Ficlet: Crystal (Berserk)
Title:Crystal
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Please ask me first.
Notes: Gratuitous porn.
From a distance, he seems made out of crystal and air, with his white limbs and his silver armor and his fine hair in waves around his face. Such a porcelain warrior doll. It’s only when you get this close, buried hip-deep in his body that you can see his face bead with sweat, his hair darken with moisture and stick to the planes of his face, see the pale skin flush with your efforts.
Watch your controlled thrusts moving him rhythmically, his arms up above his head, muscles tense as he holds on to the headboard. The sounds he makes, low grunts and moans getting breathier as you both get closer and your hips move faster. Mouth opens wide in a soundless yell as it hits him, lips drawn up till it becomes a snarl, white canines gleaming above the pink tongue.
After, you like to examine his body minutely, the reddened bites on his chest and thighs, the bruises on his hips from where you gripped him (not that hard, but he bruises easily) and his mouth, where he has bitten his lip hard enough that a drop of blood lies glistening on his lower lip. You lick it away and trace your tongue along his, sharing the taste with him.
His breathing is slowing now, flushed skin paling to its normal shade but he does not look his normal self yet. He is sprawled over crumpled sheets, his eyes half-lidded and lazy, his body covered with your marks. You are careful not to bite him or bruise him where anyone might see; when he is dressed, he is completely Sir Griffith the White Hawk, leader of the Band of the Hawk and the most feared mercenary in two continents.
No one can see that under the steel shell of his armor, his heart is beating as any human’s would, throbbing under the scar of a half-healed bite bisecting his nipple. Only the two of you know that. But of course, that’s the whole point.
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Please ask me first.
Notes: Gratuitous porn.
From a distance, he seems made out of crystal and air, with his white limbs and his silver armor and his fine hair in waves around his face. Such a porcelain warrior doll. It’s only when you get this close, buried hip-deep in his body that you can see his face bead with sweat, his hair darken with moisture and stick to the planes of his face, see the pale skin flush with your efforts.
Watch your controlled thrusts moving him rhythmically, his arms up above his head, muscles tense as he holds on to the headboard. The sounds he makes, low grunts and moans getting breathier as you both get closer and your hips move faster. Mouth opens wide in a soundless yell as it hits him, lips drawn up till it becomes a snarl, white canines gleaming above the pink tongue.
After, you like to examine his body minutely, the reddened bites on his chest and thighs, the bruises on his hips from where you gripped him (not that hard, but he bruises easily) and his mouth, where he has bitten his lip hard enough that a drop of blood lies glistening on his lower lip. You lick it away and trace your tongue along his, sharing the taste with him.
His breathing is slowing now, flushed skin paling to its normal shade but he does not look his normal self yet. He is sprawled over crumpled sheets, his eyes half-lidded and lazy, his body covered with your marks. You are careful not to bite him or bruise him where anyone might see; when he is dressed, he is completely Sir Griffith the White Hawk, leader of the Band of the Hawk and the most feared mercenary in two continents.
No one can see that under the steel shell of his armor, his heart is beating as any human’s would, throbbing under the scar of a half-healed bite bisecting his nipple. Only the two of you know that. But of course, that’s the whole point.