Chapter Text
It’s weird to be naked when Lash is still fully clothed. It makes them too aware of the chill outside, always trying to creep its way in. More than that, it makes them feel vulnerable, exposed.
Maybe it has more to do with the position they’re in though: knelt the best they can across Lash’s lap at the end of the bed. They’re angled so they can rest on their elbows on the mattress, but their legs don’t have a lot of support. It’s undignified in about a thousand ways, and they just know Lash will find some way to make it worse.
The first slap to their ass is unexpectedly light. It barely even stings. The next one, too. Not that they want it to hurt too badly, but that’s sort of the point, isn’t it?
His hand descends a third time, this time catching the top of their thigh, and okay, that one does smart. The next lands right where the first was, and they start catching on. It’s not about the immediate pain; it’s about the way it builds.
His smacks stay light, alternating between each half of Arin’s ass, with the occasional detour to their thighs to make them jump. They tense in anticipation, but that only makes it worse. Their skin warms as blood rushes toward the surface.
“Oh, God,” they groan into the sheets when they realize how hard they are. The last slap makes them rock forward, grinding into Lash’s muscular thigh.
His hand comes to rest lightly on overheated skin. It nearly itches under the gentler touch. “All you gotta do is tell me to stop.” There’s something almost sing-song about it, like he’s teasing, like he knows Arin won’t. He pets for a moment, waiting, and it’s almost worse now that there’s time to process.
They clench their jaw and say nothing. Lash laughs, shoves their face down onto the bed and starts again.
Now the pain blooms, a sharp sting layered over a blood-hot throb over a deeper ache, with each and every impact. It’s careful and controlled, but the momentum builds anyway.
Lash asks again if they want mercy. It hurts so bad, and God, it’s mortifying, but maybe that’s what they deserve. They don’t tell him to stop.
It goes on and on, until they’re made of nothing but that horrible ache and the pounding need between their thighs.
Their skin feels too tight, buzzing with static. Their mind fuzzes over. They lose track of time like that, only dimly aware of the weight of their limbs, the way they’re grinding against Lash’s thigh.
There’s a sound coming out of their throat, but they can’t even really hear it.
Eventually Lash pauses again. When he pets one hand gently over their ass now, his calluses scratch and their skin throbs and they try to press up into the touch.
“I think that’s enough, don’t you?” He tugs on their hair enough to get their face out of the bedding. It’s only when the cooler air hits that they realize how hot it was too. That and the hair-pulling make their answer nothing but a moan.
They swallow around too much saliva and try again: “Enough.”
Lash laughs meanly, but he listens — sort of. He doesn’t hit them again, anyway. Instead he digs the tips of his fingers into their abused flesh until they curse and squirm and don’t tell him to stop. They can’t, not while they’re rocking helplessly against his thigh.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. His touch grows lighter over their tender skin, but even that prickles maddeningly after the onslaught, their nerves ignited and overwhelmed. Fingers slip between their thighs to pet the thin, untouched skin there, then his nails scrape back up over the inflamed flesh again.
Arin twitches, one leg jerking, which earns them a pinch. It’s not even hard, but it doesn’t have to be to hurt like hell now. “Be still,” Lash says.
It’s humiliating how easily they fall into it, obeying him without thought. This whole thing is humiliating, and they’re not sure how they got here anymore. Maybe it was only the logical conclusion after Lash’s habit of slapping their ass during sex. They thought maybe he hadn’t fully forgiven them yet, and this is one form of penance, but they can’t say anymore whose idea it actually was.
None of that explains the knot of arousal in their belly.
Lash traces his fingers down between their ass cheeks, rubbing dry over their hole. Their legs want to spread, but he told them to be still; the warring impulses make them whine into bedding that’s wet beneath their cheek.
“Did you say something?” Lash asks, and his fingers move idly like he’s lost in thought — or teasing.
They didn’t, but that doesn’t mean they won’t now: “Please.”
“Please, what? Stop? Start over? Keep going?” His tone is obnoxious, and there’s no way it isn’t on purpose.
“Fuck me,” they say through gritted teeth. Shame burns as fiercely as desire.
“Aww, babe, I don’t know.” His hand moves back to their aching ass and gives it a quick squeeze. It takes all their willpower not to yelp. “You’ve gotta be sore. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
He’s having fun at Arin’s expense now, which should only infuriate them and should not make heat flare inside. “Don’t be an asshole.”
Lash laughs again. “Big talk for someone in your position.” His hand slips down again, stroking their perineum now, slowly increasing the pressure of it. This time they can’t stop their legs from spreading. “I should make you ask for it. Should make you beg. ‘Please, Lash, fuck me with your huge dick. I love it sooooo much. I can’t get enough. Please, Lash, I can’t live without it.’”
“That is not what I sound—” They cut off with a mouthful of sheets as Lash pushes their face back down.
His other hand disappeared while he was talking, but now it’s back, slick fingers pressing rudely inside. Further arguments fly out of their head. Rude Lash might be, but he is giving them what they asked for.
One hand rests hot on the back of their neck, holding them down while his fingers spread them open. It should be terrifying, how easy it is for him to do. If he wanted to hurt them, they can think of very few more vulnerable positions to be in. But somehow Lash has managed to bypass the vigilant part of their mind with hardly any effort, rewiring everything in the process until they’re rock hard and whining instead, torn between trying to stay still for him and trying to roll their hips back to meet him.
It doesn’t take long before he’s letting them up, arranging them on hands and knees on the bed, then stripping down. He kneels behind them, blunt nails scraping streaks of fire up the backs of their thighs and over their ass before he lines his cock up and works his way in.
Every slap of his hips against them reignites the sensation from before, every layer of it, from the stinging surface pain to the deep ache beneath. They want to crawl away or give in and tell him to stop, but instead they meet every powerful thrust with a wet gasp.
Eventually it reaches a point where they can barely feel the pain anymore. It twists up with the pleasure flooding their body, and their head feels light and buzzy again. All they can do is float while the heat builds in waves. When it finally crests, it hits so hard they can’t even see straight, pulsing through them so intensely they could cry. It feels like it lasts forever, like their body doesn’t even belong to them anymore.
They don’t know how much time passes, only that it does, and when awareness comes back, their limbs are still shaky. They collapse onto the bed. It’s not graceful, but they can’t be bothered to care.
Lash pulls their uncoordinated limbs back into something resembling human, then he gathers them close. They lie there with their ear pressed against his chest, listening as his racing heart slows.
They’ll probably never get up the nerve to tell him that this is sometimes their favorite part.
He smooths a warm hand from their nape to their tailbone. They might doze off for a moment; it’s hard to be sure.
Eventually they summon the energy to lift their head and look at him. “Do you forgive me?” they ask.
“Told you there’s nothing left to forgive.”
“Are you sure? I mean—”
“This was your thing. I’m fine.”
“My thing? It was your idea.”
Lash snorts. “Sure.”
Heat floods their cheeks. Maybe it wasn’t technically Lash who came up with it, but he was the one who asked, What do you want me to do, punish you? Surely that means he has to take some credit for it.
It’s hard to believe Lash of all people wouldn’t hold a grudge, that none of what he just did bore any real anger or resentment. But maybe that’s their guilt talking, and he really is fine.
Changing the subject is easier. “I’m gonna be so sore tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Now, really,” they admit, which only makes Lash laugh. Sadistic bastard.
“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
They still can’t look at him when he says stuff like that. They bury their burning face in his chest and groan. “Maybe later,” they mumble.
There’s silence for a moment. Lash’s hand on their back still feels warm, grounding, even when his chest rises on a deep breath in. “You gotta say when.”
It’s such a change in tone. Somehow it doesn’t sound like it’s a reply to the last thing they said. They grunt the question against his skin.
“You weren’t gonna tell me to stop.” His hand has stopped petting their back, drifting up into their hair now instead. “If I wanted to hurt you for real, I’d drag your ass into the ring.”
They manage to look at him now. It seems important, even if his face isn’t doing anything particularly different than usual. “I know that. You stopped on your own.”
“Yeah, this time.”
“I can handle more than you think.”
“It’s not about that. I’m just saying I don’t wanna fuck it up.” He tugs at a handful of their hair then, but not hard. Maybe fondly. “I’ll do whatever weird shit you want, but not if I can’t trust you to say when it’s too much. Or if I’m supposed to choose for you, tell me. Don’t agree you’re going to and then just…” His voice goes quieter. “Don’t make me the bad guy.”
Arin stares at him for a moment before moving in closer. “Okay.” They kiss him then, soft and quick.
Then he pulls them down for another that isn’t so quick, and then another, so maybe they’re done talking for a while.