Work Text:
It’s the fast dirty crack, that bright sound like nothing else but what it is--his open palm against willing skin--and the way his fingertips sting hot and tingly, a pain of his own.
It’s the quick pink flush, warm. Then hot. Then red. Sharp-edged beside the fairer skin around it, and those magic moments when the scarlet shadow of his own fingers and palm blossoms there, as obvious as if it were painted on in burning-sunset watercolour.
It’s the way he grunts, or whimpers, or shouts or cries or howls. It’s the way his teeth rattle against each other. It’s the way his jaw slides slightly sideways. It’s the expression of shocked surprise, the glint in his eyes of a fierce desire to retaliate, and how he resists that urge in favour of staying down, staying in his place.
It’s the way he willingly offers the other cheek.