited as usual.

“Fine…I took out two tractors three walls and a ceiling before I learned to catch it in my hand…and then…well you know…not to…do it so hard.”, Clark attempted to unashamedly admit, to some succession, inciting the shared laughter of Bart and Oliver, “Well I’m glad you both find it so funny, I don’t.”, the other two men didn’t understand that while even Clark could admit that certain aspects of his life’s past were amusing, being different came with it’s hardships; even though he could himself find laughter in such things now, Clark’s odd aging experiences were but some of the many things that made him feel that he didn’t belong to this world that he loved and cared for so much.

“We’re not clowning you Clark…well, I mean granted…hearing you talk about anything involving your penis or ejaculation is beyond amusing…but seriously, any guy would give his left testicle for the right to claim that his jerk off sessions often ended in reconstruction work.”, for once, Clark could stand Bart’s reckless disregard for being appropriate in that which he shared with him through spoken word.

“So I suppose I should thank you both for laughing at my expense?” Kent asked rhetorically, his worn and immaculate garments granting him a cockiness in projection and body language that was vehemently atypical of him. Luckily, the alternative pair of young men were saved by the bell of Bart’s incoming cell phone call alert, denying any further relative comment being made towards Clark’s conversational contributions.

A number of moments passed as Bart tended to the voice on the other end of his cell phone.

“Looks like I gotta bounce, Black Canary needs back up…nothing major but you know me, metabolism of a laser beam on crack…can’t help myself.”, and although he wouldn’t dare hurt Bart’s feeling by telling him so, Clark was glad that he’d soon be rid of the troublesome speedster, “You guys don’t mind?”

“Not at all Bart…when duty calls…”, Oliver answered, indeterminably satisfied with the revelation of Bart’s oncoming absence.

“Well Clark, I’ll see you again…and Ollie, don’t get the Kryptonian too drunk.”, and within a fraction of a second, Bart was gone in a blur of gaseous colour that only Clark could see, which the mighty outlander thought somewhat irresponsible.

“He’s right…he is a laser beam on crack.”, the incredibly attractive powerhouse acidic ally shot, as a sharply dressed hostess delivered a number of various drinks to the table before him, which given the telling look which poured forth from Oliver so unstrained, had already been arranged.

“Nice, so Clark Kent get’s catty on occasion.”, Oliver noted.

“He calls you Ollie too?”, Clark quizzed, displeased by the fact that such a namesake may not be specifically unique to him.

“I think that was the first time Clark…I wouldn’t worry, I’ll always be a different sort of Ollie to you.”, and with that, Clark wasn’t sure that he could be magnetized towards Oliver any more than currently possible, a gleeful yet feint smile bursting through his lips for a moment while he peered cautiously over to his effortlessly attractive colleague, “So, how goes the outfit?”

“I feel like a sideshow…people looking at me for no reason I can explain is not exactly something I’m comfortable with.”, Clark’s eyes begged his wealthy friend for understanding, as he visibly opposed the onlookers who were so obviously commenting on his temporarily famed presence, no matter their distance from him.

“You’re definitely no sideshow, Clark.”, having to stop himself from swaying his head from side to side in contest, Oliver found Kent’s inability to realise his own general worth quite tiresome by now.

“Right, now that you have me here in some place I don’t belong, dressed like Chuck Bass.”

“Clark, you don’t watch Gossip Girl.”

“Can’t be so bad if you watch it.”

“I don’t…I caught a few episodes due to a vested interest…I was asked to appear in a few episodes but…well, other priorities got in the way of that.”

“It must be hard to be Oliver Queen.”, Clark displayed his first true execution of sarcasm towards Oliver, which caught his sun kissed friend by some surprise, especially because it was a somewhat fierce brand of sarcasm at that.

“It is, especially when you find out that your best friend watches Gossip Girl.”, Oliver counteractively quipped.

“I watch it when there’s nothing else to do, OK? I’ve barely had the time with all my work at the Daily Planet…I like Chuck and Serena…you remind of me of him.”, Clark mildly grinned with an auspicious light ebbing form his upwardly anchored lips, “Wait…I’m your best friend?”, the premature Superman was ecstatic at the prospect.

“Here we go again with the Clark Kent dramatics.”, Oliver casually mocked in a way that seemed to be a little bit friendly, his dark eyes threatening to roll.

“No…it just…it means a lot to me Ollie, I mean you’re you…and I’m just…me, a simple farmboy from nowheresville America…it’s not like I deserve a friend like you, let alone a best friend.”, and even the Green Arrow found it impossible to lay target upon how Clark could be any more endearing, so humbled and dignified, while at the same time unassuming of his own undeniable brilliance; he was worth so much more than Oliver’s friendship.

“What about Lex?”

“He tried to kill me, he stole my girlfriend, he was more in love with my secret than me.”

“You wanted him to be in love with you?”

“You know what I mean.”, Clark’s arched brow let Oliver know of his distain towards his fairer coloured friend’s light hearted derision.

Again, another pause gave way.

“About before…I mean, from what you said…you’re not a virgin are you Clark?”, Oliver’s curiosity, spurred on from previous revelations that Clark divulged, had gotten the better of him, but either answer worried Queen for either could be just as awkwardly appealing.

“Oliver!”

“Clark…”, Oliver had no intent to finish his sentence, his lower, prolonged tone meant to remind Clark again of how unwelcome he was to say his name as a stressed, standalone comment.

“Does it matter?”

“That’s a yes, then.”

“No it’s not…I’m not a virgin Oliver, and from what you’ve heard about my red Kryptonite experiences alone, you should at least have some idea-”

“-No harm in checking Clark. What about you and Lana?”

“You’ve got your answer, I don’t want to talk about Lana.”, Clark sheepishly commented,

“How cavalier of you Clark, not to kiss and tell.”, Oliver credited.

“I leave that to the Victoria’s Secret models you sleep with.”, Clark flashed another fanged and goofy grin in Oliver’s direction.

“You know Clark, not to sound weird or anything but…all night, you’ve been glowing…are you sure you didn’t seal the deal with Maxima?”, through a lowly lit curl of lips, Oliver inquired.

“Really?”, for a few seconds, Clark tried to figure out whether Oliver’s claims where true, only to realise that while his eyes had superhuman capabilities, they could not protrude from his head and explore any glow that might be present amidst his body, “Maybe it’s the endorphins.”

“Endorphins?”, authentically, the expensively dressed archer was confused for once.

“Maxima…her kiss came with a severe infusion of endorphins, that’s what almost killed Jimmy.”

“Well that might explain a few things.”, Oliver supposed, not wanting it to be proved that Clark’s earlier arousal in his fitting room was merely due to an overdose of interplanetary sex toxins, “Clark-”, he almost stopped himself, his eyes sharp and decisive in their stares that aimed towards his massive and classically handsome friend, “-I saw you before.”

“When…earlier today?”, the grounded journalistic intern knew not of what instance of interception his deemed more impressive friend could be speaking of.

“More like earlier tonight.”, the elegantly masculine bowman revealed with an unmistakably significant undertone to his voice, and while such an admission lacked much in the way of vivid detail, it was more than enough to make the darkly emerald eyes of Clark Kent shudder in apprehension, “Clark, it’s no big deal…well I mean the situation, clearly that thing between your legs is more than to be described as just a big deal.”, and Oliver beamed again, always in his element when his winning smile, charged by wit, claimed superiority over every single part of Clark’s humanoid form.

“Oliver, why didn’t you…”, the colossal Kryptonian became flustered, overcome with the feeling that Oliver was cheating him out of deserved honesty, “…you should have said…friends aren’t supposed to lie to each other, you’re just like Le-”

“-Now now Clark, allow me to prevent you from making a big mistake…never compare me to Lex Luthor…and not because I’d be more than willing to use your weaknesses against you if you do so, but instead because it would mean the end of us ever being able to be friends.”, Oliver unearthed his more demanding and executive side, a side of him that until now Clark had not been fully introduced to; he was all business.

The palpable look of regret washed upon Clark’s face was almost enough to allow him automated forgiveness, but not quite, “Why does this keep happening? Every time I think that everything is fine between us, someone else gets in the way of our friendship.”, Clark pleaded, desperately.

“It’s in the way of our friendship now? Always quick to jump to the worst possible conclusion, aren’t you Clark?”, Oliver reprimanded Clark like a father dissatisfied with his son’s petulant behaviour, “If you’re so intent on us no longer being friends, then so be it Clark, I’m not going to fight losing battle, and frankly I’m tired of having to work around the labyrinth of your inferiority complex.”, Oliver was clearly in no mood for Clark’s inclination to approach obstacles from a negative angle, even refusing to hold his head in any direction that may potentially allow for him to pay any attention to Clark, his arms folded.

“Oliver, I want us to be friends, but we have to trust one another…and this seems to be an issue that refuses to go away.”

“Well Clark, why don’t you go away?”, Clark had only ever experienced Oliver being this temperamental once before, and he didn’t enjoy it then either. The truth was, Clark had no ideal set upon displeasing the golden haired playboy let alone falling out with him, but through no chosen course he seemed to be making any alternative increasingly difficult for himself, “That would make a whole lot of sense wouldn’t it, letting the fact that I saw you’re horrifyingly large hard-on thumping through a pair of my trousers, end our friendship.”

“But you saw-”

“-So what Clark, why do you give a shit really? Shouldn’t it be me who is offended, after all it was you who was in my closet with a raging boner, not the other way around…and it’s not like I haven’t seen your dick before!”, Oliver was pulling no punches, not phased by the fact that in success of angering his present social adversary he could become no more than a broken skeleton in no time at all.

“Well…why didn’t you tell me?”

“I have just told you Clark…would you rather I told you at the time, or maybe you’d have preferred if I brought up the matter of your ridiculously enormous prick being erect in my bedroom, uninvited, In front of Bart?”, what Oliver said, stood to reason, and Clark knew either of the options just mentioned would not have been ideal in the slightest, his face melted into a reclined sense of reasoning.

“It wasn’t your bedroom-”

“My dressing suite in a part of my bedroom Clark, it’s the same fucking thing.”, the last time Kent had seen his quiver-wielding friend this raw with abrupt anger, he was shooting up some sort of synthesized Kryptonite cocktail.

“You don’t care?”, a slightly dumbfounded Clark tried to make sense of his friend’s ease.

“When are you going to get it Clark, it takes more than some mildly fucked up sexual disclosure to rattle my cage.”

While his better judgement insisted he do otherwise, Clark found himself looking to Oliver apologetically and also lucky that he had anyone in his life who could be quite so understanding, which seemed to escape his capability of believing, “You really don’t care?”

“No Clark I don’t, so can we drop it?”

“If…that’s what you want.”, Clark surrendered, after which he found an unusual and deviant grin growing forth from his mouth, devilishly.

“Just one thing I want to know, and be honest…”, Clark took a breath as he waited for Oliver’s question, cautious as to what it might be, because he may find it impossible to answer dishonestly, “…was it because of the endorphins or not?”

“Well-”, Clark began clumsily, through hindered breath “-they couldn’t have helped-”

“Just answer the question.”, Queen demanded arrogantly and yet without exclamation, so beautiful in his arrogance, so strong and deserving of his demands; still golden when dark.

“Honestly, Oliver? I don’t think so…Maxima’s endorphins heightened my arousal, but they didn’t make me feel anything I wasn’t already…”, Clark paused, fretting in the realisation of what he was admitting, “…wasn’t already inclined towards.”, the truly deadly quiver made by Oliver’s delectable red lips had been stirred which meant that finally he was no longer mad at his otherworldly friend.

“So…Clark Kent has a bit of a turn in his worm for the Queenmeister, then?”, Oliver was loving it, and unashamedly lapping up every second of it, which Clark should have hated, but didn’t…although otherwise pretences were allowed.

“I don’t know…I don’t want to talk about it.”, Kent appealed for the matter to be ceased, green eyes hesitantly shifting to one side, where they then remained.

“Fine then Clark, I’ll talk about it…or at least my part-”

“-You have…a part?”

“Oh come on Clark, I’m Oliver Queen the orgy having miscreant who made you whip out your dick to settle a score…mostly just because I could, and you find it hard to believe that I’m not completely innocent in the matter of what’s going on between us.”, Oliver exposed his involvement in the chasm of desire that ricocheted between himself and Clark, confidently and without any sense of refrain.

“Oliver, what are you saying?”, Clark’s beholding look unto his rich and beautiful friend was akin to that which could be expected of a child to Jesus.

“I’m saying that I like you too Clark, more than just a friend.”, Clark was afraid to respond at all to that, in fear of what he might say for being the truth, or worse yet another vocal incident of foot in mouth disease which could spoil this particularly deafening moment, “Don’t just look at me with those stupid green eyes.”

“You know that they’re green.”

“It is a colour I favour.”

And with just six simple words, Oliver has once again forcefully orchestrated the instruments of each man’s surrounding atmosphere, transforming a cold and cutting actuality into one that Clark found to be warm and welcoming, one that he wanted to be part of.

“So what now?”, with a seeming absence of wisdom that could be best likened to a child, Clark let his bafflement be known, for once acting bravely and without limiting arrest.

“Well it’s not like I want to find out if your orgasm will blow a hole through my torso-”, Oliver chuckled silently, and it was a volume of laughter that enthralled Clark’s own, dry and silky, golden and sumptuous; a diamond become sound, like each and every one of Oliver’s words which when strung together acted as an army at war with what Clark knew himself to be, “-but there are other things I want to find out.”, and the sudden change of tone from playful to dominant coincided with Oliver’s actions, rising to his feet all of a sudden and forcing Clark to his as well by the adamant grip of his collar. The look in Oliver’s eyes was as appreciative as it was predatory, and much to his concern Kent felt his mouth immediately begin to water, succumbing to the projected and wanting glares of his prey maker, the hollow of his bones excited to do so, shrilling in electrifying anticipation.

“Oliver, people can see.”, Clark worried of any witness paid to whatever was to come next.

“Then let them see…let them see you, let them see us.”, the towering millionaire made quick obedience out of Clark’s anxious protest. He dragged his Kryptonian playmate by the collar of his jacket with one hand, a storming haste leading them both to the Ace of Clubs’ toilets, he slammed Clark’s back against the wall enough to cause some of it’s tiles to break. Clark looked on in shock and awe, overwhelmed at the unforgiving fire of Oliver’s uncensored lust, finding it hard to believe that a regular human being could exact such force upon him; he underestimated the charge of mortal passion as primal and primitive as that possessed by his friend. Though still his heart raced as Oliver took audible and boisterous tugs at his trouser fastenings, yanking down at the waistline with a feverish hunger once loosened. Clark had no words, his vocabulary had been stolen by the thieving demon of Oliver’s severe sexuality, the invulnerable Kryptonian feeling scorched by the presence of his elder friend’s no longer silenced heat. And then, Oliver’s hands contained themselves, in spite of Clark’s most coveted areas being at their utter disposal. They simply grabbed passed Clark’s waist, resulting in Clark being held by Oliver, held close, and it didn’t feel like Clark thought it should…it didn’t feel wrong, it didn’t feel effeminate; he was being held as a man, by a man…he was being held how he should be held, he belonged to it and it to him. Oliver’s own sordid erection thickly plunged through the fabric of his dress trousers, dipping roughly against Clark’s welcoming hips in excruciating intervals, following the natural yet ironically meagre gyrations made naturally by Oliver’s keen and well defined body. Oliver perched his chin upon Clark’s collarbone kneading into it as he claimed toothed licks and wet warm sucks from the soft virgin skin of Clark’s neck. As if he were a telepath, Queen’s brazen hand violently grabbed at Clark’s now solid prick, and Clark whimpered, which only made the blonde playboy grip that monstrous tool of flesh and sex even harder. Little did Oliver now, Clark’s whimper was one born out of a shame that would prove futile.

“ Don’t…I-”, for his relentless exasperation, Clark didn’t manage to complete his desperate petition.

Oliver paused at Clark’s minutely existent objection, pulling away from that soft neck he once devoured and tasted in an effort to discover what it was Clark was so distressed by. Then he looked down at that mammoth dick that his fist was locked around in a death grip, imprisoned by the soft material of Clark’s fitted Calvin Klein boxers, and he discovered what had instigated Clark’s bleated shame; dark, syrupy wetness.

“It’s not-”, Clark insisted in a panicked fluster, but Oliver need not be assured that Clark hadn’t lost control of his bladder.

“-I know what it is Clark…it’s you, it’s yours…it’s fucking...”, Oliver alternated the tugging motion of his tight clutch around Clark’s ample and leaking cockhead between fast and slow, letting his actions speak in place of words he no longer cared to find. His eyes fought a battle they could never win, wanting to oversee the pure liquid sex that drooled from Clark’s devastatingly stiff cock, as well as the agonizingly beautiful expressions of tortured bliss bursting forth from Clark’s face with every pump Oliver granted Clark’s wet, raw helmet. The aggrieved noises of sensation that lay under each of Clark’s bated breaths tempted Oliver’s own cock to spill forth it’s hefty portion of fucksauce without even being touched itself, Oliver fascinated by how angelic and demonic and beautiful Clark looked under his sexual grasp, the Kryptonian jolting around as though he were being burnt alive. The crude scent of the Superman’s delicious precum filled the air, hitting the receptors of Oliver’s nasal cavity like a mind altering substance, forcing him without choice, to want Clark more. Oliver bit Clark’s bottom lip in punishment for his non-consenting power of immediate allure over his golden friend, and thereafter seized a soft and passionate kiss from Clark’s just pained lips, the likes of which could be immortalized in art and inspire unbridled notions of beauty and sexual power. And then to the partial numbness of Oliver’s calves Clark was kissing him back…and then Clark wasn’t kissing him back.

“Oliver…I, we can’t.”, and this was not what Oliver had recently been envisioning coming out of Clark’s bitten mouth, but then what was had not been words at all.

“Not a smart thing to say when your dick’s in my hand…and all that-”, Clark interrupted Oliver before he had the pleasure of referring to his precum.

“No Oliver, you’re not listening…this is wrong, what we’re doing…it’s a mistake.”

“Does it feel like a mistake?”

“Mistakes never do.”, and it was at this point that Oliver was reminded of his fist still grasping at Clark’s meaty phallic crown, because Clark’s own hand had motioned to break the intoxicating embrace.

“Fine Clark, catch your breath…you’re still gonna owe me at least half a handjob when you’re caught up.”, unfortunately this time, Oliver’s humorous interjections would not resolve the situation.

“Everything’s a joke to you isn’t it Oliver? And that’s the problem, I’m just some little toy you want to dress up, and break and then fix, and play with whenever you want to. Well I won’t be chewed up and spat out like everyone else you‘ve had your way with.”, Clark’s sudden and unexpected antipathy truthfully took Oliver by surprise, he wasn’t expecting this, not given previous situations, “I’m not catching my breath Oliver, I’m leaving, and don’t bother following me…I don’t want to see you-”, and in failing to finishing his sentence with a word that seemed obvious to be ‘again’, Clark was gone in a blaze of audible velocity that left Oliver at an anaesthetized standstill. The stunning heir was not looking forward to the sobering brightness of tomorrow morning, due to which new realities would become more clear, he also did not look forward to walking through the Ace of Clubs with a nine and a half inch erection bulging through his pants, either. He looked down to the now-drying juice from Clark’s dick which had made sticky work of his fingers, and after a moment of gathering his thoughts, he made way through the small foyer near the toilets, aiming to leave through the club’s back exit. As he ventured home, Oliver wondered what his tomorrow would bring, and if Clark would ever again be in it.

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END