Darkness Falls

by Ice

For Livia's X-Files title challenge and for LaT because she's as evil as me.

TITLE: Darkness Falls


EMAIL: icebun@xtra.co.nz

DISTRIBUTION: List archives OK, anyone else just ask.



SUMMARY: Whitney has issues


FEEDBACK: Please don't make me beg for it.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine...I wish

DEDICATION: This is my offering for Livia's X-Files title challenge. And for LaT, because she's as evil as me.

The tattoo itches sometimes.

Makes him remember how it felt when he was invincible, powerful, when he could walk through walls.

When he had control. When he could take what he wanted.

Right now he'd give anything to be like that again. He's so sick of everything not going the way it's supposed to.

He wasn't supposed to lose his scholarship. Wasn't supposed to be stuck here. This was not the gameplan he had for his life, at all.

So when Wade took him in, he was hardly going to say no, was he? And the thrill, the absolute rush of doing for once exactly what he wanted to do. Christ, it was unbelievable.

No wonder he can't give it up.

Can't. Doesn't want to.

He can't stop touching it.

Especially when he's in bed at night and his head starts to pound so hard he can't think. When he can just feel the blood coursing through his body and it's like it's calling to him.

He touches it ever so lightly with his forefinger. It makes him shiver, tingle. Sensation just like he's run an ice-cube over his bare skin. So good it's almost painful and he can't get enough of it.

Makes him hard.

And yeah, he knows he's obsessed, knows it's an addiction but he can't help it. Nightly routine where he pulls his t-shirt off slowly, sits there tracing the design's outline as he feels that sweet roll of lust, need in his stomach. Keeps going, keeps touching it until he's so hard it hurts.

Unbuttons his jeans, cold fingers moving inside and he exhales sharply as he feels the contact on his cock. Gasps from the shock of the chill and...something else altogether. Stares at his arm as his other hand strokes himself. Long, rough strokes and soon he's arching his hips up, fucking himself into his fist as he comes, moaning.

Hair falling into his eyes, sweat on his upper lip and he licks at it, tastes the salt there.

And he wonders whether his fixation is sick, wrong. He thinks if anyone else knew about it they'd probably send him to therapy, maybe get the tattoo removed.

They'd have to kill him before he'd let that happen.

It's the only link he has to who he was for that short time. The Whitney who could do anything he wanted, without even giving it a second thought, without guilt coming into it at all. The one with the dark thoughts, the one who right this moment wants to grab hold of the goodness and tear it out, pull it right out of him. Desperately wants to be rid of it, because it's that goodness inside him that ruined what he had.

That fucked up any chance he had of getting out of Smallville.

So he's stuck here, trapped and he doesn't foresee any opportunity for escape. Lana tries to tell him that at least his conscience is clear, but he's not Clark Kent, and conscience doesn't mean shit to him.

It wasn't just the ink that seeped into his skin, his blood that night, and no, he won't be getting rid of that tattoo any time soon.

He'll hang onto the darkness for as long as he can.

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