Porn Battle Answers
mood: 
sleepy
sleepyWell! Here we are.
Chronicles of Riddick (Pitch Black), Riddick/Carolyn, scared of the dark
Riddick pinned her against the metal, his nose buried in her hair, and she didn't know what to do, frozen still for a long moment. "Get the fuck off me," she said, voice steady, and he backed off just a breath, just a hair, close enough that she wasn't willing to turn and meet his eyes yet.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Each breath brought her closer. Each breath brought him deeper. He reached over her head, bracing his palms against the metal, and smiled down at her when she turned her head, stiff and angry, enough to see.
His grin was all teeth. "You're not afraid of me, are you Carolyn?"
"Go to hell, Riddick," she said, and that made him laugh.
He waited until she said yes, and then he was on her before she could say anything else. Big hands, big shoulder; her fingers sink into his skin, biting deep, and she bites down hard, hears him give an amused growl. "Don't smell so afraid of me now," he whispered, nose in her hair. She doesn't want to hear him tell her what she does smell like, so she kisses him.
It startles them both. What now? He's a good kisser, rough, lazy with the surety of his own power, and she doesn't want to think of someone walking in, seeing them packed into this corner, a killer burying himself in her with each slow, heavy thrust.
She doesn't really think they're going to get off this planet alive, but for the first time since she walked out of that crash with a troupe of people she'd almost murdered to save her own skin, she feels alive and not just like she's waiting to lay down.
He lifts her like she weighs nothing, muscles rippling in his arms, and she clutches at him, grits her teeth over each small betraying sound, and doesn't for one second let herself forget what she's doing.
She wonders if he could smell the fatalism on her, can feel it clearing with each thrust, with each hiss of breath, as she arches against him and grabs his arm and bares her teeth, fighting against his control.
He makes a sound low in his chest, shoving up against her, and Carolyn gasps in a breath of air that smells like hot metal and animal sweat and sex, and comes in a messy, fiercely alive shudder.
She does up her pants and looks him in the eye, jaw tight. "What was that for, Riddick?" She asks, because she can't put it off any longer. She doesn't understand him and she can't trust him and this doesn't change a thing, not really.
His mouth curves. "Good luck, Captain," he says, and she shivers, chin lifting, as she remembers the way he crushed her to him, snarling into her sweat damp hair as he came inside her.
"Don't pull anything stupid, Riddick," she says, and turns her back to walk away. She feels his eyes on her the whole way.
D.Gray-Man, Allen/Renalee, real, dream
Rinali dreamed of a long blue expanse of sky, of the soft washed-clean sharpness of it, of the scent of grass and damp earth. Her legs felt bare and light--she was wearing some kind of dress, but there was no weight at her feet or ankles, no anchors or lovely miniature prisons--and she was lying on her back and watching the clouds.
Allen bent into her line of sight.
His pale hair was falling into his eyes; he looked a bit sheepish, and he was smiling, and light darted off the single red earring he wore. Like her, his Innocence was gone. Unlike her, it had taken his arm with it.
The world was so simple. They were alone, and they were free, and he was beautiful. Rinali reached for her, her hands sliding to cup his face, and gentle wonder slid through his eyes as he bent to her.
The air felt light, and soft, and his mouth was both, a grazing cautious touch. Rinali parted her lips and coaxed him into it, fingers carding through his soft hair, eyes drifting closed. She sank into the sensation--his slightly chapped mouth, the smoothness of his hair, the warmth of the sun--until she realized he might very well be getting a crick in his neck.
So she rolled him over.
And then he was on his back in the grass and dandelions, looking startled, and she leaned down and kissed him properly, a slow thorough exploration he returned with increasing boldness. He touched her like he was afraid she'd vanish, turning to smoke and ghosts in the crisp air. She wondered how many people he'd touched--really touched, not just brief friendliness or pulling civilians out of the line of fire. Her brother had been her sole touchstone; Allen had had only Mana, and that briefly. Cross's affection was best described as 'well disguised'.
And suddenly it didn't matter all that much, because she was just as skin hungry. She stretched out above him, tangling their legs, her breasts pressed pleasantly against his chest--he wore a simple white shirt, light fabric, and as his hand stayed on her hips, she slid hers up under it, still kissing him. She didn't think she'd ever be able to stop.
And then suddenly she was, because he was scrabbling at the hem of his shirt, awkwardly yanking it over his head one-handed. She made a little protesting noise when the movement pulled his head away but then there was a lovely expanse of pale scarred skin for her to touch, and she lost the protest. He was flushed when he let it fall from his fingers, some emotion mingling between amazed and cautious, a sweetness opening up in his eyes that she wanted with fierce passion to see there always.
She kissed him until she was so fogged with it she barely noticed his fingers very tentatively tugging at the laces of her dress. It took her a moment, but she registered the effort and, gasping for breath, yanked at them impatiently herself, wresting it over her head. It was all one piece, and in the dream she was shamelessly wearing no underwear--except for thigh high white lace stockings, the elastic camouflaged by a graceful little decoration of red lace at the top.
His eyes went wide--and glittered.
Any flush of self consciousness faded at the look of quiet hunger in his eyes, even the wariness fading. She took his hand--fingers graceful and strong, tough with calluses and small pale scars--and pulled it toward her, letting him guide the touch masked by her first direction. He touched the bottom of her ribcage, fingers sliding over her skin, up until he could slide his fingers against the curve of her breast and make her shudder, hard. His eyes lit up and a little more of his wariness slid away.
She leaned down to him to kiss him again, and he rolled her over. Supporting himself was a little awkward, but she didn't mind the weight, and after a moment of shifting, not quite certain where everything was most comfortable, she wrapped her legs around his waist and arched up into the kiss.
He was stroking her skin now, dizzyingly sure in the caress, or at least picking up fast enough on her cues to seem so. His thumb slid over her nipple and she whimpered into his mouth. That cue he picked up instantly, leaving her squirming as she stroked her open palms down his back, just glorying in the feel of his skin.
"Rinali," he said, his eyes full of light. "Rinali."
Undoing pants was a little harder on someone else, but she snapped the buttons quickly enough, determination giving her deftness. She dragged them down his hips and then got distracting, stroking her fingers along the grooves of muscle and bone, touching the soft skin just below his belly, and then dragging it down a little further so she could properly touch him.
He made a ragged, startled sound in her throat and his hand was on her thigh, clenching nervously tight. "Rinali," he began, and she looked up and him and smiled, unable to stop herself, brimming with joy.
"Mmm?"
"Now?" He asked, and kissed her again. Her long, ragged moan would have to work for 'yes'.
There was a little more fumbling, eagerness not helping with grace, and then he slid against her, adjusting the angle of his hips, and pushed inside.
Rinali buried her face in the side of his neck, gasping for breath. He thrust against her a little, muscles trembling under her hands, and she gave a quiet unsteady moan and kissed his cheek, mouth sliding across his then latching onto his throat. It was a confusion of feeling--achestretchhotwetwant--and she couldn't focus on any one thing.
She'd be leaving a hickey, she thought with a little warm glow, if this wasn't a dream. "Allen, please," she gasped, releasing him, and he thrust, shuddering. She kissed him again, feeling his smile--full of wonder and pleasure and love--against hers.
"Aren't you hungry, Rinali?" Allen asked the next morning, pushing aside his newest bowl so he could get a clear line of sight. There was something odd in his eyes this morning, a cautious, curious light. She lingered on whatever implications she could derive from it and then sighed and banished the thought. It was just the dream, she knew, and felt a blush burn up her cheeks.
"I'm fine, Allen." She glanced at the dishes towering around them. "You seem..." to have an even more intimidating appetite wasn't quite polite. "...hungry this morning."
"Oh," he said, and a blush unfurled across his cheeks, setting his eyes to sparkling. "I am," he admitted, and as he turned his head abruptly to eye the line to the kitchen, Rinali froze.
Emblazoned on the strong lines of his throat was the mark of her mouth, in the exact spot she remembered, a purple bruise as clear as day.
Forbidden Game, Jenny/Julian, touch,
Jenny dreams of him, and she shouldn't.
She's happy now. She's got Tom, and they're together, really together again, and even though she promised, she shouldn't be dreaming about him the way she is.
Restless, dangerous dreams, where Julian kisses her throat and whispers, "I could worship you," in a voice like a storm with eyes that are not human in the dark. dreams where she is naked but for jewels burning on her skin and he kneels before her as she sits in a throne of jet and bone and he kisses the inside of her thighs, cool kisses of mocking worship, a monster in sleek boy's skin at her feet as he feasts on her, tongue sliding slick into her body, and makes her scream to the high echoing roofs of the belly of the earth.
"Hades took his fair queen below the ground so she could not escape," he said, kissing her throat from behind, the soft skin below her ear, sweeping her hair back. The sky is pale; she lay in a blanket of soft grass and wildflowers, the occasional stem rasping against her side, a startling little touch of reality.
Now that he held dominion over nothing but her sleeping hours he seemed relaxed, lazy in his power, even as his long fingers slid between her thighs and into her, making her moan and shudder raggedly in his arms. "You don't refuse me now," he whispered, dangerous hiss, and she arched her back and spread her legs and let him slide into her from behind, thick and hot enough to burn her from the inside out. His lips were cool against the nape of her neck, slow measured kisses, but when she writhed against him his breath at last grew ragged and his fingers bit, control slipping.
"Not my Persephone," he tells her, hands stroking up her sides, lips not quite touching hers, bodies pressed together. Jenny wants to kiss him but waits for his words. "My conqueror."
Her nails score his back as, against the smooth cool ground beneath one of Zach's cyber punk streetlights, he bends her nearly in half, deep inside. Chalk smears her skin. He speaks to her in strange languages. Throughout the whole night, he never lets go.
She wakes with the memory of him burning on her lips, and washes away pale dust she will not identify.
Inuyasha, Sessomaru/(older)Rin, seduction
She was older and still thoroughly uncivilized when he came for her again.
She hadn't been afraid of tree monsters and she still wasn't particularly bothered by severed heads, and the sight of him, settling down, face beautiful and implacable and cold, still drew a golden burst of happiness out of the middle of her chest.
He watched her with an animal's cool assessment when she came running up to him like she was still a little girl, face cool and strange and distant as ever, as a wolf might when it came upon someone unexpectedly in its territory. "Sesshoumaru-sama," she said, tanned, long legs under hiked up yukata, roughly braided hair and a wild grin. "You came back!"
It was a phrase that was almost ritual, and familiar as her own name on his tongue. Long, cool fingers slid through her black hair, and Sesshoumaru looked at her, eyes glittering, and said, "yes."
She was the one that kissed him first.
She was human, and she smelled like it, she knew. His scent faded over the time that war in the West took him away; now she smelled of sweat and earth and sunshine, and a little bit of Kitsune. Not much Inuyasha, though, because the hanyou had gone hunting with his wife for troublemaking demons a month ago.
But he smelled like Sesshoumaru, cold and wild and familiar, so she kissed him, a gesture she was familiar with, because he had never harmed her and she'd gotten used to following her desires.
Seduction is a silly word. The girl who ran faithfully after a beautiful monster because no human had ever been as kind doesn't view the world in quite the same way as most people. She wants, she trusts, she reaches out.
She kissed him, all teeth and hunger, and when she tried to pull back and gauge his stillness, his hand closed over the back of her skull.
He didn't seem to mind her scent so much after all.
It was in the earth in the wood and he had asked for her choice: stay or go? Apparently the answer she gave him, skin-to-skin, was enough, because his claws sheared through the fabric of her clothing. She bucked against him, teeth bared and knees parting, fists knotting in the expensive fabric, wrist against the hard edge of his armour, and his eyes glowed in the moonlight, mouth still with the faintest predatory curve.
And he kisses her like he's discovering it; she wonders if dog demons kiss, wonders if he's ever had the desire for another's touch enough to lower himself before, wonders if she can roll him over--probably not, she decides, or at least a venture for a later date. He is so delicate with the touch of his claws she decides he must have done this before, and then her thoughts melt into incoherency and she wails, choking it between her teeth until his thumb rubs over her throat and he hisses low in his throat. So she stops muting each high, sharp cry and doesn't care who hears.
The old tree monster had said he had the blood of ice, but she could see the burn in his eyes, high on his cheekbones, where his teeth showed and the rumble in his throat. He likes that she hisses and twists against him, the hint of blood and spike of pain melding into arousal, the way her fingers dig into his shoulders and she chants his name, a soft litany that breaks into ragged moans and sharp sounds, more than a little animal herself.
The moon is full and stark, and she's unafraid even as markings blaze dark on his cheeks and an animal's eyes stare at her, fingers biting into her hips as she throws back her head and comes apart.
Sky High, Warren/Layla, water
She's got a candle in her fist, clenched tight, and she gives a little shriek when she turns around and sees him looming over her--leather jacket, mussed hair and everything. Thunder rolls outside, a crack of sound that vibrates in her bones, and light flickers on his fingertip as he touches the wick, let's it flare. The wax is already softening.
"Oh," she says, embarrassed, smiling, heart gunshot thumping in her chest. "Hi."
He gives her this odd half-smile that's just a little like a smirk and her stomach clenches. It's a familiar look, one that's warm and private, a softening at the corners of his mouth that only friends see. It doesn't help that she can feel the plants outside in the deluge and they love it, soaking the rain in greedy-fast as it sinks into their earth. It makes her feel a little drunk.
"You okay?" He asks, and takes the candle from her fingers. She lets him; her hand feels loose and weak.
"Yeah," she says, but it comes out more like a question. She clears her throat, firms her voice. "Yeah, I--I'm okay. There are more candles in the living room."
He nods, follows her. They find more candles and she unearths a candelabra and has a sneezing fit when she has to blow the dust off of it. He takes it from her, grinning at her consternation, touches each wick after they stick in the candles like a little kid blowing off shots with a finger-gun; pop, pop, pop. She laughs, and it trails off as she draws in a deep breath and for a dizzying moment thinks she has roots and aches to pry through the floorboards and sip at the damp earth. Outside, in her head, she can hear them crooning. Silly little hedonists.
"Laylah," he says, concerned. She sways toward him.
"I like the rain," she says.
One eyebrow lifts. She blows out the candle in his hand, takes his wrist, tugs him outside. Of course he wouldn't be a fan of it, judging by his guarded expression, but he follows her without protest.
The water slicks her hair to her face, soaks to the skin, and she touches his skin, warm and smooth, and slides her hands down and spreads her fingers against his chest. "I like the rain," she says again, observing the way his shirt is plastered to his skin.
Warren gives a snort, observing her line of sight, and she grins and kisses him.
The rain is cool against her skin; he isn't. He wraps his arms around her and she tugs at his jackets, sliding her hands inside. The muscles of his stomach flinch as her already-chilled fingers slide across them, but her hand warm up pretty quickly, plastered against him as she is.
She likes the way he kisses her. Like he knows what he's doing. Like he likes what he's doing, and oh boy Laylah does. He cups her face and his tongue slides into her mouth and Laylah squirms against him.
He draws her back toward the porch, which is okay. She doesn't feel so thirsty now, and her feet are still comfortingly muddy. She closes her teeth over his lower lip, tugs, and tugs at the waist of his jeans, tangling his legs with hers.
They're on the porch and he's on his back--Laylah is sort of selfishly glad she's not, it's probably not a forgiving surface--and she rocks against him, fingers clenched in his belt. "Damn," he says solemnly, voice low, and the grin he gives her is slow, crackling with heat, drawing warmth up the curve of her spine with his fingers. Warren has a way of looking at her that makes her feel more beautiful than any number of flowery words, and he's using it now.
"Do we need--" She moves against him, the porch hard against her knee, her nails scratching against the wood. "--do we need somewhere softer?"
He wraps and arm around her waist and says, "why the hell not?"
She thinks, bed, or even couch but he doesn't go farther than the hammock, piled with pillows and afghans as it is. They should have cleared them out earlier, but she's glad they didn't, with Warren braced over her, fit snugly together as it rocks. A sudden sway makes her gasp with startled laughter, bending her knees as Warren's hand moves up her leg, stroking and turning the sound into a moan.
He kisses her leisurely, calm and hungry, and she whimpers into his mouth as his fingers slide against her. His eyebrows raise a little as her hips buck, the touch slick and warm, and she doesn't tell him she might have been a little wet ever since the first drops sank into the earth. Boy's egos can always use a little coddling, and she likes that smile.
Thunder strikes again, following lightning far enough away to be unseen, and masks her cry. Laylah opens her mouth for him as he settles between her thighs, both of them plastered together and struggling for balance in the hammock, and slides inside. It's slow and lazy, but the storm rumbles around them and she can feel the earth beneath her, warm and seething with life, and she gives a sharp cry as she comes that doesn't sound quite human, even as the air around him hisses, rain turning to steam over the lawn. He buries his face against her throat, mouths her name, and she gasps, bucks against him, and rides the aftershocks as lightning sears the inside of her eyelids.
The Dante Valentine Series, Dante/Japh, protect
Sometime--because I get good ideas, too--I took him dancing.
We went into the heat and dark and writhing masses of one of the clubs, pounding bass I could feel in my teeth, and he kept his hands on my as we plunged into the crowds. He'd taught me to filter them out at the worst of times, but it was easy right now, because Japhrimel was right there, dark coat brushing my skin, and I wanted to kiss him.
I was learning to indulge myself.
He was graceful enough to move with me even if he didn't enjoy the dance itself, but his eyes just got darker and darker, sparking green sometimes in the neon lights, almost black as he watched me move. It made my heart come into my throat, and I kept arching to my toes, moving into the beat, hips moving in circles, mouth hungry on his. He held on, fingers biting into my hips when I bit his lower lip and grinned against his mouth. I could drink in the beat; I could eat him up. I'd never have enough of him, and even though I couldn't quite keep my hands completely away from my blades, just being flush up against him made me feel safer than I ever had before.
Japhrimel wouldn't let anything touch me, and I'd kill anything before it got to him.
His fingers flexed against my skin and I shuddered; the smile that spread across his face was the sharp, inhuman one that had scared me so much when we first met and now pooled heat between my legs. I was dancing right up against him now, contact never ceasing, and he nuzzled against my throat, hot breath ghosting over my skin.
I let my head fall back, arms coming up, fingers sliding up my arm to lock around my wrists. Undulating against him, a blatant temptation; it had been years since I felt this solidly anchored in my own desire, fierce and alive with it. I dropped my arms behind his neck and his hands slid down.
"Japh," I gasped agaisnt his ear, and he recognized the timbre of my voice.
"Here?" He said, flat voice holding a hint of snarl.
I smiled against his lips, feeling giddy and young and stupid. "Sure."
No one else could have made me feel safe enough for this. No one else could have held me against a wall and seared me with kisses until I was dizzy, my guard fallen and broken like sieged walls in a public place, kissing him back just as hungry. I wrapped my legs around his waist and whimpered--honest to god whimpered--when he slid inside me. Tangled Egyptian fell from my lips. It might have been a prayer. Somewhere in there I had enough presence of mind to call him beautiful.
He whispered to me in a voice that rumbled with the subtonal vibrations of hell and I came apart in his arms, shuddering and holding on, gasping his name again and again.
He held me safe and burned me apart, and I tightened around him, hearing my name snarled against my cheek, almost buried beneath the pounding beat. It was Japhrimel. I heard him.
True Blood, Eric/Sookie, blood-lust
Somewhere in the dark, Eric snarled.
The sound vibrated right through her. Sookie shoved her fists against her belly, dragging in a long, terrified breath. Oh god. The door was heavy and metal, locked and barred, and Sookie wasted several precious minutes of energy thinking un-Christian thoughts of an awful lot of men.
"Jason, I'm gonna shoot you if I get out of here," she whispered just for the sound of a human voice in the dark. Fear didn't leave a lot of room for anger or betrayal, but she'd get there. If she survived it.
A whisper of sound and she jerked around so fast she fell over, catching herself on her palms and skittering backwards. He was letting her hear it. He was trying to spook her. Was he really wanting to kill her, or was it just the hunger? Would he regret it when he came back to himself, a good investment lost? Did she really give a fuck about his state of mind over her murder. The answer was no. But she had to hope it was just the hunger, and that she could somehow talk--
"Eric," she said before she lost her nerve, voice wobbly. "Eric, it's Sookie Stackhouse. I did a job for you once." She kept her voice soothing, low and calm. She'd almost certainly lose some blood, but she might escape getting her throat torn out. Oh god, Eric scared the hell out of her when he was fully in his mind. Bill, oh Bill, where are you? "Eric, I was caught just the same as you. You know me. Eric--"
Pressure around her ankle yanked her across the floor, dizzyingly fast; she reflexively tried to shield her head from the ground even as she screamed--couldn't help it, the sound tore free--and then her hands slapped down on his shoulders. Her heart was going a mile a minute."Eric!"
She could feel the buzz of human thoughts outside the door, her concentration fractured from shielding herself. Some of those men had stayed, and they were going to get off on her death, and they thought it was righteous. Hatred galvanized her, wiping away the fear for a dizzying moment, and he paused as though he smelled the difference in her. This close, she could smell his burnt skin.
The rage gave her the nerve to do what she never would have done otherwise; shaking like a leaf, gasping for air, she bared her throat. "You know me," she whispered desperately. Please don't kill me. Please still have a use for me. Please, god--
He struck.
The pain startled her when it shouldn't have, but she swallowed the shriek this time, tried her hardest to keep from struggling because she thought that would only make it likelier for him to tear her apart. She locked herself up, squeezing her eyes tight shut, and tried not to struggle as he held her down.
Then she realized something else.
Bill made it feel good; he couldn't pull her under, but he could glamour her that much. Eric, apparently, could glamour the hell out of her like this.
She made a noise she barely even recognized and his body shifted against her. Her stomach roiled as she felt skin shift against hers and realized he was healing, right now, pressed against her, but that didn't stop the growing tightness between her legs.
Shit, she thought, dizzy, frantically scrambling to guard her own mind. His mouth had changed on her throat; he was no longer gulping, throat working in deep swallows, but sipping, almost suckling at her damaged flesh. Sookie might have whimpered. It would have been awfully embarrassing.
Then, in a voice that held very little of his usual utterly, too-soft and menace-laced boredom, he rumbled in her ear, "potent."
"Eric," she squeaked, ready to panic, her neck throbbing, her belly liquid, her face burning. "Oh. I. You're back to--" Yourself, she was going to say, and then he popped open the button of her shorts, one handed, and it dissolved into a yelp.
"Back," he mused, as though he wasn't undressing her. "This place smells of death." He sounded--entertained, and she tried to grab at his wrist, even though she knew it was probably somewhere close to suicidal. He caught her wrists in his free hand and slammed them down above her head. "Why are you here with me, Miss Stackhouse?"
"They think I'm a fangbanger," she said bitterly, and then his fingers flexed and were inside her underwear, sliding into her and she gave a little shriek. His fingers were long, and he wasn't particularly gentle, playing with her body like it amused him, his mouth trailing down her throat as he slid a third fingers in and she panted helplessly, moving against him in something that might have been struggle. She just couldn't lay still.
"Aren't you?" He whispered, voice cold and amused and utterly vampire, nothing human in it at all. Sookie sucked in a breath, mingled rage and fear and desperation knotting in her stomach as his fingers slid deeper, her hips arching convulsively, and tried to headbutt him.
He was across the room before she even finished the motion and she flopped like a landed fish, scrambling to sit up, her hands shaking as she fixed her shorts. Her nipples were peaked, skin over-sensitive, and she was gasping for breath as she tried to find him in the shadows.
"How many outside?" He asked evenly, and she made it to her feet, swaying a little.
"Two outside the door," she said, husky and grasping for calm. He's just playing games, she thought desperately. It's over.
She fumbled in her pocket, taking far too long to find the little piece of metal and toss it into the darkness. She'd picked the guard's mind and then his pocket, and it would have to work. This was a temporary cell, a sloppy one. They were not only opportunists but amateurs; for one thing, the heavy silver bar was on the outside.
Eric chuckled, the sound a low anticipatory growl. The hunger in his voice for bloodshed, when he'd still sounded utterly calm with her under him, steadied her a little until the key clicked in the lock, a sliver of light peeked through, and he locked eyes with her and slid his wet fingers slowly into his mouth.
A shiver crawled down her spine and he grinned, flashing fangs, before the door tore off its hinges and he was through.
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