Puppet on a String

Series: working title: Pie
Title: Puppet on a String
By Scyllablue
Fandom: Smallville
Pairing: Clark/Whitney
Rating: FRAO
Disclaimer: Do not own and am making absolutely no profit since about me and four other people read Whitney stories anymore.
Summary: Clark gets clued in on his alien status a lot earlier and we take things from there.
Warnings: AU, alien sex in so much as there are not any tentacles. Clark is all kinds of weird and very much out of character.
Author’s Notes: There is only a very flimsy plot here. I wanted to indulge in some kinks, so those are the most you’ll find. Whitney is a little OOC to how I normally write him, but the entire thing is complete AU anyway, so who cares. Normally, I would try to promote safe sex among teenagers, but I really just wanted to write fictional smut. No kids should be reading this anyway and all us adults know the rote, so just enjoy it. Clark is an alien and the opportunities that presents shouldn’t be abandoned for vanilla sex. Hear! Hear! Thank you to those who commented on my live journal, spurring me to finish this.


~*~
When Clark Kent started his freshman year at Smallville Senior High he knew of everything that he was. His adopted parents had wanted him to enjoy his childhood, to stay their little boy as long as the lie would carry, but Clark’s birth parents had had other ideas. Given to their own estimations Jonathan and Martha Kent assumed their beautiful boy was around six years when he came to them, which caused some considerations when they were confronted with his education. At six he should have already weathered pre-school and kindergarten, and been ready to start first grade, knowing how to spell his name, count his numbers and know for certain the difference between a circle and a square. Yet their little boy did not even speak English, though he was learning at a, dare they say, inhuman pace. Still, they applied themselves, human parents and alien little boy, and Clark entered first grade in the next year, a January birthday explaining away the minor setback in his public schooling.

The Kents learned of their error when their little boy, at the age of ten, began to develop as boys did. As older boys did. Clark did not seem the least perturbed at his testicles dropping and so his parents tried to mimic that calm. The loft in the barn had been his own private space since as long as he could remember and that was where Clark went at night after finishing his homework to explore his developing body. If the Kents suspected they didn’t say a thing, though Martha kept nudging a clearly uncomfortable Jonathan about a “talk” she wanted him to have.

Then one night as the Kents sat around the dinner table and talked about what needed to be done around the farm, a common topic and one Clark usually tuned out, a voice spoke in Clark’s head. At first he didn’t understand a word of it, but then the switch went on in his head and he did understand, he understood everything, and ten year old Clark Kent leapt up from the dinner table and shouted, “I have a spaceship! Like, that’s so cool!”

Clark did indeed have a spaceship and over the next several years it carried out its secondary programming of instilling in Clark the values of Krypton, the primary programming being to ensure his survival and well-being. The onset of puberty had activated the ship, though it had been as surprised as the Kents over Clark’s super strength and other burgeoning powers. Surprised, but not ill-equipped. Clark’s parents were concerned for his safety and continuously cautioned discretion and secrecy, but Ship, as the youth called it, took a stricter hand in training its charge. Via a means the artificial intelligence did not feel was requiring explanation it could quite literally shock Clark for misbehavior. The electrical volt would not originate from any particular point in his body but would deliver a painful jolt throughout whenever Clark used his powers inappropriately. The punishment did not happen often since Ship was only concerned with Clark’s safety and no one else’s, but the few times it happened convinced the boy of the evilness of his race. Ship had explained the punishment was standard practice on Krypton and considered quite benign to earlier means of training children. The thought that there could be worse ways to discipline a kid actually gave Clark nightmares for a week because beyond the brief jolt of excruciating pain he couldn’t masturbate for days after.

Though his parents openly didn’t like Ship they also could not deny that their son never miscalculated the strength of his powers. How he used his powers was still in hot contention, but by the time he was twelve Clark had learned that his parents were happier if they didn’t know what all he did out of their sight. No, the hours Clark had spent training in the storm cellar after school had paid off, so that when his freshman year rolled around his parents only repeated their rote to be careful of the other boys. A caution Ship echoed. Clark was stronger than any human male; stronger, faster, and certainly more intelligent than any of the boys he’d be playing against. Ship said it would be a good exercise in restraint. Clark just wanted the opportunity to feel up some of the guys he’d been covertly watching for years.

Bisexuality was not something Clark talked to his parents about. Boys, girls, they were all aliens and Clark was no xenophobe. Ship didn’t get embarrassed like his parents did when he asked innocent questions and Ship had access to the Internet. Clark knew he could have sex with humans. His birth parents might have cursed him with Ship, but they hadn’t abandoned him with a psycho computer program on a planet where he couldn’t fulfill his sexual needs. Nope, thanks to an afternoon spent watching holograms Ship helpfully supplied, Clark knew all the ins and outs of banging humans. Girls like Lana Lang could make his jeans uncomfortable, but they also scared him with their softness and delicacy. He didn’t want to hurt one with his size or strength and that seemed all too possible as he watched the slender grace of the girls in his classes; light, bubbly little creatures that roused more protectiveness in him than lust.

Boys were an entirely different matter and Clark couldn’t wait to join the football team. Boys were more sturdily built, though possessed of their own grace. Muscular and lean with bony hips that begged his attention when he could look away from their flat bellies or that enticing dip above the swell of ass that would peek out at him during gym class. He really needed to find out the name of that spot considering how much time he spent fantasizing about his tongue delving into just that patch of skin.

Smallville was not large enough to support junior and senior varsity teams, so Clark and the rest of the freshmen and sophomores who made the cut were shuffled into the roster without regard to age. Football was a sport Clark knew he could excel at, possibly even win a scholarship in. It also stirred the simmering fires of his libido, getting to watch all of those beautifully toned bodies strip down before and after practice. Oh yeah, Clark was happy.

Then Scott Henley invited the whole team out to his parents’ ranch for their annual team bash. Scott’s parents were at a show for the whole weekend and only the team was invited. Pete was nervous, babbling about rumors he’d heard, of how the Ravens initiated the new guys to the team. No one ever talked about the weekend, which was surprising considering it had supposedly gone on for years. Clark assured his best friend that if anyone had been permanently maimed there was no way they’d ever be able to keep that quiet, so it was probably along the lines of having to swallow goldfish or something. Jonathan had looked a little grim around the mouth when Clark told his parents of the upcoming weekend, but then he’d smiled tightly and softly told Clark that he trusted him to do what he knew was best.

The weekend started off with a barbecue and Clark and Pete each brought a dish their mothers had made. Clark actually had four pies, Martha anticipating the appetites of two dozen boys. Martha Kent’s pies were legendary and the team captain, Kevin Jansen, had to snap a dish towel at more than a few who tried to eat dessert before dinner. Clark was proud for his mother and shared a grin with Pete as Kevin hollered at another wandering finger.

Used to church picnics and family gatherings on the fourth of July it was somewhat surreal to sit down at two long trestle tables on Scott’s large back porch with just a bunch of guys, laughing and jostling over food and table manners. Beer kegs materialized from somewhere, but this was rural Kansas, not suburbia. Most of the guys here already knew how to handle their drink. Clark watched the others interact avidly, his hard on straining against the zipper of his jeans throughout the meal. A few seats down and across from him Whitney Fordman kept licking his fingers of barbecue sauce, sucking digits past his pursed lips even as he sullied more with his smoked ribs and Clark was convinced he was going to die from sexual frustration. Whitney was a junior, but had that shine that made people treat him like a crowning senior. The blond was absolutely gorgeous, in a drooling jeans ad model kind of way. He was a little aloof with everyone, but Clark thought it was because of the attention he got for his looks.

Since eighth grade the alien teen had had to deal with the amateur flirting of girls and it had only gotten worse since he’d started high school. Clark could totally understand the annoyed look he’d sometimes see tightening Whitney’s lips when freshman like Lana threw themselves in his path. Could understand, but if Lana’s helpless tripping tactics had actually worked he’d have become the biggest klutz at school. As it was he really wished the beer in his glass actually had an effect on his libido. To himself he could admit to the huge crush he had on Whitney, the blond staring in more than a few of his fantasies. Just thinking of Whitney sucking on anything made him softly moan and squirm in his seat, but to have to sit and watch him hoover those innocent fingers?

Dinner thankfully ended before Clark sprayed the inside of his jeans and they all helped with trash and dishes. After that everyone did their thing, some going outside to play touch football, others taking over the pool table down in Scott’s basement and some just sprawling out in front of the television with a recent horror flick screaming out of the speakers. Clark wasn’t sure what Pete had been so scared about; Scott’s parents didn’t even own a fish tank.

Then it got dark outside and Kevin called everyone down into the basement. Scott and Whitney shoved the newbies to stand along one wall while some of the older guys shoved the pool table into a back corner. Moving the table opened a large space and they threw down a rug over the thin carpet. Pete was starting to look panicked so Clark gave his arm a gentle squeeze, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. There wasn’t anything a bunch of human teenagers could throw at him he couldn’t handle and he wasn’t going to let his best friend get hurt.

“Awright, girls,” Kevin announced, accepting a plastic pitcher one of the other seniors handed him, “time to earn your place on the team. As a team we need to know we can count on each of you, that you will place the team before anything else. In here,” and he shook the pitcher, “are Popsicle sticks, each with a senior player’s name on it. You pull the name, you wrestle the player. Whoever wins gets to fuck the loser however he wants, no permanent damage. As team captain I’ll be making sure of it. This is about trust, girls, and sacrifice. You’ll get tonight and tomorrow night to prove yourself. If you’re not willing to trust your teammates in everything, even this, then leave now. Leave and leave the team, and if you do, you’ll never speak to anyone about this night or we’re make what we do to the scarecrow look like a boy scout earning a merit badge.”

Kevin waited a breathless minute, but no one bolted so he shook the pitcher again before pointing to the end of the line the newbies made against the wall. “Good. Let’s get started. Kramer, you get first pick.”

There was no reason a newbie would necessarily lose to a senior player since none of them were experienced wrestlers. Four down the line and Clark anxiously stared at the pitcher, using his x-ray vision to locate the rounded stick bearing Whitney’s name. That stick was his, even if he had to set the pitcher on fire to prevent someone else from grabbing it. There were only nine new players so most of the senior players were going to have to do with each other. Glancing around Clark was surprised at how many of them looked eager as Kramer reached his hand in and pulled out the first stick, shouting encouragement and jeers equally. Dennis Michaels. The linebacker stepped forward and the cheering started.

Shirts and shoes came off and the boys pressed closer as the two fought. Even the new players got into cheering on their fellow newbie, forgetting their turn was coming. Well, most forgot. Pete was somehow looking pale beneath his dark skin and Clark frowned, tugging him back against the wall and letting the others block view of them.

“Pete, what’s wrong?” Clark whispered, really not understanding his friend’s accelerated respiration and sweating.

“Wrong? Kent, I’m not gay! I can’t do this!”

“Gay? Pete, none of these guys are gay as far as I know.” Clark shrugged. “This is just male bonding crap. You put a guy’s tool in your mouth, suck a bit, and trust me, less than a minute it’ll be over. And if you win, you get to reverse it.”

Pete glared, but reluctantly nodded. “Not that you have anything to worry about, Kent. You’re freakishly strong and have nothing to be embarrassed about anyway.”

“Neither do you, Pete,” Clark grinned, turning back in time to see Michaels face plant Kramer to the rug. Kevin declared him winner, everyone screamed, and Michaels helped Kramer up before dragging him off into a corner.

Thomason actually won against junior Jefferies, but the next match went in the older teenager’s favor. While the matches went on Clark alternated his attention between watching the erotic display in front of him and x-raying through people to watch Michaels face fucking Kramer. The usually gruff linebacker was acting as gentle as a lamb, whispering encouragement to the freshman while he worked his rod ever deeper. Watching them was priming Clark’s own lust to unimagined heights.

The guys roared and it was Clark’s turn. Even before he pulled out the stick he had his dark green eyes locked on the impassively watching blond. “Fordman,” he said loudly without even looking down.

Clark couldn’t remember taking off his shoes and shirt; he was completely focused on the next few minutes, knowing he had to put on the biggest act of his life. All he wanted to do was put Whitney on his ass and then claim said ass, but he knew he needed to draw things out. Whitney wouldn’t be in too good of a mood if Clark showed him up and made him look like a total wimp. No, he needed to put on a show and that was what he did, listening to the fervor of the surrounding team to gauge when enough was enough.

He made the match look a close thing and the guys loved it. He even panted as he helped Whitney to his feet, taking firm hold of his bony wrist. The blond tugged a little against his grip, but was too winded to really resist being dragged through the throng. Glancing quickly around Clark decided on the pool table in the shadowed corner before spinning Whitney around and latching onto his mouth. The junior tried to say something, his free hand lifting to shove at Clark’s shoulder, but the brunette just took the opportunity to shove his tongue into the boy’s mouth. Meridian blue eyes widened in shock and Clark lazily explored his first kiss.

When he at last pulled back for air Whitney’s lips were swollen and slick with spit, a cherry red that tempted Clark to taste them again. Whitney, however, twisted his face away. “This isn’t a make out session, Kent,” the blond hissed, tugging at the wrist Clark still held. “This is about team trust and sacrifice -”

Clark caught his chin with his free hand and drew him back into another kiss, stopping his protests rather nicely. “I won, that means I get you however I want and I want you every way I can get you. So shut up and stop being a sore loser.”

This time when he slid his tongue into Whitney’s mouth he felt the other’s tongue hesitantly stroke his own. The kiss distracted the blond of their backward walk to the pool table until his ass bumped into the hard edge. Letting go of Whitney’s wrist Clark fumbled open the boy’s jeans and roughly yanked them off his hips, taking the underwear he wore underneath with them. Whitney grunted and flinched at the rough treatment, a shiver passing through his golden frame that Clark tried to calm. He stroked the junior’s flanks and back, sucking on his tongue until the teen moved into him with a little moan.

Putting his toes on a fold of Whitney’s slumped jeans Clark palmed his waist and boosted him onto the edge of the table, the denim sliding the rest of the way off those long legs with a dry rustle. Clark wanted to lick Whitney up one side and down the other; he wanted to tongue every orifice and make the teenager come so many times that by the time he got to his dick his balls would be empty. He wanted to do everything, but hatefully knew he couldn’t. This was a game of dominance, not love. Hell, Whitney had protested kissing!

Okay, why was he questioning this? Clark wondered as he pressed Whitney back onto the table. No, it wasn’t everything he wanted, but it was still a fantasy come true. He got to fuck Whitney Fordman and tomorrow night? He was going to do it again. The brunette grinned as he pulled away from Whitney’s panting mouth, as pleased by the junior’s dazed expression as the relief he felt in finally getting his own jeans open. His cock practically leapt out of his underwear, so eager to end its virginity that it was drooling precum and pearlescent lubricant. Moving slow so he didn’t startle the blond Clark lifted one of Whitney’s legs over his shoulder and guided the other to the table’s edge. Whitney didn’t fight getting shuffled around, watching everything Clark did with half closed eyes.

Quickly slicking a finger with spit Clark slid it past Whitney’s ball sac to his small rosebud, rubbing the entrance a few times before pressing inside. God, how many pornos had he watched of this, masturbated thinking about doing just this? Whitney groaned as he thrust his one finger in and out, his entire ass clenching around the intrusion. He was warm and smooth inside, so smooth Clark was suddenly grateful that his nails were so clean and neatly trimmed. If some other guy had beaten Whitney they could have scratched these silken walls, made him bleed inside. Teenage boys were not known for their hygiene and could anyone blame him for not wanting to trust some human with not damaging Whitney’s boy pussy?

Pulling his finger free Clark sucked on two, a pretense to enjoy Whitney’s taste. On their way back down he swiped them over his cockhead, smearing them in the strong slick his body produced. It made no sense to him that human males didn’t produce their own lubricant, but it really made no difference at this moment. The blond gasped sharply and clapped a hand over his betraying mouth at the burning stretch of two thick fingers. Clark knew he had big hands, but two fingers didn’t come close to his engorged size. He alternated pinching Whitney’s nipples and fondling his equipment to distract the blond from the discomfort of Clark’s preparations. Glancing away from Whitney’s nearly black gaze the brunette chanced a look at the other boy’s penis filling his hand. He’d never held or even seen a human’s genitalia up close before and was almost distracted from his goal staring at Whitney’s tool.

At a quick glance their equipment didn’t look all that different. From his research he realized Whitney was circumcised, common practice in modern American medicine. The shaft was a good length for a human teenage male and smooth except for a thick vein that ran along the underside; pressing it made Whitney bang his head on the table. He didn’t have a lubricating pouch beneath the cockhead nor any terval, or knobs as Clark called them, hard bumps of varying size beneath the skin that swelled whenever he was about to come. The whole shaft was starting to flush darker, another difference in their physiology: Clark’s blood vessels ran closer to the center of his organ, underneath the knobs so they wouldn’t get squeezed. His penis didn’t really change color all that much and he decided he liked being able to readily see Whitney’s response to his touch.

Adding a third finger Clark gave Whitney a final stroke before moving on to his testicles, smirking at the explosion of air that left the blond. He cradled them in his palm, lifting them away from the blond’s shivering body so he could test their weight and elasticity. They were lightly furred with the same dark blond hair that surrounded Whitney’s penis and rolling them made him think of those mediation balls he’d seen at that froufrou store in the mall. Too bad they didn’t clink or chime. Otherwise they were not all that different from his own.

Below the testicles was a patch of soft skin that Clark had been fascinated about for years: the perineum. Since he didn’t have a prostate he didn’t have any special significance for this particular patch of skin. Rubbing and softly pressing it while he worked his fingers deep into Whitney’s anus made the junior’s whole body spasm, the noises muffled behind his hand desperate and pleading. Tomorrow, Clark decided as he pulled his fingers free, he was going to find them a secluded place so he could lick Whitney’s perineum until he came.

Lining himself up with the loosened hole Clark paused a moment, settling one hand firmly on Whitney’s curved hip, the other reaching for the blond’s face. He stroked back the sweaty fall of hair so he could stare into the blond’s eyes in this unguarded moment. Arousal, fear, confusion and a little heated anger, all of it was naked for Clark’s perusal and he smiled in triumph and no little affection as he pressed the head of his penis into Whitney’s body.

Even stretched as it was Whitney’s hole refused to open at first and then, with a little sigh, Clark was through. Once his head breached the shaft followed quickly after, plunging him deep into the blond’s bowels. By God and all the moons of Krypton, Clark had never felt anything so exquisitely perfect. The pressure on his highly sensitized cock, the warmth making him swell further, it was everything he had dreamed of. He couldn’t even move for several long seconds, eyes closed as he savored each minute sensation. Whitney’s passage was contracting around his length, massaging his knobs to swell even larger and harder, making the brunette struggle to not blow his load immediately.

When he felt he could move without embarrassing himself Clark opened his eyes to see Whitney squirming beneath him, sweaty and panting as he tried to get Clark’s immovable weight to, well, move. The blond’s one knee was practically touching his ear and he’d wrapped his other leg around the brunette’s waist to relieve the stretch when Clark bent over him. His hand had finally left his mouth so he could claw at both of Clark’s shoulders, desperate whimpers falling from his bruised mouth while his hips flexed as much as they were able trapped under Clark’s bulk.

“Kent,” the blond grunted, repeating his name over and over as he helplessly surged against the larger youth.

Blinking, Clark drew back a little, relieving the stretch on the leg over his shoulder, and lightly touched Whitney’s mumbling lips, drawing his attention upward. “Sorry, Whit,” he whispered, pulling out until just his head stretched that glorious hole and then surging back in with a low groan. “You just feel sooo good.”

Whitney clamped his hand back over his mouth when he yelped and Clark laughed softly, fucking the blond slow and deep. He kept it at that pace for as long as he could, gently stroking Whitney’s own erection to keep him on edge. The blond bucked a couple of times and tried to urge him faster with his strong legs, but Clark was not going to be hurried in this. A beauty like Whitney deserved all the time and attention he could give him. Clark didn’t care what the rest of the team saw or thought, but as soon as he remembered their potential audience, he used a nanosecond to glance away from Whitney’s heaving body.

A couple of guys were glancing their way in heated interest, but everyone was making out like some Roman orgy. Not too many were out and out fucking, but they weren’t the only coupling. Pete was actually tentatively kissing Jessie Meyers, his privates flopping in the air and glistening with saliva and semen. He could see more than a couple of legs beneath the pool table, but no one was really seriously watching their action so Clark dismissed the rest of the room.

The cock in his hand was leaking continuously, slicking his grip and prompting him to a faster pace. His control was slipping all over the place, his hips pistoning harder, penis stabbing into Whitney’s anus with shorter strokes, barely keeping his momentum at a human pace. Whitney was screaming behind his hand, eyes screwed shut, and Clark yanked the appendage away to gag the blond himself with lips and tongue. Warmth gushed between them, Whitney’s penis jerking in Clark’s sure hold. He’d made the beautiful, untouchable Whitney Fordman come. A few more pumps and Clark thrust deep one last time, his orgasm sweeping him up as he bathed Whitney’s insides copiously.

Pulling back, Clark let Whitney’s legs flop to the table, kissing him lightly on the corner of his mouth before straightening up. The blond was completely out of it, eyes closed while his chest heaved up and down to suck in air. He looked even more delectable right after sex than during it, Clark decided, unable to resist bending quickly back down to lick a sweat sheened collar bone. Whitney didn’t even flinch, though he did softly groan when Clark eased his penis out of his body. He was still half hard and oozing seed, but there was no help for it. When he was at home and jerked off it’d take his balls a good ten minutes to empty, but he couldn’t dump his entire load inside Whitney, much as he’d like. Not, and risk raising some questions. Giving himself an apologetic pat he tucked everything away and zipped up.

Though it went against all that was just in the world, Clark also re-dressed Whitney in his jeans after using his boxers to mop up their splattered stomachs and the blond’s crack. Using a couple of fingers to hold up his weight while the rest eased him into his pants Clark gave Whitney’s spent organ a last fondle before tucking it away and making the junior decent. He couldn’t wait to do this all over again tomorrow night, but he was also upset and sad that he’d only get to live his fantasy for two days. It wasn’t fair that come Monday Whitney would turn back into a cold fish and they would probably never speak of what they’d done for the rest of their lives. He didn’t want to forget. He wanted to have Whitney as many times and as often as he wanted, to be that one person who got to touch Whitney Fordman, make him beg and scream in pleasure.

So why couldn’t he?

~*~

Monday came and Clark skipped the bus in favor of running to school, too excited to actually sit still that long. When he’d come home yesterday afternoon he’d been in such good spirits his parents had laughed at him. He couldn’t wait to tell Ship about his changed status from virgin to not-virgin and about Whitney. He’d told Ship all about Whitney, from his narrow feet to his wheat blond hair, babbling enthusiastically while thin metal arms came out of the spacecraft to take a blood sample. At first he’d worried, thinking Ship would disapprove, but the AI had congratulated him on becoming an adult Krypton and acquiring a concubine.

Concubine. That was what Ship had called Whitney, a companion with whom one had a relationship based on sexual congress. Clark wasn’t sure he liked that label, as exotic as it sounded. ‘Lover’ sounded better. Whitney was Clark’s lover. Or, he would be, once Clark convinced him of the validity of their continued ‘congress’. On a side note, he really needed to discover where Ship had learned English because his vocabulary sure hadn’t come from him.

It amazed him how the team acted, as though they all hadn’t spent the weekend in one guy fest of an orgy. Newbies like Pete were practically vibrating with nerves and terror that it had all been some kind of huge prank to humiliate them for life, but when the older guys treated them like they always did, they slowly relaxed. For himself, Clark couldn’t have cared if the whole school knew he’d fucked Whitney Fordman twice. In fact, everyone deserved to know, so there’d be less chance of bloodshed if anyone got it into their head to go after his lover. Especially Lana Lang, and Clark glowered at her all through Biology I when he wasn’t fantasizing about throwing Whitney down on the cafeteria floor, pissing all over his claim and then pounding his ass, all in front of the entire student body.

In consideration to the school’s policies regarding PDAs it was probably fortunate that he only caught glimpses of the other teen throughout the day. With their grade difference that wasn’t unusual but today Clark was hyper aware of the injustice of it. He needed Whitney, and the few times he saw the blond, quietly laughing and rough housing with others in their letter jacket, he never even looked Clark’s way.

Practice could not come soon enough for Clark. It was almost a game, pretending casual friendliness when Whitney passed him on his way to his own locker. Acting like he didn’t notice the light blush that stole across the junior’s face when their eyes met, the intimacy of their two nights there in his green eyes. Clark wondered which night Whitney was thinking of, the first night when he’d been taken in front of the entire team or the second night, when Clark had stolen him away to the barn full of Henley horses where they’d done it like animals on the Learning Channel?

Clark lingered after everyone else left for the field, needing a way to make sure Whitney was the last one to leave practice tonight. He wasn’t sure if his idea would work, but he crossed his fingers. Though he hadn’t been able to see much of Whitney all day he had noticed the blond was moving a little less agilely than he normally did. He again noticed the stiffness during practice and couldn’t help grinning around his mouthpiece. If anyone else had put that slight limp in Whitney’s step he’d have been furious, though he did feel a growing pang of guilt as that limp noticeably worsened throughout the practice. Coach seemed to be driving them all hard today, making Clark wonder if he knew and disapproved of how the team chose to bond. The man wasn’t originally from Smallville, after all, and it occurred to the brunette how wrong that was. Why had the school board brought in a stranger to their town? He caught Kevin and a few others also giving the man hateful looks, including the assistant coach, who was a native.

All thoughts about the coach vanished once practice was called. They were a tired bunch who stumbled through stripping down, showering and back into their regular clothes. Well, everyone except Clark, but he stayed quiet and moved slowly, lowered eyes watching Whitney fumble into his jeans and shirt. The blond winced every time he had to stretch his lower back muscles and his fingers barely worked in pulling on his socks and sneakers, but Clark knew he’d frayed the shoelaces enough. One half hearted tug and the lace snapped. Whitney banged his head back into the locker behind him.

“Don’t sweat it, Fordman,” Kevin said as he hefted his backpack, “just check with coach to see if there’s any laces in the supply closet.”

“Yeah,” Whitney muttered, waving a tired hand as the others started to leave and he toed off his shoes. Clark already knew there were laces, he’d checked because it wouldn’t have been right to damage someone’s stuff without knowing it could be replaced. While Whitney padded off to the coach’s office and then the supply closet, an exercise that should eat up a good ten minutes, Clark left alongside Pete. Only to forget a textbook when they got to the parking lot and Pete’s Dad waiting in his car.

“I’ll get Whitney to give me a ride,” Clark said to dismiss Pete’s offer to wait. His friend frowned at him, but was too tired to figure him out so just waved. Car horns honked at him as the other guys drove past, but Clark just good naturedly grinned and trudged back into the school.

The assistant coach was just stepping out of the locker room, keys jangling in his hand, but he didn’t look in Clark’s direction as he headed back to the office. A quick x-ray showed only one figure sitting on a bench in the room, re-lacing his shoe. Clark grinned.

He waited until Whitney got his shoes on, spun around on the bench to yank his bag out of his locker and slam its door as he stood up. Now. There was enough space between the benches and the lockers for someone to stand behind someone else sitting, but Clark abruptly appearing behind Whitney pressed him into his locker. The junior yelped in surprise, but groaned deeply a moment later when Clark slid his hands under his un-tucked shirt and kneaded the small of his back along his spine. He’d used another burst of speed to rub his hands together, making them almost hot when he put them to Whitney’s skin. The blond shamelessly arched his back, pushing into a touch that had to feel good on his overstressed muscles even as he tried to twist to see who was holding him.

“Feeling sore?” Clark chuckled, sliding his hands around the blond’s slim waist to undo his jeans and shove them down. Free now to move lower his thumbs dug carefully along the base of Whitney’s spine while his fingers and palms worked the stiff muscles, slipping easily under the thin barrier of red boxer briefs.

“Clark,” Whitney groaned, dropping his forehead to the cool metal of his locker, “why are you doing this?”

“Because I want to,” the brunette whispered, pressing a kiss against the blond’s damp nape, wet hair tickling his face. He spun Whitney around and slid his massaging hands down muscular globes as he claimed the other boy’s mouth in a brief, hard kiss. “Because I won you.” A half shuffle and there was enough room for Clark to drop to his knees, yanking down Whitney’s underwear to free his swelling penis. Someone protested in vain. “And I mean to keep you.”

He took the second to kiss the tip of Whitney’s cock before opening his mouth and swallowing the blond down. Hands clutched at his own wet hair as Whitney shouted a curse, his voice too strangled and high pitched to make sense of what he’d said. Whitney might have gotten sucked off before, but Clark doubted even a skilled prostitute could match him on his first try. No gag reflex, he could hold his breath for fifteen minutes easy and the muscles of his throat and tongue were as strong as the rest of him. He hollowed his cheeks, let his tongue wiggle how it wanted and used his hands to encourage Whitney to move, to fuck his mouth.

“Oh God, Clark, oh God,” Whitney muttered, hunching over him as he started to move. He’d hesitantly pull back only to slam back in, as though unwilling to leave Clark’s mouth. When the blond whimpered, however, and the muscles under Clark’s hands spasmed, the brunette tightened his grip to stop the shallow thrusting. Whitney’s back really was hurting him and Clark didn’t want any pain associated with this. Instead he started moving his own head, bobbing up and down, and that seemed to work just as well.

“Claaarrrrk,” Whitney whined a few minutes later and the freshman buried his face in blond pubic hair, swallowing again and again around the length distending his throat until he felt the organ jerk. Semen splashed down his throat and Clark happily swallowed it all, ecstatic to hear the blond’s panted little moans and whimpers and know he was the cause for each one.

He let Whitney out of his throat but suckled at the softening penis for a few minutes longer, satisfying himself while Whitney recovered. The blond’s legs were shaking and he happily supported his weight until he felt the shivering ease. Then he let Whitney fall out of his mouth into his waiting hand and gently tucked him back into his underwear and jeans, each covering receiving a reverent kiss over the bulge of sated flesh. Finally he regained his feet, kissing Whitney again while he settled his hands back underneath the thin t-shirt. Eyes still glazed and his entire body somewhat slack, the blond lazily returned the kiss, leaning into Clark’s immoveable weight.

“Why don’t we go back to my place?” Clark whispered, kissing along the blond’s sharp jaw line until he reached the delicate shell of ear. “Let me give you a proper massage.”

Whitney pulled back slightly to meet his eyes, a frown wrinkling his forehead even as a flush of red crept across his cheeks. “Massage only? I don’t think-”

Firm lips quieted him. “Just a massage. I know your ass is too sore right now.” He’d wait to have Whitney that way again until the blond could walk smoothly. Though he didn’t think they’d need to ban some ass play altogether for the next couple of days.

The blond chewed his bottom lip, but slowly nodded after an interminable wait. He was willing. Clark grinned, quickly kissing his new boyfriend again before hustling him out of the locker room.

*
Whitney whimpered into the pillow his face was pressed to, hands fisting in the worn heavy cotton. Straddling him on the thin mattress, Clark was never so glad that the old couch in his Loft of Solitude was a pull out, letting them both stretch out to their full lengths. His hands continued to work Whitney’s back, determined to turn his muscles into so much putty while his tongue rooted deeply into the blond’s ass. Though it had been two days he could still taste himself mixed in with Whitney’s flavor, but he realized the seventeen year old had most likely not gotten quite the sex education Clark had via Ship. Whitney probably didn’t know anything beyond what they taught in Health and whatever he’d learned from teammates in their games. He certainly wouldn’t know anything then about enemas or any of the other things Clark would be happy to teach him.

He tongue fucked Whitney’s hole until he came with a muffled shout, and then eased the flushed and panting blond onto his side. Nestling up against his back Clark nudged his own desperate hard on between Whitney’s thighs, putting a hand on his topmost leg to keep them pressed together. Whitney squirmed a little at what had to be a novel experience, another guy’s penis thrusting between his thighs, but he was flushed with the heat of orgasm and slick with sweat so it felt pretty good to Clark. Not as good as being inside his ass, but Clark wasn’t going to complain. He’d taken Whitney harder and longer than he should have that second night, so not getting to fuck him now was his own fault.

// “If it was even possible, I’d think you’d planned for this,” Whitney muttered, staring at the bale of hay with the heavy horse blanket draped over it. Clark didn’t give him time to think too long, though, shucking his own jeans and moving to dispose of the blond’s. Whitney batted his hands away, undoing his own fly. “I know what you want, Kent, trust me. Just not too rough and you have to pull out before you come. I do not want to shit your spunk again.”

Clark spun him around to face the bale once the jeans were kicked to the side, leaving them both only in their socks. His hand on Whitney’s shoulder guided him to his knees. He wasn‘t sure why, but he was a little angry that Whitney didn‘t want his sperm filling up his insides. “It’s how I want you, Whitney, remember? I like the idea of you shitting my seed and it‘s not hurting you none. Now, over the bale. We’re far enough away from the house that no one is going to hear you screaming while I pound your ass.”

It was true. Scott’s grandfather had built this stead with the barn far enough from the house that the smell of manure wouldn’t carry strongly into the home. Whitney tentatively rested his chest across the bale and Clark wasted no time in crowding up behind. His pussy didn’t take near the same amount of prep time, still somewhat loose from last night, though Clark noted it looked a little red and swollen. Whitney moaned and softly cursed when he shoved his fingers in, but once he found that hard little button the blond started to rock back into his hand.

As soon as three fingers went in smoothly Clark pulled them out, pumped his cock a few times to spread the lubrication around and then he lined up and thrust home. Whitney yelled at the sudden impalement, rocking forward into the bale, but Clark just hauled him back, holding him immobilized at the hips. He couldn’t do slow tonight and immediately set a hard pace, rutting with barely leashed strength. Crying out sharply with each inward stroke Whitney fisted his own erection and Clark let him. He fucked Whitney for well over a half an hour before pleasure overwhelmed him, the junior having come twice against the blanket. He’d ridden through the contractions both times, gritting his teeth and grunting at the near pain of Whitney’s contracting passage on his knobs. He never wanted to leave Whitney’s body and he yelled hoarsely as he climaxed at last, shooting sperm deep into the blond’s bowels.

This time, after the initial release, he didn’t immediately withdraw, possessed of the need to deposit his entire load. He slumped over Whitney’s near insensate form, mumbling affection while he petted the teen’s flanks and thighs. The dark blue eyes were closed, though Clark could see the eyeballs moving beneath the thin curtain of their eyelids. It was good to know, that hard sex completely knocked Whitney out. His balls continued to fill Whitney up and Clark kissed his sweat damp shoulder, his large hands gently cupping the bony caps.//

Remembering the passion of their second time pushed Clark over the edge, his ejaculate spraying out from between Whitney’s thighs. Orgasm rolled through him in gentle waves and Whitney let him savor it, petting the hand on his stomach while Clark’s other hand stroked him from thigh to waist. Careful of the handprints that stood out on his golden hips.

The bruises were there to see on Whitney’s flesh, in case anyone on the team had doubted Whitney getting fucked by Clark. In the showers today more than a few eyes had noted those marks of claiming, but one quick glance at Clark’s warning visage had deterred even the most obtuse dickheads from ribbing the blond. Pete, of course, had been scandalized when he’d spotted the bruising, immediately connecting the dots in guessing who had put them there. Maybe that was another reason his friend had been nervous all day. For being part of one of the few minority families in Smallville Pete was painfully close-minded to difference.

Clark sighed, nuzzling at Whitney’s hair as the last of his orgasm left him. The blond was dozing in his arms, the last heat of the day coming in through the opened loft doors to deepen Whitney’s tan and make him practically glow in the late sunlight. He looked made of the very sun that gave Clark his extraordinary powers. The thought made him grin goofily, imagining Whitney as one more astonishing gift offered to the last scion of Krypton.

“Stay for dinner?” he asked softly. Whitney murmured something that sounded vaguely affirmative, snuggling deeper as he settled into his nap. Wanting to stay with him, but knowing he needed to tell his mother to set another plate and call Whitney’s parents Clark regretfully eased away. Knowing his mom she had probably already called the Fordmans since Whitney’s truck was in the drive and they hadn’t exactly snuck into the barn, but the Kents had been firm in instilling manners in their adopted son. Leaning over to press a last kiss to the blond’s shoulder with a promise to be back shortly Clark hurried out of the loft.


Chapter 2.

It did not take everyone at school long to catch on that two of their best football players were dating each other. Not with the way Clark acted, redefining territorial male to new heights of possessiveness. Whitney took him in stride, helped along by his daily morning blow job Clark gave him when the blond came around each morning to drive them to school. It wasn’t like they were the only gay couple at school. Clark hadn’t been certain of what kind of backlash they would see, but Smallville, for all of its provincial attitudes, was possessed of a unique tolerance for its own. It was a bizarreness that Clark would one day have to confront, but the youth had more pressing concerns. Such as telling Whitney the truth about himself.

It had been three weeks and he was running thin on tricks to keep Whitney’s attention off his penis. Whitney’s experience with guys was limited, but he wanted to explore his boyfriend. Clark wanted him to explore his boyfriend. Boy, did he want him to explore his boyfriend! His parents were also getting nervous as the reality of their son’s sexual maturity slowly began to seep through the layers of denial. If Clark wanted to keep having a relationship with Whitney then he needed to trust him with the biggest secret on the planet and maybe a few smaller ones besides.

“Baby?” Clark ran his fingers through the beautiful blond hair, lightly scratching Whitney’s scalp. Laying on the pull out and basking in the warm afternoon sun was one of the junior’s favorite new things to do after practice, especially after Clark gave him a top to bottom massage. Football was nothing to Clark; he got more exercise doing all of the chores around the farm before breakfast, but Whitney was sometimes really hurting after a skirmish. It made the young alien wish he could give some of his invulnerability to his boyfriend, though it also let him pamper his sometimes volatile concubine. Whitney wanted to be a man for his father, whatever that meant, and could some days get hot about Clark treating him like a girl.

Clark never, ever called Whitney’s anus a pussy out loud for that very reason. To Clark’s twisted way of thinking, in part thanks to all the porn he’d watched, but mainly because he just didn’t understand gender hang-ups, a pussy was an orifice you stuck your dick in. It was a word, a label, and he liked the way it sounded, the way his penis would jerk and his stomach muscles would clench whenever he thought of Whitney’s ‘pussy’. It was all alien anatomy anyway, but his father had instilled sufficient survival instincts into him about the delicacies of human interaction to keep his mouth shut about such things.

A dark blue eye slit open before squeezing closed as Whitney yawned, arching his back. The quarterback was completely nude, as he was wont on these days, confident that Clark’s parents wouldn’t ever disturb them unless necessary. Clark watched one slender golden hand lazily stroke down Whitney’s front until the blond reached his crotch, scratching his thatch of dark gold pubic hair. The blue eyes opened on him fully as a small sleepy smile quirked the corners of Whitney’s thin mouth.

“Hmmm?” Whitney hummed and he was so like a sated cat, sun lazy and unconscious of his glorious state.

Clark’s cat and he bent to kiss his kitten, fingers tangled in fine blond hair lifting Whitney’s head to meet him. When he murmured, “Pretty kitty,” the blond frowned, making Clark bite back a curse. Why couldn’t Whitney let him call him one cute pet name? “Come on,” he said before the blond could open his mouth, scooping his jeans from the floor and dumping them in his lap. “I need to show you something.”

He’d chosen to wait for a day when his parents weren’t at home, really not prepared to deal with them trying to help on top of Whitney’s possible freak out. With a firm grip of his lover’s bony wrist Clark dragged him out of the barn and towards the storm cellar. Since practically the moment he’d decided he had to have Whitney full time he’d agonized about telling him the truth. In his preferred imaginings Whitney would think sleeping with an alien was the hottest thing ever and would declare eternal devotion to his kinky alien rod. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Whitney rejected him, turned on him. On what Ship would do to protect the Scion of Krypton and Clark realized that fear was a problem he needed to deal with, that a computer program ruled his life.

“Clark, swear to God, if you’ve got a goat down here,” Whitney muttered, stumbling after him down the short flight of stairs. Jonathan insisted the spaceship stay covered at all times, just in case of what Clark wasn’t sure, but since it didn’t interfere with Ship’s functions, he didn’t care. The cellar was filled with old boxes containing his parents’ memories and shelves filled with jars of pickled vegetables and fruit preserves. There was a clear path to the tarp covered ship, however, a stretch of hard packed dirt the single bare light bulb starkly illuminated.

Just before the ship Clark stopped, hauling Whitney into a probing, affirming kiss, rationally scared it might be the last one Whitney willingly opened to. Not even a month and Whitney was already his everything. He’d go insane if his beautiful little human rejected him and if this was the love his parents talked about then he hated it, hated the way it controlled his every thought, made him a cow to be slaughtered.

“Whitney,” he breathed against the blond’s bee stung lips, green eyes staring into blue, “you drive me nuts, do you know that?” You make me a cow.

“Yeah?” Whitney grinned, rubbing his crotch up into Clark’s.

“I know this is corny and that you don’t like to hear this kind of stuff, but seriously, I think I’m falling in love with you.” The blond went still and Clark felt a surge of panic. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear it and it sounds stupid -”

Fingers pressed to his mouth, stopping the gush of words. “It’s okay, Clark. I, I don’t mind.” From out of his frozen stiffness Whitney bloomed, blushing furiously as he gently brushed his fingers across Clark’s lips. “I don’t mind at all.”

Yes. It was the only word in Clark’s head for several long minutes, repeated over and over as he literally swept Whitney off his feet, boosting the lanky figure up into the air, kissing every patch of skin his mouth could reach. Whitney reached down to grip his shoulders and squirmed against the tongue laving his belly button, teeth nipping at the pale trail of hair that disappeared into his jeans. One day he would demand affirmation, but for now he would take this, Whitney giggling and tugging at his hair.

“Clark!” Whitney laughed, writhing in his inescapable hold. “Fuck, you’re strong! Let me down!”

Slowly the brunette allowed Whitney to slide down his front until he could suck on an earlobe, until the blond moaned and writhed for an altogether different reason. “I love you, Whitney Fordman.”

“Clark,” his lover moaned, fingers ghosting down to grip his hard biceps and hold him all the closer. “I-”

“Not yet,” Clark interrupted. “I need to tell you something, but first I wanted you to know how I felt, that those feelings are not going to change.”

Whitney panted, grinding against Clark’s eager hardness, obviously wanting to be done with talking. “What are you talking about, Clark?”

One irrefutable truth: rub Whitney the right way and he became a purring bundle of pleasure. “Kitten, do you remember the meteor shower?”

“The one you lost your parents in? I was seven. Mom says I didn’t sleep for weeks after. That no one did really.” Whitney cuddled into him, rubbing his arms. “Is this something about your parents?”

“You could say that,” Clark hedged. “My parents died before the meteor shower. Long before. They sacrificed themselves to save me.”

“They were your parents, Clark. You shouldn’t feel guilty because they loved you.”

“Yeah, but innocent people were hurt because they saved me. Innocent people were killed.” Whitney frowned up at him, drawing back in confusion, but Clark caught him before the stepped out of reach. The blond winced at the tight hold of his arms, but Clark could not force himself to let go. “I came with the meteors, Whitney. I came down with them. Can you understand what I’m saying, baby?”

“No, I can’t,” Whitney gasped, trying now in earnest to escape Clark’s hold. The taller brunette didn’t even flex a finger to contain his lover’s desperate twisting. “Don’t do this, Clark, please. Don’t start talking crazy. Don’t fucking say you love me and then start saying crazy shit!”

“Kitten,” Clark started.

“And don’t fucking call me ‘Kitten’!”

Clark hugged the blond to his chest, muffling his cursing and sobbing. “I’m sorry, baby. I wish I could be human for you, but I’m not. I come from a planet called Krypton. It blew up, but my parents managed to save me. The meteors, they were some of what was left of my home. I’m not crazy. I can prove everything.”

He shuffled them the short feet to the covered ship and reached down for the tarp. Whitney made a sharp protesting noise, confused and terrified, and tried to again shy, but Clark didn’t relax his hold on the slender waist. He flung the tarp off to the side and Whitney pressed his face into his shoulder, refusing to see, his white knuckled fists straining the seams of Clark’s faded old t-shirt.

“Ship, say hello to Whitney.” Clark felt like a total idiot at that moment, introducing his lover to a spaceship, but he didn’t want to risk hurting the blond by forcing him to open his eyes. Hopefully this would work in luring him to look. “Whitney, this is Ship, the artificial intelligence that runs my spaceship and told me about who I am.”

Did Ship look a little constipated? Clark couldn’t really tell; the holographic projection of the young man always bore a slightly exasperated expression when it wasn’t looking amused. Ship had short brown hair and eyes similar in shade to Clark’s. Apparently green eyes were common among Kryptonians. His features were vaguely handsome, but mostly unremarkable. Since it was a computer projection Ship could appear however it wanted, but it preferred this image, down to the floor length silver robe.

“Well met, Whitney Fordman. Kal -,” Ship sighed at the brunette’s sharp head shake. “Clark has talked about you incessantly.”

Whitney stiffened at the sound of Ship’s oddly accented, faintly hollow voice. Continuing to rub his back Clark patiently waited as the face buried in his shoulder fractionally moved until one suspicious blue eyes peered out. Seeing something straight out of a sci-fi movie staring back at him Whitney jerked in surprise. “Holy shit!”

The response was so honest that Clark laughed. “He won’t hurt you, baby. He’s just a holographic projection, a composite of pixelated light.”

“Clark,” Whitney breathed, pressing up against him as hard as he could, fingers reaching up to yank his face down to his, “you can’t be an alien. You can’t.”

“It’s okay, Whitney.” He kissed him softly. “It doesn’t change anything between us. You deserve the truth and this is it. I love you. I am an alien. No antenna, no green skin, but I am different from you.”

“Alien.” Whitney weighed the word with his lips, but was already shaking his head in stubborn denial before the last syllable passed. “No. You’re Clark, my boyfriend. That’s it.”

“I don’t want you to fear me, Whitney. I don’t want to ever see you looking at me with fear or horror or disgust, like I’m some freak to be destroyed. But I won’t lie to you about what I am.”

Whitney shook his head again, dark eyes luminescent with tears. “I -” Twisting out of Clark’s hold the blond ran for the stairs and Clark let him, his heart breaking as Whitney disappeared into the sunlight. Moments later he heard the engine of Whitney’s truck turn over and the spray of gravel as he drove off.

“He is now a liability,” Ship said behind him. “He must be eliminated before he reveals us to the authorities.” When Clark still didn’t react the AI’s heated gaze narrowed. “Kal-el, he has failed. He is not worthy of being your concubine. He must be silenced, immediately.”

“Shut up,” Clark whispered.

“He is a threat.”

“No!” The tall brunette whirled around to confront the scowling program. “I just told him I loved him and that I’m an alien. Is it that hard to see he might need some space? He just needs some time.”

“You would endanger the legacy of your people for a human child? He will cost us everything. If you are too sentimentally weak I-”

“Touch him and we’re through,” Clark growled, not bothering to mask his fear. “I swear to you, Ship, if anything happens to Whitney I will find the means to demolish the spaceship and your program.”

Confronted with his charge’s irresolute ferocity Ship reluctantly bowed his head though he silently began contingency plans for when the boy betrayed them. Nothing and no one could stand before Kal-el’s ascendancy. Certainly not one low born catamite.


Chapter 3.

Whitney did not show up at school the next day, tightening the growing knot in Clark’s stomach. He’d laid awake on the couch in his Fortress the whole night, breathing in their mingled scents. Whitney hadn’t even gone back to the loft to retrieve his shirt and shoes. His parents had clued into his despondency, but he’d stayed quiet under their concern. No matter what Whitney ultimately decided Clark would have to tell the Kents he’d decided to reveal his secret to his boyfriend, but he was going to put off that lecture as long as possible. Even with no appetite he’d scraped away two helpings before retreating to the loft. Laying there unmindful of his crying he’d gone over the afternoon again and again, trying to understand some way he could have handled things better.

In the morning he’d dragged himself off the pullout and moped through his chores, barely going above normal speed. At breakfast his mother had looked at him sympathetically, finally seeing his heartbreak and hadn’t that just made everything seem worse? No, the real pain had come when Whitney never showed to drive them to school and Mom had quietly prodded him to not miss the bus.

The thought of having to sit next to a sullen, wounded eyed Pete, or worse yet, an ‘I told you so’ one, had been reason enough for him to run to school. Where Whitney never showed and they didn’t have practice on Fridays. What did his absence mean? Was Whitney now afraid of him? Horrible thoughts swirled through his head throughout the day, though he most severely chastised himself whenever he imagined Whitney ratting him out to the police. If he kept up that line of thinking he’d be too afraid to go home.

He somehow missed the bus home without arousing suspicions, wanting to walk and calm himself down. There were no scary black vehicles waiting for him to get off the bus, he firmly told himself, but just in case, he walked. A burst of speed delivered him outside the town limits, slowing down once he hit the bridge, thoughts gravitating to what he’d possibly lost forever. Amazing how quickly he’d gotten used to spending his afternoons with Whitney. Mom had begun to automatically set out a fourth plate, his parents already anticipating Whitney staying for dinner before heading home. How could he go home to an empty loft and an absent seat at the table? Clark slumped over the bridge’s railing. Whatever his parents had to say to console him he knew he couldn’t endure hearing it.

The sudden squealing of tires whipped his head around, the sight of a sports car aimed right at him freezing him for precious seconds. The car was going well over double the speed limit; Clark felt the car slightly bounce against him. If he’d thought to stand his ground he could have easily repelled the several ton bullet. He barely felt a sting as they tore through the guardrail.

Instead he let physics throw him up into the air. The guy behind the wheel looked older than he was, terrified and beautiful. The car plummeted towards the river below and Clark followed it down. It almost felt like he was flying.

Everything became a blur after that. Did he use super speed to rescue the driver? He certainly used super strength, peeling back the roof of the car and then effortlessly swimming the man’s dead weight to shore.

Pale blue eyes blinked up at him as the man came back around, coughing water and gulping air. Those eyes were dilated and slightly unfocused, but the man seemed to hone in on him regardless. Leaning over him Clark stroked his bald head and smiled reassurance. “It’s going to be okay,” seemed the thing to say at such a time so he said it.

The accident had happened close enough to town that someone happened upon them minutes after. Nearly an hour later Jonathan’s truck pulled up. Clark had learned the name of the man he’d rescued, Lex Luthor, and told his story several times to the sheriff. Luthor kept saying he’d hit Clark, but the teenager was without a mark except for his soaked clothing. He’d dived out of the way just in time he told Sheriff Roberts and the man nodded agreeably. Clark was a local, after all, and Kents were as honest as the day was long. No one would believe a stranger over one of their own. Perched on the back of the ambulance while the EMT checked him over Luthor stared at them all flabbergasted.

“You’re alive,” Clark whispered to him, awkwardly patting his shoulder. “Be happy for that.”

“Clark!” his father shouted, and the brunette turned to see his father coming towards him. Unmindful of his son’s bedraggled state Jonathan hugged him tightly, blanket and all. Though Clark was oblivious, Jonathan caught the lustful way the slender bald man stared at him. “Your mother and Whitney are worried. Let’s get home.”

Clark stiffened. “Whitney’s there?”

“We’ll talk about all of it at home, son. Now let’s go. Bob,” Jonathan nodded to the sheriff, one of his former linemen, arm secure about his son’s shoulders. “You need anything else from us, you know to call.”

“’Course, Jonathan. Take your boy home ‘fore he catches a chill. Give Martha my best.”

Luthor was staring at them all mouth agape, but seemed unwilling to challenge the local authorities. “See you Sunday,” Jonathan called over his shoulder, ushering Clark into the truck.

“Dad,” Clark asked as soon as Jonathan got the truck turned around and headed back to the farm, “is Whitney really back at home?”

“I ain’t in the habit of lying about such things, son. He showed up around lunch time. Helped with that combine that’s been acting up and we talked.” Jonathan’s crystalline blue eyes glanced over to him briefly. “You tossed a lot at that boy, Clark, and you’d best count your blessings his folks raised him right.”

“I love him, Dad,” Clark said quietly staring down at his hands clutching the edges of the gray wool blanket. “I couldn’t keep lying to him.”

Jonathan sighed. “I understand that, son, but you put Whitney in a hard place having to accept a lot of things at once. Not just your feelings but what you are.”

Clark stared silently out the window for a time, not seeing the rows of wheat that lined their long drive. He didn’t know what to say to his Dad. Whitney needed telling, no matter how badly Clark did it, and finally he said just that as they were pulling into the yard.

Martha appeared in the frame of the screen door briefly before she and Whitney stepped out onto the porch. Whitney looked like he was about to melt, explode or just disappear altogether. His mouth and eyes were tight, but he still put a reassuring hand on Martha’s shoulder. Watching his son stare enrapt Jonathan sighed, empathizing. “I know, son.”

His voice jerked Clark’s head around. “I had to, Dad.” He reached for the door handle, but again Jonathan stopped him.

“We understand, Clark. We’re happy you love Whitney. It means that damn computer didn’t succeed in taking you away from us.”

It was true, Ship disdained abundance of emotion, but Clark had not thought about how his attachment to the AI had scared his parents. He couldn’t help that Ship had the answers he desperately needed, like when he had started developing earlier than his human classmates. His parents didn’t know anything about the cellular stasis necessary for inter-galactic space travel. Clark had gone into that spaceship months old and emerged a small boy. His journey had taken decades to complete. Thankfully, Ship’s programming had retarded his cell regeneration so he hadn’t grown into an adult overnight, but he was still older than the Kents wanted him to be. It gave him a headache trying to resolve his age in terms of existence, roughly 53, to his biological age, 19.6, to how old his parents thought he was, 15.4. He didn’t feel like a fifteen year old but he also didn’t want to have to go into the adult world just yet. Maybe his parents would let him test out of ninth grade? It’d be great to be in the same grade as Whitney and it wasn’t like school was in any way challenging.

“Clark?” Jonathan called and the brunette blinked, realizing he’d gone quiet too long. Was it even possible for him to divorce himself from his ‘human’ emotions the way Ship wanted him to? He didn’t think so, but now he realized his parents’ fears were just that.

He smiled, grateful it was so easy to give this to them. “Ship thinks you’ve corrupted me with your emotions, but I don’t. You’re my parents and that’s not ever going to change.”

Jonathan nodded quietly and the moment ended. They were men again. Clark stepped out of the cab, grinning apologetically at his mother as she rushed over. Whitney stayed on the porch, watching Martha fuss over her only child. Stoically enduring his mother Clark’s gaze never long strayed from the pensively watching blond. He couldn’t help taking Whitney in from top to bottom, assuring and tempting himself. The quarterback was dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt; his letter jacket was probably hanging just inside the door. How the teenager managed to look fuckable in such casual clothes . . . Clark swallowed, determined not to get a boner while hugging his mother.

“Clark Kent, you scared us all half to death!” Martha scolded, frowning at his decidedly damp state. “Bob said you rescued someone from the river?”

“Some hotshot out-of-towner driving his car too fast and lost control over the bridge,” Jonathan patiently explained. “Clark dove in after to pull the idiot out.”

Shrewd eyes studied Clark’s lowered head and slumped posture. “Is that how it happened, Clark?” Martha asked, certain the truth was of a different sequence of events.

Clark shook his head. “That’s what I told Sheriff Roberts, but things happened a little differently.”

Nodding, Martha resignedly smiled. “Well then, why don’t you go up to the loft and change into some dry clothes. Take Whitney with you, you both need to talk some things out. We’ll see you at dinner and you can tell us what you’ve gotten yourself into now.”

“Mom,” Clark whined, “it wasn’t my fault.” His parents weren’t listening though, heading back into the house. Both gave Whitney a squeeze on the arm.

The screen door was still slowly closing when Whitney launched himself off the porch and into Clark’s arms. “God, Clark, are you really okay? When you didn’t come home on the bus and then your parents started to worry, I didn’t know what to do! I was starting to think it was my fault! Tell me you’re okay! Say it! Say it!”

“Shhh, I’m okay, I’m okay,” the brunette hastened to reassure even as most of his higher brain functions shut down for having Whitney in his arms. “I’m sorry, baby. Sorry for scaring you, today and last week. I didn’t mean to put so much on you.”

Whitney shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you’re an alien from Mars or a woman, you’re still you. Still Clark.“

Grabbing handfuls of Clark’s hair he kissed him in an explosion of desperate emotion. For the rest of his very long life Clark could never remember how they got from the front yard to the loft, clothes lost somewhere in transition. Squirming and whimpering, Whitney humped against him, nails scratching at his shoulders and arms. Pushing him back to sit on the couch Clark dropped to his knees, reaching out to take gentle hold of the blond’s already leaking penis.

The blond stopped him though, scooting away. Confused, Clark raised an eyebrow at the beet red teen. “I want, I mean, can we, can I touch you too, you know?”

Not bothering to make a performance of exerting himself Clark scooped his lover into the air and stretched out across the couch cushions. Whitney’s eyes were a little wide at the speed he found himself sitting astride Clark’s thighs, but he didn’t let it long distract him. The cock he’d felt up his fundament more times than he could clearly recollect yet never allowed to explore was proudly erect right before him and he eagerly reached for it.

Clark hissed at the first tentative brush of dry fingers and his torment only increased as Whitney bent curiously over his crotch. Exploring with complete disregard to his lover’s mounting desperation the junior rubbed his knobs and gently pressed his lubricating pouch, grinning when a familiar sweet smelling oil oozed out. It was taking every iota of control Clark had to hold himself perfectly still with every cell in his body screaming for him to just fuck Whitney senseless.

“Wow,” Whitney murmured, firmly groping Clark’s knobs and turning the brunette’s spine into a steel rod. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice these. No wonder you feel so different from a couple of fingers.”

“You ever been with anybody but me, Whit?” Clark gritted out. Say ‘yes’ and I’ll need names Clark jealously thought, but Whitney shyly shook his head. “Then how were you to know any difference?”

Whitney shrugged, gently jacking Clark’s slick penis. His own erection was arching towards his stomach, momentarily forgotten while he tortured his alien lover. Though he obviously wasn’t fully detached from his actions. Gripping the backs of his thighs Clark urged him to scoot forward a little. “Come on. That’s good.” With both hands he guided Whitney to fist both their cocks, leading him in a rhythm that had them both groaning. “That’s it, oh yeah, make yourself come for me, kitten. Do us both. That’s it.”

Squeezing and stroking Whitney beat them off, writhing in Clark’s lap but held to the hard rhythm by one controlling hand. Clark’s other hand stroked up one golden thigh, over the hip and two fingers smeared in his own juices started up the rhythm sliding in and out of Whitney’s tight little ass.

With his sweet spot getting repeatedly massaged and his penis practically bruised by Clark’s Whitney did not long resist the rush of orgasm. Hot semen arced the air and Clark avidly watched that supple body jerk in climatic spasm. Whitney’s hand clenched and Clark closed his eyes, savoring his own heady rush.

Boneless, Whitney collapsed against his chest. Clark hugged him one armed, other hand enjoying the slowing contractions of the blond’s rectum. It was good, just lying here, and the brunette resolved to spend more time just like this. A nose pressed into the dampness of his neck and he petted Whitney’s bony hip in reply.

The sun had moved the shadows in the loft when Clark slid his hand up the long arch of Whitney’s spine until he could cup his nape. “So are we okay?” he softly asked.

Whitney sighed, shifting one folded leg to a more comfortable cant. “You’re still my Clark.”

“Yeah,” Clark answered the implied question. “Always will be,” and that, he realized with a tiny smile, was all that was going to be said on everything.

The warm weight on top of him shifted again, slightly chilled fingers tracing up his side. “Oh, before we go back down. I ate the last of the pie.”

And, of course, pie.

*

The End. For now.