kindkit: Text icon: "British officers do not cuddle each other. (Not when there are people watching, anyway.") ('Allo 'Allo: British officers do not cud)
[personal profile] kindkit
At last, another [community profile] kink_bingo fic!

Title: In My Sweet Pain: Five Ways Dick Likes to Be Hurt (Plus One)
Fandom: Colditz
Pairing: Dick Player/Pat Grant
Rating: Explicit
Kink: Painplay (other)
Word Count: 700, plus section numbers
Content Notes: No standard notes apply.
Author's Notes: I owe many thanks to [personal profile] halotolerant for delightful conversations about what Pat and Dick are like between the sheets together. You probably don't need to have seen Colditz to read this, although you might find this primer post helpful in that case. Everything is set during the first few years of Pat and Dick's relationship (as I imagine it) after the war. Title stolen from Petrarch, who made this trope hip over 600 years ago.


"I'm not a masochist," Dick says when Pat finally asks. He'd have explained sooner if he'd known Pat was wondering. "I've tried whips and that sort of thing" (Pat, who must know by now that Dick has tried everything, does not look surprised) "and real pain's not for me. But I enjoy intense sensations. Sharpness. Spice. It's like your curries or those jarred limes in hydrochloric acid and brimstone."

"I'll have you know that lime pickle is delicious."

"Exactly," Dick says, and kisses Pat, and whispers, "hold my wrists hard."

It's months before Pat can say lime pickle without blushing.


The biting's often sudden, a little sparking firework on his skin before Pat's mouth gentles again. Pat is good at surprise, at lulling kisses and sweet tongue, the softest building pleasure and then his teeth to make Dick gasp. Then teeth again, perhaps, in sharp startling repetition, or perhaps another unguessable interval.

Sometimes, though, Pat says "I'm going to bite you," and Dick's breath stalls, his body trembles in hungry anticipation before Pat's teeth close light and quick around his earlobe or his nipple.

Or Dick says "Bite me here," and Pat does, precisely, eagerly, and Dick shakes to pieces.


It begins as a joke. "I should spank you," Pat wheezes when Dick has finally, after bringing him close five times, let him climax.

Dick rolls onto his belly and smiles provokingly.

Tentative, then harder, warmer, a growing sting to his backside, a heat-flush that spreads everywhere. Pat turns him, sucks him, every movement rubbing Dick's arse against the sheet. His awakened nerves overload and Pat laughs at him later, fondly, for the sounds he makes.

It's not punishment; they never pretend so. It's a caress, inverted, amplified. It's Dick's body and Pat's, together. It's the rough truth of them.


Pat has an engineer's modulated touch, but his hands are strong. Dick loves Pat's grip on his wrists, pressure holding him patient to the bone while Pat does something slow and exquisite.

The desperate, inciting tug of Pat's fingers in Dick's hair when Dick fucks him.

His hipbones fiercely clasped when Pat fucks him, when Pat's been fucking him for a long time and is fighting for self-control, the struggle making it slip away ever faster.

He loves the after-ache too, the inescapable memory, the embodied knowledge that Pat has held him as though he'd rather die than let go.


Dick has always preferred fucking to being fucked. But with Pat he wants every possibility, and at times he aches for Pat's cock. He's an emptiness for Pat to fill, to overfill, to stretch to the shuddering limit. In these moods he shoves himself onto Pat, unprepared and almost unlubricated, arching into the pain that proves Pat is in him, with him, his. "Yes" he hisses, and Pat echoes "Yes, yes, Dick," wrapping him in a Gordian embrace. They fuck then as slowly as they can bear, settling into each other's pleasure until they climax, as often as not, together.


Sometimes Pat bites him not playfully but deeply, raising a rich, flooding pain and a bruise. It used to happen half against Pat's will, when emotion or approaching orgasm overwhelmed him. That was before they understood each other.

Then everything changed. Pat tied Dick's wrists to the bedposts and spent an hour biting an onyx chain of bruises along his inner thighs. Between links he sucked Dick's cock until Dick was speechless, shaking. Afterwards Pat whispered, "I love you." They'd only managed to say it once before.

"Bite me harder," Dick asks sometimes. They both know, now, what he means.

5 + 1.

There is one thing Dick never tried, before Pat. This best, hardest thing that hurts more than whips, that stretches him to breaking and then holds him fast.

He never tells Pat how agonising it is to love. Nor how much he needs it now, how he blesses the pain like the masochist he is (not), how he is always empty and always full. How this torment is the profoundest pleasure he has ever felt.

There's no need. Pat's seen him with tears in his eyes. Pat's seen him touch a bruise and smile, and Pat has always smiled back.


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