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 2



Pirates of the Caribbean, Elizabeth/Barbossa, learning, the voice of experience

He was filthy, but she wasn't much better.

And when he touched her, smiling, she could taste the sea in the back of her throat. And when he pushed inside her, not quite gentle but not needing to be, she went to her toes, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a knife, hands pressed against the the table, his coat falling around her with his front pressed to her back. He didn't smell like death, which she'd more than half expected, and he rocked against her with the rhythm of the sea and put his lips to her ear.

"Never put yourself at the mercy of another's honor," he purred, voice an amused rasp, fingers tight around her wrist, nails digging into her skin, and Elizabeth gasped in an unsteady breath. "And never--" shoved up against her, making her shake, body tight and slick around him and he was certainly feeling it now, wasn't he, uncursed and warm in the icy spill of moonlight, "--expect honor from a man here, my fine lady, it'll keep ye alive longer."

He smelled like smoke and gunpowder and he kept her as still as he wanted her, tight against his body. Elizabeth bared her teeth in a silent snarl, pushing against him, and her own voice was low and husky. "I think I've learned that lesson, Captain." A small sound slipped between her teeth, low and trembling, as he thrust against her.

"Not well enough." He drew the backs of his fingers up her body, over the minimal curve of her breasts, and she was reminded of the way he'd held an apple once, that same slow, visceral appreciation. "You're young," he whispered, voice harsh against her ear, breath against her skin, "you'll learn."

She'd learned enough to fight back sounds as she came, arching hard into his body, but he still breathed out a laugh that felt like triumph.





Samurai Deeper Kyo, Kyo/Yuya, the great outdoors

He dragged her into the dirt and the shot went wild, her hair fanning out over dirt and leaves, her teeth bared and eyes defiantly narrowed.

She was inured enough to him that she just narrowed her eyes when he pulled her yukata open with a careless jerk, but rough fingertips on her thigh made her jump and writhe. The gun in her hand was up in a second, but his smile only broadened when she shoved it up against the underside of his chin, pressed into soft skin.

That look was unmistakably a challenge, and she was startled enough by his deft, not-quite-gentle touch between her legs, thumb and knuckles sliding against her, that she made a hitching sound low in her throat and the gun wavered, her legs jerking reflexively. And that was some signal of surrender, because his hot killing grin flashed and then he kissed her, bearing her into the dirt. She really might have shot him then, rather wanted to for a long moment, but in the end she let the gun drop to the ground and punched him instead--out of principle, and honestly startled when it landed--as his fingers slid inside her.

He was probably lucky she'd dropped the gun, because her fingers spasmed and her whole body bucked, head digging into the ground. Her hand fell away and fisted in his clothing instead, yanking as she whimpered and tried to think beyond the touch. He chuckled, the sound rough and low, and mouthed along her throat, canines scraping fragile skin and making her pulse leap.

He was distracted enough that he let her roll him, managing to look defiantly down at him even through eyes dilated and hazy with pleasure as she sank down over him, rolling her hips to work him inside her. His hands--broad, rough with calluses and slick from her body--spread against her hips, controlling her, rocking her against him even as he thrust up against her.

Stupid pervert, she chastised mentally, but was too busy strangling a shriek of his name as she shuddered over him to share the thought.





Rurouni Kenshin: Misao/Aoshi, forgetting the past

She walked with him every year to visit their graves, and every year that she paced by his side, keeping him occupied--sometimes even winning a display of faint amusement--with an endless stream of chatter, she thought the shadows lifted just a little more from his face.

Some years passed before they shared inn rooms on the trip, where she lay at night curled against his side, his hand usually curved over her breast to feel her heartbeat, sweat drying on lean bare bodies. She'd been the one to kiss him the first time and she was the one to initiate it on each of these trips, pulling him closer until he roused to hold her against him and lose himself in the heat of her skin, the sharpness of her cries and the thunder of her pulse.

Misao knew some wounds don't ever quite fade and she knew she had a few--she shared some of those that each of these journeys reminded him of--but she was determined to keep him with her, and here, at least, he seemed no less focused on keeping her close.

She kissed him as hard as she knew how, pulling him deep inside her, moving against him in their rented beds, and in the dark heat of his eyes and the way his lips moved against her skin, fingers trailing languidly through her hair when she unbraided and re-plaited it at night, she knew--she was determined--that even the most shadowed pieces of his heart were mending.

They made the journey in spring, each time. She insisted.





Dark Angel: Alec/Max, fluid

Fighting and sex were--well, they were different, separate for both Alec and Max, a distinction some of the transgenics allowed to blur now that they didn't have to be so careful, now that the damage could be taken and dealt right back. Max never gained that habit and Alec could apply self control in the weirdest ways, even though he sucked at using it against basic impulses.

But there was no denying that there were connections.

After the years of fighting him--and fighting with him, at his back--Max knew the way Alec's body moved like she knew her own; she knew where he was vulnerable, the patterns of his movements, the fastest way to get his legs out from under him.

The application was different, that was all. When she knocked him to the floor she didn't back off, or move in to knock him out, or help him up. She went down over him, and he was always grinning up at her, too damn pleased for his own good, and sometimes when she kissed him she could taste the blood she'd drawn to the surface. And there was no way to deny that whether or not violence equaled sex, it made them faster, more urgent, made her hiss as she yanked at his shirt and rocked her hips over him. And Max was as good at winding him up as she was at smacking him down.

They moved together with an utter certainty, his hands sliding under her shirt and up her back, curving against her shoulders to pull her against him, Max with one hand in his hair, her eyes half closed and a moan vibrating against his mouth. Like water, like two bodies with one mind, pure instinct guiding her against him even as she allowed him to roll her, their practice clothes clinging with sweat and her long hair coming loose.

His fingers were tight on her thighs, but not enough to leave bruises. She left marks on his neck with her mouth, spreading bruises on his skin, and he laughed breathlessly, moving hard against her, and retaliated in kind.

She knew the surety of his skin and hers, and they turned sex into something not so much like combat as it was like dance.





Labyrinth: Jareth/Sarah, fireflies

She began to think he sent them to her.

She saw them in her windows, in her yard--in her mirror, sometimes, when she was close to sleep. Touching her hair, bright little pulses of light. Insects, she thought when she saw them aside, shoving a childish bloom of fantasy down. Only insects and mating signals, not little fairylights.

But inevitably when she slept after seeing them, she dreamt of him. Not fifteen year old dreams, those he promised her glistening between his fingertips like soap bubbles, fragile and fanciful. But thick, heady dreams full of heat and sensation and the consciousness of skin as she fell back--sometimes on silk or velvet, sometimes on a thick mat of leaves and roots and earth, tangling in her long hair--with his mouth hungry on hers.

Always, even as she squirmed against him, fighting for skin and hungry for contact, back arching into any possible contact, his cruel, curved mouth moving down her throat, he wore the black armor he had used to take the child. And always, when in some dream function the armor slid away just enough for him to slid deep into her body, he did not kiss her after that but whispered in her ear, deep murmurs that played along her nerve endings like the strings of an instrument, stroking along her skin. Promising her a thousand things, every dream she had and ever would, every luxury ever imagined. And yet with the lower, softer promise of possession--of being owned--

And even through the dreaming fog and the pleasure that wracked her, she would struggle to a consciousness that felt the whisper of vines at her ankles and the wrists he kept pinned, twining gently along her skin, ready to become a prison.

And every time, even as she climaxed with his name on her lips, Sarah sank her teeth into her lips to bite it back and gasped instead, harshly; "no."

She woke with a sore mouth and leaves in her hair, no matter where she had slept.





Baccano!, Chane/Claire, quiet moment

He's hardly ever quiet; almost never still. Claire is in motion, always, like a firecracker with the fuse always down to a hairsbreadth of wick.

Chane still isn't sure how she even survived him--not the physical danger, the rattling motion of the train and the blood on his face and the unholy spark in his eyes--but the way he said her name, and the way he reached for her, and the way he smiled at her knives. Excited, maybe but joy was a better word.

Chane lived in silence, in a space of quiet chill broken only by her father's voice and sometimes the distant rattle of trains or gunfire, where her knife was the axis of the world and her opponent one more obstacle no matter what he wielded or intended, there to be cut away. Claire changed that.

He has that look--that fierce, bright look--even during the quiet moments, the times when Chane curls against him in bed not for sex--and he always seems to know what she wants--but simply for contact, for the knowledge that yes I'm here and so are you and never leave, and the quiet need that could swallow her whole.

Those are the moments that he presses into her touch like a cat, arching against her hands, and saying her name like a chant and a prayer, eyes alight as he watches her face. She doesn't know what for, but she knows his voice anchors her still, a warm weight at the base of her spine, a soft velvet heat in the pit of her belly.

And because Claire is Claire, of course, he can't let her touch him for too long without reciprocating, and then he'd roll into her touch, kissing her warm and soft, mouth opening over hers, stark and hungry. He'd coax her into him, sliding his hands up her thighs, pressing his mouth along her shoulders, her face, her collarbone and breasts until she was dizzy with him, and when she sank her short-clipped nails into his shoulders, shuddering against him, he nipped her with the sharp edge of his teeth.

And he never lets her quiet moments stay for long, but he fills her so completely, his warmth, his heady gasps and rich low moans and the raw sound of her name as he comes, and Chane no longer needs the silence.





Code: Breaker, Ogami/Sakura, let's play lion

There was a breathless moment of adrenaline-soaked violence when he first kissed her, hands fisting in her sleeves, pulling her body up against his at an awkward, too-intense angle. His knees between her thighs, her shoulder flat against concrete. She dragged in a squeaking breath and jerked against him, felt the sharp edge of teeth.

Something in his eyes jarred between horribly vulnerable and a chill, hollow blackness that was his killing stare. A fighter's instinct jarred her into action, but he didn't even blink under her awkward blows, and finally her nails caught and dragged down on bare sweat-slick skin and he jumped, shuddering and then shoved up against her and caught her lip between his teeth.

He hissed her name when he released her and Sakura dragged in a breath, ribs flaring, breasts crushed against his chest, his glove too smooth against the hint of inner wrist it barely brushed. Every one of her nerves had gone on tingling alert--this wasn't flight-or-flight response anymore, which she was more familiar with, where everything shut down but survival.

His voice was ragged, and she had to strain to hear him as his mouth moved, teeth moving against cheek and the fragile skin of her throat. His breath was warm on her skin. Her pulse sped, a sharp staccatto protest. "Don't fight me."

You know better than to ask--than to want--that, she thought, managing vague surprise, and she moved against him, got her hands against his stomach, and shoved.

His grip on her was tight and unrelinquished, so they both went over and she straddled him, knees sinking into grass, the dark close shade folding in around them. He'd broken branches on the way down, stunted trees folding in close around them and weeds tangled, behind the seedy building. She almost said something to him, something like 'what are you thinking' or 'why are you thinking it' or something far too intelligent for the way she felt now, a slow red pulse of want. He rocked up against her, an unschooled and hungry motion, eyes wide and black.

Well, I don't think this counts as fighting, she thought, and bent to him, hair cascading over her shoulders.





Immortal Regis, Jae Hyuk/Serin, feeding

Serin hadn't made many long-term undead servants before Jae-Hyuk--and many meant any, and that meant she had no range for comparison.

She didn't know if she was supposed to feel like that when his mouth locked over a wound, didn't know if she was supposed to gasp when he shuddered rigidly against her, a little of his fierce, soft concern stripped away to base instinct. She didn't think that his mouth working against her skin was supposed to force small, vulnerable sounds of her.

His eyes went wide and utterly dark and he looked up at her, mouth stained with her blood, cheeks flushed. Something low and tight knotted behind her breastbone at the sight. Only you, she wanted to say to him, but she didn't know how, couldn't find any words to either reach out or draw away.

Instead when his fingers tightened she made another soft, helpless noise and his lips parted and then he pushed up, sudden and impulsive and clumsy, and their mouths collided. She could still taste her blood on his tongue.

Her hands fisted in his hair and his dragged down her body, not quite so clumsy or fumbling, his fingers sliding against the tops of her thighs. She moved her legs apart, moving instinctively into the touch, and he exhaled against her and shivered. "Serin," he began, awkward, and he was warm and not-quite-alive and hers, stamped and sealed with the flavor of her blood and magic, and she would and had killed to keep him alive.

She answered him with his own name, almost whispering it, her voice a husk, and sank her teeth into her lip, drawing just enough blood.

He locked onto her mouth, moving against her, tongue sliding against hers as a little of his civility slid away again to hunger. Serin allowed herself to fall onto her back, pulling him with her as his mouth worked at her skin, harsh and unskilled but still lighting her body up.

His hands slid carefully up her thighs, tender fragile skin, fingers hesitating over the heated pulse high in her thigh, pressing in. His eyes drifted closed.

His teeth marks from before were now sealed over, healed and swallowed, but they burned beneath her skin, livid marks of heat and the double-edged blade of want. Serin sank her fingers into his shoulders, a breathless fire spilling through her belly, and he pushed his hands up between her thighs, fingers sliding into her.

She was slick and warm and he felt--unbelievable, and unbelievably close. Jae Hyuk pulled away just enough, dark eyes huge and fragile with wonder, and they looked at each for another long still moment.

Serin dragged in a breath and repeated his name, voice betrayingly ragged. He said, "okay" a little breathlessly, and then he leaned down to kiss her again, hand working against her, gentle and careful and exploring, and he didn't know what he was doing but he was a fast learner, and with his careful drags on her blood and the honeyed web of power that bond dragged through them, before she could do more than think that she wanted to touch him and slide her hands to his hips, she was coming, hips jerking up into his head, head flying back.

He made a gutteral sound, the magic enfolding his body shifting harshly against her, and his teeth sank into the curve of her breast hard enough to draw blood, a sharp dart of pain countered by the flood of pleasure that rocketed between the two of them and brought him over with her, shuddering in a wave of desire and power and connection.

She could still taste her blood in her mouth, but more importantly she could taste him.





D.Gray-Man, Allen/Lenalee, wallsex

They didn't even make it home.

Or as far as the hotel's rooms passed for home, anyway--they'd barely gotten out of the way of the crowds when Allen was pulling her into an alley and Rinali was turned to him, knotting her hands in his hair, bucking her hips against his touch as her mouth opened. She made a hungry, shuddering sound and bucked her hips into his hand as it slid under her skirt. Not-human skin, the rough touch sliding against fabric, and she spread her legs helplessly and let him continue to kiss her oh-so-softly while his hand worked hard against her below.

By the time he shifted to fully pin her to the wall, the weight of his body against her, she was whimpering softly and shaking like a leaf, legs barely able to support her. He slid his hands up her thighs and hooked his fingers into her panties, drawing them down her legs, and Rinali jerked against him, pure want tightening her throat.

She went to her toes and he moved against her and then slid inside, and repetition never dulled just how good that felt against nerves and slick flesh sparking with the knowledge that she was still alive. She wanted to wrap her legs around his waist and get more leverage, but at least with his coat falling around them, if someone happened to glance into the shadows of the alley they might simply look like a more chaste couple kissing discretely.

Not two soldiers fresh from near-death fucking against brick, her nails clawing into the fabric of his coat and his hips canting up against her, deep and too-slow, his not-quite-shy smile flickering with the burning heat in his eyes.

She cried out, and her voice was choked and lost and then swallowed as Allen kissed her, the sound locked between them like a secret.





Fruits Basket, Kazuma Sohma (Shishou)/Saki Hanajima, unexpected

"Is this truly entirely unexpected?" Saki asks, because she's genuinely curious and it might be polite. Kazuma blinks, but she would not be entirely unsurprised to know if the answer is 'yes'.

"Ah," he finally says, at a loss for words, and she is satisfied enough to lean forward and kiss him, letting the dark silk of her hair slide forward over the white curve of her breasts against dark lace. He is perfectly still for a long moment and draws back enough to murmur, "are you--"

"Kazuma-san," she says patiently, "I am always sure."

"Ah," he murmurs, and his eyes are sleepy-lidded, pupils dilated. "I believe we can dispense with the honorifics, Saki."

The way he says her name is beautiful. Saki doesn't let herself blink, but warmth floods her body. "I did not wish to presume," she tells him evenly.

Any other man might have made a remark about sliding into his household, or coming into his room in lingerie and nothing else, but Kazuma just slides a callused hand against her waist and another into her hair, and kisses her firmly and gently, mouth moving against hers, and the pulse of heat in her body turns into a second heartbeat, making her stir restlessly against him, sliding her own hands up his body.

"Kazuma," she says, and then does not quite know where to go, blinking sharply.

"Ah," he says again, and draws her down to him. Saki fits her body against his, moving with instinct, and grazes her nails along his shoulders and up his neck. He exhales and his eyes widen minutely and she smiles and kisses him deeper, tugging him close. His thumb slides under the black lace of her bra and she moans into his mouth and pushes her hips against him, rocking down.

She learned a long time ago that the value of hesitation is small.





Fruits Basket, Rin/Haru, cross necklace

He put the necklace around her throat in public, the first time; linking it behind her neck, his fingers brushing warm against her skin. She'd swept her hair out of the way, a gesture that came naturally when she was putting on jewelry herself but felt frighteningly intimate with someone else, animal instinct protesting the baring of her throat.

I'm the horse, she thought, looking into the velvet darkness of his eyes. If I want to run, he can't catch me. But Haru wasn't a beast of prey or burden, and the strength in his hands meant nothing next to her desire to be in them. It was her own want she was shiveringly afraid of, the strength of her own hunger for him.

I want to be caught, she thought, and the word rang wrong and right at once in her head--her instinctive flinch from possession warring with the tight, liquid knot of heat in her belly at the thought of Haru--

"Rin," he murmured, and his hands linked behind her head. Standing there, in public, in broad daylight, naked under a hundred eyes, he rested his forehead on hers. And they were protected by their shield of anonymity, their glassy wall of unnoticed difference between them and the world.

No one else mattered.

He slid his fingers through hers and pulled back just enough. "My house," he said, and she nodded, lips parting, breath coming in fast and shallow bursts. The way he affected her, running liquid fire down her veins, she was amazed she could still strangle her voice.

In his room, streaming with sunlight, his deft fingers moved over laces and buckles and zippers, trailing down her spine, curving over her hips. He whispered her name in a voice made throaty with desire, and she buried her face at the base of his throat, shaking minutely.

He left the necklace on, and contradicting the calmness of his fingers barely bothered with his clothes before they both tumbling to the ground, her heels digging into the floor as she arched helplessly up to meet him, the smooth leather of his pants pressing into the insides of her thighs.

She whispered his name, voice shaking.

"Feel you," he murmured, voice thick with want, mouth at the corner of her jaw, then on her throat. "Rin, I want to..."

He wasn't calm here; it had been too long, and she was just as frantic, just as addicted. It was her hands that worked at his belt, freeing him and tugging him against her, nails digging into his hips. "Haru," she breathed, and turned it into a chant like a prayer, broken by ragged moans when he slid inside.

He propped himself above her, eyes darkly hooded, heavy-lidded and glittering, and watched her face as she choked down cries, small betraying noises shaking her body. "Rin," he said softly, "someday I'll make you scream."

She spasmed under him, lifting her face to his, kissing him hungrily and without words. Someday you'll let me, came unspoken but as intense as physical contact. Someday it'll be safe.

The light flooded over them and the necklace dug between them, into both their flesh; a mark no one would understand, a secret that lingered precious between them.





Working for the Devil, Dante/Japh, good morning sex

It took me a while to get used to this.

Waking up in the mornings with the weight of his body against mine, the dark sheath of his wings draped against my body. It's always warm, here, in the cocoon of his arms, a demon's attention and protection like a dark sigh against my soul.

My pulse leaps in my throat and his hand stirs across my stomach, body tuned to aching sensitivity at the touch of his fingers. It nearly scorches; rather than the searing heat of hungry want, this is slower, languid, golden; it would call up memories of slow sweet afternoons with Doreen, except when Japhrimel is near, like this, it's hard to think of anything but him.

Sometimes there's the same feeling of newness, though, an exhilaration that skips my breath and makes me shudder. Of learning my own body again.

His fingers spread against my belly, holding me against him; movement is almost involuntary, and he shivers against me. If I could see his face now, I know his eyes would be dark, and intense, and dizzying.

He murmurs against my skin in a language he won't teach me, and the incoherency of it is almost soothing, the background pleasure of his voice sliding down my spine like a hand, my shoulder flexing with a liquid bath of warm, honey-slow pleasure, his hands on my thighs. I rock against him--and here is the language that comes closest to truth for both of us, the slick slide of skin, the way I can't stifle sound when he's deep inside, even though it's often my first instinct, and the way he holds me so tight sometimes, arms drawing tense against my ribs.

He murmurs my name, and that I recognize, a thread of recognition in the wash of drowning pleasure. The link between us, the steady thread; my name, and his, and the wordless voiceless heartbeat that pushes me over the edge, and the trust that leaves me shuddering and helpless and unafraid in his arms.