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salmon_pinkTitle: Scent Senseless
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: Daken/Johnny
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1088
Timeline: Daken, Dark Wolverine #04
Notes: Dub-con (for Daken's pheromones, of which Johnny isn't aware). For Porn Battle XV, prompts "Daken Akihiro/Johnny Storm - manipulation, dark, submission, lick".
Summary: Daken has this way of coaxing out parts of him Johnny would rather stay hidden.
God, his head’s spinning, everything’s spinning, and Johnny can’t see, can’t even think straight. And, Christ, he might be bordering on hysteria right now, because there’s a voice in his head laughing, mocking and manic and cracked around the edges.
He’s a superhero, he parades around in tights, he’s no stranger to puns, but they don’t usually make him want to groan and claw at his own skin from the inside out like this. ‘Can’t even think straight’ and it’s funny because he’s got another man’s head moving between his legs.
Fuck, fuck, this isn’t supposed to happen.
But Daken just does things to him, turns Johnny’s brain and his life upside-down every time he flashes through. Makes those tiny whispers at the back of his mind when he’s jerking off turn into something more, turns them into images of dark tattoos swirling around defined biceps, and a hard, flat belly with a trail of dark hair leading down and down. Images that stutter over the back of his eyelids, that make him stroke himself rushed and frantic, that haunt him afterwards when the fantasy is supposed to be over, when he’s supposed to be able to breathe again.
And that’s scary enough, that ties Johnny in knots because he’s known himself pretty decently since puberty first kicked him in the nads, and he’s not supposed to be like this. Nothing wrong with it, of course not, it’s just not him.
Except when it comes to Daken.
Scary enough to be so thrown, to feel so foreign to himself, but this is so much more. This is Daken’s touch, his tongue, and Johnny’s fingers have a death-grip on the sheets, like he’ll fall through the bed if he lets go. He’s not supposed to do this, it’s not supposed to be real, not supposed to exist outside his head.
But Daken was dead, and Johnny fucking mourned him.
Daken was dead, and Johnny’s heart stopped too the moment he heard that voice again.
And now he’s here, lying on his back, and Daken’s thumbs are digging into his inner thighs. Holding him spread, and Johnny can hear all the weak little noises he’s making, but it’s like they’re coming from someone else because he’s never heard himself sound like that before.
Daken’s not even touching him properly, not the way Johnny needs it. He needs that hot, wet mouth, needs to push up inside of it, but Daken’s just licking at him. Long, slow, leisurely curls of his tongue, over Johnny’s cock, along the underside and swirling over the tip, down to massage over his balls. It’s driving Johnny crazy, but then everything about Daken drives him crazy, so maybe that’s the only way this can be.
Even though it’s not supposed to be at all. Even though it was always supposed to stay firmly buried in his mind, and he doesn’t understand how Daken coaxed this out of him, how he made it seem so easy. One moment they were talking, and Johnny was trying to tell him how much it hurt, knowing Daken was dead, trying to tell him but still keep it to himself. And then there was the taste of Daken’s mouth under his, and he doesn’t even remember making the move but somehow he knows it came from him. Clinging to Daken’s shoulders like he’d forgotten how to let go, taking his mouth.
Doesn’t remember the kiss starting, and doesn’t remember when it turned, when it became about Johnny being the one to tilt his head back, when it became about Johnny being the one to surrender.
But Daken’s holding him down easy, like Johnny’s forgotten how to fight, like he’s forgotten that he should, that this was all supposed to be unspoken. Kissing the head of Johnny’s cock almost lovingly, like Johnny’s some shy little virgin who needs to be gentled into this, never mind he’s the one who initiated the kiss. He thinks. It feels like it’s getting more and more difficult to remember, and Daken’s kissing him lower and lower.
God, he doesn’t how Daken messes him up like this, how he makes the moonlight brighter, the shadows darker, the air taste different. He just knows that he’s allowing it, writhing under it, submitting everything he is like it’s nothing at all. Like throwing himself into an impossible fight, only this is scarier because he knows he can’t fly away from this, knows he can’t burn it to ash and sweep it under a rug in his mind when it’s done.
Daken kisses the inside of his thigh, so fucking gentle, except Johnny can feel the scrape of his teeth in what might be a smirk or might be something worse, something Johnny doesn’t want to see. And then Daken’s kissing behind his balls, tongue dragging up the cleft of Johnny’s ass, and the sound he makes is wrecked and loud. Never mind they’re in his bedroom, never mind anyone walking past might hear him, because he has no more control over his voice than he does the rest of his body.
Because they’re doing this, this is really happening, and Johnny can’t suck down oxygen fast enough, chest heaving and sweat soaking into his hair. Maybe he doesn’t understand how this started, maybe right now it doesn’t matter, maybe tomorrow he can try to pick himself up and piece himself back together into something that at least looks like him, even if it feels all different and jumbled inside.
“Oh Johnny,” Daken sighs, pulling back enough that he can stare up the length of Johnny’s body with dark, dark eyes. “You’d do anything I ask, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Johnny blurts out, voice croaky but earnest, and his mind is screaming at him. Screaming at him for being so stupidly open, for never thinking before he speaks, for admitting something so fucking dangerous. Because it’s true, at least in this moment, and maybe in the moments beyond this night that he’s not ready to think about.
Daken just smiles at him, in this way that always mauls him open and makes him burn, and his hand moves between Johnny’s legs, fingers twisting inside. Johnny whines and claws at the sheets and lets go, because it’s all he can do, all he can manage. Still not understanding how Daken can undo him like this but accepting it anyway, a whimper in his throat and that unique and hypnotic taste, pure Daken, spread on the back of his tongue, thick and sweet.
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: Daken/Johnny
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1088
Timeline: Daken, Dark Wolverine #04
Notes: Dub-con (for Daken's pheromones, of which Johnny isn't aware). For Porn Battle XV, prompts "Daken Akihiro/Johnny Storm - manipulation, dark, submission, lick".
Summary: Daken has this way of coaxing out parts of him Johnny would rather stay hidden.
God, his head’s spinning, everything’s spinning, and Johnny can’t see, can’t even think straight. And, Christ, he might be bordering on hysteria right now, because there’s a voice in his head laughing, mocking and manic and cracked around the edges.
He’s a superhero, he parades around in tights, he’s no stranger to puns, but they don’t usually make him want to groan and claw at his own skin from the inside out like this. ‘Can’t even think straight’ and it’s funny because he’s got another man’s head moving between his legs.
Fuck, fuck, this isn’t supposed to happen.
But Daken just does things to him, turns Johnny’s brain and his life upside-down every time he flashes through. Makes those tiny whispers at the back of his mind when he’s jerking off turn into something more, turns them into images of dark tattoos swirling around defined biceps, and a hard, flat belly with a trail of dark hair leading down and down. Images that stutter over the back of his eyelids, that make him stroke himself rushed and frantic, that haunt him afterwards when the fantasy is supposed to be over, when he’s supposed to be able to breathe again.
And that’s scary enough, that ties Johnny in knots because he’s known himself pretty decently since puberty first kicked him in the nads, and he’s not supposed to be like this. Nothing wrong with it, of course not, it’s just not him.
Except when it comes to Daken.
Scary enough to be so thrown, to feel so foreign to himself, but this is so much more. This is Daken’s touch, his tongue, and Johnny’s fingers have a death-grip on the sheets, like he’ll fall through the bed if he lets go. He’s not supposed to do this, it’s not supposed to be real, not supposed to exist outside his head.
But Daken was dead, and Johnny fucking mourned him.
Daken was dead, and Johnny’s heart stopped too the moment he heard that voice again.
And now he’s here, lying on his back, and Daken’s thumbs are digging into his inner thighs. Holding him spread, and Johnny can hear all the weak little noises he’s making, but it’s like they’re coming from someone else because he’s never heard himself sound like that before.
Daken’s not even touching him properly, not the way Johnny needs it. He needs that hot, wet mouth, needs to push up inside of it, but Daken’s just licking at him. Long, slow, leisurely curls of his tongue, over Johnny’s cock, along the underside and swirling over the tip, down to massage over his balls. It’s driving Johnny crazy, but then everything about Daken drives him crazy, so maybe that’s the only way this can be.
Even though it’s not supposed to be at all. Even though it was always supposed to stay firmly buried in his mind, and he doesn’t understand how Daken coaxed this out of him, how he made it seem so easy. One moment they were talking, and Johnny was trying to tell him how much it hurt, knowing Daken was dead, trying to tell him but still keep it to himself. And then there was the taste of Daken’s mouth under his, and he doesn’t even remember making the move but somehow he knows it came from him. Clinging to Daken’s shoulders like he’d forgotten how to let go, taking his mouth.
Doesn’t remember the kiss starting, and doesn’t remember when it turned, when it became about Johnny being the one to tilt his head back, when it became about Johnny being the one to surrender.
But Daken’s holding him down easy, like Johnny’s forgotten how to fight, like he’s forgotten that he should, that this was all supposed to be unspoken. Kissing the head of Johnny’s cock almost lovingly, like Johnny’s some shy little virgin who needs to be gentled into this, never mind he’s the one who initiated the kiss. He thinks. It feels like it’s getting more and more difficult to remember, and Daken’s kissing him lower and lower.
God, he doesn’t how Daken messes him up like this, how he makes the moonlight brighter, the shadows darker, the air taste different. He just knows that he’s allowing it, writhing under it, submitting everything he is like it’s nothing at all. Like throwing himself into an impossible fight, only this is scarier because he knows he can’t fly away from this, knows he can’t burn it to ash and sweep it under a rug in his mind when it’s done.
Daken kisses the inside of his thigh, so fucking gentle, except Johnny can feel the scrape of his teeth in what might be a smirk or might be something worse, something Johnny doesn’t want to see. And then Daken’s kissing behind his balls, tongue dragging up the cleft of Johnny’s ass, and the sound he makes is wrecked and loud. Never mind they’re in his bedroom, never mind anyone walking past might hear him, because he has no more control over his voice than he does the rest of his body.
Because they’re doing this, this is really happening, and Johnny can’t suck down oxygen fast enough, chest heaving and sweat soaking into his hair. Maybe he doesn’t understand how this started, maybe right now it doesn’t matter, maybe tomorrow he can try to pick himself up and piece himself back together into something that at least looks like him, even if it feels all different and jumbled inside.
“Oh Johnny,” Daken sighs, pulling back enough that he can stare up the length of Johnny’s body with dark, dark eyes. “You’d do anything I ask, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Johnny blurts out, voice croaky but earnest, and his mind is screaming at him. Screaming at him for being so stupidly open, for never thinking before he speaks, for admitting something so fucking dangerous. Because it’s true, at least in this moment, and maybe in the moments beyond this night that he’s not ready to think about.
Daken just smiles at him, in this way that always mauls him open and makes him burn, and his hand moves between Johnny’s legs, fingers twisting inside. Johnny whines and claws at the sheets and lets go, because it’s all he can do, all he can manage. Still not understanding how Daken can undo him like this but accepting it anyway, a whimper in his throat and that unique and hypnotic taste, pure Daken, spread on the back of his tongue, thick and sweet.
