vervaceous: (sideways)
[personal profile] vervaceous
Title: Penetration
Fandom: Harsh Realm
Rating: NC-17, contains BDSM themes; warnings for piercing play.
Wordcount: 2,419
Summary: Tom and Mike have a quiet afternoon together, and Mike has a surprise with a bit of a point. Tabula Rasa 'verse.


"Mike." Tom is wriggling. He's not uncomfortable, but wriggling is kind of a habit, even after all this time. Nice big bed, nice easily accessible attach points; Tom is cuffed to it with his hands over his head, and stretched out like that, Mike thinks he looks a little like a piece of meat, like an animal he's just brought down. It's imagery that he comes to a lot, at times like this. Hunting. Prey. Even if it's all just a game.

He's learned the hard way: games are never just games.

"Mike," Tom groans again, moving his legs against the sheets in a kind of mindless cycling motion. They've got a rare afternoon alone together; an entire afternoon, untold riches of time, in a month where a few childless minutes alone is something treasured and precious. Mike feels like he's surveying an all-you-can-eat buffet, a banquet, a fucking feast. Someplace with room to be greedy. He stands and ignores Tom's groans, eyes moving over his body without any hint of hurry, naked and palming himself absently but not really stroking yet.

"You're a bastard," Tom mutters, and he pulls sharply against the cuffs, sharp enough to add to the overall atmosphere but not to actually get away. Mike isn't sure if he even could, if he really tried. They've never tested it. Maybe they should.

But that's a game for another time.

"Doesn't sound like you're complaining," he says, moving to the foot of the bed and crouching down by the trunk, his trunk, one of the most useful Christmas presents he's ever gotten. And there's a new thing in there, a thing he hasn't shown anyone yet. But this seems like a good time.

When he stands again, he's holding a slim opaque case in his hands. Tom sees it and his lips part, and Mike can hear his soft intake of breath, though it's very quiet in the still, hot air of the room. There's no fear on his face; they've come too far for fear. But there's apprehension, faint and fluttering around the periphery of his expression. An appropriate reaction to the unknown. Mike smiles and carries the case over to him, lays it down on the table by the bed.

"Remember when we got inked?" he murmurs, bending over the bed with his cock bobbing heavy and hard between his legs. "Remember how I wanted to watch you?"

Tom swallows and nods. "Yeah." And Mike smiles wider. That had been quite a day, for all three of them.

"I've been thinking." He sits down on the edge of the bed, runs a hand slowly over Tom's chest, skin so smooth and hair so fine and soft he almost wouldn't believe it could belong to a man. "How you looked... I'd kinda like to see you look like that again." His fingertips brush a nipple, feeling the skin tighten instantly. Tom's always been responsive, and now it's like his body is trained, wired to give Mike exactly what he wants.

Tom's brow furrows, even as he squirms against and into the touch. "But you...haven't you?" And Mike understands the question. If it's a matter of pain, of endorphins, it's not like they haven't gone there since that day, and many times. But it isn't, not just. It's about marking. It's about claiming. His lips curl like a scimitar.

"Not quite the same," he murmurs, and he picks up the box and holds it on his thigh and opens it. Inside it's lined with black velvet, and glistening in its center are a long needle and a row of delicate little stainless steel hoops. Tom cranes his head and stares at it, blinking, uncomprehending. Mike doesn't blame him. For the first few seconds, looking down at it shining blue and red and gold in the light of their haphazardly decorated Christmas tree, he hadn't been entirely sure what it was for, either.

Now, though.

His other hand moves and his fingertips flick lightly and again over that nipple, now standing up and at attention like it wants what's going to happen to it.

"Mike, I don't..." Tom starts, and now he sounds genuinely uncertain, and Mike wonders if he might say that one magic word that has the power to end all of this. He's starting to figure it out, starting to put together the needle and the hoops and the feather-soft, circling touch. Mike can see it on his face and in the blue-green wideness of his eyes.

"I want this," Mike whispers. His hand moves up and to Tom's lips, moist and parted and trembling very slightly with each breath he drags in. He smudges them with his thumb and watches the deformation of the flesh, that surge of mingling affection and possessiveness bleeding out through his skin and into his movements. "I want it. But if you don't... you can stop it. I promise I won't make a thing out of it if you do."

Tom stays silent, and for a second or two Mike is sure that he's going to say no. But finally something steely passes behind his eyes and he nods, twice. Slow. Sure. Tom doesn't back down. Tom stands, and sometimes he suffers, and he's beautiful when he does, when it's right. Mike smiles, leans in and kisses him, and Tom's lips part immediately for him.

"I love you," he whispers, when Mike pulls back, and he licks his swollen lips.

"Love you too." He reaches down and pinches Tom's left nipple, harder than before, and Tom arches up and gasps. "I think this one," Mike says thoughtfully. "Just one for now. If you like it..." He smiles that knife-edge smile. "We'll see." He leans down again and his tongue flicks out, circles it slowly, smiling again at Tom's thick moan. Pleasure. He's always tried to keep a balance, an equal amount of pleasure for whatever pain he wants to inflict, a kind of alchemical mixing of the two until it becomes impossible to separate one from the other. Tom's skin is faintly salty with the sweat of a hot afternoon, the taste of him and the taste of sex. If Mike could drink him, he thinks he would.

He has rubbing alcohol, stolen from the clinic and half hidden under the bed. He has no ice. He's not sure that he would use it if he had it; he wants the skin yielding and the flesh tender, and more than that, he wants Tom to feel it. All of it. Everything. Every stab of pain, every rush of endorphins, the initial clenching body panic and then the slow roll of calm. He picks up the bottle and a discarded shirt from the floor, uncaps the bottle and presses a corner of the cloth to the neck as he tips it up.

"Are you scared?" he asks, conversational as he gently swabs down the skin, smiling at Tom's little sigh when the alcohol starts to dry into coolness. Tom is silent for a few seconds but when Mike looks up at him he swallows and nods.

"Don't be. You've had worse."

"But this is..." He doesn't have to finish. Mike knows. There's bruises and then there's this. Fucking is always a little violation, a piercing of the integrity of the body, but this is a different kind of penetration, and the mind quails away from it. Mike is still smiling as he disinfects the needle. If there wasn't a little bit of fear half the point would be gone.

It's not him Tom's afraid of, and that's the important thing.

"Do it," Tom breathes, twisting against the cuffs, and when Mike glances back down at him, he's still dark and hard, jutting up and glistening in the sunlight that stripes across his body, glowing lines that make Mike think of the riding crop nestled into the chest.

Not that, not today.

"Getting there." He sets aside the alcohol, picks up the needle, closes his fingers around Tom's nipple and pinches it firmly in place. Tom lets out a hitching gasp, face screwing into a grimace that gets tighter and tighter as Mike presses the point of the needle against his flesh and slowly, evenly, relentlessly, pushes it forward. He feels the point at which it breaks through the skin, a harsh whimper from Tom, a whimper that continues on into something else as the needle moves, crescendoing into a low wail when it's finally, finally through.

It's the wail that hits him like he doesn't expect. None of this is really new at its core, none of it is in a place he hasn't gone before, but it's the wail, breathless and shivering, pained and orgasmic both at once. He looks from the needle to Tom's face, shining with sweat but no longer tight or grimacing. It's smooth, his lips parted, his eyes open and slightly glazed.

"Okay?"

Tom nods, still slow, and draws in a stuttering breath. "I'm... yeah. Okay."

"Good." Mike leans in and kisses him, gentle as he can be and almost chaste, his fingers still on the shaft of the needle. "I'm gonna pull it out. Then one of the rings is going in. You tell me if you need me to stop."

"I will." Tom moans softly and lifts his head, blinking and craning downward, trying to see. His eyes are very wide. "Christ, Mike."

It's easier coming out than going in. A little tug is all it takes and Tom squeezes his eyes shut and cries out, and on either side of the piercing there's a tiny bead of blood. Less blood than he would have thought. With the sun on them like that, they almost look like delicate red gems, smooth and perfect. He wants to taste it, duck his head and suck gently at the wound, but not yet. He reaches into the case and selects one of the little rings, finds the shirt and the alcohol and disinfects it as well.

"Ready?"

Tom nods, panting lightly. Out comes the little ball that closes the loop, and he presses one of the ends against the hole and slides it carefully, slowly in. It hurts, he can tell, Tom gasping and trying not to pull away, but more and more it's also sounding like pleasure. He finishes the slow rotation, snaps the ball back into place, and lets the metal rest against the skin.

"All done." He kisses Tom's brow. Tom laughs, a rough and sobbing sound, lips moving against his jaw.

"It's... I... Oh my God."

"It's fucking beautiful." He looks back down at it, little silver hoop; a captive hoop, he thinks it's called. Fitting. And lower, down past the quivering muscles of Tom's belly, and his dick isn't standing up quite as proud as before, but he hasn't gone soft by any means. "You're beautiful."

"You... always say that." Tom is blushing furiously, all the way from his ears down his chest, and Mike kisses his way down that blush, softer than he can ever remember being with Tom sighing and moving under him. Tom's movements are slower now, almost the kind of lazy shifting and stretching that happens early in the morning when sleep is still lingering and nothing feels rushed.

"Mike, please..." And now a little arch of the hips and Mike grins against Tom's ribs. Okay, then. So eventually he comes out with what he wants. Mike reaches down and closes a fist around him, one slow stroke and Tom groans and licks his dry lips. "Fuck..."

"You gotta be specific." Another stroke, a sucking kiss against Tom's hip, and Tom is whimpering again, unraveling. It's always so wonderful to see him like this, to get him here, to enjoy the aftermath. "We talked about that."

"You asshole," Tom whines and the lock on the cuffs rattles against the bedframe. "Suck me... agh, God, suck me, Mike, please."

There you go. But he doesn't say anything aloud. There's no need, and in a few seconds his mouth is full anyway, the head of Tom's cock sliding past his lips and his tongue swirling, and Tom arches against him and babbles gibberish, and he can't quite believe how much in love he is. It all fades into thick, musky taste, heat, the beat of blood against his tongue, the silvery flashes of Tom's ring in the sunlight, and Tom is writhing against him and moaning fuckmefuckmeFUCKME in a way that he couldn't deny even if he wanted to. He doesn't even bother with the stretching, barely bothers with the lube, suddenly so hard he's hurting, twitching like Tom is, kneeling between his legs and pushing them up and back, folding Tom in half as he pushes into him.

"I love you," Tom moans. "God, I fucking love you." And Mike thrusts into him, whispering it back and reaching down with one hand to jerk him off, everything building again until the flash of the metal against Tom's flesh captures him and he touches it with his free hand, tracing it with his fingers, flicking at it, and Tom's face wrenches with pain and pleasure that mingle and flare and spill hot and liquid over Mike's fist.

Later, lying together and coming slowly down, Mike is rubbing the circulation back into Tom's wrists and Tom is craning his neck again, looking at the movement of the ring as he breathes, as he laughs quietly.

"Some surprise."

Mike kisses the inside of his wrist, the marks already fading. "Thought you'd like it."

"I do." Tom's face turns thoughtful. "I wonder if Neil will."

Neil does. Neil knows. Later that night with Tom's shirt off and bare skin under his hands, Neil looks at it, touches it gently and smiles at Tom's delicate gasp. He glances at Mike.

"Didn't know you'd do it today."

"Maybe I wanted to surprise both of you." Mike leans back against the pillows, hands moving idly over himself and his eyes moving idly over the two of them. When he looks like this, he watches them, back in the shadows as they move together in the light. "It's sensitive. You should be careful." Which is in itself an invitation.

Neil is looking at him as he pulls Tom in and kisses him, open-mouthed and slow and pushing him back onto the bed, and when his fingers flick at the ring and Tom shivers and gasps, all three of them smile.
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