White Noise

May. 23rd, 2008 09:41 am

Fandom: X-Men (comicverse)

Characters: Emma/Scott

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Smut

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Summary: Emma always has something to say, except when they're doing this, when the only sounds come from Scott.

Kink: (2) Caning

Author's Note: My actual entry for this prompt. So my goal is to use a different couple for each prompt. I don't know if I'm going to manage that. But it's my goal. Using people that probably have my flist going, "The hell?" is just a bonus. Also, so far I have three heterosexual couples. I'm a closet het writer, obviously.

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Emma always has something to say, except when they're doing this, when the only sounds come from Scott.

She even makes him ask for it, damn her. He knows she can see when he needs it, he knows that she's looking around inside his head, nosing around in his secrets, in the corners of his soul so black that they swallow light. She knows, but she makes him ask anyway, his jaw clenched tight in resistance, the words forced out regardless.

Scott is on his knees, staring at the wall, his arms braced and supporting his weight. He's naked, and he would feel exposed, but Emma has been walking around inside his head for long enough that there's nothing left she hasn't seen. After that, his body is hardly a consideration at all.

The floor is cold under his skin, hard wood that makes his knees hurt. He doesn't move. He doesn't even flinch. Compared to the wounds his body has bore over the years this is nothing. A joke that's not quite managing to be funny ha-ha.

Emma's heels click when she crosses the room. She stops a step behind Scott, if he tilts his head down he can just see the white leather of her boot, the needle sharp heel, the first of the dozens of buttons up the side. Emma doesn't speak, just rests the tip of the cane under Scott's chin, tapping twice.

Scott rises, his left knee cracking as he does. He doesn't remember what he did to it to blow it out last time. Was it a fall? Perhaps an unadvised attack on something metal? It's inconsequential, in any case. He braces his legs, refolding his arms against the wall, this time letting his forehead rest against the back of his wrists.

Emma does nothing, waiting, making him ask for it. Scott grits his teeth so hard it aches all through his jaw, grunting out, "Please."

The first blow lands right below his ass, hard and stinging. Emma is strong, and mercy is nothing that she has ever wasted her time on. Scott doubts that she even knows what the word means. There is no room for it in her world, where pragmatism and survival have always ruled.

Scott keeps his jaw tight, breathing through the lash of pain above his ass, half way down his thighs, surprisingly high across his shoulder blades. There is no variance in pressure, hard enough to hurt, to leave bruises, blood vessels bursting and staining his skin purple and black. Scott squeezes his eyes shut as Emma lands a blow across his ass, the sting of it flaring up his back and down his thighs. She could, he knows, go like this all night.

Damn her.

Scott forces out, fighting with himself to let the single word escape, "Harder." There is no hesitation, no question of whether or not he is sure. Emma trusts him to be a big boy, to know his own limits. The next blow she lands is hard enough that Scott is not sure, for a moment, if she broke skin or not.

But this is Emma. And of course, she knows exactly how to hit to prevent that. She rains blows down on him, from just above his knees to the middle of his shoulder blades, until he can no longer feel the individual strikes. His back feels as though it's on fire, pain leeching down into his muscles, into his bones. Each hit makes his body jerk, the only way he's sure that she's continuing.

Between one jerk and the next, his arms sliding against the wall, slick now with sweat, Scott's mind goes quiet. He gasps when it happens, the billion and a half problems that he's dealing with all blinking out of focus and then giving way to white noise.

The pain, that he had been aware of, but not really feeling, floods into him, crawling up his spine and clawing at his mind. Scott cries out with the next blow, feeling it in the soles of his feet and the roots of his hair, in bursts of red behind his eyes.

His knees start to give, leaving him sliding down the wall. The next blow lands across the top of his shoulders, a lash of pain that has him shouting hoarsely. He can feel himself getting hard, finally, his body torn between relief and agony, the pain sharpening everything down into focus. Emma strikes him across his neck, the force of it jerking his head forward, his fingers scrambling at the wall for purchase.

Another blow across his shoulders, then a third, and Scott is losing the white to gray. He doesn't want that, not yet, and it is easy, now, to say, "Stop. Stop, enough."

Emma stops. His skin stings and burns, hurting too much to ache. Scott's arms don't seem to be working, possibly because his brain isn't online enough to direct them. He's hard and aching, lost in the white space behind his eyes.

Words fall easily from his lips, all the need and desire to contain them washed away, "Touch me, touch me please."

He feels Emma's hands on his arms, sliding down his skin as she moves in close behind him. The leather she's wearing catches at his skin, setting off fireworks of pain. She hooks her chin over his shoulder, her skin diamond-cool. She is wearing her gloves, and he shudders from the touch of rough fabric against his cock when she fists it.

He groans, "God, God, yes," as she jacks him. She is brutal in this as she is everything else, drawing pleasure from his body with each movement, edging all of it with brilliant pain. Her thighs are on either side of his, the buckles of her boots digging into his skin, he can feel the ring in her bellybutton, sharp edged, like a knife against his lower back.

Scott gasps, "God, I love you," and comes.

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