Fic: Blood and Justice, Xover; Naomi/Scar; NC-17
THE OTHER FIC I SAID I WOULD FINISH YESTERDAY! Also, go read the comment fic t3h_toby_chan wrote me for this same pairing, it is amazing.
Title: Blood and Justice
Fandom: FMA/Death Note
Pairing: Misora Naomi/Scar
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,318
Spoilers: For episode 8 of the Death Note anime
Warnings: Angry motorcycle sex!
Summary: There was no Kira in this world, but there were murderers and rapists who went unpunished; and in her eyes, they were all Kira.
It was a strange and foreign place, these streets the lean, hard faced woman in black leather walked. She didn’t know she had come to this place, or why, but she knew she had business left to attend to. Business somewhere else.
She remembered a street with falling snow, an empty apartment, a force of will that wasn’t her own. And then there was nothing but strange, nightmarish darkness and eyes that tore her soul apart and she awoke in an alley with a burning around her neck.
The faces were strange, the buildings were Western, and the names were unfamiliar. But it didn’t matter. Maybe this was hell - wandering a strange land alone. It could have been worse, she supposed. A pretty woman had little problems getting what she needed.
Naomi had found a leather jacket and a pack of smokes and a motorbike - some great clunky thing that spit black clouds and roared like a wild beast. But it vibrated between her thighs and whipped the wind about her face and hair and that was all that mattered. Maybe this was heaven.
But Naomi doubted that heaven had petty thugs and cutthroats that went unpunished. She’d seen young women raped in alleys, old men gunned downed for their wallets, lives wasted and thrown away in the small towns and farms she rode through.
There was a lawlessness in this world. Those she met spoke of soldiers in the cities, but there were no soldiers in these hamlets. There were only fat officers who were easy to bribe and frightened people who feared to leave their homes at night. There was no justice in these places. It made her sick.
Naomi found a gun.
There was no Kira here for her to hunt, but there were murderers. There were cruel men who mocked the law and needed to be punished. And they were all Kira in her eyes.
This wasn’t the justice that Naomi had given herself to, but it was the only justice this world recognized. And no one stopped her. When she shot the rutting beasts off of frightened young girls, the officers of the law looked the other way. Townsfolk offered her a room for the night and a hot meal and a bath.
She had her gun and she had her bike and she had her smokes and she was happiest on the road anyway. Not that she was ever truly happy. But there was a sense of purpose here, a sense of duty. Vigilante justice had once been something to be abhorred - here, it was the only justice there was.
It was in a small town on the outskirts of a city where she met him. The sounds of fighting drew her. She ran, her long black coat flaring behind her as she cocked her gun and leapt from her bike. In an alley men were fighting. Two children cowered by a dumpster. There was blood on the dirt street.
Naomi was late to the scene. Three men were fighting one, a dark skinned man with a white scar across his eyes and murder in his fists. He was bleeding from his shoulder already. Without thinking, Naomi aimed and fired. A bullet to the arm, one to the knee… the thugs turned, screaming in pain.
What happened next, Naomi doubted she’d seen. There was a gun in a man’s hand, aimed at her. She froze. But the bleeding scarred man moved, his hand on the back of the assailant’s head. And then there was red fire, and blood and she and the scarred man were alone in the alley with a corpse.
Stranger things had happened.
Naomi said nothing. She put her gun away and returned to her bike. The scarred man followed, clutching his wounded arm. She stopped him, a first aide kit in her hand. He glared at her, but paused. He was like her, she could tell by his eyes. A vigilante. He had a Kira in his heart as well.
Neither of them spoke. He shrugged off his jacket and she turned to his wound. It was raw and ragged and bloody. Even standing still, she could tell this man was a wild thing. He was savagery and ferocity in dark toned muscle and fiery eyes. Without thinking, Naomi leaned down and licked the blood from his bicep.
Why she did it, she didn’t know. She was consumed with some strange wild desire mixed with anger. And his blood was hot and mixed with sweat on her tongue and she felt her loins burn.
He stared at her. His blood was on her lips and she reached for him and kissed his lips. They were rough. He was rough. And still as a statue beneath her kiss. She didn’t care. She was on fire, burning with a need she had thought was long gone. But blood and gun oil and the thrill of the fight and this dark skinned man had awakened something in her. She kissed him roughly, leaving traces of blood on his lips.
His body was hard. She pressed herself against it, feeling his blood on her skin. The wound was hardly fatal, it could wait. Naomi’s need couldn’t. She ran her fingers through his course hair, she licked along his neck, she pressed her breasts against his chest. Finally she felt his hands on her hips. Those hands she had seen destroy a man in a moment, those hands that had saved her life. He grabbed her roughly.
The world went red. The scarred man moved his hands across her body, grabbing at her haphazardly. He pressed her against her bike and she shifted, perching on the edge and raking her nails along his back. Her jacket was half off her shoulders, her tank top was pulled up above her breasts and her leather pants were pulled down to her ankles. He was between her legs, growling low in his throat. Her shirt was stained with his blood.
They were two wild things, bucking and writhing against her motorcycle, the only witness the bloodied corpse that lay behind them. Naomi bit his shoulder and wrapped her legs around his hips and hated herself for thinking it was so much better than it had ever been with Raye. She didn’t even know this man’s name, but he was hard and hot and raw and he took her hard and she needed this. She needed his skin against hers, his breath on her neck, his cock inside of her.
She screamed when she came, not caring they were in some dirty back alley in some dirty little town. The streets were empty, two strangers who brought death driving the townspeople inside. The alley reeked of sweat and blood and leather and burnt flesh. The scarred man shoved her away roughly when he was finished, anger in his eyes. She didn’t care. She pulled down her shirt and pulled up her pants and lit up a cigarette.
He had stopped bleeding. He found his jacket and pulled it on, ignoring his wound. Naomi could still taste his blood. She wiped it from her lips and mounted her bike. He stared at her with his hard, strange eyes.
She finally spoke, only three words. His mouth twitched and his eyes flashed but then he nodded and climbed on the bike behind her. His hands were on her hips again, gripping her roughly. There were other towns and other bullets and other Kiras she needed to find. They needed to find.
Heaven or hell, she no longer cared. She hadn’t felt this alive until she’d died.
Title: Blood and Justice
Fandom: FMA/Death Note
Pairing: Misora Naomi/Scar
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,318
Spoilers: For episode 8 of the Death Note anime
Warnings: Angry motorcycle sex!
Summary: There was no Kira in this world, but there were murderers and rapists who went unpunished; and in her eyes, they were all Kira.
It was a strange and foreign place, these streets the lean, hard faced woman in black leather walked. She didn’t know she had come to this place, or why, but she knew she had business left to attend to. Business somewhere else.
She remembered a street with falling snow, an empty apartment, a force of will that wasn’t her own. And then there was nothing but strange, nightmarish darkness and eyes that tore her soul apart and she awoke in an alley with a burning around her neck.
The faces were strange, the buildings were Western, and the names were unfamiliar. But it didn’t matter. Maybe this was hell - wandering a strange land alone. It could have been worse, she supposed. A pretty woman had little problems getting what she needed.
Naomi had found a leather jacket and a pack of smokes and a motorbike - some great clunky thing that spit black clouds and roared like a wild beast. But it vibrated between her thighs and whipped the wind about her face and hair and that was all that mattered. Maybe this was heaven.
But Naomi doubted that heaven had petty thugs and cutthroats that went unpunished. She’d seen young women raped in alleys, old men gunned downed for their wallets, lives wasted and thrown away in the small towns and farms she rode through.
There was a lawlessness in this world. Those she met spoke of soldiers in the cities, but there were no soldiers in these hamlets. There were only fat officers who were easy to bribe and frightened people who feared to leave their homes at night. There was no justice in these places. It made her sick.
Naomi found a gun.
There was no Kira here for her to hunt, but there were murderers. There were cruel men who mocked the law and needed to be punished. And they were all Kira in her eyes.
This wasn’t the justice that Naomi had given herself to, but it was the only justice this world recognized. And no one stopped her. When she shot the rutting beasts off of frightened young girls, the officers of the law looked the other way. Townsfolk offered her a room for the night and a hot meal and a bath.
She had her gun and she had her bike and she had her smokes and she was happiest on the road anyway. Not that she was ever truly happy. But there was a sense of purpose here, a sense of duty. Vigilante justice had once been something to be abhorred - here, it was the only justice there was.
It was in a small town on the outskirts of a city where she met him. The sounds of fighting drew her. She ran, her long black coat flaring behind her as she cocked her gun and leapt from her bike. In an alley men were fighting. Two children cowered by a dumpster. There was blood on the dirt street.
Naomi was late to the scene. Three men were fighting one, a dark skinned man with a white scar across his eyes and murder in his fists. He was bleeding from his shoulder already. Without thinking, Naomi aimed and fired. A bullet to the arm, one to the knee… the thugs turned, screaming in pain.
What happened next, Naomi doubted she’d seen. There was a gun in a man’s hand, aimed at her. She froze. But the bleeding scarred man moved, his hand on the back of the assailant’s head. And then there was red fire, and blood and she and the scarred man were alone in the alley with a corpse.
Stranger things had happened.
Naomi said nothing. She put her gun away and returned to her bike. The scarred man followed, clutching his wounded arm. She stopped him, a first aide kit in her hand. He glared at her, but paused. He was like her, she could tell by his eyes. A vigilante. He had a Kira in his heart as well.
Neither of them spoke. He shrugged off his jacket and she turned to his wound. It was raw and ragged and bloody. Even standing still, she could tell this man was a wild thing. He was savagery and ferocity in dark toned muscle and fiery eyes. Without thinking, Naomi leaned down and licked the blood from his bicep.
Why she did it, she didn’t know. She was consumed with some strange wild desire mixed with anger. And his blood was hot and mixed with sweat on her tongue and she felt her loins burn.
He stared at her. His blood was on her lips and she reached for him and kissed his lips. They were rough. He was rough. And still as a statue beneath her kiss. She didn’t care. She was on fire, burning with a need she had thought was long gone. But blood and gun oil and the thrill of the fight and this dark skinned man had awakened something in her. She kissed him roughly, leaving traces of blood on his lips.
His body was hard. She pressed herself against it, feeling his blood on her skin. The wound was hardly fatal, it could wait. Naomi’s need couldn’t. She ran her fingers through his course hair, she licked along his neck, she pressed her breasts against his chest. Finally she felt his hands on her hips. Those hands she had seen destroy a man in a moment, those hands that had saved her life. He grabbed her roughly.
The world went red. The scarred man moved his hands across her body, grabbing at her haphazardly. He pressed her against her bike and she shifted, perching on the edge and raking her nails along his back. Her jacket was half off her shoulders, her tank top was pulled up above her breasts and her leather pants were pulled down to her ankles. He was between her legs, growling low in his throat. Her shirt was stained with his blood.
They were two wild things, bucking and writhing against her motorcycle, the only witness the bloodied corpse that lay behind them. Naomi bit his shoulder and wrapped her legs around his hips and hated herself for thinking it was so much better than it had ever been with Raye. She didn’t even know this man’s name, but he was hard and hot and raw and he took her hard and she needed this. She needed his skin against hers, his breath on her neck, his cock inside of her.
She screamed when she came, not caring they were in some dirty back alley in some dirty little town. The streets were empty, two strangers who brought death driving the townspeople inside. The alley reeked of sweat and blood and leather and burnt flesh. The scarred man shoved her away roughly when he was finished, anger in his eyes. She didn’t care. She pulled down her shirt and pulled up her pants and lit up a cigarette.
He had stopped bleeding. He found his jacket and pulled it on, ignoring his wound. Naomi could still taste his blood. She wiped it from her lips and mounted her bike. He stared at her with his hard, strange eyes.
She finally spoke, only three words. His mouth twitched and his eyes flashed but then he nodded and climbed on the bike behind her. His hands were on her hips again, gripping her roughly. There were other towns and other bullets and other Kiras she needed to find. They needed to find.
Heaven or hell, she no longer cared. She hadn’t felt this alive until she’d died.