MOAR collected Porn Battle XII ficlets. :)
It’s Porn Battle XII time and I wrote porn. Go figure. ;)
None of these were beta’ed. I don’t own ANYONE in these ficlets, which is a shame. Everyone here is an adult and engaging in very consensual and very not kid safe activities. You know how I like to write it. :D
"Just A Dream." Mirrormask - Helena/Valentine, dream, mirrors
It's a dream, she knows it is. Maybe because it's a dream, she can allow this.
Valentine is taller than her, and he is much thinner than Helena expected him to be once the oversized shirts and jacket come off. He's only in his mask now -- his face, he says, it's really his face, and nothing like hers. It is easy to slide out of the black lace and satin, to take off the skin that the Dark Queen wanted to push her into. It isn't her life, isn't even the Dark Princess' life. It's a fiction that the Dark Queen created, one that she can't let go of, no matter how hard everyone tries to make her.
Helena is in front of him, facing a wall that is nothing but mirror, which was surprising. Valentine's hands are warm and dry on her stomach, sliding over her skin. His mask feels like skin, tan and purple against her ear and hair. His breath is in her ear, tickling her, and his hands keep her still as he looks her over. "I don't see any marks on you," he says in a low tone. His fingers dip lower, below her belly button, and Helena shivers in his hands. "She didn't leave a mark on you. She only covered you up." One of his hands slides low, teasing the dark curls between her thighs. He doesn't touch anything else just yet. "I told you," Valentine says quietly. "You're vulnerable without a mask." His other hand cups a breast, fingers brushing across her nipple.
Her breath is fractured, and Helena arches backward into Valentine's touch. "Then give me a mask," she whimpers, her hands clutching his bare thighs. He isn't unaffected by this; she can feel his erection at the base of her spine twitch in response to her words. She tilts her head forward with effort, catching his eyes in the mirror with hers. He's watching her closely, his lips parted and tongue just touching the edge of his lip. He looks like he wants to taste her, to catch her pebbled nipples on his tongue and suck on them like berries.
"I don't know where masks come from," he tells her, his voice a little rough around the edges. He wants her, oh how he wants her, but he's taking his time and he's being slow about it. Helena pushes back against him, her bare bottom against the tops of his thighs. Valentine makes a soft sound and then pinches her nipple lightly in retaliation. "Naughty girl," he murmurs, accent flowing like honey across her ears.
"Give me more," Helena commands, moving one of her hands to his. She pushes his hand lower between her thighs, to that place she doesn't ever dare touch when it's light outside. Someone will see, someone will know, she always tells herself. Someone at some point told her that good girls don't do this, that it's not polite or something she should ever want.
Then again, good girls also don't go on missions for Queens they barely even know, or run off with strange men (and really, who's stranger than Valentine?) or get their hearts broken when it looks like those same strange men are willing to leave her behind.
No, Helena doesn't want to be a good girl anymore, not if it means being shut up tightly behind a mirror where no one will ever see her again. This is a dream, and she can do anything in dreams. She can redefine what it means to be good, and she can have Valentine touch her in all the secret places that he's not supposed to touch and still have it be okay.
Or, more than okay. His touch is light and feathery, ghosting over her skin and hinting at all there is to come. "Are you very sure?" Valentine asks, laughter in his voice. It's almost as if he knows she doesn't do this, she isn't the type to snog or shag boys she barely even knows. Then again, they had run all over the city together, and he had saved her from the Dark Queen. Helena likes to think that maybe he planned it, that he wanted to trick the Dark Queen.
"I'm sure. I'm very sure," she tells him, pushing his hand farther between her legs. His fingers scissor over her nipple, making her gasp and writhe within his hands. It's a very wanton look on her face, and this has to be dirty, to be watching what he's doing to her in the mirror. But it's making her so very wet, seeing the flush rise across her skin, the jut of her hips against his hand. It's working between her legs, and she can feel his touch inside of her and then up against her clit. "Valentine," she whines, not sure what she wants to say. "Please," she says finally, as he pulls at her nipple. It's not rough, not really, just enough to get her gasping and tilting her hips to his touch.
His arse is curved and smooth beneath her other hand, and Valentine groans when she squeezes. "So you like this?" he asks, as if it's not obvious.
Helena laughs, tries to laugh, her breath fracturing as he pulls at her and pushes his fingers deep, the hell of his hand grinding against her clit. He works her hard and fast, and then she tries to clutch at his cock behind her. Twisting her body makes him hit some spot inside of her that sends her reeling, and he does it again. And again. And once more, until she's screaming and writhing within his hands, so very wanton in the mirror. He bends her over, has her grasp the edge of a chair. She can see herself in the mirror so clearly, the flush in her cheeks and her panting chest. His fingers glisten with her juices when he pulls them out of her, and he licks them slowly. Valentine savors the taste of her, and Helena gasps, eyes wide with need.
Valentine pushes into her slowly, and she can see the muscles in his body stretch taut. She licks her lips and grips the chair tight, watching him slide in and out of her. This isn't just fucking, she knows; his gaze is too intent on her for that, his touch too reverent. He is thick and full inside of her, stretching her, hitting that spot he had touched with his fingers. She gasps, her entire body rocking with each thrust.
He comes with a shout, hands tight on her hips. She can see the strain in him, the release working him loose. He slides his hand along her back slowly, breath slowing down. "Helena," he whispers.
She wakes then, sticky between her thighs and with the ghost of Valentine's touch on her skin.
Perhaps it isn't just a dream after all.
"What Will Be." Push - Cassie/Nick, handcuffs
"So you didn't See this coming?" Nick asked Cassie, incredulity in his voice. "I thought your visions were better!"
Better wasn't 100% accurate, of course, and Cassie had told him so dozens of times. Still, she knew he was angry at getting caught and being stuck in a dingy basement. He was likely cursing himself for getting her caught as well. He was so overprotective of her, and getting them both handcuffed together around one of the columns in the basement hadn't been his idea of protection.
"Give me a minute and I'll try to See a way out of this."
Nick huffed out a breath and leaned against her. His touch was distracting, and Cassie knew it would never go anywhere right now. She was seventeen, and he held her age in his head like a talisman. He kept his hands to himself when he was around her, though she knew what his thoughts and dreams were like. You couldn't live in each others' pockets and not know these things, after all. He probably knew that she had her hand rubbing against her clit in the shower or when he was out in the city looking to score a few deals. He probably knew what she was really doing with the detachable shower head in their motel rooms, as much as she claimed it was just to massage her shoulders after running through the streets. Well, the shower head was good for that, too, but once her muscles were loose, there was nothing like a strong jet of water right there where she could pretend that it was Nick's fingers between her legs bringing her off.
She could climb into his lap. There was enough give in the chain they were attached to, and she was always lithe and nimble. She could straddle him, bury her face in his neck and breathe in the scent of him. He could slide an arm around her, and she could grind against his thigh, feeling the taut muscle rubbing against her clit through their clothes. It wouldn't be as good as his hand or his mouth, but there would be time for that later when they got out of here. If she caught him at a particularly good moment, he could slide his hand in and work those fingers into her, stretching her and getting slick with her arousal. Then they would slide smooth over her skin and rubbing her clit wouldn't be difficult. She could shimmy against him, getting him hard, then reciprocate with her mouth over him.
She could, but she wouldn't do that now. If she did that now, there would be recriminations and denials that it was what he wanted. It would ruin everything, and the future that spun out of that possibility ended badly for them both. If she was patient, just a little bit more, then her age wouldn't be a problem for him. She would be legal, and he wouldn't feel like some kind of evil man corrupting her. She had lost her innocence long ago, seeing things happen long before she understood the consequences. Watchers couldn't help but grow up quickly, after all.
Cassie dug around in her hair for a bobby pin. She handed it to Nick. "You're better with locks than I am. This takes precision."
That line earned her a sardonic look. "This only works in the movies."
"You make the cheese work, what can I say?" Cassie told him, lips quirked in her trademark sardonic smile. "C'mon give it a try. The only other bobby pin left in this mess is already bent and won't work."
He took the bobby pin and got to work. That left Cassie able to admire the line of his neck and the play of his shoulders beneath his shirt. There was muscle there, not enough to be overpowering but just enough that she knew he could lift her weight, carry her and pin her to the wall. He could, but he wouldn't do that. Not while he still considered her a child.
Stupid quirk of fate. Cassie cursed it soundly in her head as Nick got the tumblers to move in the handcuffs.
But she was seventeen, and eighteen wasn't that far away. As the handcuffs fell from their wrists, she couldn't help but grin at his goofy triumphant exclamation. She could wait. She'd waited long enough for what will be, and she knew it would be worth it.
"The Price That Was Paid." The Chronicles of Riddick - Carolyn Fry/Richard Riddick, energy
(In the same 'verse as Scars, which I wrote for Porn Battle XI.)
Being Queen of the Dead was an odd experience, and Carolyn wondered what unruly God thought she would fit the role. Necromongers wore skintight clothes and long, flowing robes. It was entirely inappropriate for being a pilot, but they didn't need a pilot. There were whispers in the halls of the Necropolis, but she was used to those. She could easily ignore those stupid creatures, and the first Necro that had thought she was easy prey got a knife to the chest buried to the hilt. She knew how to defend herself under ordinary circumstances, and Riddick had warned her that the Necros weren't fond of the living. It would be like fighting for her life every damn day, any sign of weakness a signal for the rest of them to swarm in and draw blood.
It sounded just like the demons on Hades, damn them all to fucking hell.
As odd as it was, spilling that socialite Necro's blood seemed to break open a damn inside her chest. She still didn't like being caged in, didn't like the press of anything getting too close. Most of the Necro cloth didn't feel so bad against her skin, but the stuff that passed for leather brought the memories back as vivid as if it was happening all over again. Riddick had sensed it in her, a despair and rage so deep that she had choked on it and couldn't speak. That leathery stuff was never brought near her again, and she was left with the soft silken fabrics that covered her from head to toe.
Riddick liked peeling the silken dresses from her skin, the lights dim but not completely out. He had no time for modesty and always treated the scars on her chest and back as a badge of honor. He liked to lick them, to trace them with his rough fingers. He could be rough, since her sensation there was dull. It wasn't nonexistent, however, and Carolyn had grown used to his attentions. If anything, she had started to see them as badges of honor the same way he did. She had lived, after all. The demons had impaled her and tried to tear her apart, but she had managed to survive anyway. She had beaten them back, lasted long enough until she could be dragged off that hellhole of a planet to heal.
Funny how it took a killer to make her feel whole again.
Carolyn sat in on the pilot classes that Necro recruits were given, listening to the endless drone of the instructor's voice. Riddick had been amused, and asked her opinion on the instructor's technique and ability. "Grade A asshole," had been her terse reply. When he simply stared, eyebrow raised, Carolyn had shrugged. "Bland instruction style, no finesse for the ones that can't visualize. And he doesn't sound like he knows shit about what actually happens in space. When was the last time he actually flew a ship? Not a shuttle, mind you, but an actual fucking cruiser?"
Riddick had merely smiled at her, something that should have drawn her hackles up. It would have, in her former life. She wasn't truly an innocent anymore, he was right about that, and his amused smile didn't trigger any alarm bells. Her fight or flight responses needed a much higher level of stimulation to be activated. That was likely the price she had paid on Hades.
The bastard put her in charge of the new recruits, grinning as he punched everyone that protested the change. Many of the Necros weren't fond of the fact their leader was now a full blooded live human, but you keep what you kill. It had been a fair fight, and everyone had witnessed the former Lord Marshall's defeat in combat. No one was willing to challenge Riddick, and his word was law.
Teaching the new recruits here wasn't that different from the piloting school where she had been before. These recruits were perhaps a little more attentive than her former students, and she found herself actually enjoying the teaching.
"You did that on purpose," Carolyn accused, coming back to their quarters in the Necropolis that night. "You tricked me."
"Did I?" Riddick drawled, leaning back across their bed. The lights were dim, just enough so that he could comfortably see without it being painful. He liked seeing the flush in her cheeks, that spark in her eyes that told him she was spoiling for a fight. If anything, the adrenaline it sparked brought out her scent a little more clearly. He always enjoyed that.
She poked him in the chest, eyes narrowing a fraction. "You most certainly did. I don't understand why. You hate these bastards. You can't stand them. Why teach them to be competent fliers?"
He grinned at her, a sharp flash of teeth that would have warned anyone else away. Even the Necros by now knew not to fuck with Riddick when he flashed that kind of a smile. But Carolyn wasn't afraid of that smile anymore, now that she knew what it meant. It might have meant death for anyone else, but it never meant death for her. For Carolyn, it was an amused sort of arousal.
"C'mere, beautiful."
She knelt on the bed beside him, within arm's length but not quite sprawled across his lap. If he wanted more, he would have to work for it. He would have to earn it, just like everything else. It was a sense of the perverse in her, but she didn't mind that at all.
"You're smarter than they are. You think. They don't know how to do that. All they know is how to follow orders. They're soldiers, not leaders." He grinned, eyes shining in the dim light. "And you're a leader without anyone following you. So now you have your team."
"There's you," Carolyn challenged.
Riddick laughed, a rich and deep-throated sound. "You think I follow you?"
"You would have come back for me," she reminded him.
He tugged on the belt to that ridiculously slinky silk dress and she tumbled into his arms. "Because nobody steals from me, Carolyn. Not creatures, not the dead." He kissed her, rough and hungry. "Those memories were stealing you from me. Now you're alive again."
He pulled at the dress' enclosure, and Carolyn left her palms flat on his chest, balancing herself above him. He pulled the dress from her shoulders, exposing the skin there. It was still smooth, still pale. He pulled the pins from her hair, letting it tumble down around her face. He inhaled deeply when the ends of the strands brushed against his face, and he drew the dress down her arms. Carolynn lifted one palm at a time, letting him pull the dress from her arms. Then he pushed it down to her waist, exposing the marred skin she no longer cared about. Riddick placed one massive hand in the center of her back, pulling her closer so that he could start laving the skin with his lips and tongue. She lowered herself and dropped her chin so that she could press her own lips to his scalp, feeling stubble against her lips.
When Carolyn sat back on her haunches, Riddick slowly moved to a seated position on the bed beside her. She removed his clothes, which were thick and more like woven armor. She leaned forward, her skin rubbing against his as she pressed kisses across his broad shoulders and arms. His muscle flexed beneath the skin she touched as he continued to pull at her dress, dragging it down her hips. Carolyn undid the ties at his waist, and then they had to shuffle position to pull the rest of their clothing off.
She liked touching him, and he rather liked being touched. By now she was used to his touch over her scars, the reverent way he spread his hands over them or licked them. Carolyn pushed him onto his back and took him into her mouth. She liked being on top of him, liked having some control. It was getting easier to tolerate his massive bulk on top of her, but she still liked mounting him and riding him hard and rough. It was almost like a fuck you to the universe, a way of confirming she hadn't lost everything.
Okay, maybe Riddick had a point about her being alive again now. Dammit.
Carolyn stopped long before he was ready to come. She was slick from his attentions already, and climbed on top of him. Riddick's expression was as inscrutable as ever, his hands on her hips to help balance her. She moved fast, her head thrown back as she moaned in pleasure. One of his hands slid up her belly, then hovered over her scar tissue. She moved one of her hands from his thigh to clasp it over his. Moving faster, she was close and chasing that that approaching orgasm. Riddick came first, and Carolyn sighed as she had to slow down. He took his other hand to her clit, stroking her just the way she liked it. Another minute of that and then she came, tight around his still-sensitive cock and her fingers digging into his thighs painfully.
"This is being alive, Carolyn," Riddick told her. "I like you better this way." His smile was full of teeth and barely concealed menace. Carolyn met his gaze head on. "You shouldn't give the fuckers more than they deserve."
"Which is?" she asked archly, eyebrow raised.
"Nothing," Riddick told her, that same smile on his face. "We're going to change these bastards. Shape 'em over into something new. Something more alive."
"They'll kill you for that." Not to mention her, if it came down to it. But she wasn't afraid of death anymore. She knew what that was like, and it was a cold abyss of darkness.
Riddick grinned, his hands tight on her hips. "Let 'em try. We'll gut 'em all and still rule them."
Carolyn returned his grin, feeling something like anticipation burn through her. Oh yes, Riddick was right. This was how it felt to be alive.
None of these were beta’ed. I don’t own ANYONE in these ficlets, which is a shame. Everyone here is an adult and engaging in very consensual and very not kid safe activities. You know how I like to write it. :D
"Just A Dream." Mirrormask - Helena/Valentine, dream, mirrors
It's a dream, she knows it is. Maybe because it's a dream, she can allow this.
Valentine is taller than her, and he is much thinner than Helena expected him to be once the oversized shirts and jacket come off. He's only in his mask now -- his face, he says, it's really his face, and nothing like hers. It is easy to slide out of the black lace and satin, to take off the skin that the Dark Queen wanted to push her into. It isn't her life, isn't even the Dark Princess' life. It's a fiction that the Dark Queen created, one that she can't let go of, no matter how hard everyone tries to make her.
Helena is in front of him, facing a wall that is nothing but mirror, which was surprising. Valentine's hands are warm and dry on her stomach, sliding over her skin. His mask feels like skin, tan and purple against her ear and hair. His breath is in her ear, tickling her, and his hands keep her still as he looks her over. "I don't see any marks on you," he says in a low tone. His fingers dip lower, below her belly button, and Helena shivers in his hands. "She didn't leave a mark on you. She only covered you up." One of his hands slides low, teasing the dark curls between her thighs. He doesn't touch anything else just yet. "I told you," Valentine says quietly. "You're vulnerable without a mask." His other hand cups a breast, fingers brushing across her nipple.
Her breath is fractured, and Helena arches backward into Valentine's touch. "Then give me a mask," she whimpers, her hands clutching his bare thighs. He isn't unaffected by this; she can feel his erection at the base of her spine twitch in response to her words. She tilts her head forward with effort, catching his eyes in the mirror with hers. He's watching her closely, his lips parted and tongue just touching the edge of his lip. He looks like he wants to taste her, to catch her pebbled nipples on his tongue and suck on them like berries.
"I don't know where masks come from," he tells her, his voice a little rough around the edges. He wants her, oh how he wants her, but he's taking his time and he's being slow about it. Helena pushes back against him, her bare bottom against the tops of his thighs. Valentine makes a soft sound and then pinches her nipple lightly in retaliation. "Naughty girl," he murmurs, accent flowing like honey across her ears.
"Give me more," Helena commands, moving one of her hands to his. She pushes his hand lower between her thighs, to that place she doesn't ever dare touch when it's light outside. Someone will see, someone will know, she always tells herself. Someone at some point told her that good girls don't do this, that it's not polite or something she should ever want.
Then again, good girls also don't go on missions for Queens they barely even know, or run off with strange men (and really, who's stranger than Valentine?) or get their hearts broken when it looks like those same strange men are willing to leave her behind.
No, Helena doesn't want to be a good girl anymore, not if it means being shut up tightly behind a mirror where no one will ever see her again. This is a dream, and she can do anything in dreams. She can redefine what it means to be good, and she can have Valentine touch her in all the secret places that he's not supposed to touch and still have it be okay.
Or, more than okay. His touch is light and feathery, ghosting over her skin and hinting at all there is to come. "Are you very sure?" Valentine asks, laughter in his voice. It's almost as if he knows she doesn't do this, she isn't the type to snog or shag boys she barely even knows. Then again, they had run all over the city together, and he had saved her from the Dark Queen. Helena likes to think that maybe he planned it, that he wanted to trick the Dark Queen.
"I'm sure. I'm very sure," she tells him, pushing his hand farther between her legs. His fingers scissor over her nipple, making her gasp and writhe within his hands. It's a very wanton look on her face, and this has to be dirty, to be watching what he's doing to her in the mirror. But it's making her so very wet, seeing the flush rise across her skin, the jut of her hips against his hand. It's working between her legs, and she can feel his touch inside of her and then up against her clit. "Valentine," she whines, not sure what she wants to say. "Please," she says finally, as he pulls at her nipple. It's not rough, not really, just enough to get her gasping and tilting her hips to his touch.
His arse is curved and smooth beneath her other hand, and Valentine groans when she squeezes. "So you like this?" he asks, as if it's not obvious.
Helena laughs, tries to laugh, her breath fracturing as he pulls at her and pushes his fingers deep, the hell of his hand grinding against her clit. He works her hard and fast, and then she tries to clutch at his cock behind her. Twisting her body makes him hit some spot inside of her that sends her reeling, and he does it again. And again. And once more, until she's screaming and writhing within his hands, so very wanton in the mirror. He bends her over, has her grasp the edge of a chair. She can see herself in the mirror so clearly, the flush in her cheeks and her panting chest. His fingers glisten with her juices when he pulls them out of her, and he licks them slowly. Valentine savors the taste of her, and Helena gasps, eyes wide with need.
Valentine pushes into her slowly, and she can see the muscles in his body stretch taut. She licks her lips and grips the chair tight, watching him slide in and out of her. This isn't just fucking, she knows; his gaze is too intent on her for that, his touch too reverent. He is thick and full inside of her, stretching her, hitting that spot he had touched with his fingers. She gasps, her entire body rocking with each thrust.
He comes with a shout, hands tight on her hips. She can see the strain in him, the release working him loose. He slides his hand along her back slowly, breath slowing down. "Helena," he whispers.
She wakes then, sticky between her thighs and with the ghost of Valentine's touch on her skin.
Perhaps it isn't just a dream after all.
"What Will Be." Push - Cassie/Nick, handcuffs
"So you didn't See this coming?" Nick asked Cassie, incredulity in his voice. "I thought your visions were better!"
Better wasn't 100% accurate, of course, and Cassie had told him so dozens of times. Still, she knew he was angry at getting caught and being stuck in a dingy basement. He was likely cursing himself for getting her caught as well. He was so overprotective of her, and getting them both handcuffed together around one of the columns in the basement hadn't been his idea of protection.
"Give me a minute and I'll try to See a way out of this."
Nick huffed out a breath and leaned against her. His touch was distracting, and Cassie knew it would never go anywhere right now. She was seventeen, and he held her age in his head like a talisman. He kept his hands to himself when he was around her, though she knew what his thoughts and dreams were like. You couldn't live in each others' pockets and not know these things, after all. He probably knew that she had her hand rubbing against her clit in the shower or when he was out in the city looking to score a few deals. He probably knew what she was really doing with the detachable shower head in their motel rooms, as much as she claimed it was just to massage her shoulders after running through the streets. Well, the shower head was good for that, too, but once her muscles were loose, there was nothing like a strong jet of water right there where she could pretend that it was Nick's fingers between her legs bringing her off.
She could climb into his lap. There was enough give in the chain they were attached to, and she was always lithe and nimble. She could straddle him, bury her face in his neck and breathe in the scent of him. He could slide an arm around her, and she could grind against his thigh, feeling the taut muscle rubbing against her clit through their clothes. It wouldn't be as good as his hand or his mouth, but there would be time for that later when they got out of here. If she caught him at a particularly good moment, he could slide his hand in and work those fingers into her, stretching her and getting slick with her arousal. Then they would slide smooth over her skin and rubbing her clit wouldn't be difficult. She could shimmy against him, getting him hard, then reciprocate with her mouth over him.
She could, but she wouldn't do that now. If she did that now, there would be recriminations and denials that it was what he wanted. It would ruin everything, and the future that spun out of that possibility ended badly for them both. If she was patient, just a little bit more, then her age wouldn't be a problem for him. She would be legal, and he wouldn't feel like some kind of evil man corrupting her. She had lost her innocence long ago, seeing things happen long before she understood the consequences. Watchers couldn't help but grow up quickly, after all.
Cassie dug around in her hair for a bobby pin. She handed it to Nick. "You're better with locks than I am. This takes precision."
That line earned her a sardonic look. "This only works in the movies."
"You make the cheese work, what can I say?" Cassie told him, lips quirked in her trademark sardonic smile. "C'mon give it a try. The only other bobby pin left in this mess is already bent and won't work."
He took the bobby pin and got to work. That left Cassie able to admire the line of his neck and the play of his shoulders beneath his shirt. There was muscle there, not enough to be overpowering but just enough that she knew he could lift her weight, carry her and pin her to the wall. He could, but he wouldn't do that. Not while he still considered her a child.
Stupid quirk of fate. Cassie cursed it soundly in her head as Nick got the tumblers to move in the handcuffs.
But she was seventeen, and eighteen wasn't that far away. As the handcuffs fell from their wrists, she couldn't help but grin at his goofy triumphant exclamation. She could wait. She'd waited long enough for what will be, and she knew it would be worth it.
"The Price That Was Paid." The Chronicles of Riddick - Carolyn Fry/Richard Riddick, energy
(In the same 'verse as Scars, which I wrote for Porn Battle XI.)
Being Queen of the Dead was an odd experience, and Carolyn wondered what unruly God thought she would fit the role. Necromongers wore skintight clothes and long, flowing robes. It was entirely inappropriate for being a pilot, but they didn't need a pilot. There were whispers in the halls of the Necropolis, but she was used to those. She could easily ignore those stupid creatures, and the first Necro that had thought she was easy prey got a knife to the chest buried to the hilt. She knew how to defend herself under ordinary circumstances, and Riddick had warned her that the Necros weren't fond of the living. It would be like fighting for her life every damn day, any sign of weakness a signal for the rest of them to swarm in and draw blood.
It sounded just like the demons on Hades, damn them all to fucking hell.
As odd as it was, spilling that socialite Necro's blood seemed to break open a damn inside her chest. She still didn't like being caged in, didn't like the press of anything getting too close. Most of the Necro cloth didn't feel so bad against her skin, but the stuff that passed for leather brought the memories back as vivid as if it was happening all over again. Riddick had sensed it in her, a despair and rage so deep that she had choked on it and couldn't speak. That leathery stuff was never brought near her again, and she was left with the soft silken fabrics that covered her from head to toe.
Riddick liked peeling the silken dresses from her skin, the lights dim but not completely out. He had no time for modesty and always treated the scars on her chest and back as a badge of honor. He liked to lick them, to trace them with his rough fingers. He could be rough, since her sensation there was dull. It wasn't nonexistent, however, and Carolyn had grown used to his attentions. If anything, she had started to see them as badges of honor the same way he did. She had lived, after all. The demons had impaled her and tried to tear her apart, but she had managed to survive anyway. She had beaten them back, lasted long enough until she could be dragged off that hellhole of a planet to heal.
Funny how it took a killer to make her feel whole again.
Carolyn sat in on the pilot classes that Necro recruits were given, listening to the endless drone of the instructor's voice. Riddick had been amused, and asked her opinion on the instructor's technique and ability. "Grade A asshole," had been her terse reply. When he simply stared, eyebrow raised, Carolyn had shrugged. "Bland instruction style, no finesse for the ones that can't visualize. And he doesn't sound like he knows shit about what actually happens in space. When was the last time he actually flew a ship? Not a shuttle, mind you, but an actual fucking cruiser?"
Riddick had merely smiled at her, something that should have drawn her hackles up. It would have, in her former life. She wasn't truly an innocent anymore, he was right about that, and his amused smile didn't trigger any alarm bells. Her fight or flight responses needed a much higher level of stimulation to be activated. That was likely the price she had paid on Hades.
The bastard put her in charge of the new recruits, grinning as he punched everyone that protested the change. Many of the Necros weren't fond of the fact their leader was now a full blooded live human, but you keep what you kill. It had been a fair fight, and everyone had witnessed the former Lord Marshall's defeat in combat. No one was willing to challenge Riddick, and his word was law.
Teaching the new recruits here wasn't that different from the piloting school where she had been before. These recruits were perhaps a little more attentive than her former students, and she found herself actually enjoying the teaching.
"You did that on purpose," Carolyn accused, coming back to their quarters in the Necropolis that night. "You tricked me."
"Did I?" Riddick drawled, leaning back across their bed. The lights were dim, just enough so that he could comfortably see without it being painful. He liked seeing the flush in her cheeks, that spark in her eyes that told him she was spoiling for a fight. If anything, the adrenaline it sparked brought out her scent a little more clearly. He always enjoyed that.
She poked him in the chest, eyes narrowing a fraction. "You most certainly did. I don't understand why. You hate these bastards. You can't stand them. Why teach them to be competent fliers?"
He grinned at her, a sharp flash of teeth that would have warned anyone else away. Even the Necros by now knew not to fuck with Riddick when he flashed that kind of a smile. But Carolyn wasn't afraid of that smile anymore, now that she knew what it meant. It might have meant death for anyone else, but it never meant death for her. For Carolyn, it was an amused sort of arousal.
"C'mere, beautiful."
She knelt on the bed beside him, within arm's length but not quite sprawled across his lap. If he wanted more, he would have to work for it. He would have to earn it, just like everything else. It was a sense of the perverse in her, but she didn't mind that at all.
"You're smarter than they are. You think. They don't know how to do that. All they know is how to follow orders. They're soldiers, not leaders." He grinned, eyes shining in the dim light. "And you're a leader without anyone following you. So now you have your team."
"There's you," Carolyn challenged.
Riddick laughed, a rich and deep-throated sound. "You think I follow you?"
"You would have come back for me," she reminded him.
He tugged on the belt to that ridiculously slinky silk dress and she tumbled into his arms. "Because nobody steals from me, Carolyn. Not creatures, not the dead." He kissed her, rough and hungry. "Those memories were stealing you from me. Now you're alive again."
He pulled at the dress' enclosure, and Carolyn left her palms flat on his chest, balancing herself above him. He pulled the dress from her shoulders, exposing the skin there. It was still smooth, still pale. He pulled the pins from her hair, letting it tumble down around her face. He inhaled deeply when the ends of the strands brushed against his face, and he drew the dress down her arms. Carolynn lifted one palm at a time, letting him pull the dress from her arms. Then he pushed it down to her waist, exposing the marred skin she no longer cared about. Riddick placed one massive hand in the center of her back, pulling her closer so that he could start laving the skin with his lips and tongue. She lowered herself and dropped her chin so that she could press her own lips to his scalp, feeling stubble against her lips.
When Carolyn sat back on her haunches, Riddick slowly moved to a seated position on the bed beside her. She removed his clothes, which were thick and more like woven armor. She leaned forward, her skin rubbing against his as she pressed kisses across his broad shoulders and arms. His muscle flexed beneath the skin she touched as he continued to pull at her dress, dragging it down her hips. Carolyn undid the ties at his waist, and then they had to shuffle position to pull the rest of their clothing off.
She liked touching him, and he rather liked being touched. By now she was used to his touch over her scars, the reverent way he spread his hands over them or licked them. Carolyn pushed him onto his back and took him into her mouth. She liked being on top of him, liked having some control. It was getting easier to tolerate his massive bulk on top of her, but she still liked mounting him and riding him hard and rough. It was almost like a fuck you to the universe, a way of confirming she hadn't lost everything.
Okay, maybe Riddick had a point about her being alive again now. Dammit.
Carolyn stopped long before he was ready to come. She was slick from his attentions already, and climbed on top of him. Riddick's expression was as inscrutable as ever, his hands on her hips to help balance her. She moved fast, her head thrown back as she moaned in pleasure. One of his hands slid up her belly, then hovered over her scar tissue. She moved one of her hands from his thigh to clasp it over his. Moving faster, she was close and chasing that that approaching orgasm. Riddick came first, and Carolyn sighed as she had to slow down. He took his other hand to her clit, stroking her just the way she liked it. Another minute of that and then she came, tight around his still-sensitive cock and her fingers digging into his thighs painfully.
"This is being alive, Carolyn," Riddick told her. "I like you better this way." His smile was full of teeth and barely concealed menace. Carolyn met his gaze head on. "You shouldn't give the fuckers more than they deserve."
"Which is?" she asked archly, eyebrow raised.
"Nothing," Riddick told her, that same smile on his face. "We're going to change these bastards. Shape 'em over into something new. Something more alive."
"They'll kill you for that." Not to mention her, if it came down to it. But she wasn't afraid of death anymore. She knew what that was like, and it was a cold abyss of darkness.
Riddick grinned, his hands tight on her hips. "Let 'em try. We'll gut 'em all and still rule them."
Carolyn returned his grin, feeling something like anticipation burn through her. Oh yes, Riddick was right. This was how it felt to be alive.