Electric Lime

by Hope

My foray into the Crayola challenge. For
Icebun, with cross-contamination from the luscious LaT and astounding Andy.

Sometimes, pain is good.

The kiss of a needle in a dirty back room, hot breath on his neck and unfamiliar laughter, this is a good time. Hot and sweaty and a thousand miles away from Smallville. A thousand years away from small town golden and good boy filial piety. Yeah, and it hurts, green ink buried in his skin with hummingbird strokes, a torment of clarity. And maybe it's the blood he can smell on top of heat, or maybe the beer, or maybe just the momentary prospect of a day that doesn't end with him looking thirty years in the future and clutching at his chest like his old man, or maybe it's just the ink spreading through his veins, but he's flying. On the edge of something, just barely holding on to the world. Straight through, across his skin, through his veins, a hard kind of fire that settles in his cock, and fuck Wade if he notices.

Better than a touchdown, better than a scholarship lettersucking in short, sharp breaths that sound like sex, back arching, fingers clutching down hard to a white-knuckled tremble. Sweaty and sweet and sound seeping away to leave the just the rush of blood pounding in his ears, vibration creeping across his punctured flesh. It flickers kisses against his nipples and pulls them up hard, wets his mouth with a hunger he'd never talk about in the locker room. That humid place is for tits and ass and talking about girls who sit on laps and pretend not to notice the hard arch of an erection when they wiggle against it.

Push back here and relax, into tension uncoiled, the flutterfuck of electric steel, plunging into muscle. Again, and again, taking that edge off, just to sharpen it again; he's got a soft mouth and it parts, tongue weighted with need, swallowing against air and a vague fantasy of everything wrong. Smooth, pale skin instead of summer bronze, hard angles instead of Disney gentle, somebody who takes. Takes hard, city hard, out of place and so far away from Smallville; the guy's a freak, and probably a fag. He'd want it. He'd take one look at that mouth and shiver out of all that black, and take. Rubbing a pale rose cock against his lips, a slip of heat and precum bitter as beer, before sinking in.

In a dark room, like this one, digging fingers into broad, quarterback shoulders, working between muscles strung tight from tackle practice, and he'd never know it, not until he got buried good and deep, that he was fucked. Winter skin to leave bruises on, narrow hips to crush under his grasp, he could pull him in, fast as electricity. Sheath his teeth and make a hard vault to fuck, or maybe not, and graze over silken steel, and make him whisper. Make him cry. Make him say his name in that Metropolis accent and forget about smooth and removed- can't be the mystery when he's forgetting to breathe and tangling fingers in loose, blonde hair. Pull that, yeah, another sting, sharp on the scalp, sharp like teeth, like a needle, like a thousand cuts and swallowing hard.

Being swallowed hard, he can give it just like he can get it. Blunt force fuck, digging grooves on the inside of strawberry lips now, wheat skin harder to bruise, but more satisfying. Skin that deserves it, deserves abuse, perfect to be broken with all that pretend innocence and bullshit concern. Jerking through his hair, the game's off, his grip's off, spun out somewhere that rhythm doesn't matter anymore, just hard. Relentless and owned, because he can't pull away now. Hell no, he's trapped in a perfect, AllAmerican mouth, with All-American breath spreading hot and uneven across his stomach, he's not getting pinned, he's not getting the letter jacket, and he's not leaving Smallville. Dragged right down into endless fields that go nowhere, leaping up green every spring and falling down brown every autumn, and he can scream to a sky that never changes. Stroke in deep and shudder, spilling out hot like blood, acrid iron heat, a few shudders and a slump over broad shoulders and a body he could never have. Gasping soft curses, still pulling hair, but to stay on his feet now; leveled just like everybody else. Fucking ordinary, just like everybody else.

And then the hum is gone. It's just beer, and a couple of washed up football players, and the searing edge of a new shape carved into his skin. Electric lime, patterned nothing like a heart or a rose or a ribbon for mom- something far away from here and permanent. Invincible, and he could walk on water right now. Licking his lips, it takes a second to focus, blue eyes bleary, smearing his smile at unfamiliar faces, half-shadowed with the dirty haze of an overhead light. It doesn't look like heaven, it doesn't have to.

Sometimes, pain is good.

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