Season 8, "Odyssey" (SPOILERS)
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Screencap from andreas-ri.
There's a gun pointed at his head again.
Clark Kent has been struggling to escape from this work camp full of hard-eyed Russians for a month. He's been trapped here in Siberia, stripped of his powers, worrying about his friends, and he just wants to go home. And the first step toward going home is getting away.
Besides, he's sick of getting pushed around. He just found himself on the ground because one of the Russians thought he wasn't working hard enough. He's not superstrong any longer, but he's still a big guy, and after a month of mistreatment, he's got some serious anger management issues.
He'd gotten to his feet wordlessly and strode a few feet away, then grabbed a pole, swung around, and started whacking the shit out of the other guy.
He'd been doing a pretty good job of it when the guy in charge intervened, kind of unfairly, by putting a gun to his head.
He'd dropped the stick and frozen, wondering if this was it, if this time, they were going to decide he was too much damn trouble and put a bullet into his brain.
"I just want to go home," he says softly. He isn't pleading for mercy. He's just stating a truth. All he wants is to go home.
And then he hears a familiar voice, speaking Russian in a horrifically bad accent. Clark never took Russian in school, but over the course of the past month, his superhuman brain has filed away the new syntax and vocabulary, and now he understands it just as well as he does English.
"I hear you have the best black market caviar in Russia."
The guy in charge drops the gun from his head and turns. The voice is speaking Russian, and yet its arrogant drawl is unmistakably familiar. Clark turns to see Oliver Queen swaggering toward them.
Ollie wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket that probably cost as much as a small car. Clark is so glad to see him that he takes a step in that direction, but the guy in charge takes his movement as aggression, and casually strikes him in the lower back with the butt of the gun.
Damn. That hurts. He's been depowered for a month, and he still can't get over how much getting hit hurts. He drops to his knees, fighting not to cry out.
The guy turns away from him, as if he's less than nothing. "Who are you?" he demands in Russian, looking over the newcomer suspiciously.
"Roy Connor." Ollie waves a sheaf of paper money in the air casually, with the air of a guy who has plenty more to spend, and goes on in his terribly accented Russian. "Ivan Alexandrov sent me. He speaks very highly of your product."
The Russian's stoic face doesn't change. "Only the best," he assures Ollie, nodding. "Beluga, osetra, sevruga..."
Ollie nods with approval. Clark has struggled to his feet. Now he's staring at him, so shocked by one of his best friends on the planet suddenly materializing in a Siberian work camp that he doesn't think to look away. Ollie seems to notice him staring, because he turns his head and returns Clark's stare. Then he stalks toward him and pauses, not two feet away.
"You got a problem with me?" he demands.
Ollie is as beautiful as ever, all high cheekbones and long-lashed hazel eyes and artistically mussed blond hair. Clark is suddenly very aware of his own dishevelment. His hair is long and tangled-- not artistically, but because it hasn't been combed in weeks-- his jaw is covered in dark stubble, and he's covered in cuts and bruises. And he's uncomfortably aware that he reeks of sweat and fish.
Clark can't quite figure out what's going on here, but he does manage to grasp that Ollie doesn't want him to let on that they know each other. He stares back at Ollie without speaking. Ollie narrows his eyes, glaring dangerously.
"Is my presence here bothering you?"
Clark lifts his chin, playing along. "Yeah," he snarls. "It's starting to."
Ollie laughs coldly. "It's starting to," he mimics, looking back over his shoulder at the Russians, as if inviting them to share in his amusement. Suddenly he turns back, draws back his fist, and hits Clark, hard, right in the face.
Clark grunts, spun around by the force of Ollie's blow, and goes to his knees. Before he'd lost his powers, Ollie would have shattered his hand against Clark's jaw if he'd hit him that way. But then again, if Clark had his powers, Ollie would never have had the chance to land a blow.
Apparently Ollie wants the Russians to think the two of them disliked each other on sight. Fine. He can do that. His jaw is throbbing and his lip is bleeding, and he's pretty damn tired of being pushed around.
He can't take it out on the Russians without risking getting shot. But he can take it out on Ollie.
He straightens up, spins around, and launches himself at Ollie in a flying tackle, roaring with rage.
The sudden impact of two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle and bone sends Ollie right to the dock. The two of them grapple together, rolling around on the dock, and Clark slugs him in the stomach, none too gently.
Ollie grunts, and guilt courses through Clark's veins in the wake of his burst of temper. Angry though he is at the world, he doesn't want to be fighting Ollie. Ollie's his friend. A friend who was willing to come halfway across the world just to find him.
He pins Ollie, his big hands holding Ollie's wrists, their thighs tangled together, and suddenly he's far more aware of the other man's wiry strength, of the heat of his slender, muscular body, than he wants to be. Ollie's one of his best friends, but he's always busy saving the world, and Clark hasn't seen him in months.
Suddenly he realizes how much he's missed him.
"What are you doing here?" he hisses.
"Roll with it!" Ollie snaps, and slugs him hard. Clark goes over backward, grunting as Ollie's fist makes contact with his mouth again. It isn't the first fist to make contact with his mouth over the course of the month, and fuck, it hurts. He thinks maybe he's going to lose a tooth, and wonders irrelevantly if it'll grow back in if he ever gets his powers back.
Ollie clobbers him again, right across the mouth, and drags him to his feet, holding him by his t-shirt.
"What's the matter?" Ollie taunts him. "Batteries run out?"
"I've still got a little juice left," Clark growls, and swings at him again. Ollie eludes his fists easily enough, and then there's the sudden sound of metal sliding as a knife is drawn.
Ollie grabs him by his shirt again and spins him around, pressing the sharp edge of a knife against Clark's throat. Clark freezes, because he doesn't want Ollie to make any sort of mistake here. His throat is just as vulnerable as anyone else's right now, and he very much wants it to stay in one piece.
"I'll take a hundred cases of beluga," Ollie snaps out in Russian, waving the sheaf of money, "and fifty cases of osetra... and this pathetic little punk." He tosses the money to the guy in charge, and slides the knife along Clark's throat in a threatening gesture. "For the honor of finishing him off."
The guy nods, and his stoic expression melts into a slight, amused smile, as if he always knew Clark would come to a messy end. "It's a deal," he answers.
"Come on!" Ollie snarls, and with his knife against Clark's throat, he pulls him away. Dragging him to freedom.
The few times Clark's flown anywhere, he's traveled coach.
Ollie's private jet is definitely a step up.
It took an hour's trip, via boat and truck, to get to the landing field, and beyond asking after his friends and family, Clark hadn't had much to say. His stomach had been tied up in knots, because he'd been terrified he'd somehow be recaptured and dragged back to the work camp.
Once they're in the air, though, he relaxes, and takes a long, hot shower. The bathroom is small but luxurious, and he lathers up with expensive sandalwood soap, finally getting the stench off. Thank God. He's a farm boy, so he's accustomed to less than lovely smells, but he doesn't usually sweat, and he's definitely not used to stinking worse than dead fish. He reeked so badly he's surprised Ollie didn't pass out just from being near him.
Once he's clean, he shaves and changes into an outfit Ollie brought him-- his customary jeans and a blue t-shirt-- and emerges from the bathroom barefoot. Ollie looks him over.
"Better," he says, nodding. "Now lie down and relax. You've earned the rest."
He guides Clark to a bedroom. A bedroom. In a jet. Wow. Clark knows standing there staring with his mouth gaping marks him as a country bumpkin, but he does it anyway. He's never seen a double bed in an airplane before.
It's queen sized, he thinks, and almost giggles like a girl at the pun.
The hysterical laughter that's bubbling far too near the surface makes him aware of how tired he is, and how stressed. He's been running on adrenaline ever since he found himself lost and alone in the Arctic. He pads across to the bed and sprawls out on his belly, grunting as he tries to get comfortable.
"You in pain, Clark?"
Clark wraps his arms around one of the fluffy soft pillows and buries his face in it. It's been a month since he's had any sort of luxury like pillows.
"Just sore," he answers. "I've been working hard, and they didn't hesitate to clobber me. But I don't think anything's broken."
"You want some painkiller?"
"No. I'm okay."
Ollie hesitates. "What happened to your abilities, Clark?"
Clark's abilities aren't something they've discussed before. Ollie's aware that he isn't quite like other guys, of course, but as far as Clark knows, Ollie doesn't know why. He imagines Ollie figures he's a meteor freak or the victim of an accident, rather than an alien. But they've both carefully avoided the subject till now.
"Lex had this crystal," he answers. "It kind of drained my powers away."
He doesn't even try to explain why he and Lex were in the Arctic together. He can't seem to form the words, anyway. His throat is just too tight. He thinks of Lex, once his best friend in all the world, buried beneath tons of ice and snow, and tears sting his eyes. Their friendship faded away long ago, and yet the idea of Lex buried beneath the Arctic snow makes his chest ache.
"You think you'll get them back?" Ollie asks.
"I don't know. It's been a month, and they haven't come back. I think maybe they're gone for good."
Another loss, he thinks. Losses on top of losses on top of losses. His friend Chloe is in jail. His former friend Lex is dead. His girlfriend dumped him and left town. His powers are gone.
He feels as if the world is spinning around him, and he buries his face in the pillow, trying to hold back tears.
He hears Ollie's footsteps on the luxurious carpeting, moving toward him. The bed dips as Ollie sits on the edge. And then Ollie's hands are on his shoulders, massaging his stiff, sore muscles, offering wordless comfort.
Clark can hardly restrain a moan. No one's touched him with affection in a month. He's been beaten and slapped and hit. But being touched by someone with gentle concern is something that's been denied to him for much too long.
Some of the tension melts out of him as Ollie's hands knead his shoulders. He slowly relaxes against the mattress, and as he does, Ollie's hands rub him a little more softly. It feels so good he has to bite back on a groan: Oh, fuck, yeah.
He manages to hold those words back, because they sound a little, well, gay, and he doesn't want Ollie to freak out or anything.
But Ollie's hands are moving down his back now, and then Ollie's pulling up his t-shirt, and kneading Clark's bare skin. His touch is gentle and firm all at once, stroking all the stiffness and soreness away, and Clark can't quite help himself. He moans into the pillow.
His cheeks flare with embarrassment, but Ollie doesn't seem disturbed by the little noise. Instead, he tugs Clark's t-shirt up over his head, and Clark shifts, helping.
And then he's half naked, Ollie's hands moving over his back, and Ollie's definitely not just massaging him any more. He's caressing him. His hands are sliding over Clark's bare skin, so lightly they almost tickle, and Clark's suddenly aware that he's incredibly, achingly hard.
His hard-on throbs in his jeans, begging for attention, and he wants to reach down and stroke himself, or maybe thrust against the mattress as Ollie touches him. He envisions rubbing against the mattress until he comes in a long, hot release, Ollie stroking his back all the while, and the image sends a shudder through him.
Ollie's hands still instantly, as if worried he's hurt him. "You all right, Clark?"
"Yeah." Clark thinks his voice sounds gravelly, but he hopes Ollie won't notice. "I'm fine. That's helping, actually."
It's helping relax his muscles, but it's also making him significantly more tense in certain areas. Ollie starts caressing him again, and Clark wants to whimper at the pleasure of it. He wants to move his hips, to surrender to his instincts and just let the sensual pleasure flood him.
But he's not quite sure if Ollie means for him to have this reaction. Clark feels like this has gone beyond a manly backrub and into more intimate territory. But he's not absolutely certain, because Ollie's never made a pass at him before.
But Clark is pretty sure he's making one now.
Clark has always thought of himself as heterosexual, but he can't deny that he's a little more conscious of Ollie's beauty than he ought to be. He's always thought Ollie was straight, too. Ollie dated Lois Lane for quite a while, after all-- although Clark does recall her complaining more than once that their relationship was all interruptus and no coitus. So maybe Ollie isn't quite as straight as he wants to be.
Clark can definitely relate to that.
Ollie's hands slide down to the small of his back, avoiding any bruised areas, and begin to caress him firmly. And God, that's good. His lower back aches like hell from all the heavy lifting he's been doing, and Ollie's hands massage all the aching knots away.
And then Ollie presses down so hard that Clark's hips are sort of pushed into the mattress, and his cock throbs in sudden hungry excitement at the gentle pressure.
Ollie does it again, and Clark can't resist the need boiling inside him any more. He surrenders, letting his hips move against the mattress in a steady motion, responding to Ollie's hands, and another moan rises out of his throat. He tries to smother it in the pillow, but doesn't succeed too well.
"Does that feel good, Clark?"
Ollie's voice is gravelly too, lower than usual, with a hot, sensual note in it that brushes over Clark like a summer breeze. Ollie, he realizes, is turned on too. He thinks of Ollie sitting there, next to him, his cock just as swollen as Clark's. He thinks of touching Ollie, of kissing him, of taking his cock into his hand...
God. He isn't sure where these images are coming from, but they're so vivid it's like someone's switched on HDTV in his head. He can so clearly imagine the feel of Ollie in his hand, smooth and pulsing and wet with precome...
He's never touched another guy that way, but God, he wants to.
His hips are slamming hard against the mattress now, and with every movement, he hears himself moaning, but he's still trying to smother it in the pillow. He's harder than before, so unbearably hard, and he wants release, needs it, so much, and he can't stop himself from thrusting faster...
"Clark." Ollie's voice is soft but commanding. "Roll over."
He rolls onto his back, moaning at the pain of the movement, as well as the loss of the pressure against his erection. And there's no longer any question as to Ollie's intentions, because Ollie is bending over him, brushing kisses over his bare chest, and Clark trembles all over.
Ollie's kissing him everywhere, his throat, his shoulders, his chest. And then his mouth slides over Clark's nipple, and suddenly his tongue strokes over it, and Clark gives a startled cry of pleasure.
Ollie continues licking his nipple, biting lightly at it, teasing it with lips and tongue and teeth, while his hands slide down Clark's abdomen. Clark writhes beneath him. He's forgotten that he was trying to keep quiet, to keep his responses to himself. He's forgotten everything except for his driving need for release.
Ollie's hands are undoing his jeans, while his mouth continues to stimulate Clark's nipple. And then his finger is very lightly tracing the swollen head of Clark's cock, and Clark's hips jerk eagerly up against his hand.
"Yes," he hears himself hissing. "Yes, yesss..."
Ollie releases his nipple, and then his blond head is moving downward, across the planes of Clark's stomach. Clark opens his eyes and stares. Part of him wants this very, very badly, but part of him is bewildered by how quickly this happened, and how quickly he was seduced.
Ollie Queen is about to go down on him, and he's perfectly okay with that.
Ollie's one of his best friends. In fact, he wouldn't deny that he loves Ollie, as a friend. But he's never before realized that he felt any sort of physical attraction for the guy.
Or maybe he's noticed, and just tried to ignore it, because he didn't want to admit he was into guys.
But oh God, he's so into Ollie.
Ollie's mouth brushes over the head of his cock, following the trail his fingers marked out earlier, and Clark gives a sharp cry of near-ecstasy. And then Ollie's wet velvet tongue is on him, stroking the same way he stroked Clark's nipple, circling the head, caressing the slit, slipping over the sensitive spot just beneath the glans, and Clark hears himself wailing with a primitive, burning need.
And then Ollie's licking him all up and down, from base to head and back again, and Clark's so hard he thinks he might burst. He feels the universe shifting around him, and he isn't sure if the plane's hit a little turbulence, or if Ollie's simply rocking his world.
He can feel surges of precome wetting his cock, moistening the head and sliding down the shaft, and thinks with embarrassment that Ollie can probably taste it. But Ollie doesn't seem to mind. He licks it away and comes back for more, and that's so damn hot that Clark is suddenly teetering right on the verge of climax.
But then Ollie lifts his head and gropes outward with his left hand. He's hunting in a drawer, and in a moment he comes up with a little tube of something. He squirts it on his fingers, and then he's probing Clark in a place no one has ever probed before, and Clark instinctively tries to protect himself, closing his thighs on Ollie's hand.
"It's all right." Ollie lowers his head and begins licking again. "Relax for me, Clark."
Clark opens his legs again, helpless against the gentle assault of Ollie's tongue. And then Ollie's slick finger is sliding into him, caressing him there the same way he caressed the rest of Clark's body, gently but thoroughly. Clark feels himself melting into it, and when Ollie adds a second finger, he groans with anguished pleasure.
Ollie thrusts a little further into him, and suddenly he's stroking something deep inside Clark, something Clark never knew was there. A thick, sweet wash of pleasure floods him, and he arches in shocked pleasure, calling out Ollie's name as precome drips from his pulsing cock onto his belly.
Ollie does it again, and Clark cries out again, his spine arching, his body stiffening. He's lost in a physical pleasure more intense than anything he's ever known. He had no idea anything could feel so good. Between the caress of Ollie's fingers and the gentle stroke of his tongue, he's being driven to madness.
But it's a good kind of madness.
And then Ollie's opening his mouth, and Clark is sliding inside, and heat and suction overwhelm him. He can't resist thrusting, slipping deeply into Ollie's mouth. At the same moment, Ollie moves his fingers faster, stroking a little more firmly, and the stimulation is just too much. Suddenly Clark can't hold back another second.
Ecstasy thunders through him in burst after burst as his cock jerks hard and fast in Ollie's mouth. He's crying out words he can't prevent, obscenities and Ollie's name all mixed together, oh shit Ollie oh fuck oh Ollie yes...
Ollie doesn't relent, keeps stroking and sucking until he's drained dry. At last the intense pleasure eases off. Clark falls back against the dark blue coverlet--which he suddenly realizes is wet with sweat-- with a gasp, and Ollie releases him.
And then Ollie's slender form is moving up the bed, and Ollie is stretching out next to him. Ollie wraps his arms around him, in a warm, comforting embrace, and Clark lets himself relax into it. His head is against Ollie's shoulder, and he buries his face in Ollie's chest as if trying to shut out the world.
He can hear his own breath hitching, and suddenly he realizes how terribly close to tears he is. He isn't sure why, but being touched by Ollie, loved by Ollie, after a month of lonely struggle, has somehow totally unhinged him.
Until this moment, he didn't realize how lost and alone he'd felt. Until this moment, he hadn't realized how desperately he'd hoped for rescue.
"Shhhh." Ollie's hands are stroking his hair, very gently, and he's whispering words of comfort. "It's all right, Clark."
Clark is vaguely aware he ought to reciprocate, to give Ollie the same pleasure that Ollie gave him. He wants to, but he feels so safe and warm here in Ollie's arms that he doesn't want to move away. And even though Ollie gave him everything, he doesn't seem to be asking for anything in return. Not now, at least. All he's doing is offering love and comfort.
Clark feels tears burning his eyes, and he blinks hard against Ollie's shoulder. Ollie strokes his hair again.
"It's all right," he whispers. "I'm taking you home, Clark."
Clark closes his eyes against the tears and wraps his arms around his rescuer. The two of them hold each other that way for a long time. And as Clark rests there, in the warm circle of Ollie's embrace, he thinks that Ollie doesn't really have to take him home.
He's already there.