Chronicles of Riddick, Kyra/Riddick: animals in the dark - "Just shut up."
Baccano!, Claire/Chane, knifeplay, learning her rhythms
Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn!, Chrome/Mukuro, strength
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. Baccano!, Claire/Chane, adrenaline junkie, pounding
It was the thrill that sent her after him, chasing his shadow when he tapped on her window in the dead of the night. Over moonlight gilded roofs and towards the unreal shimmer of water, lit by an open street festooned with lamps.
Cobblestones and soft ash-gray shadows. When she dropped down and he whirled to face her, there was the wild hint of bloodlust still in her eyes, a vicious euphoria that showed in his brilliant grin. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" He asked, voice irreverently loud. "I saw it and I thought of you."
Her feet were cold and bare on the ground, and the night was beautiful, especially with the dark gleaming sheet of water moving in the wind, but she could see what had brought him here in the first place, blood trickling between stones and coating the planks of a boat. His dark coat fell around him like wings, and in this light his eyes were the color of blood.
And that--yes, that, in it's own way, was beautiful too. Chane approached him, feeling the nakedness of lacking weapons--she'd gone after him so fast she'd only snatched up one knife, and it gleamed bare in her hand--and still fearless. He stood very still, like someone trying not to frighten a wild animal, and waited until she put a hand on his cheek and wiped blood away to touch her.
Caught her wrist, his hands on her skin, one touching her cheek; he bent towards her and she rose on her bare toes, inviting.
He tasted like whiskey instead of blood, and the dark male scent of his skin filled her senses even as he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her closer, her feet slipping in the blood, his clothing heavy and wet with it. She let him push between her thighs, legs parting hers, and mouth hungrily at her neck, drawing ragged voiceless gasps from her, making her clench her hands in his coat. His mouth was hot and wet, and the blood was cool, and the sky opened up above them, smog-clouded but still visibly studded with stars. The streets were silent around them, and he held her against him.
He'd let her go, if she pushed away. She knew that. But he was incredibly strong, and still vibrating from the kill, and dangerous. He took a step back, twisted to brace her against the railing, still kissing her slick and devouring as she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. And she kept the knife tight in her hand, and he drew long trails of dark blood down her thighs in a painting caress.
Her heart beat against the thin skin of her throat and she gasped, sharp and soundless, as he tensed and shivered and then slid into her, the fabric of her nightgown trapped between them and quickly becoming sodden from blood. He whispered her name, a soft delighted murmur, and she shuddered and held onto him so hard there might be bruises the next day.
The night stretched on in silence, indigo-deep and wild.
Chronicles of Riddick, Kyra/Riddick: animals in the dark - "Just shut up."
She nearly cut her tongue open when he kissed her, the little black blade tongued up out of shocked reflex--men down here were rarely stupid enough, after the first few weeks, to try to get their mouths on hers but she still honed the instinct--and he caught her jaw in one big and too-strong hand, fingers pressing in, and caught the blade between his teeth. He spat it out and she gasped and cursed him, shaky, "that's mine, you bastard--" and he laughed, a low rumble in his chest, and kissed her again.
Riddick was at home here. She might have expected it; in Crematoria's bestial blackness, Riddick fit right in instantly. Kyra had her own identity here--as much a part of this prison, she thought sometimes, as the charcoal claw-scarred bars--but she'd worked it out of the stone and blood of others. Unfair, she thought between her teeth, sank her nails into his skin as he worked off her pants one handed, the other at the back, tracing almost casually over the pale lines of scars and taut curve of muscle.
Big, callused fingers. She braced one foot against the stone wall and a sound, low and aching and vulnerable, tore from her throat as he worked inside, pressed at her flesh with too-deft fingers. She thought about breaking his neck, about cutting his throat instead of his cheek, and bit down on her lip until it bled.
Cursed him again, raggedly and straying from English, and he gave another of those low, vibrating laughs and rubbed his cheek against her breasts like a big cat. It made her whimper low in her throat and he bit her, sharp and painful, made her jerk, hips jolting into his hand. She dragged clawed fingers over his skin, twisted aggressively against him to kiss him, blood skating over both their tongues. Her hands closed over his elbow and moved him in her own rhythm, and he surged against her, fingers sliding away and cock sliding in, thick and almost a burn.
Kyra released him and groped blindly for support, crying out, her fingers scraping over stone as she tried to move, tried not to, impaled brief and almost painful. The dark pressed in on them in their corner of rock and heat, lamps shattered. A familiar buzz sounded and she thought hazily about the chains wrapped through their half-crippled cell door, hoped they'd hold while predators stalked the paths and she was pinned under another.
She shoved at his shoulders, rocked him back on his heels so she rose above him. Not surrendering any ground--not ever--he wasn't winning this one, and she shuddered and bit back another cry as she rocked her hips against him in demand.
"Another game, Kyra....?" He murmured against her throat, voice rasping even deeper in his chest than usual, and she managed to pant, "just shut up."
He bit her for that, teeth sinking in, and his hips jolted under savagely into hers. When she came, her scream blended in with the hunting cries of the armored beasts.
Baccano!, Claire/Chane, knifeplay, learning her rhythms
It's something in the way he moves, she decides. Almost an echo of herself, like a shadow carefully slipping into the mirror-wake of her body, the dart of a heartbeat, the quick shivering pulse. He's still so fast, but sometimes he moves slow enough that his footsteps are a 1-2 tandem to hers, like the moves of a strange dance. Like he's learning her, etching who she is into him.
Chane never danced much--who with, and how would she have the time? And why? Huey Laforet and her quest for his freedom consumed her life and she gave it up gladly, willingly.
She's danced with Claire before, she thinks. On the top of a train, in an abandoned warehouse, taking the cautious unchoreographed steps. Can you love me? He'd asked, eyes fever-bright. Will you love me?
He's inside her--long fingers pressed against the slick shuddering heat of her flesh, lips tracing patterns over shoulders and collarbone as she gasps and writhes--and she's inside him, the tip of the blade slipping through layers of skin and into a red as deep as his hair.
He's teaching himself this about her to, what surface of her skin is the most sensitive, what makes her move away, what makes her dig her nails into his skin and mouth soundless aching cries.
They'll unweave a rhythm from the raw demand of their flesh together.
Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn!, Chrome/Mukuro, strength
It's easy to think that Nagi wasn't strong.
The girl who was fragile and unloved and perpetually bruised inside, who snatched up cats from speeding cars and broke herself on a hollow bravery--that's not who Chrome is now. She won't let it be.
It's a little harder to convince herself she's left that girl behind because she doesn't feel all that transformed. There's Mukuro, and he's consumed her world effortlessly, leaving her the moon orbiting his black gravity, but inside she's still that girl desperate for warmth and a little meaning.
The cat had been very thin under warm fur and skin, and sometimes when she dreams of Mukuro-sama she can almost feel him, submerged in a glass candle-round prison, tubes trailing away like parasites. And he feels thin. She wants to gather him up and hug him, hold that hungry vastly calculating mind, the boy with the world in the palm of his cruelly amused grip. The cat had seemed as worthy a thing to die for than anything else; Mukuro-sama is so much more.
She'll follow Sawada Tsunayoshi and she'll keep her weapon in hand. And she'll keep fighting--for him.
And what she values most aren’t necessarily the dreams where he comes to her in the dark enfolding shadows of her own mind and presses against her, that heated devouring mouth against her throat and mouth and collarbone, his hands on her skin and his body slick against and inside hers with the dreaming remnants of water. It's any dream where she can hear his heartbeat, because that's what keeps her alive--and strong, and Chrome--in so many ways.
