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Seven Veils

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Seven Veils

by Jack

http://www.livejournal.com/talkpost.bml?journal=buggery&itemid=19455


Spoilers: Mild for first season, mainly "Leech" and "Crush," and a construably spoilery reference to "Heat" which gives nothing away... I wrote this before I saw "Heat," so there's not much I could give away.

Pairing: Now that would be telling.

Feedback: I've met my quota for the month, please spread yours around to the rookies who really need it.


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Seven Veils

The lips around his cock are Pete's, cool where they touch him as the mouth surrounding his shaft is hot, fleshy and yielding as the tongue teasing his foreskin is firm and muscular. Wetness wends from Pete's mouth, slicking his balls and Pete's cheeks. Pete holds his hips lightly, too absorbed to make the touch a caress but not so absorbed that his hold is restraining.

He's thought about this, about Pete; not because he's really attracted to Pete that way, and definitely not because he thinks Pete is that way. But he is a guy, a good-looking guy and a good friend, loved as a friend. He's comfortable with Pete.

Never quite this comfortable, though. The lips around his cock are not Pete's.



The lips around his cock are Eric's, vital, a little vicious, the sensation as they clamp down jolting through him, electric. Teeth scrape along his length, inadvertenty, perhaps. Eric sucks hard, maybe hard enough to hurt someone not an alien, someone normal; maybe as hard as Clark could suck, hard like he's trying to pull Clark's strength back into himself.

He's thought about this, about Eric; partly because Eric had, however briefly, been like him and become the closest he's ever had to a peer; partly because when Clark lost his powers all sensations had been more intense and he can't help but associate that with Eric. Being with Eric would be dangerous and wrong, and that's part of it, too.

This is dangerous and it's wrong, but not that dangerous or wrong. The lips around his cock are not Eric's.



The lips around his cock are Whitney's, angry and apologetic by turns; humiliating as Clark hangs in Reilly field, soothing after Whitney seeks him out weeks later. Whitney doesn't hate Clark so much as he hates himself, and it shows in the way he gives head, fierce, his head bowed as if trying to hide from the world, or from himself.

He's thought about this, about Whitney; Clark knows all about having to hide, and he recognises it in Whitney like he's looking in a mirror. Sometimes he just wants to tell Whitney he knows, he sees the way Whitney looks at other guys, at him. Of course he never does. He's as afraid as Whitney is, afraid of being wrong, afraid of being right.

Getting head like this is wrong and right, and he'd been right about that even though he would rather have been wrong. The lips around his cock are not Whitney's.



The lips around his cock are Lex's, groping and tightening as Lex swallows and he slides into Lex's throat. Lex moans like a starving man, tongue probing around the base then licking at the slit when he pulls back. Another moan, as if Clark tastes of ambrosia and nectar; Clark moans, too, feeling the vibration travel so deep he thinks he might come from it. Lex is nibbling on his foreskin now, savouring flavour and texture.

He's thought about this, about Lex; Lex usually looks hungry when he looks at Clark, and the looks make Clark hungry, too. Images of Lex don't fade from his memory, but stay fresh and hot to stoke his hunger: Lex licking his lips, Lex with his mouth wrapped around a bottle, Lex looking at him like he wants to eat Clark alive. Lex is just as hungry for Clark's secrets, though, maybe hungrier.

With Lex it's never just about lust or even love, but that's all this is, one or the other, possibly both. The lips around his cock are not Lex's.



The lips around his cock are Desiree's, painted and oily, slithering over his skin as they draw him in. Her hands, one on his ass and the other holding his hand to her hair, encourage him to thrust into her mouth, to fuck her, to use her. From someone else the gesture might be passive-aggressive, or even honest; from Desiree there's no question she's trying to manipulate him. He takes over anyway, groaning when a stroke hits the back of her throat, but he moves his hand down to her neck, not wanting to feel her hair under his fingers.

He's thought about this, about Desiree, though really thinking about her is just another way of thinking about Lex, just like thinking about Victoria used to be. She's also a woman, and Clark hasn't quite let go of the idea that he ought to think about women, or girls.

There's a world of experience separating a girl from one of Lex's women. The lips around his cock are not Desiree's.



The lips around his cock are Lana's, soft and innocent as they touch him in a way that's anything but...

He hasn't thought about this, about Lana, in a long time. He doesn't want her anymore, if he ever really wanted her at all.

Once he might've thought he wanted this, too; too, he knew before it ever happened that he didn't. The lips around his cock are not Lana's.



The thought of Lana isn't enough to avert his orgasm, any more than knowing whose mouth he's pumping into is. Clark gasps and clenches his jaw tight to keep from making incriminating noises or voicing even more incriminating names, rocking on his heels as the surge hits. He grips the loft railing against the fleeting loss of vision and the real possibility his knees will buckle.

The lips around his cock are Chloe's. She wants this, and he tries not to let her see how much he doesn't as she looks up at him, swallowing, and smiles.




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