Whiplash
Title: Whiplash
Pairing: Sinestro/Hal HURRDURR
Rating: R [OH NO AGAIN]
Word Count: 802
Summary: He promised himself this was the last time (this was the 16th 'last time').
Warning: HATESEX trying to be DEEEEP. also i am not very good but you knew that!
Tongues meet, and Hal promises himself that this was the last time (this was the sixteenth ‘last time’). Stuck forever, it seems, in bed with a monster, ripping moans from eachothers throats with the same ease they used to create and destroy constructs, gods playing with gods in this dark little hell that soaks up all their rage. He hates the way they grapple and push at eachother, this isn’t what he’s used to, this is too frequent to be healthy, and it’s too easy to fall into his traps (the traps he set for himself). He hates everything about this, hates the way Sinestro drags them both to hell and back, leaving them shuddering with whiplash.
It feels fragile and feminine when he has to clutch bed sheets to stop himself from doing something stupid, but there’s nothing else to do. Sinestro grins a devil’s grin into the night, skin unnaturally dark, fingers unnaturally nimble, squeezing and touching and petting all over, both of them seeking what they shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t ever want, and they press and manipulate each other until finally Hal is in his lap and it’s too feminine he wants to get away but he’s stuck, ankles braced close with golden chains and hands shackled in the same way. He wants his ring, wants to do the same, make the room glow even more, but he can’t because he’s still in bomber jacket and jeans. Constructs of pale yellow scissors accompany the two men in the sin-dense room, cutting through a new shirt; he makes Hal shrug off the jacket and remains of his shirt on his own-the performance is met with sadistic glee, and Sinestro makes no effort to hold back his delight at watching Hal fumble with jeans only to have his need met with denial. Sinestro grabs those hands, digs his nails in and Hal can’t help but grunt in pain. Hal shivers when those hands, still so light and quick, touch across his chest. They’ve done this too many times for it to be curious. He knows its disconcerting, and even after 16 rounds of hell and heaven, he still wants to cut those damn hands right off.
No whispered traces of comfort, no friendliness, this was not love, it couldn’t even be called sex. It was too controlled, never primal or passionate, and Hal thinks that’s how Sinestro always has sex. It was jerky, unnatural, the wrong people in the wrong positions at the wrong time and place, but Hal can’t keep his mouth shut (he’s the loudest one between them, by far) and gasps when his mouth, disgusting murderer’s lips brush against his chest. He plays his part well, and something akin to pity drives his hand downward to consensually stroke this demon, whose ideas would make Hitler himself seem sane, and the tense reaction he receives is enough, almost worth it. Neither try to show their sickness here, but can’t get enough of the way they make each other nearly lose control. It isn’t for any reason other than spite-the way they feel victorious after a closed fist meets the other’s jaw, the way their breathing becomes irregular and muscles tremble is that same joy.
Hal dares himself to be more creative, using only certain fingers, touching where he knew was most appreciated (he didn’t want to know, didn’t think about how he knew for too long) slowly and more agonizingly until he can draw a low groan out, and now Hal isn’t the only one who has lost himself. He stumbles, his grip slips and he can’t help the way an assuring moan draws itself from his lips when lithe fingers brush against his own manhood. He knows how to touch, has more practice than Hal, and Hal wishes he could stop himself from tilting his hips, stop himself from following those alien fingers. Neither of them admits that they are each others main chance at gratification, and pleasure mixes with hate too easily, the lines blur between green and yellow, fear and force and willpower are all the same sometimes, but that’s another thing Hal doesn’t think about much at all.
There’s a moment of stillness in the room when Sinestro’s body jerks the fingers that he wants to break, and their clipped breath is all the soundtrack they need as Hal helps to finish himself-realization is dawning, hate is bubbling, rage is settling in the pit of two men’s stomachs as they touch each other so intimately. A soft sigh of desperate fury crosses the Green Lantern’s lips and then they try to look away. They might see something akin to gratitude in each other’s eyes; they’re much more comfortable with disgust.
Hal tells them both that it won’t happen again. Sinestro doesn’t much trust Hal’s word.
Pairing: Sinestro/Hal HURRDURR
Rating: R [OH NO AGAIN]
Word Count: 802
Summary: He promised himself this was the last time (this was the 16th 'last time').
Warning: HATESEX trying to be DEEEEP. also i am not very good but you knew that!
Tongues meet, and Hal promises himself that this was the last time (this was the sixteenth ‘last time’). Stuck forever, it seems, in bed with a monster, ripping moans from eachothers throats with the same ease they used to create and destroy constructs, gods playing with gods in this dark little hell that soaks up all their rage. He hates the way they grapple and push at eachother, this isn’t what he’s used to, this is too frequent to be healthy, and it’s too easy to fall into his traps (the traps he set for himself). He hates everything about this, hates the way Sinestro drags them both to hell and back, leaving them shuddering with whiplash.
It feels fragile and feminine when he has to clutch bed sheets to stop himself from doing something stupid, but there’s nothing else to do. Sinestro grins a devil’s grin into the night, skin unnaturally dark, fingers unnaturally nimble, squeezing and touching and petting all over, both of them seeking what they shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t ever want, and they press and manipulate each other until finally Hal is in his lap and it’s too feminine he wants to get away but he’s stuck, ankles braced close with golden chains and hands shackled in the same way. He wants his ring, wants to do the same, make the room glow even more, but he can’t because he’s still in bomber jacket and jeans. Constructs of pale yellow scissors accompany the two men in the sin-dense room, cutting through a new shirt; he makes Hal shrug off the jacket and remains of his shirt on his own-the performance is met with sadistic glee, and Sinestro makes no effort to hold back his delight at watching Hal fumble with jeans only to have his need met with denial. Sinestro grabs those hands, digs his nails in and Hal can’t help but grunt in pain. Hal shivers when those hands, still so light and quick, touch across his chest. They’ve done this too many times for it to be curious. He knows its disconcerting, and even after 16 rounds of hell and heaven, he still wants to cut those damn hands right off.
No whispered traces of comfort, no friendliness, this was not love, it couldn’t even be called sex. It was too controlled, never primal or passionate, and Hal thinks that’s how Sinestro always has sex. It was jerky, unnatural, the wrong people in the wrong positions at the wrong time and place, but Hal can’t keep his mouth shut (he’s the loudest one between them, by far) and gasps when his mouth, disgusting murderer’s lips brush against his chest. He plays his part well, and something akin to pity drives his hand downward to consensually stroke this demon, whose ideas would make Hitler himself seem sane, and the tense reaction he receives is enough, almost worth it. Neither try to show their sickness here, but can’t get enough of the way they make each other nearly lose control. It isn’t for any reason other than spite-the way they feel victorious after a closed fist meets the other’s jaw, the way their breathing becomes irregular and muscles tremble is that same joy.
Hal dares himself to be more creative, using only certain fingers, touching where he knew was most appreciated (he didn’t want to know, didn’t think about how he knew for too long) slowly and more agonizingly until he can draw a low groan out, and now Hal isn’t the only one who has lost himself. He stumbles, his grip slips and he can’t help the way an assuring moan draws itself from his lips when lithe fingers brush against his own manhood. He knows how to touch, has more practice than Hal, and Hal wishes he could stop himself from tilting his hips, stop himself from following those alien fingers. Neither of them admits that they are each others main chance at gratification, and pleasure mixes with hate too easily, the lines blur between green and yellow, fear and force and willpower are all the same sometimes, but that’s another thing Hal doesn’t think about much at all.
There’s a moment of stillness in the room when Sinestro’s body jerks the fingers that he wants to break, and their clipped breath is all the soundtrack they need as Hal helps to finish himself-realization is dawning, hate is bubbling, rage is settling in the pit of two men’s stomachs as they touch each other so intimately. A soft sigh of desperate fury crosses the Green Lantern’s lips and then they try to look away. They might see something akin to gratitude in each other’s eyes; they’re much more comfortable with disgust.
Hal tells them both that it won’t happen again. Sinestro doesn’t much trust Hal’s word.