Dec 4, 2025
WYATT RUSSELL as ANDERS CAIN Goon: Last of the Enforcers (2017), dir. Jay Baruchel
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WYATT RUSSELL as ANDERS CAIN Goon: Last of the Enforcers (2017), dir. Jay Baruchel
wanted to finish the sketch page of this violent, very mean man. anders is so niche tho so u can also imagine him as bushy-beard, long hair john walker 😆 🎀 see what's under his skirt view full version on ao3
Wyatt Russell as Anders Cain in Goon: Last of the Enforcers (2017)
Hey, handsome.
Our sweet Wyatt 🥹
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hello!! I adore all your work. If it’s not much, could we possibly get an Anders Cain fic. Where on the ice someone talk about the reader and Anders get in a fight. In the end he gets a lil passionate/possessive in the locker room. -🐄
hi 🐄 !!
a/n: thank you !! hope you enjoy ;) ᎒ ☈ 2.3k words mwah gif creds @neska223
◞ 🏒 𓂃 ── ⸝⸝ ───── ﹒﹒🥅
He kisses you first.
It’s barely a brush at your hairline, his hand settling at your waist, warm against the tense coil of nerves running through him. You feel him stiffen—just a little—like he’s surprised at himself for giving in to that softness before the game.
“Please don’t play too rough tonight,” you murmur, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, thumb smoothing over the edge of his nape. “Just… be smart. Okay?”
He grunts, the typical Anders answer — but he does nod. His thumb skims down to your hip on his way past you, a quiet little I heard you, before he disappears down the tunnel with the rest of the team.
You think he actually means it. You think he genuinely walked out onto that ice wanting to keep himself in check.
At first, he does.
The game is fast, tight, full of near-breakaways that make everyone suck in a breath. Twice Anders slams someone into the boards hard enough that the plexi shivers, but he skates off afterward instead of doubling back for seconds. You try to release the tension in your shoulders. Maybe he really will keep it clean tonight
THEN IT HAPPENS.
You’re seated a few feet above the glass, close enough to hear the smack of bodies and skates carving across the ice. One of the opposing players — number 27, tall, smug, the kind Anders always hates — glides up to the boards beneath you. He’s panting, helmet crooked, grin sharp with whatever trash talk he’s saving for the next faceoff.
Anders is right there. Retreated just enough to breathe, watching the play reset.
Number 27 taps his stick against the ice and laughs. “Come on, Cain! That all you got? Thought the big angry bastard would at least try tonight.”
Anders rolls his eyes, barely reacting.
The guy leans closer to the glass. “Oh, wait. Forgot.” He jerks his chin upward — right toward you. “You gotta behave now, right? Don’t wanna embarrass the little sweetheart in the stands?”
Your stomach drops.
Anders still doesn’t rise to it. He just exhales through his nose, jaw clenched.
But then number 27 keeps going. Louder. Crueler. Directed right at you.
“She’s cute! Bet she’s loud in bed, huh? Or is she one of those—?” He cups a hand around his mouth, voice going greasy-sweet: “—fake moaners who pretend they like it?”
Your face burns, nausea and humiliation mixing in one awful rush. It’s so fast, you don’t even realize you’ve flinched until Anders sees you.
He whips his head toward you. Actually looks at you. Your eyes meet for half a second — enough for him to read everything. The shock. The sting. The way your throat tightens like you’re struggling not to react.
And that’s it.
Something inside him snaps.
His gloves hit the ice with a heavy, wet slap — one, then the other — and he’s already moving.
“ANDERS!” one of his teammates shouts.
He doesn’t hear it.
Anders runs at the guy, skates cutting a deadly line across the rink. Number 27 barely has time to turn before Anders slams him backward, driving him into the boards hard enough that the whole pane shudders.
You gasp as they crash to the ice in a tangle of limbs and rage.
Anders is on top instantly, fist already cocked.
“You talk about her again—” CRACK — his knuckles connect with the guy’s cheek. “—I swear to God—” CRACK — another punch, harder. “—I’ll break your fucking jaw!”
Players swarm them. Refs whistle like their lungs are exploding. But Anders is still swinging, wild with fury, blood starting to drip from his eyebrow where someone’s elbow caught him.
“APOLOGIZE!” he roars as they wrestle him back by the arms. “LOOK AT HER AND FUCKING SAY YOU’RE SORRY!”
“Cain, CUT IT OUT—!”
“YOU THINK YOU CAN TALK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT?” He jerks against the hold of three players, then five. “I WILL END YOU. YOU HEAR ME? I’LL END—”
“Anders, JESUS—!”
They finally drag him upright. He’s breathing like he ran a marathon, chest heaving under his jersey, hair sticking to the blood smeared along his temple.
And he’s still looking for you.
Still furious. Still vibrating with the need to protect, to finish what he started, to defend you in a way he’s clearly fantasized about far too many times.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
You’ve seen him fight before. You’ve seen him thrown in the box for ten-minute misconducts and pulled apart by half a team.
But never like this. Never because of you.
Number 27 spits blood on the ice and mutters something, but Anders lunges again — three guys barely hold him.
“Say it again!” Anders snarls, voice hoarse. “SAY IT AND WATCH WHAT HAPPENS!”
“You’re done, Cain,” a ref shouts, tugging him toward the tunnel.
They haul him off the rink, practically carrying him. The crowd is roaring, half in shock, half in delight.
You stand frozen in the stands, hands shaking. You hate seeing him hurt — the split brow, the swollen cheekbone — but God, the way he looked when he launched at that guy—
A chill runs straight to your stomach.
The last glimpse of him before the tunnel swallows him is pure wildfire. Bloody. Breathing hard. Eyes locked on you.
Not angry at you. Never at you.
Angry for you. Possessive. Claiming. Unhinged in that dark, feral way that makes your thighs warm where you stand.
He looks at you like he’d fight the whole league if it meant protecting you.
And for the first time tonight, you understand something deep and dangerous:
You will never forget the way Anders Cain looks bleeding on the ice, dragged away by five men, still screaming for someone to apologize to you.
And you will never forget how hot it made you feel.
── . ✦ THE LOCKER ROOM ⋮
The trainers try to intercept him the second he stomps through the tunnel, blood smeared across his cheek, his eyebrow split open, his chest still heaving with leftover rage.
“Anders, sit down — let us look at—”
He shoves past them. “No.”
“Cain—”
“I said no.”
He doesn’t stop until he reaches the far corner of the locker room, slamming his helmet onto the floor with a clatter that echoes off the tile. He’s pacing — quick, sharp, furious little strides — like if he keeps moving, he won’t explode again.
When you enter, he freezes.
Just stops walking.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just locks onto you.
You look at him — at the blood on his eyebrow, the sweat dampening his hair, the bruising already forming along his cheek — and your heart twists.
“Anders,” you say quietly, “sit. Please.”
He clenches his jaw, shakes his head once like he wants to argue, then finally drops onto the bench with a heavy, frustrated exhale. His elbows rest on his knees, hands flexing open and closed, still buzzing with adrenaline.
The nurse approaches again. “Cain, let me—”
“No,” he snaps without looking up. “She’s here.”
It hits you in the chest. Because it’s not the first time he’s said it. Because ever since he met you, he’s refused medical staff unless you’re there.
You swallow and grab the small first-aid kit stored under the bench. When you stand in front of him and open it, Anders’ hands go straight to your hips, fingers slipping under your shirt, into the waistband of your pants like he needs physical proof you’re real.
Your breath hitches.
He feels it. He feels the goosebumps on your stomach. His eyes drag down, then up, then settle on your face with that same hot, possessive intensity from the ice.
But he still isn’t talking.
So you reach forward and gently tilt his face toward the light.
He’s tense all over. Muscles coiled. Breathing shallow. You wipe the blood from his cheek with a sterilized pad. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches for you.
His hands slide higher on your waist. Warm. Rough. Claiming.
After a long moment, his voice finally breaks the silence — low, still vibrating with leftover fury.
“Are you okay?”
You blink. He’s bleeding. He’s bruised. He almost got suspended for beating someone half to death on the ice.
And the first thing he asks is that.
“I’m fine,” you whisper. “Are you—”
“I asked you first.” He says it stubbornly, bluntly, like he’ll fight you on it if he has to. His grip on your hips tightens, thumb brushing the soft skin just under your shirt. “Are you. Okay.”
You exhale slowly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m okay. He just… he caught me off guard.”
Anders’ jaw flexes again. “He made you flinch.”
“That’s not—”
“I saw it.” His voice cracks, a brittle edge slicing through the gruffness. “I saw your face, and—”
He stops. Shakes his head again. Looks down at the floor as if he’s afraid of what he might say next.
You gently clean the cut on his brow, your thumb brushing the skin afterward. “Anders. Hey.” You wait until he looks at you. “Are you okay?”
He stares at you like that’s a trick question.
You arch a brow. “Well? Are you?”
His eyes darken — not with anger, but something deeper, heavier.
“I am now,” he says quietly. “Now that you’re here.”'
You barely finish smoothing the ointment over his brow before Anders’ hands slide higher up your waist — slow, deliberate, almost testing the shiver he knows you can’t hide.
“Anders—”
You don’t even get his name fully out.
His hand shoots up, fingers curling around the back of your neck. Not rough enough to hurt— Just firm, claiming, absolutely done waiting.
He jerks you down to his level in one sharp pull.
Your breath catches—your balance tipping forward—your hands instinctively landing on his shoulders—
And then his mouth crashes into yours.
The kiss isn’t gentle. Not even close. It’s starving.
His mouth crashes into yours, hot and heavy and already open like he’s been holding this in since the second he dropped the gloves. His tongue pushes past your lips before you’re ready, before you even think to breathe, and it steals every thought out of your head.
A sharp sound slips out of you — a gasp, a whimper — and Anders growls into your mouth like it’s gasoline.
His hands move everywhere at once. Up your spine. Down your waist. Around your hips. He grips, squeezes, pulls, like he can’t decide what part of you he wants most.
You’re on your knees between his legs, and he drags you even closer, smashing your chest to his, kissing you like he’s furious with how much he wants you.
His tongue curls under yours, slow at first — then deeper, filthier, drawing a low moan out of your throat that he swallows eagerly. He chases every sound you make, breathing hard through his nose, kissing you like he’s trying to claim the inside of your mouth too.
You tilt your head for a better angle and he takes it immediately, his hand sliding into your hair, holding you there as he devours you.
He pulls back just enough to speak against your lips — voice shredded and low. “Open for me.”
You do. Without thinking. Without hesitation.
He kisses you even deeper, tongue sliding against yours in long, possessive strokes that make your stomach drop and your entire body lean helplessly into him. You can taste his breath, the faint metallic tang of the cut on his lip, the heat of everything he’s feeling.
You eat it up. Every bit of it.
Your fingers curl into his jersey, gripping the fabric hard enough to wrinkle it. He feels it and his breath stutters — his hips twitch forward just barely, his hands tightening on your waist so hard you gasp.
That gasp breaks him.
He grabs your hips and yanks you up off your knees, pulling you halfway into his lap even though he’s still in half his gear. The bench creaks. You gasp against his mouth, and Anders chases your lips instantly, kissing you again, deeper, wetter.
Your teeth bump. Your tongues slide. It’s messy. Hungry. Filthy.
He eats your mouth like he’s starving.
One of his hands slips under your shirt, fully this time, palm splayed hot over your stomach, rubbing slow circles that make you arch into him. He groans when he feels your muscles jump under his touch.
“Sensitive,” he mutters against your mouth.
You nod, dazed. “It’s you.”
That destroys him.
He kisses you harder — impossibly harder — until your breath comes out in little whines he can’t get enough of. His tongue strokes yours again, slow and deliberate, and you feel the shiver all the way through your legs.
Your hand slides up the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging gently.
Anders growls.
Not fake. Not playful. A real, low, animal sound right into your mouth.
He grabs your ass, squeezing it hard through your pants, pulling you flush against him, kissing you like he’s trying to leave marks you’ll taste for hours.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough for him to drag his lips down your jaw, open and hot, tongue leaving a wet stripe to your ear.
“You taste—” he pants, breath shaking, “—fuck, you taste like you’re mine.”
Your breath breaks. “Anders—”
He cuts you off with another kiss — deep, filthy, tongue pushing into your mouth like he’s trying to own the air you’re breathing.
You let him. You take every bit of it. You meet his tongue with your own, sloppy and hungry, and he groans sharply into your mouth, hips jerking up into you without meaning to.
His thumb drags across your lower lip when he finally breaks the kiss. He watches it bounce back into place, eyes heavy, blown wide, still breathing hard.
Then he smirks. A bruised, dangerous, extremely satisfied smirk.
“You’re enjoying this,” he murmurs, voice dark with triumph. “Look at you.”
You swallow, your lips swollen, your breath uneven.
“You’re the one who kissed me like that,” you whisper.
He cups your jaw, thumb dragging across your lip again.
“I’m not done,” he says quietly. “Not even close.”
🏷️ ─── ୧ ‧₊˚ anders does not play about you. like at all🎐 ⋅ @witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @lightsabergirl @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @sh0t-inth3face @inafieldoflilies
number thirteen
winded.
anders cain x fem! reader (goon: the last of the enforcers) 4k words "coworkers" to lovers, height gap (reader is shorter), cursing, smut, unprotected p in v, choking, hickeys/scratches, mentions of one night stands, daddy issues and injuries
you've already been working with the highlanders as a marketing manager for a few years, always making sure the website and merch look good and are up to date. anders isn't all too interested in you when he joins the team, gets appointed as the captain against the wishes of hortense who would've chosen laflamme over the brute hothead of a player any day.
you're just... there sometimes, take pictures for social media that he usually tries to avoid, and after noticing his distress at being in photos you had made sure to capture him less. at least that he was thankful for.
but he does grow a little bit of interest when he comes in late, having forgotten his phone in the changing room, and stumbles upon you on the ice.
sometimes, when the day is slow and you find yourself not ready to go home yet, into your quiet and empty apartment - which you usually love, having your own peace, but from time to time it gets a little lonely - you stay. you enjoy skating around the rink for a while because you know the zamboni will do another round the next morning before the rink opens so nobody is there to bother you right now.
at least you think you're by yourself when you skate around, elegant and smooth but fast as you had set up a goal and are chucking the puck at it. quite a few hit the net nicely as you hum along to whatever music you have playing on your headphones.
anders halts when he sees your form, admires you for a little while before he puts on his skates and joins you on the ice.
you're just collecting a puck from the goal when you turn around and flinch, heartrate spiking when the team captain is suddenly leaning against the railing near the entry. you quickly stop your music, put the headphones around your neck, and get a few deep breaths in as he pushes himself off the wall.
"jesus christ, anders, you scared me!" you only get a half-assed "sorry" muttered out in reply when he's close enough to loom over you. he's already wearing his casual after-training clothes, joggers and the merch hoodie with his number and name that you know is comfortable - you were the one that sampled different suppliers for the right softness and material quality after all.
"you ever play before?" he asks gruffly, and you shrug once your heart has finally calmed down.
"no, i just watch and try to replicate what you guys do," you hum, "but i did know how to skate casually before starting the job here." the puck ricochets of the goalpost, and anders tilts his head, eyes focused on your form when you collect it, come back to him.
a hand on your shoulder from behind stops you, and anders' body heat seeps into you when he skates a little closer until your back is almost pressed against his chest.
"the stick is a little too big for you, so it's better to hold it like this," he mutters lowly, ignoring how good you smell at this proximity, and adjusts your grip with careful fingers - bruised knuckles from the latest fight still red and jarring. he's hesitant in pulling away, and he can see your shoulders sag a little once the colder temperature surrounds you again after he had held it back so nicely.
"thank you," you smile at him, aim carefully, and the puck bounces off the inside of the post to hit the back of the net. your proud grin when you turn around makes his heart skip a small beat, makes the corners of his lips twitch up subconsciously.
"if you ever wanna teach me more, i'd be down?" knowing how busy his life can be between training, matches, and dealing with his father, you ask him timidly, but anders finds himself agreeing easily and without a shred of reluctance.
anders hesitates. looks at you for a moment as if you've grown two heads, eyebrows raised and head tilted.
"you want me to tackle you?" he repeats, slowly, and you grin brightly with a nod.
"you're already teaching me pretty much everything else, why not tackles as well?"
"sweetheart-" the petname slips, neither you nor him mind. "i don't wanna hurt you." your small frown has his resolve crumble, especially when you jut your lower lip out a bit until it sits in a pretty pout, a pout that anders would like nothing more than to kiss away.
he doesn't know when exactly he fell for you in the weeks of meeting up after practice, but he knows that he's not going to hurt you in any way.
"come on, anders, we can be careful, and we got a whole weekend until the next training if i do feel sore?" you mutter, but he still shakes his head. you sigh. "then i'll just ask xavier, he'll-"
"i'll teach you."
the low growl in his tone makes you freeze, goosebumps erupting on the back of your neck that aren't caused by the cold inside the arena.
"don't- don't ask him, i'll do it." his voice is much softer, much more timid this time around, an almost pleading look in his dark eyes as he locks his gaze onto yours.
he needs it to be him.
he first tells you how to absorb the most impact, even if he usually doesn't care about that - rather using raw power and height and speed to take the tackles of other players. tells you how to stand or hold your body so you can take the hit, tells you that he'll go easy on you because he really doesn't want to hurt you. you just shrug, let out a little laugh that he soaks up.
"i'll take whatever you give me, handsome." that petname slips as well, and again, neither of you mind. anders fights the blush threatening to rise to his cheeks when his mind misconstrues your words into a much more intimate situation.
after internalising all of his advice, you're skating across the rink, stable and firm in your glides, hockey stick in hand as you brace yourself when anders approaches, announces himself with the rasp of his blades over the ice.
you think you can take him, can handle his tackle, but when he does slam into you with more strength than you anticipated - hell, than he anticipated as well - you crash into the acrylic glass and the railing, barely holding yourself upright as the wind is knocked out of you. you gasp, and anders immediately hurries to stabilise you, looking on in horror when at first you can't properly breathe, taking a few steps back in fear of hurting you even more in his attempts to help.
his hands twitch by his sides, eyes wide and panicked and fuck- what if you broke something? what if he broke something in you?
but before he can spiral further, you groan quietly, stretch out your back as you're finally able to get air into your lungs again. your laughter is soft at first, before rising in volume as you bend down to grab the stick that had clattered out of your hand upon impact.
"fuck," you're still a little breathless, but you're grinning at him. "this what you call going easy on me?" you giggle softly, poke the butt end of your stick to anders' chest. "but i'm alright. it'll probably bruise a bit but i'm alright," you add lowly, mouth upturned and eyes nothing but warm, kind. not the scared that he was expecting.
skating closer, you come to a stop in front of him, where he's still silently worrying about you, silently worrying that he fucked everything up again.
"anders?" you mumble, let one of your hands find his, lock your fingers. "i'm okay, i promise." his eyes move to your intertwined hands, then up to your face, watches it fall when he removes his hand from yours. but when he hesitantly lifts his arms, palms your cheeks with the utmost care and tilts your head so he can check for any facial injuries, you can feel your face grow warm at the gentle touch.
"i hurt you, i- i'm sorry." his voice is rough, gravelly, and you can see how tense he holds himself. so you smile, a little smushed because of his hold, but genuine.
"it's alright, you didn't mean to," you muffle back, move your head so you can press a kiss to the pad of his thumb, focused on the way his eyes widen at the gesture. one more "i'm alright", and he believes you, even if he stil beats himself up.
"no more today, m'driving you to get checked out," he whispers, reluctantly lets his arms drop back to his sides. you shake your head with a small smile, take his hand again and skate to the rink gate as he follows you obediently, lets himself be pulled along by you.
"hortense should have some muscle relaxant in the locker room, i didn't hear or feel a crack. i'm just gonna be a little sore tomorrow," you hum, then turn around to look at him with a sly smirk. "but i might need your help rubbing it in?"
anders can't fight his blush this time.
the ride to your home is quiet besides the hum of the motor, the low sounds of the radio playing on some random station. at one of the last traffic lights before your apartment complex, you lull your head over to look at anders, admire the way the red light accentuates his features even more - the crooked nose, broken too often to count, the soft jut of his chin, the perpetually furrowed brows.
his eyes flit over to you, then back to the road when the light switches to green.
"you really sure you're alright?" anders' voice is still careful, more quiet than it usually is, a softness in his tone that he allows only you to hear. the gps announces that he needs to turn right, and he does with practised ease.
"yeah, i am. stop worrying about me, handsome." the corners of his lips tick up slightly, just barely, and you would've missed it if you weren't studying the shadows moving across his face.
"i can't, sweetheart. that's the thing." the gruff words sit for a while, settle warm in your chest as you let them roam through your mind. anders reverses his truck into a free space, lets it come to a silent halt as he kills the engine. he meets your gaze with his own, and you give him a shy smile.
"then don't stop."
the admiration, the restraint in his eyes is visible even in the dim interior light of the car, even as it fades into darkness when neither of you move for a while.
"do you want to come in?" your timid question winds him more than any tackle ever has, and he breathes out shakily.
"please."
anders follows you in, unsure, hovering behind you when you let your keys fall into the small bowl on the hallway cupboard with your free hand as the other slips from his. he follows your motions when you toe off your shoes, shrug off your jacket and hook it over the coat hanger on the wall, follows you when you step into the unfamiliar living space of your apartment.
he's been in this situation before, even if the women usually only wanted a good fuck for the night and then leave when they realised how truly messed up he was. but right now, the silent bravado he holds himself with in the rink struggles to keep him confident.
so when you turn around to him, fingers pawing at his jeans when you pull him closer and head tilting upwards, and just smile so endearingly, he lets out a shuddering sigh. his calloused hands land on your waist, and he wants to go through the motions, wants to be as rough as his previous one night stands wanted him to be, but a small wince reminds him of your bruised side.
"m'sorry-"
"shush, c'mere," you merely mumble, eyes already set on his lips, snake your arm around his shoulder so you can pull him into a slow kiss by the nape of his neck. his beard tickles you lightly, long strands of hair encompassing your face when you connect your lips to his so softly, so faintly that he could melt.
"been wanting to do this for so long," you start, voice low and muffled underneath his soft groan when you separate and he chases after your warmth, "been wanting you for so long." he can only huff out a grunt when you take a step back and smile.
"come on, handsome."
clothes are tugged off carefully, reverently, with gentle hands and gentler touches as you straddle him on your bed. your side is already bruising, soft hues of blue and green, but you don't care. anders' hands sit low on your waist, more careful of the tender skin as they slip lower, strong fingers digging into the plush of your ass when you roll your hips into his.
"i-" he groans huskily when your lips brush his throat, teeth graze over his pulse, "i usually only go rough," he admits, eyes falling shut when you suck a faint hickey into the skin - as if you want to mark him as yours.
you do.
"we can't, and i wanna love on you a little," you muse, move your face up to press a kiss to his nose and watch it scrunch. when he moves back a bit, not knowing if you did it to tease him or genuinely mean it, you pout. "don't like nose kisses?" you mumble sadly, and his eyes widen. you mean it.
he struggles to reply when your already glistening core glides over his achingly hard length, the blunt head catching on your hole and just barely pushing in. the moan that falls from the back of your throat makes his thighs tense up, his dick jump where it's nestled against your wet heat.
"you really want me?" he manages out, and you smile.
"i do, anders, how could i not?" there's no room for him to respond when you slot your lips against his, and he melts into you when your tongue meets his in languid, lazy strokes. "but we don't have to do this if you don't-" you're interrupted by a low, warning growl, a jerk of his hips that drags him further into you.
"please, baby, don't-" he pauses, groans, throws his head back, pushes you down by the waist until his stomach tightens when hip meets hip. "don't stop," he pants out, and you shiver when his eyes snap to yours, so dark and stormy that the soft blue of them is almost gone.
you feel so full, so good when your walls adjust to the stretch of his dick, eyes fluttering closed when he leans up to pull you into a searing kiss.
"don't stop," he roughs once more, and you let out a quiet, broken noise of protest.
"wouldn't dare."
the kiss he tugs you into is desperate, hot, turns messy when anders bucks his hips and pleasure stabs through your body. you have to remind yourself to slow down a little so you don't hurt your side even more on accident, separate even if your body wants nothing more than to stay liplocked until you pass out.
he follows your movements, your lips, but you put a hand on his chest and push him down, push his back to the mattress as you give an experimental grind of your hips. even if he wanted to protest, take the lead as he usually did, he wouldn't physically be able to with how perfect you feel around his dick. a drawn out curse escapes him when you raise your body, balancing yourself on his stomach with splayed out fingers, before falling back down and taking him to the hilt once more. his throat is bared, hair fanning around his head like a golden halo, and he all but moans when you start up a slow but deep pace.
anders is unsure where to put his hands at first, until you take one of them and place it on your chest, squeezing once and anchoring yourself again as he thrusts up in time with your descend. the angle, the timing of that piston, pushes him even deeper, steals the breath right from your lungs and has you scramble to dig your nails in. anders hisses at the sting, but he doesn't stop, simply clenches his jaw and continues meeting your thrusts with his own.
his free hand travels to your waist, up your unbruised side, down again until he can clumsily press a thumb to where you're connected and finds your clit after a try or two. the whine that falls from your lips is nothing short of angelic, your hands dragging down his tense stomach and leaving angry red lines in your nails' wake that neither of you can care about right now. if anything, it spurs him on even more, makes a rough groan escape his chest and bounce off the walls of your bedroom. anders' grip tightens over your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple as it's already pebbled, and you whine gently in return, slow your riding to a grind as he keeps rubbing first harsher, then soft circles over your clit.
"fuck, just like that baby," he mumbles, lost in his pleasure, head thrown back but half-lidded eyes locked on the way you move above him, the way you take him so well. "so pretty, just for me." his words are jumbled in his haze, and his voice breaks when you adjust your legs ever so slightly. his hand falls from your chest, moves to your waist, coaxes your body to take him deeper as he pushes you down in time with the rolls of his hips.
you moan, a mix of his name and a needy little "please-", and he hums, never ceasing his finger's motions when he pulls you down, leans up to seal your lips in a kiss. his thumb brushes your cheek, right underneath your eye, then your jaw, then hooks under your chin as he tilts your head and locks his hand around your throat - not tightly, just so you know that he's there, that you're his.
at the next thrust up, his tip nudges against that spongy spot deep inside of you, and you whine breathily. anders happily swallows the sound, answers it with a grunt of his own when your walls flutter around him in your slowly peaking pleasure. his hold tightens, pulls a gasp from you, makes your mouth fall open just as his tongue invades it with a lazy, wet sweep. oh, you liked that.
you can feel the static running through your body, skin tingling as the loss of air has your eyes glaze over, has the edges of your vision go fuzzy. you can barely get out an "anders-" before the coil in you suddenly snaps with another well-timed piston of his hips, and your pace falters, grows erratic as you come undone.
"oh fuck, baby-" his fingers around your throat tighten subconsciously when the clenching of your core pulls him impossibly deeper, lets him reach a depth that has him see stars, that prolongs your orgasm even more. "shit, where-"
"inside, m'covered, please-" you beg breathlessly, desperately, and the moan of your name he replies with is the sweetest damn sound you've ever heard. a few more ruts into your heat, a few quiet mewls falling from your parted lips when pleasure borders on overstimulation, and anders' hips stutter. hurriedly, his hands move to your waist, pressing you flush against his body as his dick twitches, hot ropes of cum filling you up as the sudden rushing back of air has you gasp and your walls flutter weakly around his length. the almost rhythmic spasms of your core milk him of all he has to give, make him groan lowly and roll his hips up to fuck his spend just that much deeper into you.
you still, limp and only held up by his strong arms, until anders wraps them around your back and pulls you down to rest on his body. his lips are pressed against the crown of your head as he catches his breath, as the feeling slowly returns to his legs, and after a few minutes filled with your shared, ragged panting, your heartbeats grow more stable again. less frantic.
anders stares at the ceiling, hands absentmindedly trailing over your back, and he hesitates. a small peck to his throat has his softening dick jump, still buried inside of you, and palm your cheeks to lift your head up to face his. when he searches for any hint of regret, he finds none, only admiration reflected back at him - but he still asks with a quiet voice.
"d'you want me to leave?"
your frown is immediate, the shake of your head - at least as best as you can with him still holding it in place - follows right after.
"why would i?" your eyebrows furrow slightly when your eyes can finally fully focus again, fall to his reluctant ones.
"i... they usually did."
"nonsense. you're not a one night stand," you trail off, tone becoming more unsure, "unless you want this to be?" he catches the barely hidden disappointment in your gaze, and he growls lowly.
"god, no. wanna keep you as mine." his gruff words land on your tongue when he kisses you, full of careful hunger and barely there restraint as you whimper when his dick slips out of you at the movement. a wince racks your body when you can feel his cum drip out of you, and anders immediately pulls back with concerned eyes.
"you alright?" he mutters through soft inhales, and you smile weakly.
"yeah, just..." you shift slightly, and he can feel your shared slick form a small puddle on his stomach. he chuckles, lets his fingers trail up your bruised side with featherlight touches.
"you really wanna try this?" your lips press against his, split into a small, tired grin.
"of course i do, handsome. i wouldn't have invited you in otherwise."
anders behaves at training the next monday. actually behaves besides a small scuffle - and even if you called in sick after the weekend, too sore to move much, he's still very much in a good mood considering how convincing you were when you made sure he knew you wanted him. all of him, all his faults and corners and rough edges.
the highlanders are a little weirded out, not used to seeing him this calm, but they take it, very much unwilling to risk pissing him off again.
so when, after practice, anders tugs his undershirt over his head to change into his street clothes, they freeze, stare on as harsh, red lines down from his neck to his shoulder blades come into view. the sudden silence in the locker room makes him huff, turn around to fix his teammates with a glare and a "what?", and when he sees their stares move to where you left matching scratches on his stomach that disappear into his already low-hanging pants, then immediately avert their eyes, he grins smugly.
since he had spent the rest of the weekend at your place, he'd simply borrowed one of your oversized hoodies, one that fits snugly on him when he pushes it over his head. when the fabric brushes over where your nails had dug in, he has to grit his teeth in a perfect mix of pain and pleasure. still, he smiles to himself.
he wouldn't want to have it any other way.
author's note: i wanna kiss his nose too :( (totally not inspired by me having been a marketing manager at some point and actively being a media designer, no)
stay safe and healthy <3
taglist: @inafieldoflilies ♡ @magicalqueennightmare ♡
