[personal profile] wave_of_sorrow
Title: A Question of Timing
Author: [livejournal.com profile] wave_of_sorrow
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson
Verse: Unspecified
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,426
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't claim. No money being made.
Summary:
It is all a question of timing; when to speak, when to scratch, when to hurt, when to keep going and when to stop.
Spoilers/Warnings: spanking
A/N: Fill for a prompt at [livejournal.com profile] shkinkmeme

Comments and ConCrit are the lube that keeps the slash coming, bbs!


They play this game often and they play it well. Practice and trust, a natural talent for acting too perhaps, have perfected the performance over the years. It is all a question of timing; when to speak, when to scratch, when to hurt, when to keep going and when to stop.

It took Holmes less time than was to be expected to learn Watson, his body, his reactions, the minute changes in his voice when he begs for more, to find that precise second when not enough becomes too much. Were Watson to think about it, he would realize that Holmes’s deductive powers played a considerable part in this. He does not, however, think about it.

There is something about Holmes when they do this, something different. He adopts a role, slips into it as easily as if he were donning a coat, becomes someone, something else. It’s in the way he unbuckles his belt, metal clicking, and the soft hiss of the smooth leather sliding through the belt loops. It’s in the way he smiles as he wraps it around his own hands, tugging experimentally, showing too many teeth in the flickering lamplight.

Watson doesn’t know what it is, but it makes him shift, cross his naked legs to hide his cock, already stirring with arousal at the mere sight of Holmes’s belt. The expression in Holmes’s eyes, pupils blown and reflecting sparks of light, tells him it was a wasted effort.

Holmes stands by the settee, runs a hand over the arm of it in a way that makes a shiver run down Watson’s spine. Holmes licks his lips; slowly, pink tongue leaving his mouth glistening. He beckons Watson over, crushes their mouths together for a short moment, then pushes Watson forward to bend over, hands gripping the arm of the settee.

“Spread your legs.”

It’s a low command, just this side of threatening and Watson moans quietly in response as he complies. The carpet is soft and warm under his bare feet.

The first blow comes without warning and Watson cries out, more in surprise than actual pain, his back arching and his prick twitching. A line of heat spreads over his backside, just above his thighs, and before he has time to do so much as take a breath, the belt lands again, squarely across both cheeks this time.

He releases a strangled groan at that and Holmes watches his knuckles turn white as an angry red welt rises on his arse. Holmes traces the very end of the belt along the abused skin and Watson pushes back and into the touch, wordlessly asking for more.

The next few hits come hard and in quick succession, landing haphazardly, without precision, without discernable pattern; left, right, backs of the thighs, left, across both cheeks, left, right, right, left again; leather licking over burning skin.

Watson is gasping, his head hanging between his shoulders, arms threatening to give out beneath him and knees buckling. Bright pink and red lines crisscross over his arse, standing out against the pale skin in a way that makes Holmes’s cock jerk in his trousers.

Holmes knows that from now on it’s no longer about force or quantity of the blows. It’s about aim and placement now; precision.

At the next hit, the belt almost cool against his overheated skin and landing right at the spot where two red welts meet and cross, Watson’s arms give way and he falls face forward onto the settee, leaving his rear in the air for Holmes to admire and abuse.

Watson cries out as Holmes slaps the same spot again, the sudden force shoving his hips into the settee and making his leaking cock rub against it in the most delicious way. It only takes a few more minutes, three, four, five perfectly aimed blows, leather biting into soft skin, making it break and bruise, and Watson is reduced to sobbing and choking out a litany of barely understandable pleasepleasepleaseplease.

Beads of sweat are rolling down Watson’s neck, pooling between his shoulder blades, muscles shifting and flexing, glistening in the warm light of the sitting room. He is shifting his hips against the settee, rubbing against it like a cat in heat, needing friction, needing pleasure, needing release.

Holmes knows that Watson is teetering on the edge, about to crack, about to reach that one moment where for just a second it’s enough. And, bringing the belt down one more time, harder than before, making tiny drops of bright red blood shine along the line of the welt, Holmes pushes him over it.

It’s in the way Watson’s voice cracks on the please as he tries and fails to catch his breath; this is where one more touch of leather against over-sensitised skin would be too much. So Holmes lets the belt drop to the carpet with a muffled thud and cups Watson’s arse in his palm.

Watson’s skin is hot against Holmes’s cool hand and it makes them both moan. Holmes leans down to run his tongue over the welts crisscrossing and interlacing over Watson’s backside and Watson releases a startled sound that quickly transforms into a groan. Holmes tastes copper and salt, skin throbbing faintly against his tongue, and he can’t help sinking his teeth into a particularly tender spot, making Watson jerk and shudder, fingernails scratching over the settee.

“Holmes, please!

Holmes wastes no time with preparation, simply unfastens his own trousers and tugs them halfway down his thighs. He casts around for something suitable to use as lubrication and, coming up empty, simply spits into his hand and coats his erection with it.

It’s somewhat disgusting and primal and it makes heat coil low in his belly. He spreads Watson’s cheeks apart, receiving a trembling whimper as his fingernails dig into already broken skin. Steadying his cock with one hand, he pushes against Watson’s opening, groaning low in his throat as the muscle parts easily to let him in.

He grips Watson’s hips then, pulls out and shoves back in, gentle but with determination. Encouraged by the way Watson moans and pushes back to meet him, Holmes begins to thrust harder.

The nasty, wet sounds of fucking fill the room, Holmes’s stifled groans and Watson’s cries, barely muffled by a pillow, doing nothing to drown them out. Holmes’s hands slip against Watson’s sweaty skin and he has to dig his fingernails in to gain purchase on his hips. It earns him a hiss and the momentary tightening of Watson’s inner muscles around him.

Holmes tilts Watson’s hips up then and with the new angle he hits Watson’s prostate squarely with every thrust. From his position Watson can do nothing to make Holmes go faster or harder as he so desperately wants to, so he simply slumps forward, breath coming in harsh pants and loud cries, and lets Holmes take him.

Holmes seems to sense his surrender, for he slams into Watson harder, knocking his hips into the settee and making his aching cock slide and rub against the rough upholstery. Sparks of pleasure shoot through Watson’s entire body every time Holmes thrusts into him and he can feel white-hot heat gathering at the small of his back.

He chokes out something incomprehensible, but judging by the way Holmes’s thrusts suddenly become frantic and a hand moves from his hip to encircle his dripping cock, he must have understood it anyway. It only takes a few rough strokes, the barest grazing of a short fingernail over the tip of his prick and he’s coming in quick, short spurts over Holmes’s hand and the arm of the settee.

Holmes hisses as Watson clenches around him and with a few more hard pumps into that slick heat, he is spending himself into Watson, feeling his come move around his cock as he continues to thrust shallowly.

He slumps forward then, panting into the back of Watson’s neck, and it takes them a few minutes before either of them can move enough to curl up on the settee, sweaty and sticky as they are. Holmes hums contently as Watson curls up against his side, lying half on top of him.

“Thank you, Holmes,” he whispers against his mouth before kissing him softly.

“It was a pleasure,” Holmes’s lips twitch in a barely-there smile and Watson kisses him again.

Later that night Holmes tends to Watson’s abused rear, rubbing a soothing salve onto the raw skin with gentle fingers. It will be another few weeks before they will engage in this activity again.
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wave_of_sorrow

September 2011

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