Upon Your Wings I Fly

By Linda C.

Rating: NC17
Pairing: Clark/Whitney
Archive: Yes to SSA and anyone else who wants it. Disclaimer: No, not mine.
Spoiler: A tiny one, for Shattered

Notes: AU. In the future, Superman finds someone long gone from his life.

Summary: In the depths of Hell will come Truth and Love, and cast out Demons.

Twenty five years old. Clark was twenty five today. The day his parents had picked for his birthday, not knowing when it truly was. Even the AI didn't know how to translate it into an Earth date. And here he was flying over some rotted out buildings, men hiding in holes dug in the ground for warmth, and looking for the signal the AI had picked up. It was weak, almost fading out at times. It had taken the AI almost a month to pin it down to a ten-mile area surrounding this village. His X-ray vision scanned the ground, looking for anything that might have put out the signal. No power, no running water, no heat sources...this village had been destroyed by bombings and fires over the course of the ten-year war in this country. So where had someone gotten a device from to transmit a signal?

He landed behind a dilapidated barn, changing into jeans and a jacket, zipping it up over his uniform, his red boots a stark contrast to the rest of his outfit. His brighter than the sun Superman uniform, designed by the AI and sewn by his mother. At least no one could say they couldn't see him. It hurt 'his' eyes, for heaven's sake. He began his search, eyes to the ground, superhearing extended. Nothing...wait, he heard...something. He jogged toward a long warehouse, roof collapsed and falling in. Swinging open a door, he saw dark steps leading downward. The sound was here, faint but there. "Jor-el, is this the origin of the signal?" He started down, hands meeting damp slime the further down he got and the walls turned to stone. "Yes, 25 feet down the hallway. Turn right, then left." He followed the directions, splashing through water above his ankles. Thank god for waterproof boots.

He heard scrambling when he entered the room. 'Rats. He hated rats, the one thing he burned on sight. Them and spiders.' He walked further, the noise getting louder. 'Big rats.' He switched to X-ray, shocked to see a skeleton of a man behind a crate in the corner. One that was moving, hiding.

"Hello, I won't hurt you. I'm here in response to the signal you sent. Can you speak English?" He moved closer, then stopped as the image moved once more.

"Clark? Clark Kent? Is that you?" The voice was hoarse, the tone low and full of pain. And familiar.

He ran toward the crate, turning the corner and almost running over the man lying on the wet floor. Oh, God, it was...Whitney. Whitney Fordman, tags coming back to his mother, with a burned body in a casket covered with a flag. Whitney, school quarterback, friend after time, who had asked him to take care of Lana for him. Whitney, alive! He fell to his knees, embracing the thin figure, hugging him close.

"Yes, it's me, Clark Kent. Oh, god, Whitney..." He choked, unable to say more as Whit wrapped his arms around him, sobs coming from deep in his chest, body shaking. He went to pick him up, stopping as Whit grabbed his arms.

"Don't...I don't...have any legs, Clark. They were blown off in the mortar fire that killed the rest of my men. Some natives dragged me to this village and cauterized them. They've been taking care of me for all this time and hiding me out when the government forces raided this place. They had to leave to save their families, but I stayed, trying to transmit from a tracking device they found in one of our bombed out Jeeps a couple of months ago. How did you find me? What are you doing here? How long has it been?"

Clark lifted him in his arms, carrying him up the stairs out into the sunshine. He looked down at the man in his arms, seeing his friend in the gaunt and dirty face. What the hell, he deserved the truth.

"Flew here. My AI picked up your signal and tracked it to this area. I've been searching on foot for a few days and this was the last grid I had to check out. It picked it up again and led me to you. Now hold on, we're going to my home for medical care." He gathered Whitney close, wishing for a blanket, and took off, still wearing his civilian clothes, not wanting to put his precious burden down long enough to spin into costume. Five minutes later, they landed at the Fortress, Clark taking Whitney into the medical center.

"What the hell just happened? You flew, Clark, you flew us through the air." Clark laid him down, the AI lighting the table diagnostics, lights flickering, golden rays running over the figure, analyzing and compiling data.

"Mild dehydration, starvation debilitation, broken and healed ribs, arms, and collarbone. Left leg amputated above the knee, right leg amputated below the knee. Prosthetic adaptable. Shall I continue to scan?" Clark picked Whitney up, walking down the hallway. "No, Jor-el, I can handle it from here. Start a bath, please and heat the bedroom." He could hear the water begin to flow and the tub was partially full when he walked in. He sat Whit on the commode, then started to undress him. His old uniform, tattered, dried mud, a sleeve missing, the only remnant of his life in the Marines. His once blond hair was black with dirt, matted and flowed down his back, tangled. A frail hand stopped his when it reached the trousers.

"No, I don't want you to see me. They're bad, Clark, really bad. I've been dragging them around after me after I lost my homemade crutches. It was easier to maneuver without them sometimes. You can bump yourself down steps a lot faster. Clark, no!" He slapped at Clark, drawing back as he hurt his own hand instead. "Shit, you're like a steel drum. No give at all. You never answered me before. How did you fly and where are we? Clark, look at me." Raising his head, Clark looked into the pale blue eyes, now tired and lifeless.

"Trade. I'll tell you if you let me finish undressing you. Deal?" Whit sighed, knowing how stubborn Kents could be. He moved his hand, letting Clark unzip the pants and lift him up. He had given up on underwear long ago, so he sat naked, dirty, skinny, ashamed... "Whit, don't do this to yourself. You survived eight years in that hellhole. Eight years you've been assumed dead. We buried your casket with someone else in it. Your Mom has your dogtags in a frame on the wall of the store along with your picture. We thought you were dead, and now you're here, with me, alive. So hold your head up and be proud of being a survivor."

Clark picked him up and sat him in the tub, a deep sigh telling of Whit's relief in the hot water swirling around his shattered body. Clark stripped, climbing in to hold him steady. "God, you got big, Kent. You were muscular, I knew that from seeing you work on the farm without your shirt, not hiding behind that stupid flannel. But now, look at you. Part of the flying thing?" Picking up the liquid soap, Clark began to wash his friend, soft cloth moving over him, dirt sluicing off in rivers of mud. Hair was next, three washes later finally passing Clark's inspection. "Empty tub and refill. Shower on, five minutes." The drain popped up, letting the dirty water drain out. A showerhead above their heads turned on, water like a rainshower, soft and easy, rinsing them both. By the time the tub was empty, the shower shut off, the drain closed and water once again began running in.

Clark leaned back against the curved headrest, Whit held close to his chest. "When I was a baby, my real parents sent me to Smallville to save my life. What they didn't know was that meteors came with me, causing death and destruction. I'm not from your world, Whit, I'm from another planet, long gone now. The meteors are made from Krypton, my home planet. Martha and Jonathan found me wondering around in a field after their truck flipped over from being hit. They also found my ship. They brought me home with them, after rescuing Lex Luthor and taking him and his father to the Smallville Medical Center. Lionel helped my father forge adoption papers in exchange for his influencing the Ross' to sell their factory to LuthorCorp. I hide my abilities all my life, Pete having to be told when he found my ship after those three tornadoes tore our place apart. Roger Nixon, remember him?" He paused as Whitney shifted a little, getting comfortable, head back on Clark's shoulder. "Yeah, reporter from the Inquisitor, right?"

"Yeah, that's him. He boobytrapped my dad's truck, blowing it up with me in it, on tape. He bugged our house and the barn, listening to every conversation. He had videos of me lifting things, driving in fence posts with my bare hands, and he also tried to kill Dad. Lex killed him instead, to save me and Dad. A lot of things have happened. Way too much to try to explain now, while you're adjusting to being out of that place and here with me. Needless to say, I've changed. I'm called Superman now, I can fly, see through things with X-ray vision, have heat vision, ice breath, superhearing, which is how I heard you moving around down there. I can run very, very fast. That's how I used to miss the bus and still beat it to school. My main city is Metropolis like Batman's is Gotham and Spiderman has New York. But I patrol the world, stopping disasters, saving people when I can, repairing broken dams, helping out."

Whit turned around, eyes more alert now, then lifted his hand to run his fingers over the chiseled cheekbones, the dark arched brows, the full lips that smiled under his touch. Hazel eyes danced as Whitney smiled his old smile. He broke into laughter, rich and full, hands digging into Clark's shoulders, balancing himself. "But you're not any different than when we lived in Smallville, Clark. You were always saving us there too. Right place, right time. You pulled my ass out of trouble a lot of times over the years. You've always been my Superman." He watched the blush that spread over Clark's face, the shy boy hidden under the man of steel coming once more to the forefront. This was his friend.

When he had relaxed enough and his joints were loose, Clark rose, holding him in his arms. Carried into a large bedroom, Whit looked up in puzzlement when he was put on a large table, covered with a terrycloth sheet. He sighed as the large hands rubbed him down, massaging every muscle into goo, his very scalp receiving the same treatment. "Oh, god, that feels wonderful. I've been in so much pain for so long, I forgot what it feels like to not ache 24/7. Can I go to sleep, right here?" He watched Clark pull on boxers and a t-shirt, then grab a tube of cream.

"No, that's what the bed's for, idiot. I have the medication the AI recommended for your pain and you can have two more when you get up. Let me dress your cuts and scrapes and then you can go to sleep. Roll on your stomach, Whit." Capable fingers applied antibiotic cream to each injury, some receiving a bandage, some just a gauze pad with tape. Clark rolled him on his back, eyes roaming as he searched for more damage. His eyes skimmed over the large cock, relaxed against the once massive thigh. He quickly looked sideways, but Whit's eyes were closed. "I have to touch your legs, Whit. The AI wants them bandaged with cream until we can get you looked at by a doctor and have some work done. Let me know if I hurt you." Whit raised the left leg, gone above the knee, sore and oozing blood after the bath. It was cleaned off again with a warm cloth, dried and ointment applied. White sterile gauze bandages soon wound around it, sealed with paper tape. The right leg received the same treatment, Clark stroking it gently.

"Your kicking leg, when you used to be the punter in junior league. Then you tried out for quarterback in High School and made it the first time. With the new legs I can have the AI design for you, you'll be able to kick again and run, and jump, pretty much everything you did before. But first, you have to get your legs healed up and get the bones taken care of. Come on, hold on and I'll put you to bed." After covering him with a soft white blanket, Clark cleaned up the medical supplies and changed the terry sheet. "See you in the morning. If you wake in pain, just say something, the AI will hear you and get me. Sleep well, my friend, and welcome home." He was halfway out the doorway, hand reaching for the light panel, when he heard a whisper.

"Come sleep with me. I don't want to be alone anymore. I've been so alone for so long." Clark palmed off the light, and walked back to the bed, where Whit folded back the covers. He slid under, then spooned Whitney when he turned on his side. "You never have to be alone ever again. I'm with you." He held him until he fell asleep, then lay listening to him breath the rest of the night. Whitney never moved.

Whitney removed his artificial legs, rubbing his stumps, the marks not quite as red today. It had been a month since the AI had finished them, Clark delivering them to Whit and helping him put them on. A CD contained instructions on their use, the computer codes that let them move and bend like real legs, the artificial nerves and muscles contracting and releasing using almost superspeed to transform electrical impulses to movement instantly. He had fallen numerous times as they got ahead of him, his body not used to being upright for very long. And Clark had always been there to catch him. The new apartment seemed empty without him there but Whit knew he had his own life, his own purpose to fulfill as Superman.

And Whitney had his, writing now full-time for the United Press International and the Washington Post. The returning war hero had his own column, The Ragged Edge, three times a week plus the forum page in the Post. He was also attending MetU part-time, his admittance guaranteed by his Marine service, paid for by the U.S. Government. Clark wrote with his partner, the bitch on heels, Lois Lane. God, he hated her, Chloe's cousin or not. She badmouthed Clark, calling him a wimp, a nobody, a nerd. But she didn't know his secret, and that was what Clark wanted her to think about him. Just a smalltown farmboy, nobody to get excited over or snoop around about. He smiled to himself as he wrapped his stumps in bandages, part of the healing regime recommended by the doctors after his surgery to repair the damaged limbs. He pulled on a pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt.

He turned as the French doors opened on the balcony. Only one person he knew could get to the fiftieth floor without an elevator. 'Hi Clark. Want some supper?" He had to grin as Clark stood there in his uniform, black hair slicked back, eyes a brilliant blue. One twirl later and his Clark was back, brown hair tousled, hazel eyes shining, wide grin on the fresh face. God, he was truly beautiful, Whit thought. Clark bounded over, twenty-five going on ten, long legs covering the distance to Whitney in a second. Arms wrapped around him in a bear hug, bringing an oomph out of him.

"How's the legs? The AI can adjust them anytime you want if you need some fine-tuning. And yes, I want supper. I'm officially off as of right now. Patrol is done, articles are done, Lois is out of town, thank god, and I'm yours for the evening. That is, if you don't have any plans." He looked hopeful, wanting to stay here but ready to leave if Whit had somewhere to go.

"Nope, no plans. All yours. I rented three movies and I have pizza and Chinese coming. I had hoped you'd come by and visit. I haven't seen you for a couple of days. I saw that article you wrote about the crime trail going on and the follow-up when the verdict came in. Hand me my crutches, will you?" He still liked using the old fashioned wooden crutches, their weight a comfort as he swung around the room, opening cabinets for plates and glasses, Clark staying out of his way as he handed them to him. The table was quickly set, the first movie popped in, both men flopping on the couch to relax. Whit ended up against Clark's chest, his usual position, and got snuggled in soft flannel covered arms. "Hmmm, like this so much. You make me feel safe when I'm wrapped in your arms, like no one can ever hurt me again." He heard the soft sigh, the warm air brushing against his ear. "Always keep you safe, Whit, always."

They lay quietly, relaxed with each other, dear friends. Clark had stuck by Whitney's side, always supporting, always there to lend a shoulder when he needed it to cry on. And he did cry. The whole night when the harrowing events of eight years came spilling out. The day he had to go to Washington and testify before a Congressional hearing concerning his covert operation and it's ultimate failure, a leak in his own department the cause. And the day he watched, Clark holding him in his arms, as his own grave was dug up, the casket, bearing the remains of some other mother's son, going to the morgue. Clark never wavered, never faltered, never failed to stand by him.

Whit reached behind him to flip the long braid over his shoulder, untying the ends of the thong holding it together. He had refused to cut his hair, even over his mother's protests, because Clark liked it. When he had come home, Clark moved in with him and his mother to help out, flying back and forth between Smallville and Metropolis. He helped Whitney bathe, changed his dressings after the surgery to repair the scarring on this legs, assisted in his physical therapy, and the best part of all, washed his long blond hair for him. Clark loved to run the brush through it, have it snap and cling to his hand with static. Whitney had to admit he loved it too, the feel of the large hands shampooing his hair, massaging his scalp, drying it and then carefully brushing out the tangles, fingers running through it gently, stroking. He would never cut it.

He heard the sniff behind him, and smiled. "New shampoo? Why did you wash your hair without me? Bad! You know I always help you with it. Or does it bother you now that you're well? I can stop." Tentative fingers brushed against his cheek, then slid into the mass of hair.

"I got sweaty at the gym and I couldn't stand it being all stinky. And no, I don't want you to stop. I love having you wash my hair. And give me my bath after therapy and massage me, and feed me my favorite foods when I eat with you. And I love having you here, holding me." 'I love you, Clark, I love you.' But he couldn't bring himself to say the words out loud. He had it too good now to risk losing Clark.

"And I love being here. You're the only person I can feel comfortable being with. You know my secrets and accept me as me, Clark Kent, not just Superman. Pete never could wrap himself around the idea that I was an alien. He helped me out a lot but the look was always there, in the corner of his eye. The alien, the kid he grew up with being not human, all the shit that came with it, freaked him out a lot. But you never freaked once, not even at the Fortress. Just hugged me and called me Clark. That meant so much to me." A soft kiss was pressed into his hair, arms hugging him even tighter, the last words whispered into his ear. His friend, this man who saved lives, flew through the air, was in the end just his friend. Clark.

They started as the doorbell rang. "Food," Clark hollered. Nothing changed there, he was always hungry. He burned so many calories being Superman that he could eat all day and never gain an ounce. He dug out his wallet and paid the two deliverymen, the delicious smells wafting into the apartment, Whit's mouth watering. "Pizza and Chinese. The ultimate meal, bar none." He picked Whit up and plopped him at the table, sorting out the containers while Whit got out the pizza slices and put them on plates. Soda was poured out, and both men settled down to eat, the movie playing yet in the background.

After they were done eating, Clark cleaned up the table and quickly washed the dishes. Whit had put up a token protest, really too full to object too long. He had held on to Clark's neck as he was carried back to the couch. If it had been anyone else but Clark, he would have yelled long and loud over being carried around like a child. But with his friend, it was a mark of their deep friendship and trust. Clark didn't care he had no legs, just appreciated the fact that he accepted help in the form of friendly arms. "Want a drink before I get going on the dishes?" Clark had asked, wanting Whit settled. "Nope, fine here." Whitney went through the channels, not wanting to start the next movie in the DVD player tray until Clark was back on the couch. A breaking news story caught his attention.

"Clark, come here, quick." Clark zipped over, breeze moving blond hair. "Big fire in New York with 200 people trapped in the banquet hall on the tenth floor. Spiderman's outside, on the floor below but the flames won't let him get closer." All he felt was a quick kiss on his mouth and saw the drapes flutter on the balcony doors. As he watched the television, just 45 seconds later by the time logo on screen, Superman appeared, hovering by Spiderman's shoulder, talking to his fellow superhero. Heads nodded, Spiderman moving up two floors, right above the smoke filled windows. Superman puffed out his cheeks, blowing wind and ice into the fire, freezing the air and venting out smoke. Spiderman swung down, flying through the window on his flexible webbing, Superman flying in after. More windows blew out from the heat, glass shattering on the ground below, firemen scattering like bugs. One truck moved closer, its driver seeing the flames beginning to dissipate and started opening up the ladder. Firemen clambered up, hoses already shooting water into the windows. Whitney tightened his hands together. Where was Clark?

He watched as four thick strands of gray webbing flew out the window, then people began sliding down them to the second ladder truck that had parked below. Superman flew out, holding four people in his arms and wrapped around his body. By the time he and Spiderman had gotten about fifty people out safely, the firemen reached the tenth floor and helped victims escape through the fire stairwells. A camera panned as Spiderman dropped to the ground, Superman following. The red cape billowed in the air, almost obscuring the smaller man as Clark hugged him tightly, then waved as he shot into the air, swinging away with a quick somersault. Before anyone could get over to interview him, Clark took to the air, landing on the balcony seconds later, the smell of smoke wafting around him.

"God, you were magnificent. Spiderman went in there knowing he's not fireproof. He's very brave, isn't he? Do you know who he is, Clark?" Whitney asked, as Clark stripped off the stinky uniform, tossing it back outside. He was naked, soot streaked, and bloody from the injured fire victims. He headed for the bathroom, leaving the door open to talk.

"Yeah, but more reckless than brave. He's Peter Parker, a free-lance photographer. He makes money taking shots of Spiderman in action. Good kid, but just a little nuts sometimes. God, I stink. Can I borrow some of your sweats to wear home? My clothes are scattered somewhere over Indiana and Ohio."

Whit snagged his crutches, moving into his bedroom to get some clothes out for Clark. He grabbed some sweat pants, a sleeveless t-shirt, and a pair of tube socks, forgoing underwear, knowing none of his would fit that body. He stood in the doorway, admiring the view as Clark sluiced off muck, hair soapy as he worked up a lather. He had always thought Kent was going to grow into his lanky body and he had been right. He had watched him fill out, become more a man, then he left, never knowing how he had turned out. The video Lana had sent didn't show his full figure, but the wide grin was the same, the shy eyes, the blush.

"You missed a spot, turn around to me." Whit rubbed at the black streak on the wide shoulder, soap bubbles popping as he washed the golden skin. He handed the cloth back to Clark, then sat on the toilet seat and watched him rinse off a final time. Handing him a towel, he waited until he was dry and shook out the sweats for him. He risked a glance down and saw an uncut cock, rather huge, even compared to his, which had been the winner in many a circle-jerk contest during downtime at the base. He flushed as he saw the dark head turn toward him...caught.

"Hey, I don't mind. Look all you want, doesn't bother me. I got so used to all the weird looks in the locker room that one more won't hurt. I think I was the only uncut guy in the whole school, leastwise the ones in gym class." Whitney blushed, feeling his face burn.

"That's not why we looked, Kent. You were huge plus uncut. And you were only 15...shit, I was a junior and smaller than you. I'm still smaller, not by much, but still. And you had those cocksucker lips, prettier than any girl in the school. Do you know how many of us wanted you to suck us off? Half the team, that's how many...Sean walked around half-hard most of the time after you took your shower. I wanted..."

Clark squatted down in front of Whit, fingers raising his chin, tracing the bright blush on the filled out cheeks, no longer gaunt and hollow. "Wanted what, Whit? Me? Geeky, gawky, farmer boy Clark Kent? The kid you hung on a scarecrow...yeah, wanted me, right." He stood up, pulling on the tee and walked out to the couch, picking up his jacket. Whitney scrambled for his crutches, trying to catch up.

"Don't go, Clark, please. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You know I would never do that, never. You mean too much to me. I just let my mouth get carried away before I thought. Same problem as when I was younger. Stupid jock Fordman, all brawn and no brain." He grabbed Clark's arm, holding onto steel, hard and stiff.

"Quit that, right now. You were never dumb, never stupid! You let everyone think that, even your parents. I saw your work, your grades and how you dumbed yourself down to fit in with the rest of the jocks. My God, your columns now reflect your intelligence, and it was always there, you just hid it for some stupid dumb ass reason." Whitney snorted in disbelief.

"You mean like you did, dork. You were so intelligent you scared even the teachers. Reynolds was always on your back because of Lex, but even he saw your potential. He knew you didn't belong on a farm for the rest of your life. That's why he pushed you. Lana wrote me after I left about the hard time the new principal was giving you and why. Now sit down and watch the movie with me. Sit down, now!" he practically yelled, Clark finally sitting down again. Whit took his hand, waiting until green eyes looked into his, anger still simmering below the surface.

"Now explain to me again why you think I didn't want you, Clark Jerome Kent. You were tall, good looking, hair that curled against your neck, just waiting for fingers to tangle in it, hazel eyes that changed color with your moods, a grin that used to make my whole heart light up when I saw it. You may have been a kid but I wanted you. I wouldn't admit it, that's why I hung you on the cross. My own body betrayed me every time I looked at you, and it was killing me. I couldn't be gay and I knew you weren't. What chance did I have? And even if I were, Lex would have killed me if I had touched you. I thought he was anyway when he found out it was me who hung you up. I went back that night, but you were gone. Then I found out it was Lex that cut you down and I started looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. God, he loved you so much then. You were with him more and more, getting closer all the time. Now you hardly even mention him. What happened?" He looked up, Clark wearing a stunned look on his face.

"You wanted me in school? Do you have any idea how many nights I jerked off, pretending it was you touching me, stroking me, fucking me? All you had to do was open your mouth, I would have said yes in a split second. I knew how Lex felt about me but I loved you, Whit, just you. We're not close since his father had his memory erased after he had him committed to Belle Reve. Lex had some problems after being drugged by his dad, and before I could rescue him, his brain had been tampered with. He couldn't remember almost six months of his life. He really never recovered from that. We drifted apart, now we just email each other at holidays and I sometimes see him at receptions the paper's invited to."

Whitney slid over on the couch, climbing into Clark's lap, his body struggling to move. Clark lifted him, then carefully spread his injured legs around his waist, knowing how sensitive they still were to any pressure on their severed ends. He ran his hands under Whit's shirt, up the strong back, smooth skin sliding under his palms. Bending his head, he pressed a soft kiss to the pulse beating beneath the delicate thin skin behind Whit's ear, biting down, licking the sting after. Tasting the salt, the tang of shampoo, the smell of Whit himself, musky and male. Hands roamed under his own shirt, Whit's hands sliding into the open armholes, using the material bunched in his fists as leverage to pull Clark even closer. Mouths hovered over each other, warm breath intermingling as green eyes stared into blue.

"I want you now Clark. Make love to me, touch me, make me call out your name when I come."

Lips met, touched, tasted, retreated. Again, deeper, wetter, tongues flicking out to slick and lick. Hands slid once again under shirts, nipples tweaked and pulled into hard peaks. Cocks ground against each other, gasps of arousal, groans of passion long denied. Fingers unzipping, dipping into sweat slicked curves and hollow hips.

Clark raised Whit's shirt, tongue laving and licking at the hard nubs, teeth grazing over them until he heard a moan, the sound echoing through to his mouth. The shirt landed on the floor, his hands running over the smooth flesh, then down the knobby spine to rest on the rounded ass in his lap. Cupping it, he pulled Whit tighter against him, hard matching lengths pressing together. Teeth sunk into his neck as Whit arched up against him, nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck me, Kent. Take me to bed and fuck me."

Picking Whit up, Clark carried him into the bedroom, laying him down, then covering him completely with his own body, sighs coming from both men. Clark licked into Whit's mouth, tongue darting to taste, Chinese and pizza combined with the fizz of soda. "Delicious. I could eat you right now." Giggles erupted as his fingers found a ticklish spot on the chiseled waist, teeth nipping next. Clark was still clothed, holding back revealing himself. And Whit wanted him naked, hand yanking at his shirt until it tore, pieces fluttering to the floor by the bed.

"Pants, Clark. I want to feel you. Help me off with my shorts, baby." Sitting on his heels, Clark pulled the khaki shorts down, cock revealed inch by inch, tip leaking precum in a steady stream. No underwear. And his mouth went dry. Hazel eyes met blue, heat between them almost palpable. Whit's hand slid under his sweats, fingers sliding into his crack, stroking and scratching tender flesh. He jumped as one finger circled his hole, not pushing, just feeling the reaction to touch. Clark reached back and grabbed the wandering hand, pulling it out of his pants and to his chest.

"Whitney, wait. I've never done...this before, ever." Clark lowered his head, blush high and red on his cheeks. Fingers lifted his chin to meet puzzled eyes.

"Never been with a man? I can show you a little of what I know. Then after we make love, we can learn what each other likes the best. How to touch, how rough we want it, how gentle, how to make us come..."

Shaking his head, Clark cupped the cheek of the man he loved. "No, I mean never. Done. Anything. Period." Blue eyes widened in shock.

"No sex at all? Not even a blowjob?" Clark ducked his head, the telltale blush giving him away.

"Well, I have kissed Chloe and we did a little petting but nothing else. Same with Lana. I did get a blowjob from Jesse, but that was when I was high on red Kryptonite. That doesn't really count since it wasn't really me, just the rocks. So, you're my first lover Whit. And I don't want to disappoint you in any way by making a mistake. I think the reason I've always held back is because of my strength. I'm afraid of hurting someone if I lose control."

Whit pushed until Clark sat on the bed, then reached for his hand to pull himself upright. "Listen to me, idiot. I've seen you carry a child out of a fire in your arms. You picked a delicate rose out of the middle of a garden to give to me because I like yellow ones. You can pet an animal, touch your parents, hell, touch me when you massage my muscles and never once did you hurt me. And you won't lose control when you make love to me. Superman won't let you. He's the one who controls his strength when he rescues people, when he blows through a doorway and doesn't crush whoever's behind it. When you feel yourself getting out of control, let him come out and play. And I won't break, sweetie, I haven't yet. I want to feel you, I want bruises on my hips from you holding me when you take me. I want the bite marks and the hickeys and the scratches on my back that sting. And I want to feel my ass every time I sit down for the next few days." He sat back against the headboard, finally taking a breath. This all depended on Clark.

The answer came fast and hard. Clark pounced on him, bearing him back to the bed, heavy body crushing him to the mattress, hips grinding into his, tongue deep in his mouth, tickling the soft skin of his gullet. Whit reached down and pushed the sweats off the pumping ass, cupping it, nails digging in. Using superspeed, Clark stripped them off in pieces then dove back on Whitney. He explored his whole body, sniffing, licking, open mouthed kisses on his chest and belly, sucking on the indentation of his navel, nose tickling his groin as it pushed through his pubic hair. "You're definitely a natural blond, baby." He avoided the hard cock waving under his face, grinning as Whit bucked, wanting attention. "Not yet."

Whit was flipped over, oofing as he hit the mattress again, hard. He stilled as Clark spread his waist length hair over his ribcage, then an agile tongue ran down his spine, flicking over the dimple in the small of his back. Lips pressed a soft kiss there, then moved down the cleft, tongue licking the skin, breath cooling it after. Clark was breathing hard, fingers pressing even harder into Whit's thighs. He felt Clark raise himself then saw the three candles on the bedtable flame as the laser vision kicked in. "Still happens when I get too...excited. And you do excite me."

Whit laughed, the joy in his body reflected in his voice. "Light the others when you come."

"Not done tasting you yet. Open your legs for me, love, let me inside you." Whit spread his legs wider, Clark sliding down between them, mouth level with the tight little swirl of flesh. Strong fingers held taut cheeks open as he stared, the hole twitching before his eyes, responding to the light, cool breath he wafted over it. Stiffening his tongue, he slid inside, Whit sucking in his breath. "Fuck, Clark." He bit the rim, probed deep and hard, stroked the inner skin, sucked and nibbled until Whitney was sobbing.

Sitting back on his haunches, Clark looked over the body offered to him. Flushed, sweaty, legs spread apart, the ballsac hard and damp from his tongue. Hands clenched in the sheets, hips jerking, the hard sex pinned under Whit's body, trapped. One last kiss on the tiny sunburst and Clark rolled Whit back over. Tear tracks ran down his cheeks, his eyes damp.

"Did I hurt you baby? I was careful not to push too hard on you. Baby?" Clark stroked the fevered cheeks, kissed the swollen mouth gently. "Whit?"

"I can't help it. You touch me, kiss me, love me, and I'm not a whole man anymore, not the boy you knew years ago and wanted. And I just had to cry." A hand brushed against Clark's cheek, then was grabbed and kissed, lips pressed on the palm.

"You're not a boy anymore. I want the man I see before me. The man who fought to stay alive, who survived when most men would have let themselves die. I want the man who loves me, who sees beyond the costume and the glitz and sees just Clark Kent, a friend for years, separated by time and place but never parted in their hearts. I want Whitney Fordman, the man, not Whit, the jock. He's gone. He grew up into a beautiful, strong, brave and loving man."

Clark slid down the body of the man he loved, kisses pressed every inch of the way. Reaching the dripping sex, he slid it in his mouth, precum spaying onto his tongue as the cock responded. He swallowed, gagging a little as it slid into his throat, then took a deep breath and held it. Held it until Whit bucked his hips and cried out. "Breathe, you shit! Breathe before I come in your throat!" He pulled off, laughing as Whit smacked him on the head. The heavy cock tickled his chin and he nuzzled the taut belly, nipped the soft skin underneath and licked the bite after. He looked back up, his green eyes twinkling. "I can hold my breath for a very, very, long time. We'll have to try it someday...you can time me when I suck your cock. Having fun so far?" Whit lifted his hips, opening himself up, showing Clark what he wanted. "In me, brat."

Clark's next move shocked Whit, then moved him to tears once again. Clark carefully unwrapped the bandages on his legs, setting them on the bedtable. He took each leg in his hands reverently and pressed a kiss on the mangled end, eyes closed. A kiss of love for the brave man he adored. "I love all of you, every scar, every mark on your body that shows the hard life you've had and survived. I love you."

Rising back up above Whitney, Clark kissed him deeply, tongue soft and heavy in his mouth, a kiss of love, not passion, not desire out of control, just a kiss of love between two old friends whose hearts had fallen in despair long ago. Worlds apart, but finding each other again now, here in this bed. Together.

Whit reached out to the drawer in the headboard, pulling out a slim bottle of lube. He handed it to Clark, eyes wide and dark. He watched the dark head move down his body again, sucking in a breath as his cock was swallowed once more. Clark pressed two fingers into Whit's mouth, and raised his head. "Suck." He wet them, tongue running over the crease, until they were soaked. He hissed as a finger breached him, then two. Clark hummed, the vibration going through his cock to center in his spine, little fingers of pleasure rocketing through him. Just when he thought he was going to come, Clark pulled off with a pop. The fingers were still in his ass, loosening him, stretching. Another was added and he thanked god for Clark's thoughtfulness. He was so big, no matter how much he was prepared, it was going to hurt. It had been ten years since anyone had taken him. And even then, he had called out Clark's name as he came. The male prostitute didn't care what he was called, as long as Whitney paid. He shook his head to clear those kinds of thoughts out forever. Clark was here and he was about to fuck...no, make love to him.

Whitney propped himself on his elbows to watch as Clark sat on his heels, taking his monster cock in hand, pouring out the lube into his palm. Head thrown back, eyes closed, he massaged the rose scented slick onto his cock, precum mixing in, the soft lamplight making it shine and glisten. "Beautiful, Clark, so beautiful. I want you in me, baby. Inside my body like you're already in my heart." He lay back, lifting his hips and spreading his shortened legs wide. Another kiss was placed on each one before Clark lay the right one over his shoulder and the shorter left one on his hip. "Comfortable?" he asked, one hand still stroking Whit's cock, fingers of the other tight around the base, holding off climax. He waited for Whit's nod and began pressing in, the head slipping in, then stopped as Whit hissed. "Go on." Another nod and he thrust a little harder, two inches going in before stopping. This routine continued until the whole length was in, balls rubbing on Whit's ass.

God, his ass was on fire, Whit thought as the sex split him open. The burn, the heat, the sensation that he could feel the cock in his belly, wanting to push out. Clark waited, eyes searching for pain, finding just passion and desire. "Move. If you move, it won't hurt so bad. The lube spreads inside." Whit moved his hips, encouraging Clark to move also. Short, easy movements slid the massive cock inside him, each one bringing relief as he relaxed around it, his own inner lining loosening and stroking the sex. He closed his eyes, back arching into each thrust, his hands locked with Clark's. They rocked for several minutes, Clark supporting Whit as he tired, hands wrapped around his hips, pulling and moving, pushing deep, then shallow, varying the speed and the depth until Whit grabbed his own cock, wanting to come. Clark's hand joined, making a tunnel for the shaft to move in, fingers intertwined as they pumped. With a loud shout of "Clark" the sex erupted, come spraying them both, white streams shooting over both their chests and clasped hands. Clark brought them up and licked them both clean then bent his head and licked up the spots on Whit's chest.

Clark sat back a little, hands gripping Whit's upper thighs, tightening until he heard Whit whimper in pain. He shook his head, eyes going blue and hair changing to black. And let Superman take over. Hips pistoned, deep thrusts, grunts of pleasure coming from his throat, fingers running over the calves of Whit's legs, hard and firm. But never hurting, never causing pain. Superman had control even if Clark didn't; he would not hurt Whitney. One final deep push and he erupted in the tight ass spasming around his cock, filling it with hot come, holding it until every drop was milked out by Whitney. Another shake and Clark was back, eyes hot, breath coming fast and hard. He fell forward, kissing Whit deeply, hips still pumping instinctively, then stilling as he calmed. "Love you. Both of us love you very much."

"Love you too. Told you he'd like to play with us." Whit pushed Clark until he rolled on his side, Whit following to cuddle close to the sweaty body. Arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. Kisses were pressed into his neck and chest, tongue tasting the sex sweat, salty and tangy. "Mmmm, taste good," was murmured over his ear, a tongue licking into the channel, tickling him and bringing a giggle. And giggled again as the other candles were lit with a blink of a green eye.

"Clark, you are a goof, my goof. I love being with you. That was fantastic, love, you were so good with me. I will never let you go, believe it, my love, never. My body and my heart would never forgive me if I did. I love you forever, sweetie. Forever."

Clark pulled the covers up, cuddling Whit to his chest. "Forever sounds good to me."

Whit looked up at the wolf whistle. He grinned as Clark bounded down the steps towards the rail. His hair was blowing in the light breeze, eyes sparkling with love for his husband. The sun glinted on his wedding band, a match to the one on Whit's hand. One year tomorrow. A trip to Vegas, some gambling, a few shows and then bed. For a week. No phones, no Superman, no classes to attend, no newspaper articles. Just them.

And a little exercise. Clark waved his hands above his head, fingers in a v...v for victory as Whit ran up to him, out of breath, the tape streaming out behind him that he had broken as he crossed the finish line...in first place, his uniform now for the MetU Track team, a winner once more. In more ways than one as Clark took him in his arms and kissed him. In more ways than one. And in Clark's arms, he flew, high and free once more.

End