lady_bug_kay | Supermanfic: Besotted (Clark/Oliver)

Title: Besotted
Author: ladybugkay
Fandom: DCU and Smallville
Pairing: Clark/Oliver
Rating: R (bordering on NC-17)
Word Count: 1228
Warnings: sex and some very bad writing
Summary: Clark and Oliver are interrupted whilst in the midst of, well, you know. Can be read on its own, but was intended as an epilogue to my Revelations series that started with Denial.
Disclaimer: DC and Gough & Millar and others own the rights. I slash the boys for fun and intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: I was trying for a specific mood when I wrote this (very late at night), but I think it's probably safe to say the experiment failed. So, this is an itty, bitty, smutty, completely gratuitous epilogue that I couldn't resist writing, even though it's really quite terrible and actually detracts from a series of which I am rather proud. (In other words, feel free to ignore it.) *hides face in shame*

“Good God, Smallville, take it somewhere with a locked door next—Ollie?!”

“Lois!”

Oliver jerks his head up from Clark’s lap and falls abruptly backward, landing with a loud thud. He searches desperately for pants or a shirt, something with which to cover himself, but their clothing has all somehow acquired powers of independent motion and wandered off. Finally, he tugs a sofa cushion out from under Clark’s ass—what a glorious ass it is—and tries to disappear.

It doesn’t help that Clark, the aggravating, infuriating, insufferable, mouthwateringly naked work of art that he is, is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

None of this is funny, and if Lois had walked in here twenty minutes earlier or five minutes later, the words ‘compromising position’ would have acquired new meaning in the state of Kansas.

Not that that would have stopped Oliver. In fact, twenty minutes earlier or five minutes later, and Oliver probably wouldn’t have even heard Lois.

For a long moment, everything fades to black as Oliver indulges in the remembered sensation of naked, writhing bodies and sweat-slick limbs, losing himself in the rushing undertow of licentious images. He can still feel the moans and sighs reverberating through every inch of his body, and he wants nothing more than to go back and do it all over again. It’s been hours, and he can’t stop licking Clark’s body, tasting his skin and sliding his fingers over kneecaps and shoulder blades.

“Oliver.”

Oliver is drowning in Clark, has drowned in Clark, and he can’t seem to make himself care enough to come up for air. Everything he never knew he wanted, needed, and it’s all under his fingertips and thrusting deep inside him, and—

“Oliver.”

He snaps back into focus, a rubber band released from tension, and there is no more edge of humour in Clark’s voice.

Lois. Right. Oliver blinks hard and tries to concentrate.

Lois’s face is sharp before him, outraged more than hurt, a fact for which he has just enough awareness to be grateful. Apparently anger is to be the order of the day, and Oliver cringes slightly because Lois can flay him with her tongue faster than Clark can get from point A to point B, and today has been such an incredible day he really can’t bear a patented Lois-lecture.

On the edges of his vision, Clark is naked and beckoning, a temptation without even trying to be, and Oliver wonders how anyone could expect him to deal with Lois under these sorts of conditions.

“What the hell is going on here?” Lois’s voice has that ruthlessly restrained air of hysteria about it, the one that makes Oliver’s head ache.

Oliver looks to Clark for answers, because all he remembers, is wanting to see Clark, coming to see Clark, seeing Clark, and then the world dissolving into a cornucopia of pornographic scenes and erotic sensation. They’re certainly not bad memories; they’re just not very helpful at this point in time.

Clark looks back at Oliver, something in his eyes saying that this is real, this is truth, and Oliver finds himself nodding without a second thought. Or, without any thought beyond the softness of Clark’s eyelashes against his inner thigh and the aching smoothness of Clark’s lower back

There is something Oliver should say. He knows this, but he doesn’t seem quite able to bring his mind back from all the sex it’s still having, so his body continues to run the show.

Besides, every thought Oliver has had for the past—well, he isn’t exactly sure how many days ago it all started, but probably around the time he finally let Lois go—has centered around Clark Kent, and all he can think to say is, ‘I can’t help it. Have you seen his ass?’ Yet even in his apparently sex-addled state, Oliver knows this isn’t the best way to console his ex-girlfriend for his unexpected (and extremely naked) presence in Clark’s loft, so the damning words remain unsaid.

And he stands there, silent and staring, his eyes flickering between Lois and Clark.

Lois clenches her teeth and turns to Clark.

“Smallville? You better have a damn good explanation for swapping bodily fluids with my erstwhile boyfriend.”

Oliver keeps his eyes on Clark, hoping Clark will take control of this situation as he did the one from hours before, when he stepped forward and made Oliver’s body his without even a hint of hesitation. It was a situation that had a remarkably enjoyable outcome; one Oliver finds himself reliving even as he struggles to give Lois the attention she deserves.

Later, Oliver will reach the conclusion that it’s really not his fault that he becomes transfixed by a single bead of sweat making its tantalizing way down Clark’s perfect chest, snagging on every dip and curve of muscle as it moves. In fact, he thinks it’s possible that no one in the world would deny that Clark Kent, naked and unashamed, is the embodiment of irresistible.

In the moment itself, however, Oliver makes a desperate attempt to control himself. He forces his eyes back up to Clark’s face, but when Clark blinks, a single flicker of eyelids, slow and deliberate, Oliver loses any semblance of speech he still retained. Clark’s eyes say everything Oliver can’t stop thinking, and it’s hotter than the hottest striptease ever performed.

To think, to imagine, the wonders of Clark Kent, unclothed and undone, is one thing, and something that has occupied Oliver’s mind for far too long. But to know, to remember, the ecstasy of touch and taste and smell and sight and sound, is something else entirely.

An obsession never to be resolved.

A very small part of Oliver is aware he is ignoring Lois again without even trying. The words she’s spitting at him, somewhat justifiably, he’ll admit, can’t quite sink through the haze that’s everywhere around him and that holds no room for anyone other than Clark.

All Oliver wants right now is for Lois to go away again, so that he can keep touching Clark. He thinks he might be addicted to the taste of Clark, the taste of him everywhere, because he really needs his tongue to be back on Clark’s body. Or in Clark’s body; Oliver isn’t picky. It all feels like some hallucinogenic drug that won’t ever leave his system, and he’ll die happily with it still coursing through his veins.

Oliver will never know what Clark says or does to make Lois leave, or how long it takes, and he can’t actually find it in himself to care. But he will always remember the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and the way Clark left the lingering taste of apples and salt on his lips when they finally started kissing again. It’s really all he needs to know, and even if Lois never speaks to him or Clark again, it will be worth it to have this. Oliver is beginning to think Clark doesn’t actually ever need to be clothed again, because there is really so much still to be done with skin on skin and the scent of arousal coiling through the air.

Yes, Oliver thinks, as his back arches in a twist of pleasure, clothing is highly, highly overrated, and clothing on Clark amounts to outright blasphemy. Oh, God!

Supermanfic: Besotted (Clark/Oliver)

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