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osgood_asitgetsCadence
Hockey RPF/Detroit Red Wings. | Henrik Zetterberg/Emma Andersson. | het. poetic and odd. sexual content. | NC-17. | 668 words. | written for the hockey kink meme for anon's prompt: Okay, I doubt anyone's going to take this one on, but Henrik Zetterberg and his girlfriend Emma are getting married tomorrow. And gorgeous couple is gorgeous - any chance I could get some Hank/Emma in here? Anything loving but dirty and familiar, not necessarily having to do with the wedding, just any little interlude with them sometime getting it on. :P [prompt here]
Cadence
He loves her dark hair. It's long and soft and curtains his body when she leans over him.
He loves her face; her beautiful lips, her exotic eyes, her nose. He's spent years learning the shape of each feature. He closes his eyes and touches her; she sighs with every press and movement of his fingertips.
He's spent years learning the cadence of each sigh, the meaning. He keeps his eyes closed and she moves, her hair swishing softly as it curtains his face and blocks out the sunlight.
So he opens his eyes, lifts his head and meets her downward motion, touching their lips together. Oh, and he's spent his life learning the taste of her.
Hockey is a passion in his blood, irrevocable and unavoidable, but she is right there with it, just as deeply rooted in his soul.
And he frames her face in his hands, loves her lips with his, strokes her cheekbones with his thumbs. He could remember those cheekbones in his sleep.
She sighs again, and this one is more frustration, the soft tinge of arousal colouring the curling edges of it.
He kisses her deeper, skims one hand down the centre of her chest, down to the outer curve of one hip. She's straddling his thighs, and she closes her knees a little—he uses his other hand to sweep down her spine and pull her against him.
She sighs; this one is pure arousal, heat and spark and flame. He doesn't have to open his eyes again to imagine the fire shining in her eyes. He knows it like he knows every break in every bone of his. He knows the shape and texture of her kiss like he knows every move he wants to execute on the ice.
He knows her like he knows every bump and bruise his body's ever suffered; he moulds his hand to her ass and she grinds against him. It's his turn to sigh.
If this were a photograph, it would be sepia-toned and ancient, the kind of love you read about in storybooks or find in black and white movies. If this were anything but real life... well, he's still not quite able to believe this is happening to him.
He loves her hair, the way it's long and wavy and like silk everywhere it touches his skin. It's like being caressed by her fingers—and he loves those too, the way her hands are slender and perfect and the bones have never been broken.
She breathes his air and moves with him, and if he cracks his eyes open against the flush of arousal, he can see her dress glimmering transparent in the sunlight. The dark hue of her aureoles, the peaked points of her nipples poking out against the fabric.
He brings his hands up her back and draws her body down so that he can mouth over one nipple through the shimmery fabric.
This sigh, it's pure desire, the exhalation of breath that signifies just how much she likes it. And he remembers this one, too.
He reaches up with one hand and pushes it through her hair, brushing it out of her face, tangling his fingers in it.
He loves her hair; he loves her nipples. He loves everything about her, from her dark eyes to her beautiful, curvy hips or soft thighs.
She hikes up her dress, grinds down against him again, her satiny folds damp as they come in contact with his hardened flesh. He moans—and he knows she's learned every moan of his and what it means.
She traces his eyebrow, down his face, rubbing the pads of her fingers against his beard.
"Love you," she murmurs, and sits up, out of his reach—but only long enough to position herself over his lap.
She grasps him with sure fingers and guides him home, settling her pelvis over his and sinking down.
He loves this, too, but not as much as he loves her.
end.
Hockey RPF/Detroit Red Wings. | Henrik Zetterberg/Emma Andersson. | het. poetic and odd. sexual content. | NC-17. | 668 words. | written for the hockey kink meme for anon's prompt: Okay, I doubt anyone's going to take this one on, but Henrik Zetterberg and his girlfriend Emma are getting married tomorrow. And gorgeous couple is gorgeous - any chance I could get some Hank/Emma in here? Anything loving but dirty and familiar, not necessarily having to do with the wedding, just any little interlude with them sometime getting it on. :P [prompt here]
Cadence
He loves her dark hair. It's long and soft and curtains his body when she leans over him.
He loves her face; her beautiful lips, her exotic eyes, her nose. He's spent years learning the shape of each feature. He closes his eyes and touches her; she sighs with every press and movement of his fingertips.
He's spent years learning the cadence of each sigh, the meaning. He keeps his eyes closed and she moves, her hair swishing softly as it curtains his face and blocks out the sunlight.
So he opens his eyes, lifts his head and meets her downward motion, touching their lips together. Oh, and he's spent his life learning the taste of her.
Hockey is a passion in his blood, irrevocable and unavoidable, but she is right there with it, just as deeply rooted in his soul.
And he frames her face in his hands, loves her lips with his, strokes her cheekbones with his thumbs. He could remember those cheekbones in his sleep.
She sighs again, and this one is more frustration, the soft tinge of arousal colouring the curling edges of it.
He kisses her deeper, skims one hand down the centre of her chest, down to the outer curve of one hip. She's straddling his thighs, and she closes her knees a little—he uses his other hand to sweep down her spine and pull her against him.
She sighs; this one is pure arousal, heat and spark and flame. He doesn't have to open his eyes again to imagine the fire shining in her eyes. He knows it like he knows every break in every bone of his. He knows the shape and texture of her kiss like he knows every move he wants to execute on the ice.
He knows her like he knows every bump and bruise his body's ever suffered; he moulds his hand to her ass and she grinds against him. It's his turn to sigh.
If this were a photograph, it would be sepia-toned and ancient, the kind of love you read about in storybooks or find in black and white movies. If this were anything but real life... well, he's still not quite able to believe this is happening to him.
He loves her hair, the way it's long and wavy and like silk everywhere it touches his skin. It's like being caressed by her fingers—and he loves those too, the way her hands are slender and perfect and the bones have never been broken.
She breathes his air and moves with him, and if he cracks his eyes open against the flush of arousal, he can see her dress glimmering transparent in the sunlight. The dark hue of her aureoles, the peaked points of her nipples poking out against the fabric.
He brings his hands up her back and draws her body down so that he can mouth over one nipple through the shimmery fabric.
This sigh, it's pure desire, the exhalation of breath that signifies just how much she likes it. And he remembers this one, too.
He reaches up with one hand and pushes it through her hair, brushing it out of her face, tangling his fingers in it.
He loves her hair; he loves her nipples. He loves everything about her, from her dark eyes to her beautiful, curvy hips or soft thighs.
She hikes up her dress, grinds down against him again, her satiny folds damp as they come in contact with his hardened flesh. He moans—and he knows she's learned every moan of his and what it means.
She traces his eyebrow, down his face, rubbing the pads of her fingers against his beard.
"Love you," she murmurs, and sits up, out of his reach—but only long enough to position herself over his lap.
She grasps him with sure fingers and guides him home, settling her pelvis over his and sinking down.
He loves this, too, but not as much as he loves her.
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