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Sinking into him is like falling in love, the shuddery moan that travels through his body, starts in his throat and seemingly slides down to where his thighs quiver.
Mikasa and Jean exhale together, carefully, and she doesn’t move for a moment, waiting for him to be the one to ask for more. His back flexes as she asks quietly, “Do you need to change position?”
He laughs, his voice rumbly and slightly embarrassed, but he grinds out with effort, “No, that’s… that’s good…” His breath catches as she leans forward to kiss the back of a tense shoulder.
Mikasa knows she has a great talent at leveling things to the ground: memories, regrets, and even people on occasion. She doesn’t deal in these fragmentary things as currency like everyone else does, though—the ability to take things apart; Jean is different, because it’s always he who chooses to break apart underneath of her.
And that’s exactly why they’ve ended up this way—acquaintance in university to the annoying ball of passion she’s currently holding onto; then, friend as they both grew into full-fledged actual-people; later, lover; and now—
“Fuck me,” Jean grunts, the fully fledged person exhales hard, a blush creeping up the back of his neck where he’s facedown on the bed.
Now, buried in his ass with a strap-on that’s actually quite difficult to keep a rhythm with (how men do this so easily is beyond Mikasa), she’s still not quite at the “pumping hard/fuck me harder” stage, even though Jean is obviously quaking for it.
Mikasa knows Jean worships her, but it’s with just enough wryness that she allows it, but doesn’t always embrace it; it’s also the reason he doesn’t resent her for it at this point.
More importantly: Jean loves her. In Mikasa’s experience, there are two things sorely lacking in the world—love and loyalty—and Jean has both in spades. Somewhere over the years of tripped up words and awkward stares that turned into resolute statements and impassioned looks, she fell in love too.
“Mikasa,” he groans, back arching, powerful shoulders flexing as eases back a bit. Apparently, this isn’t a bad idea, and he shifts his hips curiously.
She smooths a hand up Jean’s spine carefully, encouraging him, and he lets out an appreciative noise that almost sounds like a purr.
She pours more lube onto the purple silicone dildo that’s protruding from the harness between her legs, halfway inside of Jean; when he feels the action and hears the cap of the lube click shut, some cross between “yes” and “god” comes out of his mouth in a gurgle of voice. He’s so sensitive, whether he openly admits it or not.
Mikasa smiles a little more she might normally, partially since she can’t be seen and Jean is extremely vulnerable, but she adores the curve of his back more than any shape she could ever conjure.
He’s strong, but he wants to be dominated, and only by Mikasa, only here.
“I want this to feel good for you,” she murmurs, shifting her hips slightly, making him start. “Tell me if it’s not.”
Mikasa has never minded sounding like an instruction pamphlet when she’s conveying an important statement; with Jean, though, it’s not good enough. She wishes she could express her feelings as easily as some people seem to—openly and with pretty words that seem to convey their sentiments perfectly—but that’s just not her.
Which is why she bites her lip and her heart speeds up when Jean replies, his voice so warm and tender, “It does, Mikasa.” He fumbles behind him with a hand, reassuring as he touches the first part of her he can feel, and she almost laughs as how unbelievably doofy he can be sometimes.
It makes her feel better; he understands her.
And then the moment shifts back to the task at hand as Mikasa gets a firm grasp on his hips with her smaller, strong hands, and he lets out a low moan as she pulls back before slowly sinking into him again.
This time, she goes all the way, and Jean presses his chest further down onto the bed, back arched, as his hand fists tightly in the rumpled bed sheets.
“Mikasa, fuck me,” he whimpers, no blush now, voice shuddery as Mikasa gives a few more experimental, slow thrusts.
“Jean,” she answers breathlessly, fingers momentarily tightening on his hips in a gesture that’s both possessive and reassuring. Her voice sounds strangely normal amidst the lazy afternoon sun streaming through the bedroom windows, “are you still okay?”
He nods, groaning impatiently, and turns his head slightly to try and look at Mikasa out of the corner of his eye where she’s kneeling behind him.
There is nothing that can prepare her for the rush of desire and heat that goes from her face right down to the tips of her toes when Jean meets her eyes as he falls apart completely, a silicone dick up his ass for the first time, pleading with something silently.
She likes the desperation more than she first expected she would.
“You ready for more?” she asks again, partially just to push him further over the edge into his own need as she bends forward, testing the curve of his sharp hipbones to see how much purchase she can get, leaning to kiss the small of his back.
“Yes!” he exclaims impatiently, that bratty tone coming into his voice, and Mikasa decide now’s a good time to give him what he wants.
She gives one long, firm thrust and bottoms out smoothly into Jean, feeling more wet by the second as keens and cries out her name.
Mikasa’s hips slap against his ass as she starts to thrust rhythmically, eliciting overwhelmed, sharp whimpers as he sings a hysterical song of moans into the pillow where he’s pressed his face.
She realizes after a moment that it’s her pillow, and her heart swells at a memory from that morning as they’d laid in bed talking about doing this for the hundredth time, when Jean had made her laugh and pushed his nose against her hair, told her it smelled good, shyly mentioned how pretty it looked in the morning sun.
Mikasa normally eschews compliments about her looks; with Jean, though, she always smacks him lightly in the arm, followed by a bashful kiss. And he always just grins like the shit he is, and then tackles her, even though he always ends up pinned.
The bed is squeaking obscenely now as they move together, and although she’s not usually one for obscene things, Mikasa has to admit two things at this juncture: this is hot as hell, and possibly the greatest idea that Jean Kirschstein has ever had.
She lets out a sharp moan herself, and then on a whim, smacks Jean’s ass with an open palm, not hard enough to sting so much as startle. Her eyes widen at her own action, and then Jean gives a strained grunt of, “Yes, again…” He sounds like he’s going to cry, overwhelmed but ecstatic.
And she knows what he wants to hear.
“What do you say?” Her voice is unmoved now, and a curl of wild excitement and adrenaline rises as she waits for him to beg. Her hips pump harder, slamming in and out of him, slapping against the backs of his thighs, and she manhandles him up so she can get a better angle.
“Please,” he wails, the hand fisted in the sheets shooting out to grip the bedframe.
Mikasa give him another smack on the ass, and he takes what she gives him, all roiling limbs and sweat-slick skin and straining muscles.
Jean is so good in so many ways, and Mikasa want to make him scream for all the right reasons; it makes her feel special that he only wants it from her.
She reaches around finally to touch his cock, wet with precome, and gives it a few kind strokes; but then, she has a better idea and draws back.
When she pulls out completely, he lets out a dismayed, disappointed groan and immediately gets into a position to beg for it, for Mikasa to return.
Instead, she quickly undoes the harness buckled around her hips with nimble fingers, effortlessly flips him onto his back, and climbs on top.
He stares up at her guilelessly, and she pushes her lips against his, wanting to feel his arms around her, wanting the solidness of his body and the evidence of his arousal inside of her as she ruts against him. His arms are limp and nearly spent, but he embraces her and she smiles, chin pleasantly bristly as it brushes against her cheek.
“I thought you were going to fuck me,” he grunts, his voice hoarse from all the noise he was making before. Mikasa reaches up to run fingers through his matted blond hair—damp with sweat that she put there—and nods.
“I did,” she replies simply before pulling away, “and I am.”
He stares up with wide eyes as she grabs the lube, and when she pours some lube into her hand and reaches down to grasp his flushed, sensitive cock, he lets out a loud, “Fuck…”
“Exactly,” Mikasa confirms with a small quirk of her lips, and then guides his cock into her as she slowly sinks down onto it. She’s already so wet and ready, and he’s so slick with lube and precome, that it’s the smoothest sex they’ve had in recent memory.
Mikasa rides him now, hips moving in sweet circles as she touches the edge of her orgasm. Jean shivers because he knows she won’t come before him—not like this, not after what they just did for the first time—and she feels a little faint herself as strong hands wrap around her hips. It’s not a demanding grip, though, so much as a reverent smoothing of fingertips along the shape of her body.
Mikasa fucks herself on his cock just the right way, slowing down to reach for him with an unpracticed, open hand.
She can tell they’re both getting ready to reach a crescendo, and she wants him so badly right then, as badly as he wants her. Unexpectedly, he sits up suddenly and readjusts so that she’s sitting in his lap, and when she presses their lips together his hips buck uncontrollably.
He’s strong as he holds onto her, but starts to shake as Mikasa continues bounce up and down on his cock, her inner thighs hitting his hips over and over. It’s when he slides his hands up into her hair clumsily and breathes out hard, hips twitching, that he starts to come. He lets out little whimpers into her ear, presses his forehead against her temple in that intense way she loves, because it’s an action reserved solely for her.
Mikasa finds her orgasm between his cock and weak fingers reaching for her clit, rubbing her to completion as she grinds down against him and god, she swears she really does scream louder than him this time around.
They go limp against each other, and her heads drops onto his shoulder as he lets out a happy, albeit shaky sigh.
He pulls out of her slowly, and then practically throws himself against the bed with an exhausted huff, pulling her with him and immediately nuzzling close.
Mikasa curls against him in return, and another memory strikes her. It was back when they first admitted their feelings to each other, followed by the most awkward sex in the history of humankind, after which Jean had blurted out as he held her stiffly, “You just didn’t seem like the cuddling type.” It was a wonder they ever started dating; somehow, though, it made Mikasa love him a little more when he’d just blanched after saying the exact wrong thing and apologized.
“How’s your ass?” Mikasa deadpans, running an idle thumb over his ribs.
Jean groans, laughing a little; he’s already half-asleep, and Mikasa reach up to stroke his cheek. “So, it was good?”
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, inhaling deeply, a smile in his voice, “really good.”
The sunlight has slanted a different way by the time Mikasa’s limbs are haphazardly tangled with his, and she smiles and kisses him before floating off into a hazy, peaceful sleep, feeling warmer than the sun.