deggyder smut rhat i mostly wrote as birds alreasy sang outside and i didn't sleep till fucking four, finished so bro posts their fic and accidentaly posted before it was even done, lets go
First and foremost, it was wet.
It all was so filthily wet and moist and hot. It wasn't just water that squeamed its way down his tar-black hair to the back of his neck and even lower, brought by a post-emmission rain. It wasn't just sweat that was prone to emerge on the skin after hours of wearing a tight, heavy suit and plethora of other gear.
It was tears, tears that prickled the the eyes from all the overwhelming sensations; the pleasure, the pain, the desire, the exhaustion, the sleepiness and restless awakeness, the puslation at the temples--
It was blood too; soaking into the bandages around the reopened wounds caused by the expedition to X8, beading from little nips left just by slightly too passionate, greedy bites to his lips or other exposed skin.
It was saliva, mostly. So much saliva brought by relentless pressing of lips, teeth, tongues, so much it even sounded wet.
For how long did this kiss even last for already? Can an average adult man even hold his breath for this amount of time? Sure, Sasha was trained, and more than once even put those diving skills to good use, and yet--
And yet his lungs burnt with lack of at least some semblance of air, his knees were trembling and each buckled at least twice, and, to top it all off, that excruitiating torturous tightness around his crotch...
Well, what do you even expect from a monolithian when you tell him to not hold back? To ravish, to grab, grope and hold and use you as a resting space for his whole weight? Probably whatever the fuck this was. This almost consumption like kiss, this dead tight hold at the spot between the ribs and the nest-like pelvic bone, this insistent grip holding his leg raised and pressed to the aformentioned monolithian's side.
Probably the sounds he was making were a little too alike with those one would produce when drowning, for Strider pulled away. Through the hazy, liquid-like blindfold of desire and confusion, Dehtyarov saw his eyes: those eyes that were his undoing, those eyes with central heterochromia, with that white chrysanthemum around the black dot of the pupil and bleeding into a rich, rum-like brown. The pupil was widened to the limit, pitch black and leaking with absolute devotion, yet the distinct duochromatic pattern remained just at the edge, pressed between the pupil and the grey border between the iris and sclera.
He let out another not really human sounding sound; something between a whimper of a begging dog and a gasp of someone devastated and disappointed. Quite frankly, he was both right now.
Strider grinned. It wasn't an evil or a mocking or a sly grin, but one that dripped with satisfaction, with pride at doing such a good job at unreveling him. And by what? A few suffocating kisses and bitemarks placed where the uniform collar was oh so carefully pulled away with a nifty finger?
The grin morphed into something more like a shy smile. No matter how dominant of a position he took, there was still that bit of softness, that ultimate adoration. He ended up pressing a chaste kiss to Dehtyarov's bruised, bitten, swollen lips and pulled away before the stalker's hazy brain could even recieve the neurological signal that transfered the sensation of that happening.
As Steider dropped to his knees, the white of his pants didn't dust only thanks to the knee pads protecting the sensitive, fragile joints. The same could not be said about his shins or black, burnt out combat boots. Strider shoved his face into Dehtyarov's waist, grip not even considering moving from this side or thigh. Oleksansdr was desperately trying to catch his breath at his gloved hand slipped into the man's, surprisingly soft, buckwheat-coloured hair.
Strider nuzzled his cheek against the stalker's abdomen, tight grip momentarily relaxing before going even tighter as he moved to just have his chin leaning on the black fibers encasing the man's skin. Their eyes met momentarily, one void staring into another.
Once again, only the monolithian's hold on him had Dehtyarov still standing upright as his knees twitched again.
"Can I? Please?" Strider pleaded in a soft, hoarse voice.
It was so obvious what he was asking for, so obvious what was his plan, clear as day for an experienced tactitian such as Dehtyarov, and yet he was still takej by surprise. Not by the pespective of a completely expected (and very desired) action, no, at the fact that Strider was begging for permission to do that.
Dehtyarov stared; the white chrysantems surrounding abyssal pupils stared back.
He swallowed, still breathless and hazy minded. His other hand moved from holding desperately at a wall to cup Strider's cheeks. Dehtyarov's heart barely avoided another heart attack as the man leaned into the gentle, reverent touch of trembling palms.
"I'm... pretty sure that... I should be the one saying 'please'," Dehtyarov uttered out, gulping audibly as he finished.
Strider just kept staring as he listened, face still bearing that expression of unwavering veneration and love. He tilted his head, blinking up at him with a bit of, what it even was, confusion? A bit of a pout appeared on his face.
"Why would you--?" He began, but cut himself off, glancing off to the side.
After a moment of consideration, where the tightness of his grip fluctuated again, Strider huffed and moved to clasp the belt of Dehtyarov's pants. The annoying parts of his Bulat were gone already, so just a few layers of fabric separeted him from that something that made his mouth water even more.
"We will talk about this later," He pressed at the buckle, letting it open with a soft clasp. Strider kept the intense eye contact as his deftly fingers pulled the fabric out of the way.
"Threatening me?" Dehtyarov huffed, letting out a soft laugh before going still at the sensation of a caloused palm wrapping around his cock. Just this slightest bit of pressure, just that weak hold--it was enough for him to fall back to that state where his brain was more like kholodets than anything else and surely felt that way.
Strider grinned again, leisurely moving his hand up and down. He took in all of Dehtyarov's reactions, took them all in with some kind of analytical hunger as well as genuine happiness that always seemed to acompany him when they'd do stuff like this. The even shorter, gaspy breaths not unlike those of a dog resently back from a hunt, the biting of the already tortured lips, the subconscious movement of hips in the direction of the touch that were stopped only by the strong grip of his other hand nailing Dehtyarov to the wall, he was drinking in all of it.
"Only with some good time," He said and immediately proved the truthfulness of his words. Strider was not a liar at all, he was probably too honest for his own good, but still--
It was much more wetter, hotter, obsener than before. Fucking monolithians and their fucking lack of the fucking gag reflex, Dehtyarov's mind thought as it drowned in that sticky, overwhelming haze. His fingers tightened around Strider's hair, but didn't pull. Its not like he even needed to, no, just this was enough to make Strider look up at him, grin around his cock and get even closer.
His breathing turned featherish, shallow. Dehtyarov tilted his head back, letting it hit the wall he was both pinned against and already used it himself as primary support for his delirious body. Yea, this was a good idea. The wall was cool, just enough to cut through the veil of the sensations, sharpening them even further, making his eyes roll back and hide under twitching eyelids.
The scene would propably fit in a porn film flawlessly. It absolutely was as obscene and filthily erotic as it was intimate. Strider was enjoying himself no less than Dehtuarov; licking, kissing, lapping up, pumping his hand, nuzling even. And the sight itself--straight out of one of those contraband porn magazines some nifty teens sneaked into the SBU academy, those that were even rarer and more dangerous to get caught with for their "untraditional" contents.
So... don't blame him, alright? It's really hard to hold back when the man lapping at your cock is humming in pleasure and staring at you shamelessly while at it.
That heavy weight suspended on the tightly coiled ropes low in his stomach dropped right at his head. Metaphorically, of course, yet it sure felt as though something blunt and heavy hit him. Dehtyarov let out a moan that would probably be too much even for the wildest of the porn cassetes circulating in the Zone. Only the firm coldness of the wall behind him and the unrelenring grip above one of his knees kept him standing.
But the sight of Strider lapping up at his fingers? Yea, that was that tipping point that had Dehtyarov blacking out.
...He came to his senses slowly. The smell was first: that same smell of an old, long abandoned flat that he once called home. Then there was temperature: he felt far colder than before, despite the high temperatures of a grandma's summer right in its prime just outside the window. His clothes were a tad different too, the Bulat not cooking him alive anymore, he was stripped to hiswifebeater and underwear. His bandages felt fresh, too. Hearing came next, just soft shuffling around him. At long last, came touch. The pillow was pleasantly cool under his cheek, and the matress beside him dipped with a displeased squal of strings as a body settled behind him followed by a greedy arm pulling him even closer.
"You back with me now?" Strider whispered to his ear as he kissed it.
Sasha hummed as he mindlessly palmed to find the caloused hand around his ribs and thread their fingers together.
"Should have said that the heat got to you," Strider nuzzled his face into the older man's neck as he wrapped his other arm around him, pulling him even closer. Theoretically, cuddling during a heatwave should have been on a different level of disgusting, but it was not just bearable but welcome.
"I didn't exactly plan on getting a blowjob the moment I'd close the door," Dehtyarov hoarsed at which Strider squeezed him playfully, to be met with a soft chuckle.
Dehtyarov finally peeled his eyes open, looking over his shoulder to meet a pair of far more calm chryzantemas drifting at the surface of a glass of rum, still hiding behind the pupil dripping with reverense, adoration, love and devotion.
He reached out the arm he was laying on to cup Strider's face, counting the day-old stubble with his thumb.
"Love you," Dehtyarov murmured, far more drowsy than he wanted to be when confessing such things.
Strider smiled, a soft, genuine, happy uptilt of the corner of his plumpy lips.
"Love you too," He whispered and turned to press a kis to Dehtyarov's palm before nuzzling it and looking back at the barely awake major. "Go back to sleep, you need it, you busy bee."
"All I need is you," Dehtyarov slurred out, moving to press their foreheads together and rub their noses for a moment before squeezing Strider's hand and turning back to put his cheek onto the pillow, drowning in sweet embrace of sleep in less than a blink.
idk this went a different direction than i initially planned but hey have sum food
are you considered lightweight when you bust a nut very quickly 🤔
should i move this to ao3 hmmm
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