Naruto: Pain/Konan, understanding
Air Gear, Sora/Rika, hidden tension
Bleach, Ulquiorra/Orihime, faith
Digital Devil Saga, Argilla/Sera, a quiet comfort
Digital Devil Saga, Heat/Argilla, baring your fangs, growly!sex
Fairy Tales, Rapunzel/witch, good times
Final Fantasy VII, Cloud/Yuffie/Zack, consorts
Katekyo Hitman Reborn!, adult!Reborn/Bianchi, immunity to poison
Final Fantasy VII, Cloud/Tifa, bar sex!
Baccano!, Claire/Chane - marking - ‘Sign your name/Across my heart/I want you to be my baby’
Baccano!, Lua - solo - the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
Baccano!, Luck/Eve, her first drink
Baccano!, Firo/Ennis - sparring
Digital Devil Saga, Embryon/Sera, “None of them can help loving her.”
Digital Devil Saga, Serph/Argilla, D/s, pack dynamics
Digital Devil Saga, Heat/Argilla, a womanly scent (and what did that mean?)
Final Fantasy 7, Aeris/Tifa/Cloud, sex outside
Baccano!, Claire/Chane, a quiet night by the fire
baccano!, firo/ennis, give you a run for your money
Baccano!, Nice/Chane, comfortable with silence
Baccano!, Chane/Lua - fight back
Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro, Neuro/Yako, ceilingsex
Final Fantasy VII, Cloud/Tifa, I'm a racing car/passing by like Lady Godiva
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Labyrinth, Jareth/Sarah, grow up
She grows up knowing how to tell the stories.
She grows up knowing the stories; somewhere in between blooming fragile adolescence and the tempered fire of maturity Sarah gains an eye for the fantastical, an eye for just what while work. She knows where she got it, of course, but the Labyrinth is a dream not so much distant as too-vivid and carefully locked away. She finds jobs in the film industry; acting earns her praise and the spotlight, but she finds she enjoys spinning the stories as well as following the script, weaving the words that gain freedom or triumph.
Sometimes she whispers names into her mirror like a password to remember childhood; less often but more potent are the times she strays from the beaten path, down lonely halls and into neglected gardens and almost feels thorns at her shoulders and warm stone at her feet, almost hears the whisper of a cruel, beautiful laugh.
And sometimes her dreams take her where she decided long ago she would not go; to pale elegant hands and strange, elegant clothing. So pale mismatched eyes and too sharp teeth, and sometimes the dreams are filled with his hands on her thighs, his mouth hard and scorching and still-cruel on hers. She can dream of this--pinned under him, held still and full of him--but in the morning she rises and dresses and resolutely does not see any marks on her throat and breasts, or the heavy lidded shine of her eyes. She grew beyond surrender a long time ago.
Sarah's stories all have happy endings. Draw from that what you will.
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Naruto: Pain/Konan, understanding
In the rain, she didn't have wings.
She met his eyes as starkly as ever, calm with her hands at her sides, blinking drops out of her eyelashes. Here Konan was stripped of her makeshift divinity, not a living weapon but a woman who remembered the same blood soaked history that he did.
When stripped she was pale and slim but not fragile, muscles moving under sleek skin as she drew the self-styled god down to her. His hands were rough and callused as they spread against her hips, his strange eyes brilliant as she kisses him, metal between them like a chilly promise through warm flesh.
These men in their patterned cloaks and lethal powers follow him for their own reasons and divining. Konan is the one who draws him down to her, their hearts beating in the same rhythm and whispers in his ear of the world and what they will make of it. Peace, she breathes, her voice catching in her throat as he moves in her at once the fierce and fragile boy she knew and loved and the god, filled with thunderstorms and one deathless, inevitable dream.
When she arches her back and his fingers drag up her spine, face buried in her shoulder and pressing cold curve of metal into her skin, she thinks together and it is left inarticulated and unnecessary, superfluous in the face of the rain and their ecstasy.
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Air Gear, Sora/Rika, hidden tension
It's the quickest moments she catches sight of it.
Early on, sometimes when he's pulling her thigh over his shoulders, mouth on her lower belly and she's arching into his touch she'll catch a glimpse of his eyes, dark and burning like a hungry animal, for her and for more than her and it always feels a little more like being consumed. Other times it will be something mundane--they're playing around in construction, the world spreading beneath them, and he'll watch the sky with an expression that has a cool, sly pleasure that lifts hairs on the back of her neck.
They rarely bother her, and they're quickly brushed off. Even easier to be ignored later, when he is limited with wheels and for all their warm lover's comfort there are unsaid words between them. His fury, sometimes flaring into being so suddenly it almost frightens her, is easy to dismiss as frustration and an anger he has a right too.
A darker look when she is above him, straddling his hips with her hands spread against his chest, stays with her. The control she always wrested from him before in playfulness comes easier, and there is a bottled tension to him, a coiled savagery that means he sometimes leaves bruises with his grip even as she makes his eyes roll back in his head. She wouldn't mind them but for the memory of his stare, black with shadows.
She was riding the storm, she thinks later, and his black wings have left her behind.
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Bleach, Ulquiorra/Orihime, faith
When the world has fallen, he finds her.
"We have won." He tells her, as if she needs to be told. "It is over."
"I know." She answers, quietly. She is a burning, beautiful thing and she will not look at him, gazing instead of fields of ash and bone. She has discarded the white clothing she was given and wears black, stark against her pale skin.
He studies her, comes closer. She does not smell of death, which mildly surprises him. Almost everything in this world is drenched in the scent, now. The clips sparkle in her hair.
"Ulquiorra-san..." She stirs the dust with one toe and her mouth crimps, some strange cross between a frown and a smile or maybe simply trying not to cry. "Why are you here?" She dredges up a strange smile. "To kill me?"
"Had I come here to kill you, you would already by dead." He tells her, and her smile is even odder, sad and sweet.
"Yes." She says. "I don't think they're all dead, you know."
He will give her no comfort, though indeed too many of the shinigami escaped into hiding and something close to guerilla warfare.
"I'll be dead soon, too." She adds frankly.
"Woman." He says. Her eyes flash when she looks at him, and the fairies in her hair hum to the prelude of life. He pauses. "Will you attempt to kill me?"
"I should." She says, and she is closer than he thought, because he can smell smoke on her, and something vaguely sweet. "You nearly killed Ichigo. Everyone I've ever cared about--" She shakes her head, and her hair brushes his cheek.
"You still," he observes critically, "make it a habit of mourning fools."
Her eyes are full of fire when she looks up at him, but she does not slap him this time. Nor does she taste of death, but fruit, and she fists a hand in his hakama, bites his lip.
"They're still alive." She hisses fiercely when he draws back, catches a hand in her long hair. "They're still alive!"
This faith may save or break her, but will do neither now, is no shield as he brings her to the ground, pale hands tearing her mourning clothes with the unrestrained strength of violence, painting her with ash.
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Digital Devil Saga, Argilla/Sera, a quiet comfort
Sera's voice is sweet even when she talks, and it stumbles sometimes, moving in a natural rhythm. Argilla lays with her head on the girl's lap and listens, Sera's slender fingers combing through her hair.
It's probably because she's so relaxed, lulled to lazy indulgence, that when Sera pauses and looks down and she looks up the motion of lifting her head so their lips meet is natural. If she'd thought about it she would have wondered why. She would have wondered what.
But this--this works. This is the softness of Sera's hands, freezing on her skin and then slowly, tentatively sliding down her neck. She moves like she's afraid, but her eyes are wide and full of light, gentle. Argilla cups her jaw, goes on instinct and the way Sera shivers when a sniper's calluses catch on her soft skin.
Going on Sera's hands on her back, and the warmth, and the song in the voice as she cries out, back arching helplessly. The sound eases the rough roiling edges of Prithvi that linger still under Argilla's skin, slip her into a patient wonder, slow--kisses--that make them both sigh into the quiet.
Peace, Argilla might have thought, if she had known what it was.
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Digital Devil Saga, Heat/Argilla, baring your fangs, growly!sex
His bulk overshadowed her; even a little when he was Heat. But as Agni, the bulk of him cast shadows and warmth, the scorching solid of molten rock and blood-red scales, the thickness of his body and slope of his shoulders into his head. Prithvi on the other hand was tall and slim, as coiled and graceful as a snake.
It carried over. Argilla moved a little oddly sometimes, like her bones weren't quite fitting to the human laws of nature. Heat walked like he expected each step to shake the world, though that wasn't all that far from how he'd behaved before.
And against each other--her teeth bared, his closed over her neck so that his snarl vibrated into her skin--they moved like they were fighting as Atma, her legs coiled tightly around his waist and fingers sinking into his arms, simultaneously pulling him closer and controlling him, nails the hint of threat that the position would not allow her teeth to be. And buried in her he moved with barely-restrained violence, the heavy rhythm making her hiss and moan, human whimpers interspersed between the throaty threat of Prithvi's pleasure.
They fought hard and well on the battlefield, and though there were differences here--afterwards, he licked the blood from her skin with a rough approximation of tenderness, and she stroked him gently, sweet slow touches--there was still the pulse of adrenaline, of heat and fury and consuming hunger.
When she comes she screams, arching into him in vulnerability, and the cry is underlaid by Prithvi's sated growl. When he comes he makes a low grating sound and his fingers punch through the thin mattress, and for a second their skin rasps together, counterpoint scales shivering out of their skin, before they can settle.
Fairy Tales, Rapunzel/witch, good times
There are memories to treasure, of days when the stone did not stifle her.
When the witch slipped in through the window, all thin and white with burning black eyes, and did not frustrate her. When all she could think of was reaching out and rising eagerly, seeing the faintest hint of cautious smile play around the thin mouth.
She wasn't beautiful like Rapunzel herself was, all savage angles and feverish intensity, but when she kissed her she tasted like spices and her dark hair smelled of musk, and when she pressed her back to the bed Rapunzel could hardly breathe with desire burning through her veins, slender fingers slipping up her thigh to slide against her, into her, and sometimes with that thin, cruel mouth on her, clever tongue pressing against her slick and insistent.
Or the witch would wind Rapunzel's long golden hair through her fingers, rub against her with the golden curtain between them in silken, agonizing strands. She would smile only with her strange eyes and kiss her soft and vicious with her fingers buried inside the slick heat of her body, stroking a fistful of golden hair over her breasts and between her legs until Rapunzel came, shaking.
Other nights Rapunzel would move down herself, kissing protruding hipbones and thin white thighs, fragile skin unmarred by human mark. When she kissed her there she tasted like the same animal musk and when the witch threw back her head to voice her pleasure, her voice sang out in the harsh scream of an eagle.
Even now, in her new and gilded home, where she can go through any door she pleases, Rapunzel often finds herself standing at high windows, fingering the short curl of her hair and pressing her thighs together as she tastes musk too heavy on her tongue for memory.
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Final Fantasy VII, Cloud/Yuffie/Zack, consorts
It's mostly Tifa that calls them that, actually, wearing that embarrassed little smirk she gets when she's trying to be too polite to be thinking what she's thinking. Yuffie cheerfully sticks with 'boy-toys' and doesn't even pretend not to appreciate just how damn lucky she got.
She shows this appreciation mostly by molesting them at every opportunity. Sometimes it's just two, she shoving Cloud back into his chair at private breakfast to straddle him while Zack's busy, kissing him as her hands work deftly at his belts and his slide heavy folds of formal fabric aside to spread against the sleek muscles of her thighs. Or Zack shoving her up against a wall while she hooks a leg behind his hips and urges him on in hisses, nearly biting through his shirt to stifle screams as he thrusts into her while a staid dinner party goes on a room away. Sometimes it's all three of them, Yuffie writhing between Zack and Cloud, and sometimes Cloud between she and Zack, and sometimes Zack...and sometimes all of them just in a rough, gasping mindless tangle of pleasure.
Or sometimes when she's really tired and going on exhausted, she drops on her bed and tells them what to do to each other, voice more and more velvet with every word as they listen. That usually cheers her up, or at least turns her on so badly she can't even think never mind overanalyze her latest act or decree.
And they're there--at her back and steadying her, strength at her hands and heels, keeping her up when she's almost ready to sink. It's when she wakes up and rolls over to find Cloud's arm slung over her waist and Zack's hip at just the right place for her to sling a leg over it that she thinks with sleepily, triumphant pleasure at the world in general, I win.
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Katekyo Hitman Reborn!, adult!Reborn/Bianchi, immunity to poison
When she accepted his hand, he drew her into a graceful waltz. The room was brightly lit, overarching ceiling and the spin of bodies around them, the murmur of ostentatious but muted conversation.
His breath touched her mouth, and his dark eyes were lazy with amusement. "Have you done what you wanted to do?" He asked, and spun her. She'd picked the skirt because of color and material; the whirl of her body flared it out in vibrant crimson, baring a scandalous length of pale leg. When he stepped into the movement to bring her against his body, she saw heavy lidded approval in his eyes, possibly both for the sensual display and the subtle knives at her waist, throat and hip.
"Did I take too long?" She murmured, dipping gracefully back into the support of his arms. Her thigh slid between his, found the hard edge of metal and drew back slow and deliberately provocative. "I tried to hurry. I wanted to dance with you."
"You are." He spun her again and stepped up against her back, fast. His mouth touched the curve of her shoulder and neck and the brim of his hat touched her hair.
"Sadly, the party is nearly finished." She sighed, stepping back into his body and arching languorously as his hand slid across her stomach, a firm pressure. Maybe twenty feet away in the thick of the crowd, the first fell foaming at the lips.
Reborn laughed, low and dark in her ear. ""Do we need them in order to dance?" He whispered.
Her heels rang out sharp and clear as she slipped free and spun again, the crowd dropping like flies. "Well?" She called, twirling gracefully through the fallen bodies. Her voice rang out in the huge and rapidly hollowing room.
"Champagne and the shrimp." He caught her arm and pulled her back, inexorable as steel, his eyes black and hot. "The taste was slightly too potent. A hint of too much lime for the shrimp, considering the sauce it was prepared with."
She kissed him, hard and hungry, and tasted it on her tongue. His hand curled slowly at the small of her back, drawing the fabric tight around her hips, and she gave a low moan into his mouth and arched into him. "Subtlety is not my most well honed weapon." Bianchi whispered, laughing against his lips.
He tasted like lime and his gun had cooled nearly entirely against her thigh.
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Final Fantasy VII, Cloud/Tifa, bar sex!
The wood was hard and cool at her back; when he slid deeper into her, little insistent hitches of his hips, Tifa's back arched and she gasped something incoherent, thighs spread. The cloth she'd been using to wipe the counter was under her shoulder, and he was bent over her. When she managed to focus on him she saw his own eyes wide and hazy, glowing mako-bright.
He caught a hand in her hair and she whimpered his name, bucking against him with her heel braced against the small of his back. She couldn't get the leverage, not really, mostly because she couldn't focus. He was moving in her slow and insistent, and his lips curved in a soft, almost wondering smile.
"Oh--" She gasped blindly, "Cloud, please--" and then he thrust in fast and hard and she came, tightening around him. Bucking and blindly grasping for an anchor she heard glass break when she threw out a hand, moaned when he kept moving in her for only a few more sharper thrusts before collapsing over her.
Taking in heaving breaths, she managed to lift one hand and touch his cheek. Her wet fingers grazed his skin and she lifted her head to lick it off; alcohol, and she vaguely identified the taste but couldn't be bothered to actually think enough to come up with a label.
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Baccano!, Claire/Chane - marking - ‘Sign your name/Across my heart/I want you to be my baby’
When he kisses her he smears blood across her skin. His face is still largely clean--and it felt strange to see him that way, unnerving and alien until teeth showed in that familiar grin--but his body is nearly as soaked as it was that night on the train, and she's crushed against him, her hands fisted in his sleeves with no concern on either part for her white, white dress.
When she shudders and arches into him he makes a low pleased sound, vibrating in his throat. His hand spreads across the base of her spine, pulling her against him, and she reaches up, still almost hesitant--she'll curl her hands in his hair, grab at his clothing, respond fiercely but still seems tentative making her own moves--and strokes his cheek, the long smear of familiar red.
He's grinning that hunting grin still, eyes full of dark light. His hands are on her hips and then thighs and he lifts her, taking a step back with that perfect balance so that she's braced against him, her legs at his hips with her toes off the ground.
If she could she would have made a startled sound. "Shh," he says anyway, wrapping an arm around her waist and stroking the other through her hair. Ladd Russo made a gesture like that, smoothing down the side of her face, but this is different. He laughs, bright and inexplicable, and kisses her again, until her nails curl against the back of his neck and she manages to hook a leg around him. "You're beautiful in white." He says when they break apart, and then adds thoughtfully, "I didn't think to bring a ring, though."
She shakes her head, eyes wide, and bends to him again. A harder kiss, hungry with it, and she can feel the blood soaking through the previously pristine front of her dress. Even as she kisses him she drops her legs and pushes a little until he releases her. Takes his hand when she steps back and presses it against the red emblazoned on the white fabric.
Her breath is quick and shallow; she watches his eyes dilate. Then she lifts her hands--in an empty warehouse, all steel and dust and watery sunlight--and slips apart the first button to let the material fold down.
His stare is luminous and hungry and she takes in a trembling breath as he steps forward.
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Baccano!, Lua - solo - the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had (This was very unnerving to write.)
It's not the warmth, it's the cold.
She likes it when she can lay against the glass of a window, or bare concrete or steel. Not the heat--life, pulsing through thighs and throat and heart--but the chill, the sweet peaceful seeping cold. Even as she touches herself, fingers sliding down pale familiar skin, it's the cold that brings her pulse to her mouth until she thinks she could bite it, beating thick and meating against her throat, making her shiver.
Death is going to be beautiful whether blue-white and chilly or painted in steaming red, but this is her best fantasy. She can almost taste the metallic winter as her fingers slide into the heat of herself, stroking sensitive flesh. She rarely cries out but gasps--quick, fluttering breaths that tremble through her--and moves instead, arching and stirring.
All this will be gone, she thinks, and when she comes, as always, it is with the thought of never coming down.
Inevitably, she slips back to her body and flushed, she sits up and smoothes down her skirt, stands to go to the door. Ladd will be waiting.
She knows when it comes it will be glorious, overshadowing all paltry expectations. All she has to do is wait.
She smiling as she opens the door.
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Baccano!, Luck/Eve, her first drink
"Thank you." She say very primly when it is offered, and accepts it in her small, graceful hands. From the flicker of her eyes she did not expect to be taking the glass from him the first time--doubtless from her degenerate brother instead--but she says nothing, graciously sips it.
Her eyes widen and she struggles to swallow, throat working, and presses a hand to her mouth. Her cheeks are flushed already, though that might be from embarrassment at her visible struggle. "It's--not what I expected." She says worriedly, and he imagines not. Given the way her brother enjoys it, perhaps she thought it would be more pleasant.
"There are sweeter." He allows, toasts her politely before taking her own drink. She gives him a very steady look and rolls her glass between her palms. Taller now, slim and collected and no longer in little-girl clothes but still graceful and terribly young and determined.
"Perhaps it is simply not my drink." She tells him firmly. He smiles faintly and comes around the desk to take the glass. There is a moment where she tilts her head back and looks him in the eyes and they are close, their fingers touching. He straightens politely, but then she stands which brings their faces close again and aligns their bodies in warm near-contact.
There is a flicker of skittish uncertainty in her eyes, but she holds his gaze and her mouth has a familiar firmness. "Luck." She says, and her soft, sweet voice lingers over his name, an intimacy that she blushes harder at immediately after.
He might have stepped back, but after her embarrassment she only looked faintly defiant and there were issues the wine had not created but bared, and anyway she was the one who rose to tiptoes and kissed him, mouth tasting of the alcohol and her eyes open. Terribly soft, and he cupped the back of her head and deepened the kiss, careful with her. Careful with her tentative response, and the smooth stretch of skin on her back as it arched into him, fabric parting under his fingers.
He must admit, he'd rather expected her to wait for a proposal.
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Baccano!, Firo/Ennis - sparring
A match between them is always hard to call.
Mostly because no one watches; they keep them private and unobserved, usually hand to hand. So that no one sees what it does to him when she strips off her jacket and comes for him with ghostly, menacing grace. How he reacts when she pins him, or gets in a strike, or simply to the sheen of sweat over her forehead and collarbone.
Or how she's fascinated by how not-fragile he is, how he can match her and she doesn't have to be afraid to touch him. Sometimes it turns into not so much a fight as contest for contact.
And then one of them will get the other hand--Firo rolling above her on the ground, or she pinning him like a lioness--and things turn.
Her hands almost always fist in his hair, pulling him close. Suits and slacks and clothes between them are sometimes stripped more carefully and sometimes simply yanked out of the way. His eyes are so bright when he kisses her, bereft of amusement or laughter but luminous, and no matter how fast or hard it goes, his body deep in hers, he always manages to press his lips tenderly to her skin, her wrist or neck or the back of her shoulder.
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Digital Devil Saga, Embryon/Sera, “None of them can help loving her.”
Argilla is always sinuously gentle, her mouth sweet on Sera's, her hands stroking skin. Sometimes it isn't even strictly sex, just languorous caresses, taking pleasure in contact but with no need to rush or seize.
Heat is always more of a demand, staking a claim with his mouth at her throat and his hands at her thighs. Sera always climaxes, is always roused and slick under his touch, and she walks away with her legs trembling, shocked open and tender and gasping. He burns, against her and under her skin, and seems to take satisfaction in every cry he tears from her throat.
Serph on the other hand is more like water; cool and graceful and gracious, smooth against her, kissing her slowly. In actual sex he varies, but he likes to touch her until she's arched and yearning for him, until she's moaning his name with her hands wrapped around his neck and pulling him to her. It often seems just a little more personal with him; he never closes his eyes untl he comes, when he buries his head in the side her neck and clutches her closely.
Gale is calm and methodical, experimental touches, teasing with little mercy when she squirms or begs. When she cries out his name and the faintest hint of a smile touches his lips she knows he's through playing with her but it takes a long time, usually, before he actually slides into her and lets them move together into completion.
And Cielo is playful, all laughter and tickling touches and exuberant kisses, his mouth on hers as they fumble with straps, warmth slipping to pleasure. He's the one she most likes to sleep with afterward, because he's warm and close and alway holds her tightly but not so tightly she can't squirm away. It feels a little like a home.
And together they are fervent pleasure, and warmth, and a burning thread of connection. Loyalty, even when Serph and Heat go taut with tension near each other, and passion. They are the Embryon, and she is their songstress, and one way or another they fit.
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Digital Devil Saga, Serph/Argilla, D/s, pack dynamics
Her breath is a slow, deep rasp that starts in her chest and shivers up her body, and Serph's mouth is on hers, surprisingly hot and wet, teeth and the taste of blood. He is not-quite-methodical here, his hand on her thigh, silver eyes luminescent as he stares down at her. His other hand is in her hair, caught firmly to pin her head, and his lips part--drawing back over his teeth just a little, the violence inherent in them all. Others would fight for her body and be struck down, but Serph is more than their leader, their spearhead and axis, he is alpha and omega, and they will follow him.
It's part of why Heat fights him and rebels, she knows, because the instinct to surrender is strong. Gale is too practical to view it as anything but an acceptable condition and Cielo doesn't seem to have a problem with it at all, but Heat bristles under it and she...
Arching into the touch, his teeth on her neck, her body vibrating with tension under his control but obediently still, her hands fisted at her sides until they bled and he was inside her and his grip punishingly firm at the back of her neck and she couldn't think...
Argilla didn't have nearly as much of a problem with surrendering.
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Digital Devil Saga, Heat/Argilla, a womanly scent (and what did that mean?)
Argilla smells like gunpowder and oil and leather, but she smells like something else too.
It hangs around her, deepest in the hollows of her body, traces of perfume in the hair, stronger when she uncrosses her legs and sweet at the hollow of her throat. He's been in contact with her enough that he can recognize it in her skin, could probably track her by that alone.
When he grabs her shoulder, too-rough, she whirls to face him in surprise and her eyes are wide open, dark with surprise. Her mouth is soft and parted; he drags her closer, presses a thumb against her lower lip as her eyes narrow, and wants even as he isn't exactly sure what he wants or even, on deeper level what this 'want' is.
Hunger he's more familiar with, and when he presses his mouth to hers he's not sure what's supposed to happen; it's alien from the intent to devour, driving him on in the curve of her hip and swell of her breast, the arch of her back even as she freezes against him, taut muscle reminding him that lesser mass or no Argilla is a more-than-fair fighter when pushed.
Instead her hand fists in his hair and she pulls him closer, opening her mouth with clumsy instinct. She doesn't taste enough like blood, which aggravates him; he growls into her mouth and she yanks her fistful of hair and he hauls her up, her thighs on either side of his hips as she gasps and wraps her legs around him. He buries his face against the curve of her shoulder to let her gasp for air and stumbles forward, her spine smacking concrete. She bites him for it, the blunt edge of teeth making him growl and jerk in instinctual recoil. Agni surfaces just a little, hanging him on the hair thin edge of instinct.
He goes to his knees in front of her, following the scent, and for a second they are close to combat, his mouth near delicate skin setting off alarms, and then he presses his face between her legs and she bucks, head falling back. He drowns in her smell as he opens his mouth to taste.
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Final Fantasy 7, Aeris/Tifa/Cloud, sex outside
Here, Aeris seems thoroughly in her element.
Her hair shines under the moon, long and loose, kinked by long confinement in her braid. She's utterly relaxed and peaceful in the middle of the small clearing and Tifa is the first to cross to her. Cloud is still a little too fond of hanging back, but when they both turn to reach for him he comes easily enough.
Light is almost surreal, casting his eyes into reflective glow and drawing Aeris in fey, curving lines; the swell of cheekbone touched by spiky shadows of her lashes, her mouth curved into a smile that midnight shades in mystery until Tifa has to kiss her, taste her until Aeris is trembling and warm and familiar in her arms again, a husky and unsteady laugh vibrating between them. Cloud is quieter--his hands on Tifa's hips, his mouth on the curve of her shoulder or neck--but he's sharper, tenser, the hint of teeth in the softness of the kisses, especially when they've been fighting and moving for too long. He's a bundle of urgency and reticence and Tifa pushes back into him to urge him on, bites Aeris on the throat to make her moan. They're not that fragile, and he should remember that.
The grass is wet and cold and should be more uncomfortable than it is. "I brought a blanket--" Aeris says breathlessly into Cloud's mouth, but they never quite manage to untangle it, Tifa bending over it an excuse for Aeris to run her hands up her stomach and cup her breasts and Cloud to draw her back up and mold her against his body.
Aeris's hands slip between her thighs and she leans forward and kisses Cloud over her shoulder, smelling like earth and crushed grass, and Tifa breathes out on a moan.
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Baccano!, Claire/Chane, a quiet night by the fire
She rolls onto her back when he makes a 'hmm' sound under his breath, looking up at him. The heat of flames licks over her skin; she's a little to close to the glass, but it's comfortable here, sprawled bonelessly over the hearth while he sits cross legged in the big chair, shirt half unbuttoned.
"I've been thinking of taking some time off." He says, beams down at her with that deceptively mild smile. "Spend more time with you."
He already spends a lot of time with her--sometimes he reminds Chane of an affectionate cat, basking in her presence and touch and as quick to pounce--but she still misses him when he's gone.
To show her approval, she slinks up off the ground, warm and flushed, and crawls into his lap. His eyes go wide and hungry and she slides a leg over his thighs to kiss him hard and rock into him, gasping when he thrusts up against her, tongue sliding into her mouth. Claire is always greedy and she doesn't care, indulges every touch with a hunger as intense as his, a grip as possessive.
She doesn't have to say it aloud to know he hears her emphatic yes, and his hands spread against her thighs, curl against her skin as they move together, almost lazy with pleasure, her arms dropping to lock around his shoulders.
The heat of the fire is still warm on her back, but he's warmer against her front. Chane arches her hips and gets her hands between them; clothing parts easily. She gasps, soundless and sharp, the way she always does when he slides into her just right.
Yes, she mouths against his temple, and he rocks deep and close and growls against her throat as she burns fiercer than the fire in the hearth.
.
baccano!, firo/ennis, give you a run for your money
They get only the minimal warning of the assassin himself flying out the window in a festive spray of glass before Ennis lands in a crouch, dressed in only underclothing and a man's shirt that hangs over her upper thighs, and uncoils into a high, vicious kick that sends the already-bleeding man into the wall hard enough to disturb the brick.
Needless to say, he is unconcious afterward but not dead; she crouches gracefully beside him, rolling up her shirtsleeves to briskly rifle through his pockets. "No identification that I can find." She tells them after a moment, standing. Nearly all of her long, pale legs are bared and her hair is dissheveled and damp, a preoccupied frown on her face.
Luck had paused with his cup halfway to his lips; Berga choked on his drink. Keith continued to drink after a moment with his eyes politely away, and Firo slowly put the glass down.
There is blood flecking her knuckles, drops on her collarbone. "I'm going to dress." She adds, turning. "I apologize for breaking your window."
The door closes behind her, and Firo says, very politely and evenly, "I'll be back in a bit."
Luck raises his eyebrows, wordless, and hides his smile by finally taking a sip as the door closes very quickly behind Firo.
.
When they come back Ennis is flushed and dissheveled albeit with more clothing, her eyes wide and dark. Firo is behind her, his suit a little crumpled, his hand at the small of her back, and he's grinning like some cross between a delighted boy and an older sharp, sated satisfaction.
Luck isn't much surprised; he refrains politely from mentioning just how long they took.
.
Baccano!, Nice/Chane, comfortable with silence
Noise naturally follows Nice, a cloak as subtle as the tang of smoke and suppressed energy that she wears. Explosions litter her path, celebrated with satiated murmurs as she brushes sparks out of Chane's hair and grins at her.
But between them, she doesn't seem to need words. She's comfortable talking at Chane and selecting answers from Chane's expression or movements, but she's equally happy with the velvet quiet, Chane tending to her weapons sometimes while Nice critically examines her bombs. The air will be heady with oil and sunlight and sometimes Nice will hum like she's keeping a half forgotten song in the back of her throat.
Then when they've each carefully packed away their tools of death, Nice usually looks up and cocks her head at Chane, smiling half invitation and half challenge, sunlight honey on the dark spill of her scars.
Chane is a silent hunter for her part, but she likes the sounds Nice makes when she kisses her, throaty approving moan. The way she makes Chane move, uncontrolled and sharp, arching into sure, hot caresses. The wicked smile that touches Nice's mouth always makes her burn; like the touch is almost as good as the earth shaking roil of explosion.
Afterwards there's silence, and in the lazy afternoons they curl comfortably together and watch the shadows of sunlight, sticky fingers tracing patterns over soft skin moved only by the gentle patterns of breathing.
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Baccano!, Chane/Lua - fight back
The woman stood in the middle of the hall, her pale skirts blocking progress, and when Chane approached she only half turned, blinking serene eyes at her, tawny hair flowing over her shoulders.
The slender woman in white among her male compatriots; Chane paused warily, knives hidden by her skirts, and watched her. Beyond her hem, she could see a slow spread of blood.
She turned fully to face her and her eyes flickered to the long hall and the conductor's room at the end without words, returning to Chane's face.
Chane couldn't say anything, but even if she had been able to caution would have closed her throat. There was a strange glitter to those docile dark eyes, and the woman's hands were also hidden. The standoff stayed, both of them poised a few feet away.
Then behind the woman, a man stepped out and raised a gun.
The first bullet glanced off her knives, and the second; by the time he was pulling the trigger for the third Chane was there, close enough to reach. But the woman didn't move, didn't even flinch, and the hallway was narrow enough that Chane's body fit to hers, arms curving out in a makeshift embrace as one knife sank into below his breastbone.
The second of warm dizzying contact--the woman's breath feathering softly across her neck--was gone in an instant as he crumpled and Chane tore the knife free and darted past, gaining a safer distance to turn and face her.
Their eyes locked for a long moment, and then the woman smiled, faint and dreamy, and turned to proceed down the hall in the other direction.
Chane's skin was crawling and she didn't know why.
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Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro, Neuro/Yako, ceilingsex
It wasn't like Yako hadn't become relatively adjusted to strange things happening to her since Neuro had unceremoniously pushed his way into her life.
But this--her back against plaster, gravity twisting reality into a dizzying whirl--was new. She was more surprised at first by the fact that nausea was absent than the fact that Neuro had decided he would find slithering up to the ceiling amusing and had taken her for the ride, but that didn't last long.
"What are you doing?" She hissed, grabbing at the wrists of black-gloved hands sliding up her thighs. Neuro ignored her, as usual, and bit her sharply on the shoulder as she persisted.
"This is interesting." He said mildly, body curling into an arch as he looked out the window. He didn't appear to be paying much attention to her at all, though that particular flavor of slow, sharp edged smile was becoming more and more familiar to her.
So she was less than surprised when his hands slid against her, flexing against the fabric of her panties and making her jerk. "Neuro." She hissed, voice hitching. "What if someone comes in?"
He pressed her against the ceiling, smile unreasonably full of teeth and eyes sleepy with predatory anticipation. "I'll kill them." He offered with obscene cheer, and she gasped out something incoherent in protest as his fingers flexed, humanity warped into edges sharp enough to tear through fabric.
"Shh." He purred, and slid up into her--a little too soon and a little too rough, but she clenched and shuddered around him and when she bit him on the shoulder to keep silent, he hissed a slow, dark laugh into her ear.
.
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Final Fantasy VII, Cloud/Tifa, I'm a racing car/passing by like Lady Godiva
The bike purred between her thighs, and Cloud was standing by the door watching as she came up to him. There was an odd little smile on his face, and when she swung a leg over it to get off, she asked, "what?"
He shook his head, luminous eyes gleaming. "Nothing." He said. "Welcome home." She was surprised but not unhappy when he kissed her; Cloud was the ultimate non-exhibitionist, as careful with his personal space and privacy as if he was still in the lab.
Instead she arched into his touch, kissing him back hungrily. The motorcycle had been a fun ride, but she had been eager to get home; what with Cloud's increasing success in deliveries and the bar's brisk business, it had been a while since they'd had time together.
When her thighs bumped the warm leather of the seat, she was mildly surprised. But he was warm and insistent and it had been a long time and anyway this was in the back, any observers limited to staggling weeds and concrete blocks.
"It's the motorcycle, isn't it?" She whispered against his mouth, trembling with laughter. He got a hand inside her shorts, stroking her with deft pressure, making her back arch against his arm and shifting the laugh into a long moan.
"No." He breathed against her mouth. "It's you." Rare humor glittered in his eyes. "But you look so good on the bike."
