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Title: Fever Chill
Pairing: Raphael/Siegfried
Prompt: H: Heat
Rating: ...somewhere between R and NC-17 for vaguely described sex.
Words: 300
A/N: Part of the ABC-kink meme. Siegfried, and wrongs that can't be made right.
---
Siegfried's left arm never did heal quite right. In the juncture between shoulder and collarbone his flesh is puckered and scarred, brands that speak of inhuman transformation. Dry, heated lips trace the path of those scars, and the muscles of his arm spasm uncontrollably.
"You remember what it was like - " A whisper against his skin, felt more than heard.
" - Yes," he sighs; tries to ignore his quivering limbs and the memory of flesh becoming hard as bone. It is not easy to do when the cruel result of his sins stares him in the face, red eyes bright in the darkness.
The kiss of his lips is like the kiss of his sword, light and quick, almost sweet before he breaks the skin and draws blood. He is not so surprised to find Raphael fucks the way he fights: deft hands seeking weakness (Siegfried's lips parted, open, the shadows of his mouth a warm invitation; thighs that part easy and eager to insistent touch) and merciless when he finds it.
Supple hands close over the hard length of his cock, and he groans, only part of it from desire. He remembers, all too well, what it is like to suffer Soul Edge's fever - always hungry, never sated, wanting to crush and break and ruin everyone and everything - and the memory makes him ache with something like sympathy.
"This changes - nothing, you understand," Raphael says.
No, this surrender - the only penance he can think to offer - will change nothing, he agrees. But there is something, perhaps, to sharing a burden, in offering respite from unholy thirst, even if it is only a moment.
"I know," he answers, and raises his head to kiss pale cheeks.
The taste of salt, hot and bitter, lingers on his tongue.
Pairing: Raphael/Siegfried
Prompt: H: Heat
Rating: ...somewhere between R and NC-17 for vaguely described sex.
Words: 300
A/N: Part of the ABC-kink meme. Siegfried, and wrongs that can't be made right.
---
Siegfried's left arm never did heal quite right. In the juncture between shoulder and collarbone his flesh is puckered and scarred, brands that speak of inhuman transformation. Dry, heated lips trace the path of those scars, and the muscles of his arm spasm uncontrollably.
"You remember what it was like - " A whisper against his skin, felt more than heard.
" - Yes," he sighs; tries to ignore his quivering limbs and the memory of flesh becoming hard as bone. It is not easy to do when the cruel result of his sins stares him in the face, red eyes bright in the darkness.
The kiss of his lips is like the kiss of his sword, light and quick, almost sweet before he breaks the skin and draws blood. He is not so surprised to find Raphael fucks the way he fights: deft hands seeking weakness (Siegfried's lips parted, open, the shadows of his mouth a warm invitation; thighs that part easy and eager to insistent touch) and merciless when he finds it.
Supple hands close over the hard length of his cock, and he groans, only part of it from desire. He remembers, all too well, what it is like to suffer Soul Edge's fever - always hungry, never sated, wanting to crush and break and ruin everyone and everything - and the memory makes him ache with something like sympathy.
"This changes - nothing, you understand," Raphael says.
No, this surrender - the only penance he can think to offer - will change nothing, he agrees. But there is something, perhaps, to sharing a burden, in offering respite from unholy thirst, even if it is only a moment.
"I know," he answers, and raises his head to kiss pale cheeks.
The taste of salt, hot and bitter, lingers on his tongue.
