springkink entry: february 7th, trinity blood, leon/hugue
Title: Prison Sex
Author: K M B
Rating: R
Warnings: coitus.
Word count: 393
Summary: Leon never does it right.
A/N: for prompt -Trinity Blood, Leon/Hugue: rough sex, ice princess - "make a sound, won't you"-
He never comes when I’m overtop him. I don’t do it right; I’m not brutal enough. He only comes when he’s above me, when he can shove it in as fast and hard as he likes, bottoming out on me like it’s a pistol in his mouth, grinding down and sighing like some sort of martyr, like the world is going to end. Again. Only then can he let go; and if it makes him so sore he can’t move, and if the next day he’s red and tender along the edges, well, he just considers it time well spent. And he smiles at me, the goddamn fucker, before he leaves me alone again. I don’t get one of those any other time, but when he’s been roughened up enough to squirm in his seat the next day, the appreciation that shows in his eyes makes me shudder.
A couple of priests who were never meant to be such, falling together on a sporadic basis whenever he wills our paths to cross, always beginning with just a look. He runs his long, pale fingers through my coarse chest hair, making sure to grab and yank because he loves it when I curse underneath him. It just makes my own grip on his hips harsher, blunt nails digging in, and his eyes roll toward the back of his head in obvious, teeth-gritting pleasure-- but he never says anything. Not one word comes out of his mouth when we fuck, even when he proposes the idea, talking with his eyes and his smooth face, his hand a sure pressure on my crotch, his flaxen hair spilling around us both like a separate lover.
Perhaps I like to comb my fingers through it when we’re finished and he’s too weak to move just yet, too spent to protest and allows me just that one comfort, that single luxury. It lasts only a moment, though, before he pushes off the mattress and away from me to gather his robes, bending that perfect, ravaged ass my way, the red lashes on his back glowing from my tracing, digging nails along the scars. I just watch, smirking, like always and he turns, eyes narrowed, like always, and still he says nothing as he walks away. Not even, “I’ll be back.” But he always does.
Conjugal visits can be fun.
Author: K M B
Rating: R
Warnings: coitus.
Word count: 393
Summary: Leon never does it right.
A/N: for prompt -Trinity Blood, Leon/Hugue: rough sex, ice princess - "make a sound, won't you"-
He never comes when I’m overtop him. I don’t do it right; I’m not brutal enough. He only comes when he’s above me, when he can shove it in as fast and hard as he likes, bottoming out on me like it’s a pistol in his mouth, grinding down and sighing like some sort of martyr, like the world is going to end. Again. Only then can he let go; and if it makes him so sore he can’t move, and if the next day he’s red and tender along the edges, well, he just considers it time well spent. And he smiles at me, the goddamn fucker, before he leaves me alone again. I don’t get one of those any other time, but when he’s been roughened up enough to squirm in his seat the next day, the appreciation that shows in his eyes makes me shudder.
A couple of priests who were never meant to be such, falling together on a sporadic basis whenever he wills our paths to cross, always beginning with just a look. He runs his long, pale fingers through my coarse chest hair, making sure to grab and yank because he loves it when I curse underneath him. It just makes my own grip on his hips harsher, blunt nails digging in, and his eyes roll toward the back of his head in obvious, teeth-gritting pleasure-- but he never says anything. Not one word comes out of his mouth when we fuck, even when he proposes the idea, talking with his eyes and his smooth face, his hand a sure pressure on my crotch, his flaxen hair spilling around us both like a separate lover.
Perhaps I like to comb my fingers through it when we’re finished and he’s too weak to move just yet, too spent to protest and allows me just that one comfort, that single luxury. It lasts only a moment, though, before he pushes off the mattress and away from me to gather his robes, bending that perfect, ravaged ass my way, the red lashes on his back glowing from my tracing, digging nails along the scars. I just watch, smirking, like always and he turns, eyes narrowed, like always, and still he says nothing as he walks away. Not even, “I’ll be back.” But he always does.
Conjugal visits can be fun.