John/Ollie
Okay, so I posted this as part of the anonymous baseball RPS kink meme at alowishus812 . Although it is supposed to be anonymous... well, I'm pretty anonymous here too. So I figured, what the heck, I'll post it and own up to my work. It's only my second story, but I think it's pretty decent.
This was the request: "John Maine and Ollie Perez. Bloodplay, bondage. Ollie didn't pitch so great last night, and Maine's gonna let him know it."
I never thought I'd write this, but I had a lot of fun, so here goes:
"Damage", Maine/Perez, NC-17 (warnings for language, smut, and bloodplay)
“What the fuck was that, Oliver?”
The words woke Perez from a deep sleep at two in the morning, but they weren’t said in a raised voice, or even with a hint of anger. Typical for the stoic, often hard to read John Maine, who was currently wearing black boxer briefs and a Metallica shirt and straddling the lefty. Ollie’s first reaction was to ask John how the hell he got in his hotel room, how the hell he got on top of him, but the questions disappeared when he noticed the knife.
“I mean seriously, that was a complete abortion of a performance out there today. Shit, were you even trying, or did you want the Phillies to win?” Still, no emotion. John was like a damn wall sometimes, and this was no different. He wouldn’t even look at Perez as he said the words, opting instead to twist the knife around in the air, watching the faint light from the hotel window glistening on the blade.
“I… how did you…. What….What’s with the knife, John?” Ollie managed to stammer out. Ollie secretly thought John’s cool, detached attitude was sexy, but at the moment, it was just fucking terrifying.
“4 earned runs. Couldn’t even make it out of the third inning. Pathetic. I pitched better than that with a bone spur in my shoulder. Do you have any idea how much that shit hurts?” Finally John decided to show a glimpse of emotion through his famous smirk: “Although,” he said as he began running the flat part of the blade from Ollie’s shoulder, down his sternum, and to his stomach, “a little pain can be kind of fun sometimes, huh Ollie?”
To his own horror, Ollie felt his cock twitch at John’s words and the accompanying slide of the cool blade. John’s knowing smile indicated that he felt it too, and it was too much for Ollie to take. He tried to bolt up, but somehow John anticipated it and grabbed his wrists. In his sleepy haze, Ollie failed to notice the leather cuffs John had sitting next to him on the bed and wasn’t quick enough to stop John from using them to secure him to the headboard.
“Oh no, Ollie,” John said once again brandishing the knife. He slid the knife once more against Oliver’s belly. “We can’t have you thrashing around with a sharp object so close by. Just one wrong move and… oops,” John said as he sliced a small gash in Oliver’s stomach. John slid down Oliver’s body and lapped at the dripping blood before sliding back up and kissing him, letting Oliver taste his own blood mingled with John’s saliva. Oliver couldn’t hold back the moan he released into John’s mouth as his cock began to throb.
“I knew you’d fuckin’ like this Ollie, I just knew it,” John said as he began to grind down on Ollie, rubbing their boxer-clad cocks together and letting out his own low moan. “But I’m still pissed you fucked up today and you still have to pay for that.” He began slicing little nicks and cuts into Oliver’s chest and stomach, rubbing the cuts and smearing the blood on Oliver’s cheeks and lips, like some kind of horrific makeup. Finally he stripped off his shirt and lay flat against Oliver, chest to chest, allowing Oliver’s blood to smear onto his own ivory colored skin as he kissed Oliver roughly, biting his lip until it bled.
The mixture of fear and arousal was too much for Ollie and the next few minutes were a blur of searing pain from the little cuts John inflicted and blinding pleasure from John kissing and rubbing the wounds. The next thing he knew, he was naked, bent in half with his calves on John’s shoulders as John pounded into him. The knife was now pressed lightly against his throat, getting closer and closer to causing damage with every thrust of John’s hips. When the knife shallowly dug into his flesh and the realization hit Ollie that his bound hands prevented him from saving his own life if need be, his untouched cock spurted over his chest and stomach, burning the little cuts John had placed there. After a few more thrusts, John also reached completion, burying himself deep in Ollie and moaning his name.
After John released the leather cuffs, Oliver couldn’t help it, he was so overwhelmed. The disappointment in himself, the fear of failing, the fear of John, the shame of his arousal over being wounded, all of it, caused Oliver to burst into tears, sobs shaking his whole body. John cleaned him up with a warm washcloth and tended to his wounds, but that wall was back up again, blocking out any emotion from John. No apologies, no comforting words. Just a flat statement as John dressed and walked out the hotel room door: “Just don’t fuck up anymore.”
This was the request: "John Maine and Ollie Perez. Bloodplay, bondage. Ollie didn't pitch so great last night, and Maine's gonna let him know it."
I never thought I'd write this, but I had a lot of fun, so here goes:
"Damage", Maine/Perez, NC-17 (warnings for language, smut, and bloodplay)
“What the fuck was that, Oliver?”
The words woke Perez from a deep sleep at two in the morning, but they weren’t said in a raised voice, or even with a hint of anger. Typical for the stoic, often hard to read John Maine, who was currently wearing black boxer briefs and a Metallica shirt and straddling the lefty. Ollie’s first reaction was to ask John how the hell he got in his hotel room, how the hell he got on top of him, but the questions disappeared when he noticed the knife.
“I mean seriously, that was a complete abortion of a performance out there today. Shit, were you even trying, or did you want the Phillies to win?” Still, no emotion. John was like a damn wall sometimes, and this was no different. He wouldn’t even look at Perez as he said the words, opting instead to twist the knife around in the air, watching the faint light from the hotel window glistening on the blade.
“I… how did you…. What….What’s with the knife, John?” Ollie managed to stammer out. Ollie secretly thought John’s cool, detached attitude was sexy, but at the moment, it was just fucking terrifying.
“4 earned runs. Couldn’t even make it out of the third inning. Pathetic. I pitched better than that with a bone spur in my shoulder. Do you have any idea how much that shit hurts?” Finally John decided to show a glimpse of emotion through his famous smirk: “Although,” he said as he began running the flat part of the blade from Ollie’s shoulder, down his sternum, and to his stomach, “a little pain can be kind of fun sometimes, huh Ollie?”
To his own horror, Ollie felt his cock twitch at John’s words and the accompanying slide of the cool blade. John’s knowing smile indicated that he felt it too, and it was too much for Ollie to take. He tried to bolt up, but somehow John anticipated it and grabbed his wrists. In his sleepy haze, Ollie failed to notice the leather cuffs John had sitting next to him on the bed and wasn’t quick enough to stop John from using them to secure him to the headboard.
“Oh no, Ollie,” John said once again brandishing the knife. He slid the knife once more against Oliver’s belly. “We can’t have you thrashing around with a sharp object so close by. Just one wrong move and… oops,” John said as he sliced a small gash in Oliver’s stomach. John slid down Oliver’s body and lapped at the dripping blood before sliding back up and kissing him, letting Oliver taste his own blood mingled with John’s saliva. Oliver couldn’t hold back the moan he released into John’s mouth as his cock began to throb.
“I knew you’d fuckin’ like this Ollie, I just knew it,” John said as he began to grind down on Ollie, rubbing their boxer-clad cocks together and letting out his own low moan. “But I’m still pissed you fucked up today and you still have to pay for that.” He began slicing little nicks and cuts into Oliver’s chest and stomach, rubbing the cuts and smearing the blood on Oliver’s cheeks and lips, like some kind of horrific makeup. Finally he stripped off his shirt and lay flat against Oliver, chest to chest, allowing Oliver’s blood to smear onto his own ivory colored skin as he kissed Oliver roughly, biting his lip until it bled.
The mixture of fear and arousal was too much for Ollie and the next few minutes were a blur of searing pain from the little cuts John inflicted and blinding pleasure from John kissing and rubbing the wounds. The next thing he knew, he was naked, bent in half with his calves on John’s shoulders as John pounded into him. The knife was now pressed lightly against his throat, getting closer and closer to causing damage with every thrust of John’s hips. When the knife shallowly dug into his flesh and the realization hit Ollie that his bound hands prevented him from saving his own life if need be, his untouched cock spurted over his chest and stomach, burning the little cuts John had placed there. After a few more thrusts, John also reached completion, burying himself deep in Ollie and moaning his name.
After John released the leather cuffs, Oliver couldn’t help it, he was so overwhelmed. The disappointment in himself, the fear of failing, the fear of John, the shame of his arousal over being wounded, all of it, caused Oliver to burst into tears, sobs shaking his whole body. John cleaned him up with a warm washcloth and tended to his wounds, but that wall was back up again, blocking out any emotion from John. No apologies, no comforting words. Just a flat statement as John dressed and walked out the hotel room door: “Just don’t fuck up anymore.”