Fic Post mariposa
11/4/06 01:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: n/a—but soon…
Rating: 2
Summary: The world is AU. The world is a gecko.
The Previous Parts are looking for enlightenment. Ah, no sorry—they’re looking for a light.
Scarecrow
Over the next few days, the paper first reported that the son of the owner of the fertilizer plant was going to take over, and Gabe Sullivan said it was going to be a good thing, and then, it was reported that the son wasn’t taking over after all, and that Mr. Sullivan was taking over instead…Chloe was full of the inside scoop. Said Lex Luthor had pretty much laughed in her dad’s face, and told him no fucking way was he staying one minute more in Smallville.
“It seems a shame that Lex isn’t going to move here, don’t you think? He’s a pretty cool guy. I met him—I saved his life.”
Chloe looked skeptical.
“Well, okay, I might be exaggerating a bit. But he was…cool.” Clark blushed a little, and smiled. She shook her head.
“My dad says the guy is crazy. He says Luthor, the father, is a snake in the grass. But I guess he pays well.” She glanced at Clark. “Some weird stuff goes on out there, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with fertilizer.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, Elvis Is The Father Of My Alien Baby.”
“Shut up—it’s true!”
“Wow. You mean Elvis *is* the father….”
“No—shut up again. Something’s weird about Smallville, I’m telling you.”
“Don’t be silly, Chloe. If there was anything weird or odd in Smallville, they’d have chased it out of town or strung it up in a cornfield by now.”
Chloe looked at him, her eyes wide in sympathy. “Still worried about that, hunh?”
“Not so much. I’m sure it’s going to happen. The only thing that I wonder about is when—and how these guys could—I mean, they used to be my friends. And now…”
“Clark, they think—well, Whitney thinks you’re after his girlfriend. You *are* always staring at her.”
“Um…there’s just something about her, Chloe…”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Something I don’t have—or any other girl in school. So tell me, Clarkster, what is it? What attracts you to her so much?”
Clark smiled and shrugged. “I like her hair? Her smile? Her shoes?” He grinned at Chloe and slid his hands into his jeans pockets, and dipped his head. He felt his cheeks reddening. “Anyway, Chloe…it’s not like you think. I know she’s Whitney’s girlfriend. She’s not the one I’m looking for.”
He completely missed the effect his words had on her, the blush that flushed her cheeks pink, and the smile that made her eyes sparkle—the mistake she made.
*****
The sun was shining directly into his eyes when he walked out of the school doors. He set his backpack on his shoulder, trying to find a spot where it was comfortable. He had no idea why they had to carry so many darn books—he was carrying the weight of a couple of cinderblocks, he was sure. He was trying to thread his way through the crowd when a hand dropped heavily to his shoulder and squeezed—hard. It made him jump.
“Wha--” He turned to look into the steel blue eyes of Whitney Fordman, cold and flat as a shark’s. He was smirking—and it was a really nasty expression on Whitney’s face, Clark thought, and tried to twitch out of his grip.
“Congratulations Clark,” he snarled. “you’re this year’s scarecrow.”
“Stop it.” Clark turned his eyes away from Whitney’s, tried to knock his hand from his shoulder. “Leave me alone.” His heart was beating crazily. He’d expected this—known who this year’s scarecrow was going to be, but he was frightened anyway.
“Come on, Romeo. Try and stop me.” Whitney pushed Clark, back and back, towards the drive way. No one stopped; no one looked his way as Clark stumbled across the sidewalk. “You need to learn to keep your eyes to yourself, asshole.” Whit pushed Clark hard, and Clark tripped, fell to his back with a bone-jarring thump. Whitney stood over him, grinning…Clark stared at his knees, waiting. Waiting for whatever was going to happen, to just start already, so it could be over. He let his vision blur, avoided Whitney’s eyes and tried to find a place inside him to hide until everything was over. Whit’s smirk dimmed a little, a tiny flicker of guilt ran over his face, but Clark knew better than to think it mattered--the ball was rolling—once the sequence of events began to unfold, nothing could stop it. This was what happened to him, people like him….
A truck pulled up, and other guys from the team flew off the back. They grabbed Clark and tossed him onto the grimy metal. They threw him so hard, air slammed out of his lungs and he was sure his ribs creaked. He yelped, and the guys around him laughed. Every turn and swerve of the truck made him grind his teeth into his lip. Sharp spikes run up his legs into his gut, into his chest. It felt like an attack coming on, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing worse than that, on top of the nightmare that was happening now.
Before long they were in the field, laughing and jostling each other like they were having a great time, and Clark fought not to throw up. His head was ringing, grit was in his mouth—he’d let out a yell when they’d tossed him into the sand. He peered up at the circle of guys, squinting against the glare of the headlights. Pete wasn’t there, but it didn’t make Clark feel any better—if Pete was any longer a friend to him, he wouldn’t be here laying here in the dirt at all. Tears filled his eyes, and some of the guys jeered, “Faggot! Crybaby!”
His heart beat in his throat, his mouth was dry… “Please…please…”
Whitney bent over, and hissed in his ear. “Juat wanna to make you feel special, shithead.”
A chain with a bit of green crystal on it slipped out of his shirt, hung above Clark’s head--and time stopped for Clark. There was a glint of green in the blackness, and an explosion of pain—Clark shook his head, staring at the necklace, whispered, “No, no, no…”
Whit grinned. “Don’t you like it?” He hooked the chain around Clark’s neck, and the pain that’d been spiking him all during the ride in truck, speared through him. “You should enjoy it, asshole; it’s as close as you’ll ever get to her.”
He had no idea what the hell Whitney was getting at, but the crystal on the end of the chain seemed to burn wherever it touched his skin. He moved his head as far from Whitney as he could, and gasped for air. They yanked him to his feet, started to strip him, and something in Clark—exploded.
“No! No! NO!” He fought, frantically, screaming as they tore at his clothes, fighting savagely, inflicting just enough damage on his captors to make them angry, make them fight back, and before long, they were beating Clark, kicking him, cursing him and Clark fought on, crying, screaming, until he was in his boxers, pinned spread eagled on the ground as they sprayed an S on his chest.
When they finally managed to hang him from the crossbar of the post, he was sweaty, covered with filth. The tracks of tears wrote white lines down his face. His boxers were wet…the fear and the pain, the beating, made him piss himself, and he was bruised and bleeding, and he wanted nothing more than to be dead.
“Queer,” one of the boys snarled, and spit on Clark.
Whitney wiped his mouth, wiped sweat away. He felt ill, dirty. He’d kept back from the beating, but…this was wrong. What they were doing to Clark was dangerous and stupid and his fault…but he felt…unable to stop. He didn’t want the other guys to think he was a pussy, but…this was bad. It stopped being about the scarecrow, and started being about Clark the oddball, the geek--He winced when the kid spit on Clark, and was about to speak when suddenly one of them reached out and yanked his boxers down.
“Hey faggot—if you want, we can tie you facing the other way, and let everyone have a turn!”
Some of the guys laughed, some of them made noises of disgust, and Clark let out a keen that wouldn’t stop, not when the boy that had pulled the boxers down hit him, not when he was jabbed and poked, punched.
The noise the poor kid was making ripped into him, broke his paralysis. “Damn it—that’s enough!” Whitney stepped in front of him, and smacked the boy’s hand away. He replaced Clark’s boxers, startled at how hot his skin was, despite the chill of the air. “Knock it off, you sick fuck. Let’s go.”
“Listen to that freak, I’m telling you he’s queer, he’s crying like a little girl. Pussy.”
Clark hung his head, and sobbed, “… no nono no….”
“Get in the truck, damn it. Let’s go.” Whit pushed and shoved the boys back towards the truck.
Whit watched Clark in the rearview mirror as he pulled away.
TBC
Fandom: SV
Pairing: n/a—but soon…
Rating: 2
Summary: The world is AU. The world is a gecko.
The Previous Parts are looking for enlightenment. Ah, no sorry—they’re looking for a light.
Scarecrow
Over the next few days, the paper first reported that the son of the owner of the fertilizer plant was going to take over, and Gabe Sullivan said it was going to be a good thing, and then, it was reported that the son wasn’t taking over after all, and that Mr. Sullivan was taking over instead…Chloe was full of the inside scoop. Said Lex Luthor had pretty much laughed in her dad’s face, and told him no fucking way was he staying one minute more in Smallville.
“It seems a shame that Lex isn’t going to move here, don’t you think? He’s a pretty cool guy. I met him—I saved his life.”
Chloe looked skeptical.
“Well, okay, I might be exaggerating a bit. But he was…cool.” Clark blushed a little, and smiled. She shook her head.
“My dad says the guy is crazy. He says Luthor, the father, is a snake in the grass. But I guess he pays well.” She glanced at Clark. “Some weird stuff goes on out there, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with fertilizer.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, Elvis Is The Father Of My Alien Baby.”
“Shut up—it’s true!”
“Wow. You mean Elvis *is* the father….”
“No—shut up again. Something’s weird about Smallville, I’m telling you.”
“Don’t be silly, Chloe. If there was anything weird or odd in Smallville, they’d have chased it out of town or strung it up in a cornfield by now.”
Chloe looked at him, her eyes wide in sympathy. “Still worried about that, hunh?”
“Not so much. I’m sure it’s going to happen. The only thing that I wonder about is when—and how these guys could—I mean, they used to be my friends. And now…”
“Clark, they think—well, Whitney thinks you’re after his girlfriend. You *are* always staring at her.”
“Um…there’s just something about her, Chloe…”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Something I don’t have—or any other girl in school. So tell me, Clarkster, what is it? What attracts you to her so much?”
Clark smiled and shrugged. “I like her hair? Her smile? Her shoes?” He grinned at Chloe and slid his hands into his jeans pockets, and dipped his head. He felt his cheeks reddening. “Anyway, Chloe…it’s not like you think. I know she’s Whitney’s girlfriend. She’s not the one I’m looking for.”
He completely missed the effect his words had on her, the blush that flushed her cheeks pink, and the smile that made her eyes sparkle—the mistake she made.
*****
The sun was shining directly into his eyes when he walked out of the school doors. He set his backpack on his shoulder, trying to find a spot where it was comfortable. He had no idea why they had to carry so many darn books—he was carrying the weight of a couple of cinderblocks, he was sure. He was trying to thread his way through the crowd when a hand dropped heavily to his shoulder and squeezed—hard. It made him jump.
“Wha--” He turned to look into the steel blue eyes of Whitney Fordman, cold and flat as a shark’s. He was smirking—and it was a really nasty expression on Whitney’s face, Clark thought, and tried to twitch out of his grip.
“Congratulations Clark,” he snarled. “you’re this year’s scarecrow.”
“Stop it.” Clark turned his eyes away from Whitney’s, tried to knock his hand from his shoulder. “Leave me alone.” His heart was beating crazily. He’d expected this—known who this year’s scarecrow was going to be, but he was frightened anyway.
“Come on, Romeo. Try and stop me.” Whitney pushed Clark, back and back, towards the drive way. No one stopped; no one looked his way as Clark stumbled across the sidewalk. “You need to learn to keep your eyes to yourself, asshole.” Whit pushed Clark hard, and Clark tripped, fell to his back with a bone-jarring thump. Whitney stood over him, grinning…Clark stared at his knees, waiting. Waiting for whatever was going to happen, to just start already, so it could be over. He let his vision blur, avoided Whitney’s eyes and tried to find a place inside him to hide until everything was over. Whit’s smirk dimmed a little, a tiny flicker of guilt ran over his face, but Clark knew better than to think it mattered--the ball was rolling—once the sequence of events began to unfold, nothing could stop it. This was what happened to him, people like him….
A truck pulled up, and other guys from the team flew off the back. They grabbed Clark and tossed him onto the grimy metal. They threw him so hard, air slammed out of his lungs and he was sure his ribs creaked. He yelped, and the guys around him laughed. Every turn and swerve of the truck made him grind his teeth into his lip. Sharp spikes run up his legs into his gut, into his chest. It felt like an attack coming on, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing worse than that, on top of the nightmare that was happening now.
Before long they were in the field, laughing and jostling each other like they were having a great time, and Clark fought not to throw up. His head was ringing, grit was in his mouth—he’d let out a yell when they’d tossed him into the sand. He peered up at the circle of guys, squinting against the glare of the headlights. Pete wasn’t there, but it didn’t make Clark feel any better—if Pete was any longer a friend to him, he wouldn’t be here laying here in the dirt at all. Tears filled his eyes, and some of the guys jeered, “Faggot! Crybaby!”
His heart beat in his throat, his mouth was dry… “Please…please…”
Whitney bent over, and hissed in his ear. “Juat wanna to make you feel special, shithead.”
A chain with a bit of green crystal on it slipped out of his shirt, hung above Clark’s head--and time stopped for Clark. There was a glint of green in the blackness, and an explosion of pain—Clark shook his head, staring at the necklace, whispered, “No, no, no…”
Whit grinned. “Don’t you like it?” He hooked the chain around Clark’s neck, and the pain that’d been spiking him all during the ride in truck, speared through him. “You should enjoy it, asshole; it’s as close as you’ll ever get to her.”
He had no idea what the hell Whitney was getting at, but the crystal on the end of the chain seemed to burn wherever it touched his skin. He moved his head as far from Whitney as he could, and gasped for air. They yanked him to his feet, started to strip him, and something in Clark—exploded.
“No! No! NO!” He fought, frantically, screaming as they tore at his clothes, fighting savagely, inflicting just enough damage on his captors to make them angry, make them fight back, and before long, they were beating Clark, kicking him, cursing him and Clark fought on, crying, screaming, until he was in his boxers, pinned spread eagled on the ground as they sprayed an S on his chest.
When they finally managed to hang him from the crossbar of the post, he was sweaty, covered with filth. The tracks of tears wrote white lines down his face. His boxers were wet…the fear and the pain, the beating, made him piss himself, and he was bruised and bleeding, and he wanted nothing more than to be dead.
“Queer,” one of the boys snarled, and spit on Clark.
Whitney wiped his mouth, wiped sweat away. He felt ill, dirty. He’d kept back from the beating, but…this was wrong. What they were doing to Clark was dangerous and stupid and his fault…but he felt…unable to stop. He didn’t want the other guys to think he was a pussy, but…this was bad. It stopped being about the scarecrow, and started being about Clark the oddball, the geek--He winced when the kid spit on Clark, and was about to speak when suddenly one of them reached out and yanked his boxers down.
“Hey faggot—if you want, we can tie you facing the other way, and let everyone have a turn!”
Some of the guys laughed, some of them made noises of disgust, and Clark let out a keen that wouldn’t stop, not when the boy that had pulled the boxers down hit him, not when he was jabbed and poked, punched.
The noise the poor kid was making ripped into him, broke his paralysis. “Damn it—that’s enough!” Whitney stepped in front of him, and smacked the boy’s hand away. He replaced Clark’s boxers, startled at how hot his skin was, despite the chill of the air. “Knock it off, you sick fuck. Let’s go.”
“Listen to that freak, I’m telling you he’s queer, he’s crying like a little girl. Pussy.”
Clark hung his head, and sobbed, “… no nono no….”
“Get in the truck, damn it. Let’s go.” Whit pushed and shoved the boys back towards the truck.
Whit watched Clark in the rearview mirror as he pulled away.
TBC
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