Stained Souls (MCU, Fisk/Wesley, #091)
Title: Stained Souls
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Challenge: #091 Bloody
Pairings: Fisk/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
Words: 434
Timeline: Set after Season One's In The Blood
Warnings: Contains adult material, spoilers for Daredevil, mild bloodplay
There’s blood on Fisk’s left sleeve. It looks almost black against the fabric in the passing streetlight, dark patterns that Wesley can’t quite make himself look away from.
Fisk is breathing slow and even, gradually retreating back within himself, rage still there, always there, but just barely banked for now.
He stares out at the streets of Hell’s Kitchen as the car takes them home, his face carefully blank when Wesley glances up at him.
They’ll have a lot to do, once Anatoly’s fate reaches Vladimir. But for now, Wesley’s too distracted, shifting forward on his seat to drop to his knees in the space between Fisk’s feet.
Fisk’s attention turns to him slowly, almost lazily. “Wesley,” he says simply, an acknowledgement but also a caution. A reminder that Wesley does not need to do this, offering himself to Fisk in these quieter moments after an outburst.
Wesley is quite aware, but his body aches for this.
The blood and the violence, it’s messy and cruel and something he thought once upon a time he did not care for. But seeing Fisk commit such acts is different somehow, ignites some spark in Wesley that makes him long for hands on his skin, the release of sex.
Fisk nods, and Wesley reaches up, unbuttons Fisk’s trousers slowly, draws him out. Fisk’s cock is flaccid, understandable when he does not considering his own savagery the turn-on Wesley finds it to be. But he fills and rises beneath Wesley’s lips as he lavishes attention there, rolling his tongue over the fat head, licking at the thick vein beneath, mouthing at Fisk’s balls.
It’s something Wesley can get lost in, a task that is purely physical, purely carnal. Taking Fisk’s cock into his mouth, sucking it to full hardness, his senses taking over from his mind, cataloguing every sensation.
The hum of the car’s engine, the carpet beneath his knees. The thick heavy flesh on his tongue, the way each breath requires concentration. Lips curled over his teeth, hands gripping Fisk’s knees, the expensive fabric under his fingers. The scent of sex and cologne and the hint of sweat from Fisk’s earlier exertion. The flash of the streetlights they pass across the back of his eyelids.
He feels Fisk shift, opens his eyes to see Fisk reach for him. There’s blood on his hands, too, dried smears the colour of rust across his knuckles. Fisk’s fingers slide into his hair, and Wesley makes a soft noise, imagining his hair dragging over the blood, imagining himself growing stained with the colour of Fisk’s anger.
There’s nothing he wants more.
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Challenge: #091 Bloody
Pairings: Fisk/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
Words: 434
Timeline: Set after Season One's In The Blood
Warnings: Contains adult material, spoilers for Daredevil, mild bloodplay
There’s blood on Fisk’s left sleeve. It looks almost black against the fabric in the passing streetlight, dark patterns that Wesley can’t quite make himself look away from.
Fisk is breathing slow and even, gradually retreating back within himself, rage still there, always there, but just barely banked for now.
He stares out at the streets of Hell’s Kitchen as the car takes them home, his face carefully blank when Wesley glances up at him.
They’ll have a lot to do, once Anatoly’s fate reaches Vladimir. But for now, Wesley’s too distracted, shifting forward on his seat to drop to his knees in the space between Fisk’s feet.
Fisk’s attention turns to him slowly, almost lazily. “Wesley,” he says simply, an acknowledgement but also a caution. A reminder that Wesley does not need to do this, offering himself to Fisk in these quieter moments after an outburst.
Wesley is quite aware, but his body aches for this.
The blood and the violence, it’s messy and cruel and something he thought once upon a time he did not care for. But seeing Fisk commit such acts is different somehow, ignites some spark in Wesley that makes him long for hands on his skin, the release of sex.
Fisk nods, and Wesley reaches up, unbuttons Fisk’s trousers slowly, draws him out. Fisk’s cock is flaccid, understandable when he does not considering his own savagery the turn-on Wesley finds it to be. But he fills and rises beneath Wesley’s lips as he lavishes attention there, rolling his tongue over the fat head, licking at the thick vein beneath, mouthing at Fisk’s balls.
It’s something Wesley can get lost in, a task that is purely physical, purely carnal. Taking Fisk’s cock into his mouth, sucking it to full hardness, his senses taking over from his mind, cataloguing every sensation.
The hum of the car’s engine, the carpet beneath his knees. The thick heavy flesh on his tongue, the way each breath requires concentration. Lips curled over his teeth, hands gripping Fisk’s knees, the expensive fabric under his fingers. The scent of sex and cologne and the hint of sweat from Fisk’s earlier exertion. The flash of the streetlights they pass across the back of his eyelids.
He feels Fisk shift, opens his eyes to see Fisk reach for him. There’s blood on his hands, too, dried smears the colour of rust across his knuckles. Fisk’s fingers slide into his hair, and Wesley makes a soft noise, imagining his hair dragging over the blood, imagining himself growing stained with the colour of Fisk’s anger.
There’s nothing he wants more.