well behaved women

WHO'S UP FOR SUM PR0N.

Okay, I gathered as many as I could find of all the porn_battle entries I backed up sloppily if at all and never posted on my main journals. And there were too many of them to fit in one post. So! Porn post: pt 1

Lo, they are numerous and O, they are smutty, so enjoy.



Fruits Basket, Haru/Rin, secretive

It was silence that dominated their early relationship.

The silence of shuttered rooms, stillness punctuated by the softness of her strangled voice, the heat of his touch, the choked sounds she made around her wrist or hand, trying to strangle the signs of her pleasure, trying to keep them safe.

Fear rode her harsher than it did Haru; rather than shy away from the danger, he drank her in as though he was afraid she would vanish when he opened his hands. There were nights when he simply swallowed every sound she made, hands buried in her long hair--she always braided it before she slept if she was sleeping with him, but he had a fascination for the sight of it loose against her skin--moving against her with a torturous slowness, until she was out of control and making helpless sounds, too far gone for sensible restraint.

Haru was too familiar with her thorny anger, the sharp-edged shield she drew around herself, razored at all edges to ward off reaching hands. He stripped her of it with a thoroughness she almost called cruel, if not for the tenderness in his eyes. It left her too vulnerable, always, but in the dark rooms and quiet spaces there was only Haru to see her, his eyes dwelling on her face.

Always the secrets, always the silence; it remained even when she walked away, born alone under the weight of her experience with pain and her willingness to perpetuate a thousand lies to protect him from it.





Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn!, Bianchi/Chrome, false hearts

Bianchi is smoking.

She has slim, elegant hands and a slim, elegant cigarette and she watches Chrome out of heavy lidded eyes, sleekly leather-wrapped legs crossed. When she opens her mouth to speak smoke curls out between her painted lips.

"Care for a smoke?" She asks, and Chrome is left floundering.

"N-no," she stammers, and Bianchi smiles her glossy smile and takes another drag.

"Worried?" She queries next, and Chrome shakes her head.

"Mukuro-sama will win," she says quietly, and Bianchi taps the ash off the cigarette and laughs, her eyes flashing.

"I'm sure," she responds. "Believe in him very much, do you?"

"Like you believe in your Reborn," Chrome returns, mustering the strength to speak a little sharply, and Bianchi purses her lips knowingly, taking another drag.

"All grown up and showing teeth," she purrs, and Chrome stiffens. Bianchi leans forward and taps more ash off against Chrome's weapon. "Let me tell you a secret," she says into Chrome's ear, voice throaty and sensual. "You don't need--"

Chrome opens her mouth and Bianchi kisses her suddenly, a hard sharp kiss that tastes of lipstick and smoke, and then draws back as though nothing happened to finish speaking. "--to sit on your hands waiting all the time."

"And what would you suggest?" Chrome manages, too softly but without wavering.

Bianchi leans back enough to take a last deep breath of the cigarette and drop it, crushing it beneath one heel. "Live a little," she suggests, and blows smoke gently into Chrome's face. Chrome takes in a hesitant, shuddering breath and Bianchi smiles a slow, silky smile, and trails the back of her nails up Chrome's thigh and leans in to kiss her again.

Mukuro-sama is closed off to her, distracted, and Chrome's knuckles go white around her weapon. Bianchi traces her long nails against Chrome's panties, and then her fingers, and draws Chrome close enough to pull her into a response as her perfume and the feel of her skin sparks a low ache in the pit of her stomach.

"Are you afraid?" Bianchi purrs.

Chrome kisses her back instead of answering.





Katekyo Hitman Reborn!, adult!Reborn/Bianchi, deal with the devil

"Did I keep you waiting long?" She asked, and she flicked rain off her hair and tilted her hips so she could brush the knife even with a casual gesture of her hand--a new holster, always a little stiff--and didn't for a second let on her tension.

Reborn tipped his hat to her, briefly, and smiled a lethal slender smile. "It did not bother me," he answered, and she gave him her most polished smile, feeling her stomach contract, and crossed the patio, swaying her hips, with her coat shielding her gun.

He saw the weapon, of course. This was Reborn. But he gave nothing away in his smile, and she hooked over a chair with one foot before he could rise, if he had even intended to do so.

"I hear you've come with a proposal," he said, and his smile deepened with shadows, a predatory look that was not at all bothered by his intimate knowledge of her body.

Bianchi returned the look, giving him a razored reminder of her own danger, and the smile went somewhere hot and dark with acknowledgement, her own adrenaline translating all too quickly into something else.

"They thought I would be able to reach you," she said, and then laughed a little, and placed her gun on the table, in plain sight. "Or find you, anyway. Thank you for allowing me to."

"I rarely mind your visits," he said softly, still with that darkly amused gleam in his eyes.

"I try," she said softly, crossing her legs so the dress slid open, and tilted her head at him. "I assumed you had better things to do with your time, but it had been a while since I had a challenge."

"Ah," he said, eyebrows arching, and that was all.

Bianchi leaned back in the seat, feeling the mist press chill against her skin, and treated him to a slow, challenging smile. "Are you truly going to wait for the business details?"

At that, he rose, setting down his wineglass with slow deliberation, and came around the table to drop gracefully into a crouch. Not kneeling--never subservient, or anything that could be mistaken for it. Bianchi uncrossed her legs, bare skin sliding, and the slit in the skirt peeked white skin.

"I didn't think this was part of your business package," he said, wearing that faintly cruel smile. That was a taunt, Reborn pushing buttons as he pleased, and Bianchi revealed no uneasiness or anger, only leaned forward and caught his tie in one fist, crumpling it and making his eyes flash with something she couldn't or didn't read.

She moved until she could whisper into his ear. "I don't make deals with the devil for anyone--" and his hand was on her thigh, callused fingers pressing in, the pure narcotic jolt of pleasure that always slithered through her veins at his touch jolting straight to the juncture of her thighs, "--but myself."

He laughed in her ear, a lethally soft, deep sound, and turned his head so he could kiss her throat even as his finger slid under the sheath high on her thigh.





Katekyo Hitman Reborn!, Tsuna/Kyoko, delicacy

She hated the shadows in his eyes.

They ate at her, moving restless under her skin, the knowledge of his distress living at her shoulders like a ghost. So she slipped away from him in the wee hours of the morning--her heart squeezing down at the trust inherent in his continued relaxed slumber--and made a special trip.

She woke him up by kissing crumbs off his face and he nearly upset the delicate china plate when he jerked upright, hand moving automatically for a weapon.

"Tsu-kun," she chided, "don't get cake on the bedspread." He looked adorable, hair fluffed up and eyes wide, so she had to lean in and kiss him again, this time properly, and he was always self-conscious about kissing in the morning before he brushed his teeth, but she didn't mind and knew he tasted the sugar on her tongue.

"Good morning," she said happily when she sat back, and he blinked at her, stirring one hand over his hair and then self-consciously reaching for her.

"I thought..."

"Bite?" She offered him one on the fork, thoughtfully, and a soft flush touched his cheeks. "Of course," he said, blushing furiously still, and accepted it.

Watching his mouth draw over the cake made her warm all over, pooling and heating between her thighs, and she took another bite for herself and then put the cake on the bedside table. "It's a beautiful morning," she told him, the heavy drapes drawn aside just enough, and though his hands drew up her sides softly, fingers against the curve of her hips and waist and ribcage, his eyes stayed on her face when he agreed.

Just for that she kissed him again and shifted her skirt over her thighs, settling against him. He made an adorably startled noise when skin met skin beneath demure folds over fabric, and she rocked against him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, gasping herself.

His fingers dug into her hips just a little too hard for calm, and his eyes were too wide, his movements a little too sharp--desperation and fear and worry working out between them in the basest of comforts--but he kept his eyes open and as she moved against him she watched the shadows chase away, slow and steady and all her work.





D.Gray-man, Rinali/Crowley, boots, they're made of blood

When she asked him, once--a little afraid that it was rude, but he didn't seem to mind--Crowley told her human blood tasted foul to him. Rinali wasn't sure what that meant, because it certainly didn't explain his--fascination, there was no other word for it--with her Innocence.

Or maybe it was just her legs.

Rinali'd been dealing with stuff like that for a long time, but this was Crowley, she thought when she first noticed it. He was different.

Out of all of them, he was probably the one who understand best what it was to fly.

So when he kissed her the first time, hard and aggressive, his mouth tasting of blood--both of them still high on battle--Rinali didn't push him away, wrapped her legs around his waist and let his coat fall around her hips as they both stumbled, a little clumsy, a little hungry.

And then he was on his knees in front of her, mouth on her knee and thigh, the hard edge of teeth brushing her soft skin. He lingered on her pulse, stroking down over the hard, lethally sleek surface of the boots, drawing his thumbs against the softer bared hollow behind her knees. And then as the Boots slipped away his mouth on the curve of her ankle, hard bone under skin, and then he looked up with uncertain human eyes, lips parted over human teeth, and she bent and pulled him up, her Innocence singing softly at her feet, fingers on his pants, his hands ghosting under her short skin, touching the delicate pulse of blood beneath her skin as she kissed him hard enough that even his blunt, ordinary teeth scraped her lip.

She pulled him into her, clothed bodies crushing together, her strong legs wrapped around him, her hair tangling around his fingers. He was holding her a little too strongly, eyes wide and luminous, and she gasped for breath and buried her face in the side of his neck as she adjusted, body flexing shifting around him in a hot, slick clench. He caught her earlobe between his teeth and Rinali tipped her head back again to kiss him and let the heat of battle translate into something else.





D.Gray-man, Anita/Mahoja, follow, promises that don't break

Mahoja's palms are broad and rough, calluses dragging over the soft skin of Anita's thighs. She undresses her with reverence, always, and Anita allows it, cupping the smooth line of her bodyguard's jaw and shoulders, fingers trailing down her arms to twine their fingers. The sea rocks them like a lullaby; Anita holds on to her hands as Mahoja kisses her hip softly.

"Never leave me," she says softly, the ceiling dim and hazy, and Mahoja answers her softly, the words immaterial but the meaning everything.

Never. And then she's kissing her, mouth between her legs, tongue slow and knowing, and the muscles tighten in Anita's thighs--she moves, arching off the tousled sheets, coarse against her skin, so unlike the brothel's fine bedding it is almost jarring. But Mahoja's mouth is soft and heated, and Anita holds on so hard her knuckles go white and says nothing, her shoulders pressing into the sheets.

Don't leave me, she thinks blindly. But Mahoja will not--always at her back, pacing at her heels like a tame tiger, always close enough to touch--and Anita arches off the bed, pulling her up to kiss her wet mouth, her feet on either side of Mahoja's thighs. She brings her up until their bodies are pressed together and Anita reaches for Mahoja's clothing.

Mahoja is soft skin over muscle, silk and brocade, the patience of a saint and the strength of a tiger, the loyalty that belongs only to them, bound up in honor and love and the heavy spice-laden silences that are thick and comfortable within the brothel's walls and inside her private quarters.

"Mistress," Mahoja says to her very softly, and with that one word they encompass each other's world for just long enough.





Code: Breaker, Oogami/Sakura, angry sex, the fire sermon (o lord thou pluckest me out)

She knew, at this point, he'd never hit back. And that was precisely the reason she didn't know why she punched him, because they were all alone and there was no one to save and when he looked at her with that harsh, knife-edge glitter in his eyes she thought maybe she'd done something unkind.

Her skirt would be totally messed up; she thought he'd torn it along the seam. And she'd half expected his hands to be warmer than normal, but if anything his fingers felt almost cool against her sides, around her wrist, touching oh-so-briefly her face but venturing nowhere near the top of her head.

He was awkward and rough and he was holding her legs too hard and she thought her teeth might meet through her bottom lip. Sakura spent her time fantasizing about the perfect throw and a good challenging match, not this, but the little thought she'd devoted to the subject hadn't expected anything like this.

She didn't think he even knew how to touch, really. But right now she wasn't in the position or frame of mind for sympathy--Sakura clutched at his shoulders and made a noise she didn't know she could, a low whimpering sound like Dog getting his belly scratched, and he buried his head in her shoulders and bit down, hips jerking up against her.

His thumbs moved just underneath the sweep of her ribs, coming from Ogami not a caress but still something that felt good and made her want to arch her spine into the touch and then she did and her hips rocked against him and she came, her body tightening slickly around him, her head tipping back and smacking into the wall.

His eyes were wide open and he looked younger than she'd ever seen before when he came, clutching her like a lifeline--the anger gone from his body--like a last defense against the dark.





Code: Breaker, Oogami/Sakura, this is probably love

She had his blood on her hands and he was slumped against her, eyes half closed, and she was daubing at the blood on his side. He'd tried to recoil when she first pulled off his shirt but she hadn't allowed it--hadn't shown her own uneasiness--and now his head was on her shoulder.

Sakura smoothed more blood away and his mouth moved against her throat, shaping words she couldn't identify. Her hands didn't stop moving and she thought she might have heard her name. Then he lifted his hand and put it on her breast and she jumped and almost hit him but didn't, because he was already bleeding anyway.

Then he said, thick and indistinct, "heartbeat," and Sakura froze.

"Yes," she agreed, for no particular reason, and let her own palm go flat against his chest, fingers spreading. She turned her head and let her lips graze his hair as her eyes closed. She felt silly because it a gesture you might make to a child and she didn't think he was a child, not really, and anyway he was as warm as though there was a furnace under his skin and it was leaking into her.

She let him touch her and when he raised his head his eyes were dark and sleepy, dangerously so, and he put his face against hers not so much like he wanted a kiss but like he was demanding the contact, and when she raised her hands his locked around her wrist--not stopping her from moving, but holding her--and Sakura didn't know whether to hit him or not. He might even let her.

"Sakurakouji..." He began, and his glove was smooth against her skin and she thought she could probably hear her own heartbeat right now, pounding in her ears.

Sakura dug her heels into the ground to steady herself and kissed him. He barely even seemed to know what to do, his mouth still and clumsy against hers, and she wasn't much better. Sakura swallowed hard and opened her mouth to say something.

And he copied her, blindly--she could see that his eyes were closed--and his hands clamped down on her skin. And then she was thinking about bandages and gauze and antiseptic and any wounds he might still have--it was mostly others' blood after all--to keep from thinking about the touch of his tongue and the way their teeth clicked together, awkward but still making heat curl in her stomach, and her feet slipped and she was flat on her back and he followed her, body tight with tension more at home on a dojo floor than in somebody's bed, not that she'd be an expert--

She managed to say, very patiently, "you have to let go of my hands, Ogami--" Though she stumbled over his name, feeling a little ridiculous and only distracted once he obeyed.

His hands were still too warm, only now they were on her hips and sides and the arch of her ribs, tracing bones and muscle under her skin, just touching her like the shape of her was fascinating. This was Ogami and at first Sakura was as tense as he was, thinking of broken bone and torn muscle and his precise brand of violence, and somewhere in there she put her hands on his sides--careful on bruises--and touched him back.

Her clothes were going to be a mess in the morning, because he wasn't careful, and her sweater tore. Sakura kept kissing him, breaking off only to heave in gulps of air, and wrapped her arms around him.

"Warm," he whispered, ducking his head to put his nose against her throat, lips parting. "You're warm." And then, "take it off," and his hands insistent on her sweater.

Sakura jerked back warily and he was looking at her with a look uncomfortably akin and yet achingly different from his killing stare. "I can't feel your heartbeat," he said, and Sakura held his stare for a fragile moment and reached for the hem.





Code: Breaker, Ogami/Sakura, the other hand

It hadn't been intended.

But she'd been arguing with him fiercely and he'd touched her--hand on her arm before he began to recoil, and he said very harshly, "I am not a hero," and she'd been so frustrated it was either punch him or--or something else, and she already knew that a punch wouldn't land.

So she went on instinct and lurched to her toes, mouth on his and eyes closed, and for a second she didn't think either of them was breathing, and then he stepped forward too fast and there was so much coiled tension in him she was afraid it would culminate in violence, but then he was just holding her too hard, constricting her breathing. So tightly it startled her, and she automatically wrapped her arms around him and was instantly aware of her body in a just-different-enough way from the way she was aware of herself in a fight. Her breasts crushed to his chest--Hii-tan and Mii-tan, she thought blankly, and then shoved it down--and their bodies pressed together, and his bare hand was against the back of her neck.

He kept the gloved hand against her back and sweater but the other dropped, slid under her sweater and up her back, over warm bare skin. Sakura squirmed and made a small sound, self conscious and shivery, and Ogami shuddered sharply against her.

"You're--" He began abruptly, jerking back, and she watched his expression change, shoulders stiffening, and kissed him again just to stop it.

And then they fell over, somehow, which was more of less undignified but functional. And he wouldn't touch her with his gloved hand, and they didn't push clothing out of the way or anything like that, but once he started touching her he didn't seem to know how to stop, and she arched into him, kissed the corner of his mouth and fisted her hand awkwardly into his jacket, holding on as hard as she could.

And then his bare fingers came up her thigh and touched her and she jerked and moaned. His eyes were wide and dark, the pupils huge and intent, and he was staring at her face like she was some interminable puzzle, and he was touching her and his skin was very warm, and she threw out a hand and caught something else, pulled as her body arched up.

And then, through accident or design his fingers slipped under the edge of her panties and slid against her and she whimpered through her teeth, eyes rolling back in her head.

Sakura wasn't sure what you were supposed to do in this situation, but he didn't make a move to touch her more or let her touch him, and somewhere below the bell rang. She did, however, discover that she'd yanked the railing out of place, and hastily scrambled up to attempt to right it.

And he caught her arm with his bare hand and pulled her impatiently to the door when the bell rang again, holding onto her--touching her--with, if not comfort, insistence.





Samurai Deeper Kyo, Kyo/Yuya, like I give a damn

Mud and blood and bruises. None of the blood was hers, thankfully, but it was still a pain to wash it all off. Especially out of her ribbon. The bounty had torn it, and then he'd gotten his blood all over it, damnit. Freshly washed, Yuya drew it ruefully through her fingers as she knelt in her room, hair wet down her spine and then shook her head, blowing out a sigh.

"More expenses," she said, frustrated, and reached for her clothes.

She hauled at fabric when the shoji slid open behind her, scrambling back on her hands and clutching it to her chest as she strangled off a shriek. Kyo stared at her, one eyebrow raising, but before he said anything typically scornful his eyes dropped to her arms and narrowed.

"What the fuck, dogface?"

Startled and already opening her mouth to curse at him, she looked down. A mess of finger-shaped bruise covered her arms from when the bigger man had made her briefly grapple with him, right before she broke nearly all of his ribs as well as his nose and collarbone and hauled his ass in.

She closed it and shrugged, then froze with a wince. "Nothing."

He slid the door shut behind him, eyes still narrowed, and dropped into a crouch before her. "Answer me," he rumbled in a dangerously low voice, sweeping his gaze over her. He snagged the yukata with the hilt of his sword and tore it from her grip so fast she didn't have the time to tighten her hands. She shrieked and tried to hit him, but he caught her wrist, fingers circling it like an iron shackle, and gave her a sweeping glance.

The rest of her body was mostly clean except for a flowering bruise on her ribs. Yuya tried very energetically to kick him in the groin and he showed his teeth in a death's head grin and leaned forward, the air thick with bloodlust so fast she flinched. "Who was it?"

"None of your business," Yuya said flatly, every hackle going up at once. She hadn't survived on her own for years by bowing down to every request some jackass male threw at her and it didn't matter that this one could kill her as easily as blink, it was the principle of the--

His breath was ghosting over her mouth. "Who," he breathed, and she leaned back nervously, put her weight wrong on her arms, and landed flat out her back.

"Like you give a damn," she said, flushing. "Why do you want to know?"

He was grinning still. "So I can kill them," he told her. "Obviously."

That almost surprised her for some reason and she was perfectly still under him until indignance flushed through her and brought the growl of, "I don't need your help."

"Is he dead?" he asked, eyes glittering.

"No," she spat, glaring.

His lip curled up. "Then obviously you do."

"The bounties are bigger alive than dead, dumbass," she argued furiously. For a second the absurdity of the situation--lying totally naked under the murderer she's vowed to take in arguing prices on heads--hit her, and then was shoved away.

Instead she tried to headbutt him, which was about as successful as you could expect. He easily rose out of reach, caught a fistful of her hair--not painfully but not particularly tenderly--and rolled back, pulling her with him mostly by a hand at the small of her back until she was straddling his thighs. Kyo pulled her forward until she slid up his body, legs parting over his and squirming furiously, and put his lips next to her ear to whisper, "I'll just go raze the fucking jail, dogface."

She punched him in the stomach, which had more or less no effect, and then he kissed her.

Kyo was much stronger than her, but the second after that he had to demonstrate it not to keep her in place as she fought but to hold her up, because she'd gone limp as a kitten out of sheer shock. Her knees slid which meant she was very much straddling him, pushing even the limits of her practiced flexibility, and his hand tightened in her hair and she kissed him back out of sheer bravado and frustration, biting down hard on his lower lip.

He pushed up against her, lips curling in an insolent grin, and she clutched at his shoulders reflexively to keep her balance, even though a few minutes ago she'd been eager to get off his lap. His fingers spread against her back, bare sensitive skin over her spine prickling, and she made a little gasping noise and opened her mouth, kissing him as fiercely as she knew how.

She set the balls of her feet against the mat and shoved, and he willingly spilled over backwards--only Kyo could turn falling over into a leonine sprawl--and looked down at him, still glaring warily, hands braced on his chest. But he didn't make a single damn derogatory comment, just kept grinning up at her with dark blood-red eyes. "We're leaving early tomorrow," she pointed out. "You're not killing the bounty I spent so much effort hauling in." Actually, his death wouldn't have induced any tears, but now that he'd thrown it out she had to step up to gauntlet.

His hands settled on her hips and he ground up against her, which was both totally distracting and unfair. Yuya spilled forward onto her elbows with an embarassing noise, nearly biting off the tip of her tongue, and he was most certainly hard and she was totally naked. His spine arched fluidly and he put his lips to her ear and growled, "keep me busy."





The Chronicles of Riddick, Kyra/Riddick, porcelain

She wasn't fragile. When she'd been Jack, yeah, skinny kid all bravado and desperate need for contact, orphan living on the razor edge of fear. But not now. Even though he could break her. Even though he was so strong, the animal heat and force of him, the feral bluntness of his grin. She wasn't weak.

The first time he touched her like that, she tried to cut his throat, and when he slammed her to the hot slick stone she cursed him, spitting and writhing against his body. And after that he did it as often as he pleased, pinning her down and buried deep inside her and stroking her skin like she was something fragile, his thumb moving over her nipple, down the line of her side, lingering on the pale line of scars.

He kissed her jaw, the gesture just on the wrong side of mocking, holding her effortlessly still even as his hips moved against her. She didn't need to be reminded how vulnerable her throat was, how easily he could snap her bones, but he did it anyway, the rasp of his tongue and teeth, her arms pinned.

It hardly mattered why he was touching her like this. Kyra wasn't thinking it over, wouldn't; all she acknowledged was that he was treating her like something soft. Like something to be protected, and he'd relinquished that right a long time ago.

She surged against him, enough to set her teeth in his flesh, and he shuddered against her but didn't make a sound, didn't stop her or speed up. Just put his lips to her ear and whispered, voice rough with amusement, "try harder."

And then she was sobbing out a harsh breath and coming around him, slick and tight, and his hand tightened into a fist in her hair, just rough enough to be some kind of answer.





The Chronicles of Riddick, Kyra/Riddick, from behind

When she woke up, there was someone behind her. A big body cocooning hers, spreading heat like molasses through her bones, and no matter how achingly good it felt someone at your back in Crematoria was not good. But when she fought, moving with whiplash speed, to gut them as she tried to roll, Riddick caught her wrist, dragged her body back, and bit her at the juncture of neck and shoulder, teeth sinking down.

She might have whimpered, embarassingly enough.

"Calm?" He asked, voice a rumble against her skin, and she felt the heat under her skin, answered in a tight, snapped affirmative.

She knew how good his nose was; she was only faintly surprised when he paused, turning his face against her skin, teeth tightening experimentally and then his hand, broad and callused, was on her thigh.

And that was--fucking nuts, was what it was, he wasn't someone she should be trusting or wanting or baring her throat to, but her legs moved and she arched into him, shuddering as her blade grated over stone and her hips canted, not quite an invitation. She dug her fingernails into his wrist and threw back her head, making it a challenge--and Riddick, being Riddick, took it up.

He was rough when he slid his hand around the inside of her thigh, but she wouldn't have accepted gentle treatment. And when he pushed inside her, thumb still playing over sensitive flesh, she moved against him, arching her back until he had the best angle, pushing against him.

Screaming was something prey did in Crematoria, but she had to sink her own teeth into the back of her opposite wrist to muffle the sound. He slammed his hips against her and made a low, throaty sound of satisfaction or maybe even just pleasure, and she let her head tip back, feeling his teeth and his flesh in hers, and never let go of the knife.





Good Omens, Adam/Pepper, all grown up.

He was taller than her now, which was irritating.

She knew because when she came off the plane in her stupid heels, the top of her head came up to his forehead. He grinned in that stupid Adam way when he saw, all lazy and knowing, and she made him carry all her bags.

He smiled a little different--with a slow simmering focus--when she came downstairs in a skirt, and when she punched him in the arm and bullied him into doing the dishes, and he was wearing only the faintest of thin, sharp smiles now, eyes dark in his angel's face as he pressed her against the wall, lips moving against her temple, and slid his hand up under that skirt.

Pepper bit him for the smile when she kissed him, arching her hips into the touch as she dragged him closer, unabashedly hooking her legs behind his. She sank her nails into his shoulders--if he wanted to start this on his terms, it would continue on hers--and he gasped a little when she rolled her hips against him, making her smile.

He was a little inexperienced but sheer focus made up for that, sliding his fingers against her with a keen focus on how she arched, which spot made her whimper and hiss, and soon enough she was shoving him away to reach up under her skirt and hook her panties down, letting them slither down, pleased that she'd kept wearing the professional heels as his pupils dilated when she kicked them away.

He kissed her hard when she pulled him back, and he was strong enough to lift her with his hands under her thighs, which put her higher than him again, making her laugh breathlessly before he slid deep inside her. It was a good thing he'd gotten his own apartment, though, because Pepper was vocal. And he liked it, she could tell by the way he worked at drawing sounds out of her, by the way he bared his teeth in a grin that was just a little predatory when she tore her mouth away to gasp for breath, whimpering and throwing her head back.

She clenched around him and grinned back, fierce and sharp, and when he came shuddering against her, his eyes were wide and luminous with wonder.

"If only you were a little shorter," she teased, heaving a mock-tragic sigh when they caught their breath enough for him to let her slide down. This time his smile was amused as, eyes full of fire, he went to his knees in front of her.





Fruits Basket, Akito/Shigure, always the villain in this play.

"Why are you even here?" She raged at him. She wouldn't throw anything--she didn't have that kind of temper tantrum anymore, she was determined--but she wanted to, felt her fists forming, the burn of humiliation and hope and hot knotted emotion living under her skin, shivering in her ribcage.

And Shigure smiled the way he always did, that veiled and so often a little cruel amusement, and slid his fingers through her hair, a lazy touch. He didn't answer her, verbally. He didn't need to.

And when he touched--she expected to feel strange, and it did, but not this kind of strange, the way he made her all-too-aware of her mortal flesh. Without the bond's transcendent intensity, its white-hot impact, she felt faintly lost, too close and warm, her own lonely heartbeat sounding too loud in her ears.

And when he pulled her closer, bending to kiss her with that smiling mouth, the heat in that dancing dizzyingly down her spine, she almost knew what it was like to be owned. But there was no revulsion (as she knew there had been, for those whose souls she could touch) in her intoxication, in how she leapt to his touch like a flame in the wind. There was almost a hint of fear--as he cupped her, fingers curving against her, and watched with knowing eyes as she gasped and clutched at him, almost whimpering--at how easily she was lost to this.

He pressed his fingers into her and she was leaning entirely into him, his mouth slow on hers but as hard and rough as his hand was not, and she clutched him, breath shallow and quick. Akito drank him in even as he lowered his nose to her throat and breathed her scent in like an animal.

Shigure played a more patient game than Akito had ever been able to. And she didn't necessarily think there was much kindness in him--even now, especially now, her mortal flesh against his and trapped in his knowing hands--but in the end, she couldn't even help it; it just didn't matter enough, and she was kissing him back as she came, shaking against him, and he bit her lip and let her reach for his belt, the muscles in her legs trembling helplessly.





Fruits Basket, Akito/Shigure, fragile

He sounded amused, the way he always did when he found her unexpectedly. "Waiting for me?"

She nodded without looking up, felt his hand on the back of her neck, then his lips on her throat. Shigure was never unkind and rarely rough, but there was always a calculation to his first overtures that ran goose bumps down her spine even as his fingertips lazily traced down her back, lingering on the curve of flesh.

"Hatori says you shouldn't allow yourself to get so chilled," he observed, and kissed her throat again, over her pulse. Akito shivered, her head falling back, and made a small helpless sound.

"I'm--ah--fine," she said, voice feeling thick and clumsy, shivered and almost jarred his touch away. "I'm not that weak," she added in a snap, finding some vestige of hardness.

He rose to his feet to close the shoji and turned, his eyes gleaming dimly, an eerie flash of reflected light--still an animal's eyes, which startled her the first time she saw it. "No," he said, still smiling, and returned to her. "You aren't?"

The almost-mocking lilt made it a question, but before she could bristle he was kissing her again, mouth slow and sweet and persuasive, his hands drawing cloth away. He traced the lay of her bones beneath more skin with more care than he habitually showed, fingertips grazing along her shoulders, over the soft swell of her breasts--it still felt strange not to take each measured breath with a weight wrapping her upper chest--and the arch of her ribs.

This was the worship as she received, now, and it was somehow more welcome and more dizzying at once than the silent subservience of silent bowed heads; his head bent to her, mouth trailing over her skin, voracious on her, teeth at fragile sensitive skin as she caught her breath and twisted under his hands, pushing the back of her wrist into her mouth to stifle the noises she was making.

Not god but only a girl in soft mortal skin, and the sheer immediacy of the sensation--none of the unsettling spiritual flush of knowing, only the thick heat of arousal and prickling sensitive skin--and he took her hand away, eyes shining, and kissed her instead, lean body settling over hers.

Not that fragile but he took such care with her, holding her against him with a care that shivered down her skin to pool want at the base of her spine, even as he watched her face like a predator, even as he pinned her there and let her spine bow up into him, even as he slid deep into her body and held her still, eyelids fluttering, smile gone to an unsettling focus.

His hands locked around her wrists, thumb moving over the curve of bone, and he bent and kissed her like a tease with just the faintest promise of teeth. And she didn't mind at all.





D.Gray-Man, Allen/Lenalee, "I'm home"

This was what home felt like, Rinali knew as she ghosted down with flight aching in her thighs; the leap and mellow spread of joy, the hard knot in her chest easing at the sight of his face, his quiet smile even as he came towards her, the taut readiness for battle easing from his shoulders.

"Were there difficulties?" He asked, and then she was in his arms and kissing him, fingers sliding through his pale soft hair, the boots whispering away to leave her feet bare on cold, dew-wet grass.

"Not too many," she answered, "it was just too long."

He twisted and bent and had her in his arms with an acrobat's fluidity, some mingling of courtesy and the same desire for touch that burned through her. She probably wasn't light--exorcists were all muscle--but he didn't even blink, though a shudder passed through him when she pushed hair away to press her mouth just beneath his jaw. The sun was setting.

Inside it was warmer, and in their room warmer still; luxury was provided for the Black Order, unquestioningly, and she was grateful for it as he stripped her uniform away, fingers lingering over her scars, sliding down against her skin.

Hands on the long line of muscle in her thighs, his face alight with the same fragile wonder that hovered so breakably in his eyes every time she reached for him, pulling him against her, telling him I need you and welcome home and you'll never be alone again.

The muscles in his back worked under her fingers and she arched under his touch as he slid deep inside--for all their languor he hadn't even removed his coat, and it fell around her, smelling of leather and silver and Allen--tipping her head back and whispering his name fervently to the unfamiliar ceiling, into the familiar soft fall of his pale hair.





D. Gray-man, Allen/Lenalee, promised future, on the last page

On the last battleground, nothing alive or whole for miles around, Rinali found Allen with his sword dragging on the ground, eyes blank and dark as she flew through the air to alight next to him, breath coming harsh and fast. "Allen," she said, and when he turned, dark eyes haunted and too-wide, she ran to him, her arms going around him, her face pressed into the curve of his neck, lips moving against his skin.

He felt solid and real and there, in her arms, and she could have cried from the sheer, shuddering relief that it rocked through her, her thighs aching, the hint of smoke clinging to her hair, the echo of the devastation she left in her wake searching for him.

His arms rose too slowly around her, and when he whispered her name hoarsely she lifted her head and kissed him.

"Rinali," he breathed, and then her name again against her lips, and then he was holding her tightly, the sword shifting into warm inhuman flesh. And she curled her hands into fists in his coat and pulled him close, mouth opening against his, kissing him hard and deep, pressed against him like she was trying crawl into his skin. He was holding on so tight it almost hurt but she didn't say a word, just sank to her knees and dragged him down with her, and his hands dropped to her legs--feeling her ragged hem, skimming along the smooth surface of her thighs to check for wounds--and she shuddered against him.

"Rinali," he said, so soft, eyes dark and fierce, and she answered, "touch me."

He did. They were too hungry for comfort, or even grace, too desperate for touch to go slow and careful, and Crown Clown stirred around her legs, lacing up behind her knees as the thin sharp curl of his Innocense wrapped against the small of her back and she pulled him against her, eyes fluttering shut as he pushed deep inside, gasping out his name.

They were smeared with ash and the sun was rising and in that brief, evanescent moment he was all the promise of future she needed.





D. Gray-man, Allen/Lenalee, this way

She took him with her from the prison she'd split open, iron cage of power and mundane metal that God's gift wreaked havoc upon, the Boots tearing apart. He whispered her name when she first called his name, but after that he only followed, holding her tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.

Rinali brought him to a place accessible only by flight, the winds tearing at their hair and clothes until they ducked out of the way. His wrist was bruised but she lingered longest over the Innocence, remembering the heavy spelled shackles and the way his shoulders pulled down under their weight.

"Allen," she said, lips parting over his name, and he touched her face and said her name quietly.

"The Order--"

"We don't need them," and she kissed him again, lips parting. "Just follow me," she whispered, "just--walk with me, Allen," and his hand spasmed into a fist against her skirt, clenching fabric taut. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into her and he came alive in her arms, kissing her back.

Some of his usual gentleness was stripped away, some ragged edge deep inside him despite all his determined serenity. Rinali felt it in him, touching her like he was reassuring himself she wasn't simply some fever dream conjured in the bowels of the Black Orders prison to torment him. And she kissed him back just as fiercely, surrendering no ground.

He dragged up her skirt and touched her, fingers cold and soft on slick sensitive flesh. He made a sound--a low, almost pained hiss--when she whimpered in his ear, hips bucking, and then he was kissing her again, holding her as tightly as he knew how, and she dragged him to her, pulling him closer, wrapping her hands around him and rocking her hips until they fit and she could rise and sink down, sliding him into her.

Too thin, and she pressed her lips against his ear and moaned, shuddering, her grip probably a little painful. The wind howled outside of their small, fragile enclosure and she tightened her legs around his hips as he surged against her, her name a low gasp. She kissed the graceful snaking lines of the mark over his eye, feeling his eyelashes flutter shut, and held him close until the pounding of his heartbeat and the throbbing rush of her climax told her they were both definitely and absolutely still alive.





D. Gray-man, Allen/Lenalee, blackout

"Allen?" She asked him softly when she found his room by feel, and heard him move in the dark.

"Rinali? Is it--"

"Probably my brother's fault," she said, smiling even though he wouldn't be able to see it, reaching for the sound of his voice. Her hand collided with warm skin and she sank down on the edge of the bed. "Are you all right?"

He breathed in, then out. "Fine," he said softly, and then he laid one hand on her thigh. The touch shivered up her whole body and she made a soft sound and drew her hand up his chest to his cheek. The heavy weight of the dark intensified everything, made her skin exquisitely sensitive to the movements of the air, and his fingers on her skin were startling.

"I can't see at all," she said, and when he started to shake his head ruefully, she leaned forward, keeping her hand on his cheek, and kissed him.

And he was perfectly still against her, coiled into a frozne poise, utterly frozen. She let her lips part against his, eyes fluttering closed. The quiet pressed in on them and then he shuddered against her and she drew back. "Don't pull away," she pleaded, and her voice was shaking.

When she leaned forward this time he met her, hands sliding cautiously over her skin. She rose to her knees, bare feet digging into the sheets, the Boots cool rings at her ankles, and his hand dropped to trace from her hip down to her knee, a gentle reverent line. He said her name, tentative and questioning.

"I won't lose you," she whispered, cupping his face, kissing him fiercely, and suddenly he was kissing her back.

"You won't," he said, and it sounded like a promise, the absurd kind he liked to make, when of all the sacrifices he might make the one he chose most easily was a sacrifice of himself.

Shouldn't promise anything, she thought, but still crawled up over him, tracing the small scars and marks on his body, the smooth hard curve of collarbone and ribs against skin, drinking him in with her hands. She closed her eyes unnecessarily and held onto him as hard as she knew how, clinging as he moved against her. He touched her back, gaining boldness, fingers tracing over her skin until she was shivering and crying out, the sound small and lost in the stifling darkness.

"Rinali," he said very gently, hand cupping her skull when her head fell back, and they moved together, and when she rocked her hips down over them, fumbling with fabric and greedy for the touch of skin, feeling his heartbeat against her, his fingers tightened on her hip.

I think you're becoming my whole world, she thought, but kissed him to contain the words as he slid into her and made a soft, choked sound of wonder. It was enough, now to be this close in the dark and holding on.