Jane Davitt's Blog - Posts Tagged "fic"

This is a short based on a photo of guys wearing high heels and nothing else (mmm...) that I wrote for Boy Meets Boy Reviews a few weeks back.

Come to Heel

“I can’t walk in them.”

“I can’t walk in them, Sir.”

The correction’s accompanied by a stinging slash from the switch that lands across my calves. Ow fucking ouch. I have a fondness for that skinny little sucker when it’s used on my fellow sub. Watching Andy’s butt become a living tic-tac-toe board leaves my balls tight and my inner sadist drooling.

What, I can’t be a sub and a sadist? Sorry, didn’t get that memo. Or it’s filed in the drawer marked, ‘Oh really? Now fuck off’.

Used on me, though, and I’m tempted to snap the switch in half and take what I get by way of punishment with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

Okay, maybe not the song. Sir would make damn sure I was too busy screaming for mercy, forgiveness, and shit like that to focus on a tune.

I wriggle my toes. They’re pushed into a triangular space. Toes aren’t made to do that. It hurts. And my calves are a tight, taut stretch of flesh because I’m in four-inch fuck me heels and the angle and tilt – you have no idea unless you’ve worn them.

They’re all I’m wearing. Not even a cock ring. Classic black pumps, the Italian leather as soft as a sigh, needle-sharp heels making my muscular legs look elegant as a racehorse’s.

I stare in the long mirror. Yeah. Gorgeous. I can see it and Sir likes the view too, judging by the bulge in his pants. I preen a little, but I can’t do what he wants. I tried. I tottered. Staggered. Shuffled. Wearing heels, I’m as graceful as a toddler and I hate it. Hate disappointing him.

Tears. Fuck. He draws blood before he gets them usually and now they’re spilling out.

“Ssh.” He rests his hand on the back of my neck, clamping down. “I didn’t say you could cry. You haven’t failed me yet, but if I hear you tell me you can’t one more time, I’ll make you Andrew’s sub for a week.”

I hiss out a breath. No. Kneel to that cocky little shit who thinks he’s got a better ass than mine? Never.

“Again.” Sir caresses my cock, waking it to hardness after failure’s left it limp, working it with cool efficiency. “Maybe this will help your balance.”

Oddly, it does. Cock jutting, I throw back my shoulders, do the whole deep breath, focus bit and set off across the room, heels tapping on the wooden floor. God, my ass must look incredible. I throw in a sassy hip wiggle and get the switch again, catching the top of my thighs and leaving behind a sear and sizzle of pain.

I yelp and he clicks his tongue reprovingly.

“Is that how you’d normally walk? I don’t think so. These are what you’ll be wearing from now on, Tony. I like them on you. Get used to them and walk naturally, please.”

“Sir?” He can’t mean it.

“Oh, don’t worry.” He chuckles. “I got them in more colors than black.”

Really wasn’t what I was worried about.

I got feedback on an old Psych fic (Shawn/Lassiter) I did and had almost forgotten so I decided to make it my Friday post.

Kinky, and if you don't know the show (so funny with poignant moments), Lassie's a cop and Shawn's the fake psychic/genuinely good observer who helps out the police department sometimes.

Preemptive Strike

Shawn's been over Lassiter's knee for twenty minutes now. His world's narrowed, gone fuzzy, until all that exists in this space of time is Lassiter's hand and what it's doing to him, which is plenty. Lassie's hand has got to be sore, his wrist and fingers aching.

He's been spanked. He'd expected that, enjoyed anticipating it as much as the spanking itself. Lassiter's hand is firm and sure and he spanks Shawn with a perfect balance of mercy and sadism.

Lassiter gets uncomfortable with that word being applied to him, but it fits, like its twin fits Shawn. Lassiter likes hurting him -- just a little -- and Shawn totally gets off on being made to whimper and beg. It's a label, nothing more. Shawn's slowly finding some peace over what he needs from Lassiter and once he has, he'll show Lassiter where to step in the minefield they live in.

He's also been lectured, Lassiter's voice rising and falling in time with his hand, measured cadences, a blur of admonitions that Shawn files away for later when he needs to work out the wiggle room that will let him do what he wants even if it clashes with Lassie's ideas of perfect behavior.

Lassie's getting better at closing loopholes, but Shawn's always one step ahead. It used to be three until he gave Lassie an all-access pass to his ass. Weird how that let Lassie catch up. Freaky, even.

There's another pause in the relentless rain of slaps and Shawn catches his breath, tear-hitched and shaky as it is. God, he's in so deep. It's going to kill him to sit, to walk, hell, to breathe, tomorrow, but it won't matter then. He doesn't plan on getting out of bed; leave the sheets soaked with Lassiter's scent, all that manly sweat and spunk and tears? No way.

Okay, no tears. Lassiter won't and Shawn's going to be cried dry by the time Lassiter decides enough's enough in this out of the blue session he's swept Shawn into with a growled command spat out of a tight, twitching mouth.

A lube-slick finger slides deep into his ass without warning, crooks just so, and Shawn's closing his eyes and seeing stars, every sting and throb transmuted to pure erotic gold.

Lassie finger-fucks him for a long time, slowly, smoothly, still talking, his voice a confiding whisper now, reeling off rules and regs that, come on, dude, Shawn knows by heart.

Like it matters about toothpaste blobs on the floor when his are going to be the only toes squishing and sliding on them. Like he's really going to be in bed by eleven when the bed's empty of Lassiter, reading a magazine with guns or fish on the cover, an adorable frown of concentration on his face or outright envy when he comes to something he really wants.

The finger's pulled out, and two shove inside him a moment later, all bumps and bones, promising a rougher ride ahead, Lassie's breathing quicker now, unsteady. If Shawn squints outside the haze fogging his eyes, he can see shapes on their bed, the vivid, lurid colors of the vibes and butt plugs he chose online, choices made to annoy Lassie who'd been eying up the metal finish ones with narrowed eyes.

Turns out, Lassie doesn't give a fuck if the plug he uses to spread Shawn's hole obscenely wide is lime green and sparkly. He just lubes it up efficiently, thoroughly, seats it carefully and rams it home. Job done.

"Tell me why I'm doing all this when you've been so good lately," Lassie says, turning Shawn over so that Shawn's cradled in his arms like a baby.

His ass clenches on emptiness and he misses Lassie's fingers so much. He wants to lick them clean, suck them the way he'll be sucking Lassiter's cock later. Lassie won't let him do that, no matter how much he begs. There's a box of wipes a few inches away from the lube and Lassiter's already used one on his fingers. Shawn's fastidious as a cat, but not here, not in this space. He'd lick Lassie head to toe if he was allowed.

A glint of metal and he gasps, arching up, the weight of the clamps Lassiter fixes on his nipples just about bearable, the savage bright bite of their teeth less so.

"Don't know," he grits out. "Don't care. Just don't stop."

"Oh, I won't," Lassiter promises in a voice as silky dark as chocolate. "My flight leaves at nine. We've got all night. Hours, Shawn. I'm going to wear you out before I go."

"You can try," Shawn manages to say. His body's restless now, the searing pain of the clamps shattering the calm he'd been floating in but also pushing him deeper into dark waters, scary if he was with anyone but Lassiter. "Clamps, Lassie. What gives? They're for when I've been bad and I haven't. Much."

"I know," Lassiter murmurs and his mouth brushes over Shawn's, a sweetness Shawn cherishes as much as the twist Lassiter gives the clamp on his left nipple a moment later. He can't even scream for that. He's supported and held against Lassiter, whose white shirt is clinging to his chest, sweat-damp and creased. "I've almost missed you misbehaving."

"You only have to ask." God, talking's hard with his chest on fire. He wants to babble out a dozen versions of Lassie's name not actual, sensible words.

Lassiter holds up another clamp, larger, smooth-edged this time, and Shawn blinks at it, not sure where Lassie plans to -- oh. Oh God, no. Or does he mean yes, please, Lassie, do it?

He kicks his legs, struggles, cries, and lets Lassiter soothe him, croon to him, until his hips arch up, mutely imploring. The wicked glitter of the clamp is decorating the head of his dick soon after. It hurts, but not as much as it could; this clamp's adjustable and that's more cause for concern than the throb of constricted blood that's heating his dick cherry-red.

"Can't -- how long? Fuck, Lassie --"

"Until I say it's time, Shawn." Lassiter's finger catches a tear as it wells up and over. "Until you tell me why I'm doing this."

Shawn frowns, the agony clearing his head as much as the familiar compulsion to solve a puzzle. "You don't need a reason. This is what we do. It's our thing. We're kinky and we love it." He swallows dryly, unsurprised when Lassie immediately reaches out for the bottle of water on the night table. He lies docile for now and lets Lassie push the neck of the bottle into his mouth, tilting it so that a manageable trickle flows into Shawn's tear-parched mouth. Shawn doesn't try to hold the bottle himself. Lassie wouldn't like that, and his hands are trembling too much anyway.

"This isn't kinky," Lassiter says with a twist of his lips, setting the bottle down. "This is just the bare minimum needed to keep you in order."

"Don't fool yourself," Shawn retorts. "You're the Master of Pain and we both know it."

A smile that's wry not smug lightens Lassiter's face, but he shakes his head. "Stop stalling."

"I don't know, okay?" He'll pay for the exasperation in his voice, but Lassiter's leaving him for a week, an endless fucking week, flying off to a conference with a suitcase full of white shirts and blue ties and Shawn hates the thought of being abandoned as much as he's peevishly uneasy about Lassiter -- his Lassie -- being let loose in a crowd of horny lawmen away from home and off the leash.

Anything could happen. Gus has gone to conferences and come back with stories that made Shawn wish he had a job, in a brief moment of insanity.

"Let me help you out."

Lassiter moves his arm and brings Shawn higher, in kissing distance and that's what he does, his mouth claiming Shawn's and it's sweet and hot until Lassie's free hand goes to work, removing the clamps. He smiles when Shawn breaks the kiss to howl a protest. They haven't been on long -- which means he'll feel them again later -- but it still hurts when they come off, a fresh starburst of pain blinding him.

Before he can reach up to rub his nipples, Lassiter's mouth is on one of them, avidly licking the heat and hardness like he can taste it, moving from one to the other until Shawn's muttering a lot of 'yes' and 'please' between groans. Lassiter bites down hard in his own version of that's all, folks, then unceremoniously dumps Shawn off his knee and onto the bed.

Shawn stays where he was put, sprawled out on his back, and waits.

"Preemptive strike," Lassiter says after studying him for a moment, his approval clear. Shawn supposes that he does look good like this, naked, hard, offering himself up to be used and abused the way only Lassie can. "I won't be here to deal with your little escapades, but that doesn't mean that they should go unpunished and I don't like making you wait when you've earned some much-needed discipline."

Shawn yawns, covering his confusion as best he can. He's getting punished for shit he hasn't done yet? Huh. Does that mean he has to do it to even things up? "Whatever, Lass. We both know it's the other way around and you just can't wait to spank the sin out of me, you stern Taskmaster 2000, you."

He knows that's not entirely true; if he screws up at the station, all that he gets is a scowl until later, at home, and sometimes Lassie does keep him hanging, prolonging the agony until Shawn's practically jumping up and down, flapping his hands, dying for Lassie to just get it over with so that he can stop being the bad boy in disgrace and go back to being his daddy's favorite.

Sort of.

"Is that so," Lassie muses. "You know, you could be right." With a speed that Shawn can't counter, laid out as he is, Lassie pounces, grabbing Shawn's ankles and bringing them together. His fingers are long and warm but he's holding on tightly. Shawn only has time to frown before his feet are lifted up and pushed back, leaving him doubled up. It's undignified, on his back like a struggling bug, his feet over his head and he feels so exposed that for the first time in months, he blushes. It's different when he's about to get fucked. They're both involved then. Like this, with Lassie staring down at him, he feels on show.

Lassiter grins at him, sharp and cool. "I need one hand free, Shawn. Help me out."

Shawn grimaces but takes over the job of holding onto his right ankle. His hamstrings are screaming and his balls are tight and high. He's aroused. He's freaking out, but he's turned on, too.

"So much skin I didn't get to," Lassie says, stroking the underside of Shawn's ass, then squeezing his balls. "Here and here…I'll deal with that in a moment. So, your spanking was for bothering O'Hara, something I'm sure you'll be doing more than once while I'm away, which is why you'll be getting another spanking later. The clamps were for getting this place messy. I know your habits, Shawn and I disapprove of every single one."

"But you love me anyway," Shawn says and gets a pat of Lassiter's hand on a particularly hot piece of his ass in reply as his legs are lowered.

"Help me out again," Lassiter says and there's that…imaginative glint in his eyes now. "Tell me everything you plan on doing this week that I won't like and we can discuss suitable penalties. Don't hold back, Shawn. I want to hear it all, and I'll know if you miss something."

"Dude, that is diabolical," Shawn says with sincere admiration.

Lassiter shrugs modestly. "I learned from the best."

They share a moment, then Shawn says, "Wait -- you mean me, right?"

That gets him an eye-roll. "I'm going to include fishing for compliments on the list."

Shawn pouts. "I didn't get any!"

Lassiter leans in close and places his hand flat over Shawn's chest, right over his heart. "I should be going over my notes. Checking the contents of my suitcase for any little surprises --"

"Does the picture of me naked I tucked into one of your spare shoes count?"

"Yes, it does." Lassiter looks interested rather than annoyed. "Just who took it? Do I need to shoot someone?"

"Me. On a timer. I asked Gus to take it and he started running. I think he's somewhere in the vicinity of Alaska right now."

"Understandable. As I was saying, I should be preparing for my trip and instead…"

"You're taking care of naughty little me," Shawn breathes, giddy with love. "You thoughtful Lassie, you. I almost forgive you for abandoning me for a week, a whole, entire seven days to flirt with your peers."

"I won't be flirting," Lassiter assures him. "And neither will you."

"Oh, I probably will," Shawn says sunnily. "You know me. I flirt with everyone. I'm shameless. A faithless slut." He wets his lips and stares up hopefully. "What are you going to do about that, Lassie?"

Lassiter smiles slowly. "What do I usually do, Shawn?"

Shawn feels his heartbeat increase. Truth be told, he doesn't flirt often these days. Lassiter doesn't really like it and there's not much Shawn won't do to keep that hurt, bruised look out of Lassie's blue eyes. If it's pretend flirting, hypothetical and never to be performed for real, though and it still gets him punished…win/win. A possessive Lassie, intent on showing Shawn just who he belongs to is super-nova hot. "Do it, Lassie."

"Not good enough, Shawn. Show me some goddamned respect. Try again."

"Please, Carlton."

Lassiter lets him get away with that for now -- and Shawn sneaks a look at the clock by the bed while his eyes can still focus. It's barely ten.

Hours of this to come, hours… God, he's going to need every minute to get through the next week. Before he's tied, before his mouth is filled with Carlton's cock, he twists free of Carlton's hands and gets his arms around Carlton, hugging him. Time out. They both need these sometimes. They play rough.

Carlton's hands slip over his back in long, soothing passes, gentle, careful hands, murmuring something comforting into Shawn's hair.

"Ready?" Carlton asks a few minutes later when Shawn's stopped shivering.

Shawn nods, brushes impatiently at his eyes, and lies down.

"The only greens I'm gonna be eating are apple, lime, and mint jelly beans…" he begins.

Why should Friday have all the fun?
Fic from two POVs. Sentinel fandom, though it doesn't really matter. This is pure smut, no plot.

Blair's Side

I'm lying in Jim's bed, ass raw, jaw aching, lips bruised red. The sheets are damp with sweat and spunk, clinging to my skin, peeling free reluctantly when I roll to my stomach, sprawling wantonly, legs wide, over as much of the bed as I can stake a claim to.

Jim's pillow yields to the press of my cheek and I see, caught against the yellow cotton, a single straight, dark hair. I breathe on it and watch it move, caught in the flow of air, tossed and helpless as I'd been the night before, Jim over me, surrounding me, all muscles and heat and a starkly direct hunger.

He'd consumed me. Chewed me up and spit me -- well, no. He'd swallowed. Licked his lips with a faint, pensive frown of concentration and then smiled, a dark, promising smile that had made my hips arch up off the bed involuntarily, a mute offering that had won me an approving caress, his hand passing over my spent, limp body with an assurance I'd fostered.

I'd put that hunger in his eyes, that smile on his lips --

I'd given him permission to take me, use me to fulfill any need he had or wanted. He hadn't disappointed me with a half-hearted, token acceptance.

My ass hurts, a red, raw soreness I feel with every shift on the rumpled sheet. He hadn't been gentle, but then, I hadn't wanted him to be. I clench on emptiness and moan, biting into his pillow the way I'd dug my teeth into the meat of his arm, the flat expanse of his chest. My lips are frayed, abraded, the corners tender against my probing tongue. His fingers beside his cock as he fucked my mouth, spreading my lips open, obscenely wide, choking me, filling me, until all I could taste, all I could smell, was the ripe, male reek of his arousal, smeared and painted on his skin…

I'm arching and rubbing against the sheet now, my cock carving a groove in the fabric, but I won't let myself come when he's not there to watch me, blue eyes intent, or hear my anguished, ecstatic cries. He made me talk to him last night, say stuff I've never spoken even in the secret darkness of my head. I was scarlet, stammering, but I could see what it did to him, meant to him, and my voice steadied, went husky, confident, blatantly seductive. I told him what he was going to do to me and he nodded, did it, and did it, and did-- oh, fuck, Jim, what you did to me. God.

What did you do?

I don't know. But I'm lying here in your bed, my world narrowed to sheets and pillow and the scent of you, lying here hot and aching, waiting for you to come back and do it again.



***
Jim's Side



I'm almost at the door when I stop, halted in my tracks. I can hear Blair. I can smell him. I harden, helplessly, completely, in the space of a few quick, gulped breaths and hope that no one appears in the hallway, because I'm so turned on, I can't move without spilling in my pants like a teenager.

He's moaning, guttural, pained whimpers that make me close my eyes so that I can hear them better. I'm concentrating on him to the exclusion of everything else and it feels as if I'm standing beside our bed listening, watching, my hands empty, yearning to touch.

He's hurting, he wants me so much. I -- I can't -- God, that's just -- I did that to him? Me? I separate out the words from the whimpers and hear my name, over and over, Jim, Jim, Jim a prayer, a plea.

I should go to him. Quiet him down with my mouth on his, my hand soothing the tremors running through his body. His skin's so warm where I touch him, every time, flushing hot with blood, tiny hairs prickling up, stiff and strong against my palm, something only I can feel. It's selfish of me, but I get off on knowing him better than any other lover has.

Last night I used him. Played with him. Enjoyed him, with his words and body urging me to take everything just that single step further, again and again, until I was so lost in lust that the only thought left was the hope that I didn't go too far.

When I'd finished with him, he was a mess, sweaty, spattered with spit and come, his skin marked by my teeth and nails, and I loved him. God, the way he looked up at me from our bed, drowned eyes, scarlet cheeks, his mouth open on a breath. He looked…dazed, adoring. Blair.

I put my hand on him when I was done and felt him quiver, arch up into the light caress. We couldn't have gone again, but I wanted so much from him still and I don't see that changing. I held him close until he fell asleep, every breath tormenting me, because I was aroused in my head and physically incapable of getting it up.

Not a problem I've got right now.

My hand is on my key, the sharp edges digging into my skin. I'm going to use it; walk in, close the door behind me, and go up to where he's waiting for me in a bed that smells of sex and both of us. Stand by the bed, and watch him turn to his stomach, spread his legs, and look back at me, imploring, impatient, inviting.

And whatever it was I did to him last night, I'll do again until we're both raw from fucking, exhausted and smiling.

Smiling. I've been doing that all day…

The key slides into the lock easily; accepted, familiar, and I walk inside.

He says my name, not a greeting but a sigh of relief.

Waiting's over, Chief…but I still walk slowly up the stairs, just to hear him whisper my name again, hooking me with a word and reeling me in.

NSFW, caning, established relationship

This Hurts Me More

Don’t move or this could hurt you.

That’s funny. It’s a cane. It’s going to hurt no matter what I do, but I know what he means so I relax, waiting, waiting…

Searing pain, clawing into my flesh, hungry for blood.

The first stroke’s the worst.

Breathe, in, out, that’s it. Good boy.

I know what’s coming now, the pale memory of other canings lost in a vivid wash of now, here, this.

A fresh stroke, angled to reach untouched skin.

The agony bleeds from the new stroke to the first, a steady beat of pounding blood filling my ears.

The second stroke’s the worst.

Then the third, then the fourth, the fifth, all worse, all of them, until I’m sobbing, squeezing my hands into fists, curling my toes. I’m bound, wrists and ankles, but holding still beyond the split second of receiving the stroke is impossible.

He murmurs praise, encouragement. This isn’t for punishment, but pleasure, his pleasure, and as much as I hate a caning, I love giving him joy at any cost.

The final stroke lands, finding nothing but bruised, swollen flesh, and I scream, sobbing out his name.

It’s over.

The last stroke’s the worst.

Why?

Because it’s over.

I’m not the focus of his attention, the source of his pleasure. I’m a hurt sub in need of care, a duty.

And so I beg for another, please, Sir, one more, and he chuckles, indulgent, happy, and gives it to me.

Does it hurt?

It’s a cane on raw, welted flesh, wielded by a strong arm.

Hurts like fuck.

I donated to Archive of Our Own, as I always do, and since I'm currently re-watching The Sentinel, I thought it'd be fun to post one of my fics to cheer up a dull, rainy Friday. I also baked cranberry-lemon muffins, but they're tricky to share online...

Make it Better

Scarlet skin, radiating heat, hovering over Blair's skin like a mirage. Jim smooths on aloe vera, dousing the flames, and ignores Blair's yelp of protest.

God, it's like touching the sun safely, and he loses himself in the way the gel melts against that blaze, thinning second by second, so the barrier between his hand and Blair's skin soon dissipates. Over and over, his hand strokes, so gently now, caressing that stinging, tingling skin.

"So have you learned your lesson?"

Blair sighs by way of reply and Jim administers a reproving prod to his ribs.

"Hey!"

"Well?"

"God, you're such a -- I've learned my lesson, okay?" Blair turns his head to scowl up at Jim, who meets the accusing glare calmly. "No falling asleep when I sunbathe."

Jim nods, accepting that, and lets his hand go lower, his fingers, slick with gel, sliding between cheeks his hand, not the sun, painted red that morning. Blair grunts, a grumbled, grudging sound -- why he's pissed with Jim is a mystery, but somehow his sunburn is all Jim's fault -- and spreads his legs wider, pushes his ass up.

"More," he demands. "Put them in me."

Jim chuckles and brings his hand down just once on that steaming, sizzling ass, before doing as he's told.