Anybody/Dresden Kink:Marking/Biting, Powerplay, AnimalisticBehavior(Purring/Growling,etc.), MultipleRounds, Control of Orgasm
I love this quote from Round One Fill in Grey Clock(Warden's Robe), "He fucks like he's trying to kill me with his cock". :D
It could be a female character of your choice w/ a strap on though.
Writer can use any character, but OP would like Erlking, Donar, Kincaid, Morgan, Martin. OP still likes Marcone/Dresden, but want to give other pairings a chance first.
[A/N: Love the Erlking! By the way, following a recent Round 1 discussion about comments said by J. Butcher in dragoncon about the Erlking, will not be referencing them here as I consider them spoilers.]
I am wind, I am flight.
Beneath me the brumag shakes ice from the mist of its mane and screams, all anger and challenge, and I join my voice to it, all wild magic and insanity’s touch, my arms locked tight around its neck and my knees jammed into its ribs. It snorts steam from its muzzle and the spittle from its fanged mouth hisses as it touches the snow; muscles bunch and twist as we clear an icy stream, dodge the grasping branches of a dead oak tree, and bursts out into a frozen glen, all drumming black hooves and winterfyre. Behind us, I hear the hounds, baying as they close in around us, and the distant rumbling snarl of the Lord of the Hunt.
I press my knees again into the brumag’s ribs, urging it forward. The ground shifts beneath its hooves, but it surges up the slove, snorting and growling, its wild, proud mind mine for this Hunt. We burst over the embankment of snow, and it pauses, the burning blue orbs of its eyes flaring; far across the Treacher Steppes lies Winter’s skirts and the end of the Hunt’s domain. Home.
Some small, still-human part of me shivers and shouts, but the rest of me is swept in the brumag’s triumphant cry as it lunges over the embankment, slip-sliding down the steep slope towards the shifting ice of the Steppes. I hear horns, I hear snap-snarl words of commands and the crackle of pennants behind me, the gurgling growls of goblins. The hounds are howling now, closing in, and I twist on the brumag’s back to balance myself, raising my staff.
The first dog that bounds for us catches a fuego in the muzzle; ever Winter’s creature, the brumag bucks and shrieks in skittish fear, but I have a death grip on its mane as I repeat its true name in a rasping growl over the ice of its wake and it subsides, charging for the Steppes. The second hound I punch aside with a quick forzare, and the brumag screams and snaps its head to the side, snake-quick, to tear out the throat of the third without even breaking its stride.
After that, we stop finessing. Rings, bracelets, hell, I even had to club a hound aside with my staff, no spells involved; biting and kicking, we break from the leading pack, my arms bloody to the elbows in blood, the brumag’s ice blue fur staining maroon over its jaws and hooves. Arrows whistle down, only to break themselves on my shield bracelet’s barrier, and we’re outdistancing the hunters now, the hounds hesitating at the edges of the Steppes, so close to Winter’s borders. We’re nearly-
Something big lands on my back and slams me off the brumag. I scream, all primal fear and rage, scratching and kicking before I remember my rings, but they’re spent, my bracelets, and then I land on my back in the snow, the breath knocked out of me, a giant paw pressed down heavily on my throat.
The brumag turns, skittish and snorting, but the great gray, horned wolf with the amber eyes snarls, and it’s a primal sound, hot-wired to the memory of the cave-man in my soul, the memory of the old dark and the unknowable death within it. I freeze, and the brumag rears, pawing the air, then it whirls and thunders away towards the Steppes.
When I look back up, the wolf has blurred back into the Erlking, all eight feet, barbarian kitch of him, shaggy hair loose over his broad shoulders and his eyes wild embers within his horned helm. He has a big hand around my throat, and he squeezes, silent and grim, watching me buck and choke and claw at his wrists as he tosses my staff to the side, contemptuous, then allows me a gasp of air as he flips me onto my chest. There’ll be a ring of bruises around my neck tomorrow, and I choke out wheezing breaths as I try to form the words of power.
The Erlking drags off my duster, then somehow manages to work on the buckles of my belt as I twist and snarl and try to kick him. He ignores my blows, or maybe he isn’t even aware of them. Behind us, the hounds mill and snarl, circling, but the goblins have retreated to form a snarling, skittering audience back in the line of dead trees.
“We’re in full sight of Winter,” I manage to rasp, buzzed on adrenaline and the rich, layered texture of the Erlking’s own wild magic, twisted and entwined around me. “She isn’t going to like this.”
The Erlking makes a barking sound, an ugly sort of laugh, even as he pulls my pants down to my knees, pressing my swelling dick into the snow. Maybe because of Winter’s mantle, or maybe it’s the Erlking’s magic, but I don’t even feel the cold in anything but a vaguely visceral way, like a memory of ice, and it somehow sharpens my arousal rather than killing it. I moan, twisting, but the Erlking holds me down with one big hand, the other coming up slick and cool as a big finger presses roughly into me.
“Fuck!” I jerk bodily in his grasp, clawing at the snow. It hurts, but not physically; it’s like touching a magic socket, a shock of pure, wild energy. I don’t feel the stretch, or the friction from it, only the heightened spike of utter sensation; I’m vaguely aware that I’m pushing back, whimpering, wanting more, and the Erlking is laughing again, that harsh, barking sound. I’m about to be taken on the snow in full view of Winter.
Somehow, that doesn’t piss me off as much as it should.
“A good chase,” the Erlking’s rumbling voice is taut, like the eve of a storm, and his big, rough fingers burn as he strokes them up my flanks and back down, like he’s trying to calm down an animal. “You were close. The brumag was a good touch.”
“Shut up and let’s get this over with,” I snap back at him, and there’s that heartbeat of time that I get around Him, where I’m not sure if his next reaction would be to laugh or to pull my head off my shoulders. He laughs, and I tense, indignant, only for him to shove another big finger inside me and curl and twist until I’m bucking and whimpering for it like a bitch. Around to my right, one of the hounds snaps its jaws shut and growls, and the Erlking answers, in a guttural rumble that makes my toes curl tight in my boots and the hair stand all the way up on my arms.
That’s usually when the Erlking decides he’s bored with foreplay; I gather animals don’t usually go for foreplay, and the Erlking has more in common with his hounds and whatever it was gave him the horns on his helm than the shape that he wears. When he pushes into me, his hands like iron bands on my hips and his massive cock impossibly, inexorably forcing its way into my flesh he does it bent over my back, breathing roughly against the back of my neck, the edges of his horned helm digging into my arched shoulders, and if not for the faceguard he’d have torn up the nape of my neck with his teeth.
Whatever slick that the Erlking conjures does the work, or maybe it’s because we’re here, in the seat of his power. Out back in Chicago, taking something this big would have torn me bloody, particularly with the Erlking’s cavalier approach to preparation. Here, I brace myself on the melting snow and try to twist up against it, the toes of my shoes digging down, and the Erlking grunts, growls, and drags me up until I’m flush against him, his large, heavy balls pushed tight against mine.
Up close, the Erlking feels like a furnace, he gives out so much heat that I’m surprised the snow doesn’t melt away in a circle around him. I’m so full that I’m dizzy from it, almost fainting, I’m losing control of Winter’s mantle and my fingers are sheathed in a thin glove of ice, and I’m shaking all over, uncontrollably. The Erlking purrs, like he’s enjoying the magic - my magic, the asshole - and then he growls, deep and primal, when I angrily push myself up against him, trying to roll my hips.
I’ll tell myself later that it’s only because the faster it starts, the faster it ends, but the Erlking holds me up and drives sharply into me, then again, and the scream that I’ve been biting down wells up all at once.
The Erlking fucks like a hound, all grunts and snarls and sharp, ramming jerks of his hips, lust as part of a primal, mating drive rather than love's pleasure; he doesn't bother to try and get me off, and I don't care for it, not when I’m like this, facedown in the snow and wild for it, all in front of his Court. I’m making sounds like a wounded animal, harsh and high and sharp, and I can tell that it’s turning him on. Him, the Erlking, hissing and growling as he hardensgodsdamnimpossibly more and forces me to take all of him, more of him, and I think I’m dying, I can’t breathe, the wildness of his magic in a roar of absolute sensation in all of my senses.
He slows, rocking in, when I shudder and break, big hands petting up and down again. I try to tell him I’m not some sort of pet, Stars, but all I can do is rasp out something unintelligible, dazed by the afterglow. The bastard laughs, turns me onto my back, and pulls my ankles up over his big arms, then he drags my thighs open so wide that I sob and struggle in his grasp. I’m not sure when he got rid of the rest of my clothes. “Please.” I’m begging, Stars and stones. “Please.”
He whispers the words to me in the oldest tongue of the wyldfae, long forgotten by the ladies of Summer and Winter, mockingly, and seems amused when I try to pronounce them, I’m so far past thinking straight. Then he pulls me back up as he thrusts down into me and I’m past thinking altogether.
Time moves anyway that the Erlking wants, this side of the Nevernever. I don’t know how long we spent on the edge of Winter, I lost count of the number of times I came from simply being taken like that, savage and brutal, impaled again and again until I was begging him to stop, overwhelmed, ecstasy long wound tight with pain, far past pride itself. When he fills me at the very last, he’s spread me on his lap, with my knees and weight held up effortlessly under his palms, so deep that I scream my throat raw when he pulses.
The Erlking isn’t one for niceties; you probably could clue that in from the barbarian chic that he has going on in his dressing. He pulls out with a grunt, leaving me gasping on my flank in the snow, and whistles for his horse, striding over to swing himself into the saddle as if all we’d just been doing for the past... however long... was sitting around having scones and tea. I stare at him, almost disbelievingly, and he inclines his head at me, then jerks his chin in the direction of the Steppes.
“Try a little harder the next time, wizard.”
Bastard. “Once I can pronounce ‘fuego’ I’m going to fry your ass,” I croak.
The Erlking chuckles darkly, wheeling his horse back towards his castle, his hounds and his army at his heels. I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing, trying to piece the incantation to summon the brumag back together.
You cannot tell how estatic I am when I was reading this. Your fic made me wonder why isn't there a lot of Erlking/Dresden for the pure hotness of it. :D
Also, love how you describe the Erlking's personality and manners. Like how he compliments Harry and leaves like they were having a cup of tea.
And-and-, it's just pure awesomeness. :D I wonder if I should try to think up more Erlking/Dresden prompt to read more fics like yours. :)
I like how this is a re-occurring situation for them, and the implicit power play over Winter. The chase scene is awesome, and some of the alliteration gave it a kind of medieval verse feel for me, like we were taking a turn into oral tradition :-D Also: YAY ERLKING.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
....fucks like he's trying to kill me with his cock...
Date: 2011-02-21 04:30 am (UTC)I love this quote from Round One Fill in Grey Clock(Warden's Robe), "He fucks like he's trying to kill me with his cock". :D
It could be a female character of your choice w/ a strap on though.
Writer can use any character, but OP would like Erlking, Donar, Kincaid, Morgan, Martin. OP still likes Marcone/Dresden, but want to give other pairings a chance first.
Re: ....fucks like he's trying to kill me with his cock...
Date: 2011-02-21 05:00 am (UTC)Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-02-21 01:40 pm (UTC)I am wind, I am flight.
Beneath me the brumag shakes ice from the mist of its mane and screams, all anger and challenge, and I join my voice to it, all wild magic and insanity’s touch, my arms locked tight around its neck and my knees jammed into its ribs. It snorts steam from its muzzle and the spittle from its fanged mouth hisses as it touches the snow; muscles bunch and twist as we clear an icy stream, dodge the grasping branches of a dead oak tree, and bursts out into a frozen glen, all drumming black hooves and winterfyre. Behind us, I hear the hounds, baying as they close in around us, and the distant rumbling snarl of the Lord of the Hunt.
I press my knees again into the brumag’s ribs, urging it forward. The ground shifts beneath its hooves, but it surges up the slove, snorting and growling, its wild, proud mind mine for this Hunt. We burst over the embankment of snow, and it pauses, the burning blue orbs of its eyes flaring; far across the Treacher Steppes lies Winter’s skirts and the end of the Hunt’s domain. Home.
Some small, still-human part of me shivers and shouts, but the rest of me is swept in the brumag’s triumphant cry as it lunges over the embankment, slip-sliding down the steep slope towards the shifting ice of the Steppes. I hear horns, I hear snap-snarl words of commands and the crackle of pennants behind me, the gurgling growls of goblins. The hounds are howling now, closing in, and I twist on the brumag’s back to balance myself, raising my staff.
The first dog that bounds for us catches a fuego in the muzzle; ever Winter’s creature, the brumag bucks and shrieks in skittish fear, but I have a death grip on its mane as I repeat its true name in a rasping growl over the ice of its wake and it subsides, charging for the Steppes. The second hound I punch aside with a quick forzare, and the brumag screams and snaps its head to the side, snake-quick, to tear out the throat of the third without even breaking its stride.
After that, we stop finessing. Rings, bracelets, hell, I even had to club a hound aside with my staff, no spells involved; biting and kicking, we break from the leading pack, my arms bloody to the elbows in blood, the brumag’s ice blue fur staining maroon over its jaws and hooves. Arrows whistle down, only to break themselves on my shield bracelet’s barrier, and we’re outdistancing the hunters now, the hounds hesitating at the edges of the Steppes, so close to Winter’s borders. We’re nearly-
Something big lands on my back and slams me off the brumag. I scream, all primal fear and rage, scratching and kicking before I remember my rings, but they’re spent, my bracelets, and then I land on my back in the snow, the breath knocked out of me, a giant paw pressed down heavily on my throat.
The brumag turns, skittish and snorting, but the great gray, horned wolf with the amber eyes snarls, and it’s a primal sound, hot-wired to the memory of the cave-man in my soul, the memory of the old dark and the unknowable death within it. I freeze, and the brumag rears, pawing the air, then it whirls and thunders away towards the Steppes.
When I look back up, the wolf has blurred back into the Erlking, all eight feet, barbarian kitch of him, shaggy hair loose over his broad shoulders and his eyes wild embers within his horned helm. He has a big hand around my throat, and he squeezes, silent and grim, watching me buck and choke and claw at his wrists as he tosses my staff to the side, contemptuous, then allows me a gasp of air as he flips me onto my chest. There’ll be a ring of bruises around my neck tomorrow, and I choke out wheezing breaths as I try to form the words of power.
The Erlking drags off my duster, then somehow manages to work on the buckles of my belt as I twist and snarl and try to kick him. He ignores my blows, or maybe he isn’t even aware of them. Behind us, the hounds mill and snarl, circling, but the goblins have retreated to form a snarling, skittering audience back in the line of dead trees.
“We’re in full sight of Winter,” I manage to rasp, buzzed on adrenaline and the rich, layered texture of the Erlking’s own wild magic, twisted and entwined around me. “She isn’t going to like this.”
The Erlking makes a barking sound, an ugly sort of laugh, even as he pulls my pants down to my knees, pressing my swelling dick into the snow. Maybe because of Winter’s mantle, or maybe it’s the Erlking’s magic, but I don’t even feel the cold in anything but a vaguely visceral way, like a memory of ice, and it somehow sharpens my arousal rather than killing it. I moan, twisting, but the Erlking holds me down with one big hand, the other coming up slick and cool as a big finger presses roughly into me.
“Fuck!” I jerk bodily in his grasp, clawing at the snow. It hurts, but not physically; it’s like touching a magic socket, a shock of pure, wild energy. I don’t feel the stretch, or the friction from it, only the heightened spike of utter sensation; I’m vaguely aware that I’m pushing back, whimpering, wanting more, and the Erlking is laughing again, that harsh, barking sound. I’m about to be taken on the snow in full view of Winter.
Somehow, that doesn’t piss me off as much as it should.
“A good chase,” the Erlking’s rumbling voice is taut, like the eve of a storm, and his big, rough fingers burn as he strokes them up my flanks and back down, like he’s trying to calm down an animal. “You were close. The brumag was a good touch.”
“Shut up and let’s get this over with,” I snap back at him, and there’s that heartbeat of time that I get around Him, where I’m not sure if his next reaction would be to laugh or to pull my head off my shoulders. He laughs, and I tense, indignant, only for him to shove another big finger inside me and curl and twist until I’m bucking and whimpering for it like a bitch. Around to my right, one of the hounds snaps its jaws shut and growls, and the Erlking answers, in a guttural rumble that makes my toes curl tight in my boots and the hair stand all the way up on my arms.
That’s usually when the Erlking decides he’s bored with foreplay; I gather animals don’t usually go for foreplay, and the Erlking has more in common with his hounds and whatever it was gave him the horns on his helm than the shape that he wears. When he pushes into me, his hands like iron bands on my hips and his massive cock impossibly, inexorably forcing its way into my flesh he does it bent over my back, breathing roughly against the back of my neck, the edges of his horned helm digging into my arched shoulders, and if not for the faceguard he’d have torn up the nape of my neck with his teeth.
Whatever slick that the Erlking conjures does the work, or maybe it’s because we’re here, in the seat of his power. Out back in Chicago, taking something this big would have torn me bloody, particularly with the Erlking’s cavalier approach to preparation. Here, I brace myself on the melting snow and try to twist up against it, the toes of my shoes digging down, and the Erlking grunts, growls, and drags me up until I’m flush against him, his large, heavy balls pushed tight against mine.
Up close, the Erlking feels like a furnace, he gives out so much heat that I’m surprised the snow doesn’t melt away in a circle around him. I’m so full that I’m dizzy from it, almost fainting, I’m losing control of Winter’s mantle and my fingers are sheathed in a thin glove of ice, and I’m shaking all over, uncontrollably. The Erlking purrs, like he’s enjoying the magic - my magic, the asshole - and then he growls, deep and primal, when I angrily push myself up against him, trying to roll my hips.
I’ll tell myself later that it’s only because the faster it starts, the faster it ends, but the Erlking holds me up and drives sharply into me, then again, and the scream that I’ve been biting down wells up all at once.
The Erlking fucks like a hound, all grunts and snarls and sharp, ramming jerks of his hips, lust as part of a primal, mating drive rather than love's pleasure; he doesn't bother to try and get me off, and I don't care for it, not when I’m like this, facedown in the snow and wild for it, all in front of his Court. I’m making sounds like a wounded animal, harsh and high and sharp, and I can tell that it’s turning him on. Him, the Erlking, hissing and growling as he hardensgodsdamnimpossibly more and forces me to take all of him, more of him, and I think I’m dying, I can’t breathe, the wildness of his magic in a roar of absolute sensation in all of my senses.
He slows, rocking in, when I shudder and break, big hands petting up and down again. I try to tell him I’m not some sort of pet, Stars, but all I can do is rasp out something unintelligible, dazed by the afterglow. The bastard laughs, turns me onto my back, and pulls my ankles up over his big arms, then he drags my thighs open so wide that I sob and struggle in his grasp. I’m not sure when he got rid of the rest of my clothes. “Please.” I’m begging, Stars and stones. “Please.”
He whispers the words to me in the oldest tongue of the wyldfae, long forgotten by the ladies of Summer and Winter, mockingly, and seems amused when I try to pronounce them, I’m so far past thinking straight. Then he pulls me back up as he thrusts down into me and I’m past thinking altogether.
Time moves anyway that the Erlking wants, this side of the Nevernever. I don’t know how long we spent on the edge of Winter, I lost count of the number of times I came from simply being taken like that, savage and brutal, impaled again and again until I was begging him to stop, overwhelmed, ecstasy long wound tight with pain, far past pride itself. When he fills me at the very last, he’s spread me on his lap, with my knees and weight held up effortlessly under his palms, so deep that I scream my throat raw when he pulses.
The Erlking isn’t one for niceties; you probably could clue that in from the barbarian chic that he has going on in his dressing. He pulls out with a grunt, leaving me gasping on my flank in the snow, and whistles for his horse, striding over to swing himself into the saddle as if all we’d just been doing for the past... however long... was sitting around having scones and tea. I stare at him, almost disbelievingly, and he inclines his head at me, then jerks his chin in the direction of the Steppes.
“Try a little harder the next time, wizard.”
Bastard. “Once I can pronounce ‘fuego’ I’m going to fry your ass,” I croak.
The Erlking chuckles darkly, wheeling his horse back towards his castle, his hounds and his army at his heels. I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing, trying to piece the incantation to summon the brumag back together.
-urrr... so much porn...-
Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-02-21 01:49 pm (UTC)Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-02-21 01:49 pm (UTC)Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-02-21 01:53 pm (UTC)I'll just be over here, trying to put my brain back together.
Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-02-21 02:30 pm (UTC)OP Here
Date: 2011-02-21 06:04 pm (UTC)You cannot tell how estatic I am when I was reading this. Your fic made me wonder why isn't there a lot of Erlking/Dresden for the pure hotness of it. :D
Also, love how you describe the Erlking's personality and manners. Like how he compliments Harry and leaves like they were having a cup of tea.
And-and-, it's just pure awesomeness. :D I wonder if I should try to think up more Erlking/Dresden prompt to read more fics like yours. :)
Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-02-21 06:13 pm (UTC)Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-02-21 08:00 pm (UTC)I like how this is a re-occurring situation for them, and the implicit power play over Winter. The chase scene is awesome, and some of the alliteration gave it a kind of medieval verse feel for me, like we were taking a turn into oral tradition :-D Also: YAY ERLKING.
Re: Hunter, Hunted [1/1]
Date: 2011-03-27 09:12 am (UTC)