Fic: Counting the bruises

[munnin]

Title: Counting the bruises
Warning: Slash
Pairing: Racer X/...that would be spoiling it really...nothing you would be surprised by hanging around here.
Rating: PG but written for dark and nasty minds
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own bruises
Feedback: feed the ego for it is small and squishable. Written in a hurry so please forgive any mistakes
Summary: Racer X takes stock of his injuries after rough incident.

Author’s notes: For J'belle, Lyfic, Lach and Mackie who, after last night I bet are sporting a few bruises of their own. Sore but not sorry guys.

X slipped into the shower, stretching as he went, his shoulder popped in protest. Groaning as the hot water hit his abused body, he took stock of his injuries.

The skin of his wrist bristled with bruises; not visible yet but touch-sore and tender. It was fairly likely they’d never show up, X didn’t bruise easily, at least not on the surface but he could feel them, just under the skin. He ran his hands over them, shivering as the pain prickled sharpest along the bone.

His neck and collarbone was peppered with burning marks, those would show without doubt. The shower ran too hot for him to be able to see the damage in the mirror but he could feel indented bruises and broken skin. Thankfully he had no reason to go in to the office today. No need to search for a high collared shirt or something to cover them from the prying eye of others. No need to come up with slick answers to question he wasn’t ready to face.

He brushed his hands over the line of finger shaped bruising on his throat, low and deep on his Adam’s apple and splayed over his sternum. He gasped for air, his own touch triggering the memory of how hard it had been to breath.

Shampoo stung his back as he rinsed it out, the long scratches burning. He touched a wash-cloth to them, surprised it didn’t come back blooded. They felt deep enough to reach the bone but all he could feel were four long, raised welts. A matching set to the ones on his inner thigh.

Even this short time standing was enough to make the muscles of his legs complaint. His thighs ached with overuse and strain. His carves cramped into pained knots that pulled his toes up as he stretched. There was a fierce red line of bruising and broken blood vessels around his left ankle where the skin had caught as he tried twisted away.

It hurt, his whole body aching from abuse as he towelled himself off and padded back to his room, leaning on the doorframe to survey the scene before him. His room was a warzone; the lamp still on the floor where it fell, his books scattered, the sheets stained with blood and cum.

And Speed and David, still asleep, sprawled over the bed. Both wearing bruises of their own.

It hurt but god it felt glorious.