Kinktober - 10 Fighting Kink
In minute eight of a ten minute fight, John’s right ear is high-pitch humming and his left hand is throbbing, every knuckle bruised, one cut. He sucks his lips into his mouth, quick-licking, and tastes blood, not a little. His bare feet are less reliable on the soft old marble tiles beneath them, now that perspiration is raining down off him. They circle, slow, and Sherlock gives him that smug half-smile, looking cocky and slightly punch-drunk, and John lurches, ducking low, throws a mismatched pair of jabs at his midsection. Sherlock’s oblique abdominal muscles tense to resist the blows, and he snakes sneaky arms in and through John’s elbows, tangling him, trapping and tripping one ankle, turning him, until John is caught, bent, dropped, and they are where Sherlock wants them, grappling on the filthy floor.
Sherlock wrestles him, wrenches him, his mouth watering and his heart thrumming hard and hot in every pulse point: temples, throat, sternum, thumb-pads. Drapes himself over John’s back, vining longer limbs around John’s stronger ones to keep him down, on elbows and knees, with his breath heaving hard inside his bare back, and Sherlock feels it in thuds against his belly. John’s ear close enough to bite. Or his neck. But there are rules. John rolls, catches his wrist and throws him off, growling a shout as he regains to his feet. Hurls a muttered invitation to come on that sounds exactly like a threat. It’s nearly over, and naturally Sherlock’s mind races to what comes after, what comes next, but he also--always--wants to win. Balls his fist, aims in a wide arc for John’s lower orbital bone, dreaming of the crunch and shatter that could come, but doesn’t.
The decision is given, jeering men stomping and half-mad all around the ring, and the winner’s hand is raised while the loser flexes his black and blue fingers, wipes sweat from his neck and face with his shirt before he dives back into it. If the gathered hoard notices the two leaving immediately after their fight is called--together, with kill-crazy looks in their eyes--it gives no indication of being the least bothered.
Which serves, because what comes next is a shove and pull into a doorway alcove at the back of the building, and every rule is at last thrown aside as they struggle, tearing at clothing and pulling hair, teeth pressing hard to leave black-and-blue dashed circles as a weeklong reminder of a smack across the face with the back of a hand, a pinch, a punch, and the resistant grind of the bones in his wrist as it’s pressed against rough block wall. The way they slap each other’s hands away, crash teeth together at wrong angles, lick each other’s wounds. The way he groans as he’s gripped with spit-soaked fingers, the string of curses he spews because I hate you, you’re gorgeous, I want you, to hurt me.
