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 Posted: Thu Sep 05, 2013 9:04 pm
Grave pressed into her palms as she leaned over him. Watching as focus returned to his eyes after his head had hit the concrete, and when they dipped, fixating upon the full curve of painted lips as he tasted her own blood, murmuring soft mockery. One more blow he could dodge, a soft thrust to his pride. She gave the barest hint of a chuckle at his observation, gaze flicking down to his hand as it rose towards her face, then back to meet his eyes as those fingers slid over pale skin and brushed over that single thin cut. She didn't flinch away, and instead turned her head to lay her cheek more firmly into his hand before it had moved on. "But..?" The glide of his fingertips along her scalp made her shiver. Then his hand was tightening, seizing a handful and jerking her back away from his face. It tore a noise from her throat as her head whipped back, something that started as a snarl but dissolved into a moan before she had gone still above him. Breath shallow, she contemplated the position she now found herself in, both exciting and maybe just a little frightening. He'd caught her by surprise, gotten the upper hand, and now she wasn't entirely sure what direction he would be taking. She could teleport, free herself, but she waited. Intrigued, nervous. Excited."What now?" Her voice came out breathy, and she slide her leg up a little further along his hip, weight falling back to settle more or less on his lap. Readjusting to account for the grip he maintained in her hair, taking straining off her arms and palms. Every movement slow, calculated, deliberate.
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Posted: Thu Sep 05, 2013 9:40 pm
She didn't pull away, reprimand him with a repertoire of kicks and cuts and scrapes? Unexpected, but not unwelcome.
Bischofite stole away all of her attention, and now held a captive audience in his hands. Why shouldn't he reciprocate her interest with enough information to whet her curiosity? To tantalize her nerves? For in a situation such as this, one where he had no hope of gaining an upper hand in the field of violence, he took to iniquity to retain a measure of success.
Slowly he rose onto his elbow, his solitary support, while he gauged the extent of her reaction. Breath bated, body settling against his in a motion that elicited its own tense respiration from him. But he rose to meet her expectations in kind - he paused just shy of her throat, nose hardly brushing against her skin in slow breaths. "Even hunters haf' zeir weaknesses," he finished. The words hummed in his throat, whispered across her tender flesh. Both visceral and carnal, they exchanged even blows.
But Bischofite would usurp his own victories, in one way or another.
"You can struggle for hours..." He continued, drawing every syllable against her throat in his germanic accent. As he continued, his index finger peeled down the back of her head, down across the nape of her neck, parting his fistful of hair in two. "You can fight and wrench and yearn for victory. You can best me in battle all you like." His voice dropped in volume, his hand ran down her spine like water atop well-weathered rocks. "Break my nose. Bruise my ribs. Bloody my lip." Ever closer they came, until they finally found solace in the beguiling curve of her hip. "But you won't shirk zat one weakness, will you?"
He smiled against her throat - somewhere in his machinations, he lost track of who was manipulating who.
And that made it exciting.
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Posted: Fri Sep 06, 2013 5:29 pm
Every tiny movement pulled at the taunt grip he maintained in her hair. Small, almost insignificant hurts that, on their own, would have garnered a much different reaction from the captain. Violence begot violence. Dare any order aligned soldier to attempt what Bischofite was doing, and she would have gladly torn free and brought her knee up to crush the vulnerable cartilage and bone of the sinus cavity just to be contrary. But this was not the same, and the warm breath that eased over the pale skin of her throat did not belong to an enemy.. He spoke, and the thick gravel of his voice rose goosebumps over her arms as a shiver chased up the line of her spine. Not a touch, not an action, just his voice. It had her drawing her lip between her teeth, biting into that full bud before the subtle tick of a smile tugged at her skin. "You're trouble." Just a breath, not even really a whisper. The slow descent oh his finger along her scalp made her sigh, and she would had sagged against him, melting at that lovely touch, had he not been holding her upright. When he did finally release her hair so eager fingers could travel down her back towards the curve of her hip she dropped her forehead to rest on his shoulder, unwilling to lose the contact of his lips moving against her neck. It wasn't just the voice, either. Or the tantalizing weight of his hand. The very words he spoke were enough to quicken her breath and tighten her body. nimble hands dancing down the front of his jacket until she was holding the narrow of his waist. "No." It was not in her nature to walk away. The blare of a car horn was loud and sudden and it broke whatever spell had placed them in their own little world. Xenotime rolled her eyes to the road, and they narrowed to charcoal slits as she reluctantly moved her leg from between his knees so she could sit up, straddling his lap. She wasn't a shy girl, but a busy highway overpass was perhaps a little too adventurous. Wetting her lips, she looked down at the dark haired young man still sprawled beneath her, and she twitched her chin upwards, towards the seclusion of the rooftops. Privacy.
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Posted: Fri Sep 06, 2013 8:07 pm
"I'm a revolution," he corrected with a smile. Trouble held no pulse aside from that which initially fueled it. Rancor fed off reactions, pure and simple. But a revolution... with ideals to sustain it, with those vultures and zealots and torch-wielding doomsdayers, he lived on. He lived on and on and on, in the hearts and veins of those he touched so significantly that they spoke his name
as a bible verse.
As a wayward curse.
And oh, how he wanted to taste her skin. It beckoned him, reached for him with minute goosebumps stretching skyward. But as he finally surmounted those final doubts, those nagging thoughts indicating that he should abstain from reveling in his own ranks, that these ripples would not fade with time,
a honk. A loud, blaring honk pierced his concentration. It cooled his thoughts, tempered his reactions, hushed his roiling mind with a sizzle and hiss. How unfortunate. Likely it would end this way, a half-baked idea strewn across the side of the road. She would forsake their vivid machinations, rise from where she sat, assault his face for one last glorious spurt of blood to mark her exit, and she would part from his life without a second thought.
These were facts. Not daydreams, not fancies, not predictions. Facts.
Bischofite sighed in dismay and sank away from her, his hand tapering off her hip as he slouched against his elbows for support. However, just as he decided the fate of their encounter, she nodded toward something beyond him. In craning his neck back, he witnessed the sight upside down - stretching, descending toward the sky were buildings, hanging like stalactites from a ceiling extending toward eternity. No one stood atop them, no senshi or agent to witness their private entwining dance. No one at all.
Bischofite urged Xenotime off of himself and stood, though he faltered marginally through the pain of recently having his a** handed to him by a peer. After dusting himself off, he flashed her a knowing smirk and vanished in an instant, now only a infinitesimal scar on the rooftop in the distance.
And there he would await her, assuming he read her body language properly.
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Posted: Fri Sep 06, 2013 8:38 pm
A revolution. The correction was accurate. Though if he was a revolution, then she was surely a lyric. A wild and unpredictable thing that could lift spirits or crush dreams. A presence that invaded into the lives of those she encountered and left a lasting impression that would linger, playing on and on in the mind. Even now, as the young man beneath her resigned himself to a parting of the ways, she would surprise him with with a nod and a silent invitation. Unpredictable. She waited as he rolled his head back to eye the rooftops she'd nodded towards, her thumbs rolling against the curve of his hip bones before he'd caught her meaning and urged her up and off of him. She did so, sliding to the side so he could pick himself up and dust himself off before flashing her a grin and disappearing. Pale eyes rolled up to the roof, to the distant figure that was looking back at her, waiting, and if he dared blink he'd miss the moment she disappeared, but the sudden and solid weight of arms curling around him from behind would chase away any linger doubts that she would simply walk away from him. She insinuated herself against him, brow cradled between his shoulder blades as she slid her hands over his sides, his stomach, upwards. "Xenotime," she offered into the urban silence. An admission of, at the very least, respect. Though their close proximity and heavy promise that road the air certainly suggested there was more to it then that.
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Posted: Fri Sep 06, 2013 9:46 pm
Bischofite breathed, a passing whisper of vanilla and indistinguishable fruit curling into his lungs, taking residence in a respiration held with bated fervor. This was something ancient, something old and forsaken, something lost to time and a thousand miles of ocean stretching across his memories. Her touch, borrowed though it was, lit a mark across his skin. It unfurled across his body in one smooth motion, undulating. Redirected. Misdirected. Yet he eased into it all the same, with the weight of her to his back.
She sought something long considered rotten and rancid. And she did so with a final, sharpened strike. Her name passed her lips, teased the night air with its alternating fits of consonants. Teased his ears with an inkling of knowledge toward her, toward this tantalizing apostate at his back.
Her lips to his spine may as well have been a knife.
Oh, but how he adored deception, in all its Mariana Trench depth and deceptive glory. He appreciated her sentiments, and sought to return them in kind - as a liar, a deceiver, a petty little schemer, he owed it to her to exchange blows with equal passion.
"You will hear my name in time - bos' of zem." He grinned, though only the night understood. The world passed without them - they wouldn't miss a pair of dissipating agents, folding into each other atop an unremarkable perch. Knowing this, Bischofite reached for her, behind himself, and found the prominent curvature of her hips. He traced those lines with fingers seeking, lighting a trail of unmitigated feeling across her warm skin. "Xenotime - want to wage a little war?"
In turn she would know the visceral nature of revolution - of virulent motives, fervent screams for glory and hate and utmost destruction. Of all the charred hate razing the ground, cursing and breaking all that bar its path. She would taste the pain therein, and in turn he would change her - be it to a blackened husk of what she once was, or something fresh and reverential and wholly new from all that vitriol boiling across her lands.
She would choke in the thick smoke of that desiccation, and she would have to breathe him to surmount those livid tribulations.
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Posted: Fri Sep 06, 2013 10:08 pm
Oh, but anticipation was like a drug, and when he spoke, denying her his name until.. Until. She shuddered, head tipping back so her chin pressed into the curve of his spine, fingers tensing to let him feel the first subtle hints of nails. A premiere, a preview. A Promise. Had she the height she would have set teeth to his shoulder, and the soft rumbling vibration of the growl that followed his words would have run through him like a tuning fork. Alas, even her heels didn't give her the lift she needed, and he'd miss that tender kiss, for now. "War," she echoed, and you could here the smile in her voice, the anticipation. She laughed, low and maybe just a little nervous. The edge was back, that fine line between danger and excitement. It wasn't an ideal play at words, she knew what she was getting into. Unblemished skin would not remain so. She would wear more then a thin cut on her cheek come morning. Her hold on him loosened, hands sliding downward until they fell away, and her presence folded away from his back with the sound of heels crunching on gravel. "To battle then." Ah, but not here. Not for what they had in mind. She turned, charcoal gaze seeking a familiar outline in the cityscape before s mile split full lips. A glance was directed over her shoulder. "Catch me if you can, Captain." A second, long enough to let her meaning sink in, then she was off, racing over the rooftops.
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