Fic: Drabble Prompts - Farscape
I haven't forgotten about these, I promise. :)
For lalastrange:
He draws his hand from her hair, raises sticky fingers painted dark red to his gaze. Her hair is wet with it, dripping down the side of her face, smearing across pale skin as she wipes the blood with the back of her hand.
"It isn't mine," Aeryn tells him, staving off the numerous questions on the tip of his tongue.
John gives a short nod but doesn't back away. They'll check each other for injuries later, catalog the cuts and bruises with hands and lips.
Aeryn cleans the blood away as best she can and pulls her hair back tightly. He leans forward and covers her mouth with his, relieved that she allows him to do this, that she backs him up against the nearest table as she deepens the kiss.
In his mind he is gentle with her, mindful of the hits she's taken, of the aches she'll have if they make it out of this alive.
In reality, they share the dried blood of the dead on their bodies, and taste of sweat and bitter victories; unclean hands that hold his cock beneath his leathers, because they don't have time for a full-on frell.
Aeryn works him over until he pushes her hand away, releases himself from his pants and comes with the gritty air on his skin.
His groan is muffled, hitches out like a staggering pain. The cut on his lip breaks open again and he bleeds a little into her mouth, half-disgusted and a whole lot turned on that she hasn't broken away, rejecting all he offers.
John falls to his knees to return the favor, loosening her leathers and dragging them down her thighs. Aeryn is tangy on his tongue, warm as he licks his lips, mixing the taste of her with his blood. He goes deeper, and Aeryn is forced to widen her legs, squeeze against his ears until they pop. Her hips thrust forward and she yanks on his hair, shuddering around him as he swallows her down.
She's completely washed the blood away, and John closes his eyes with a smile.
For lalastrange:
He draws his hand from her hair, raises sticky fingers painted dark red to his gaze. Her hair is wet with it, dripping down the side of her face, smearing across pale skin as she wipes the blood with the back of her hand.
"It isn't mine," Aeryn tells him, staving off the numerous questions on the tip of his tongue.
John gives a short nod but doesn't back away. They'll check each other for injuries later, catalog the cuts and bruises with hands and lips.
Aeryn cleans the blood away as best she can and pulls her hair back tightly. He leans forward and covers her mouth with his, relieved that she allows him to do this, that she backs him up against the nearest table as she deepens the kiss.
In his mind he is gentle with her, mindful of the hits she's taken, of the aches she'll have if they make it out of this alive.
In reality, they share the dried blood of the dead on their bodies, and taste of sweat and bitter victories; unclean hands that hold his cock beneath his leathers, because they don't have time for a full-on frell.
Aeryn works him over until he pushes her hand away, releases himself from his pants and comes with the gritty air on his skin.
His groan is muffled, hitches out like a staggering pain. The cut on his lip breaks open again and he bleeds a little into her mouth, half-disgusted and a whole lot turned on that she hasn't broken away, rejecting all he offers.
John falls to his knees to return the favor, loosening her leathers and dragging them down her thighs. Aeryn is tangy on his tongue, warm as he licks his lips, mixing the taste of her with his blood. He goes deeper, and Aeryn is forced to widen her legs, squeeze against his ears until they pop. Her hips thrust forward and she yanks on his hair, shuddering around him as he swallows her down.
She's completely washed the blood away, and John closes his eyes with a smile.