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[ fic ] porn-off responses

what is love ; BABY DON'T HURT ME
PORN-OFF CHALLENGE RESPONSES from tablefappers

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Alto's sky is an arc of blue over them and Sheryl is a shadow over her, a spill of hair covering their faces as Sheryl makes a song of Ranka's body. Ranka doesn't hear it so much as she feels the notes trembling against her skin and she sings too, soft and breathless, the words so well-remembered she could even sing it as the world catches on fire around her, as Sheryl's lips burn patterns on her skin and Ranka hits that last pure note of the mating song she had made theirs.

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Every night while he sleeps, she kills him.

In her mind, her hand at his throat, with his own sword, with one blast of her magic so he never wakes to see it coming. Whatever Kagami might think, she has executed their plot beautifully even though she's no longer sure she can go through it. So perfectly that he lets her closer than he should, tranquil with her head on his leg. So perfectly that she goes to him without hesitation, without malice, without threat.

But it's at night when these things come back to her, when she is returned to herself, demon and queen and waiting. When the clear blue of his eyes won't make her, all of her, heart, breath, hand, stop. When she lets herself give in and thinks this is the only kindness she could do for him.

Tonight she is unlucky and the rain wakes Exa as she comes to him, her body outlined in rain, lightning, shadow and nothing else, pride written on all the lines of her body, pride and hunger and her smile flashes, bright and electric as she watches him. She is queen even while kneeling and her laugh when she curves her body into his is triumph.

"You won't stop me, will you Yuusha?"

She takes him before he can answer because she isn't really asking, her lips, her hands, the edge of her teeth at his throat in a jagged kiss that tastes like rain. Their coming together is violent and the storm drowns out all other sound but the hisses she makes as she slides over him, soft and cruel. She makes him bleed as her nails leave their own tiny red kisses on his back and arms and even as he surges to try to meet her, she shoves him back down, her leg bruising at his hip and metal biting into her breasts and she is screaming more than she is breathing. In this storm, she takes him, their pleasure running down their spines edged sharp and blinding lightning. In this storm, she falls onto him, their breaths tangling like their hands. In this storm, they could drown.

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She comes apart in his hands like silk and it only shows how much she's been fraying at the edges but at the center so tightly and beautifully wound that no one could see. Except Dan, distracted even as he was by the shiny well-constructed lie of her, had seen beyond the mirrors and the smoke once when she had let him and he hadn't been misdirected ever since. So he takes his time for both of them, running his tongue at the ribbon-edged garter that had undone him, the fine netting breaking under his touch and the softness of her skin dewing. The garter had marked the line where her lies began, all lace and pristine and ended to the reality of her, Blair, tart and tasting like tears and almonds and he slides his hand up the smooth length of her even as he tells her, low with desire that this is how it should be, skin rough on skin and the warm spreading friction responding to the contact and sparking, sparking and dancing when he stops, surprised at her when he shouldn't be. Blair can be bold and reckless when she finally lets go and under her school skirt and armor of perfection, she is wearing nothing but the stockings and herself. He bends over in a familiar pose of worship, the ribbon is fragile and satin on his fingers and he slides it over the damp core of her, slow and trembling, up then down and he kisses along the trail of the ribbon he's going to wrap her in until she's wearing nothing but this and his name.

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Improper reading material! was what he'd said, a look on his face that was familiar from the many times she'd observed him haranguing her prince. It probably had to do with the fact that her prince was the subject of the doujinshi he'd somehow sensed had been hidden in her science textbook. He was threatening to throw it out when she'd finally cried out against it.

"No please, don't! It's one of a kind!" She was near-tears as she reached for it, the glossy cover turned up to the sun, bathing her naked prince in magnificently flattering light. "I-" Could she do it? Would she do it? Another look at the cover decided her and she turned away to unbutton her school blouse and pull her skirt up and the vice president was kind enough to wait for her to finish her preparations.

"I'll do anything." she said, trying to push up her modest cleavage and the vice president actually stopped mid "for the reputation of Kaimei" and stared at her uncomprehendingly. A few seconds passed before she could work up the nerve to try again. "Anything~," she tried wriggling her shoulders this time to see if it had any effect.

It didn't.

Finally reminding herself that fortune favors the bold, she took a step forward and pressed her breasts against his arm and repeated, "Seriously. Anything." He looked at her and at the cover and then back at her before snapping his head disbelievingly to gape at the cover. It was the boy he called "Know shame, Fujisaki!" in a most naked embrace with another man. Pool balls were placed on strategic places to protect her prince's modesty. Roman felt her heart beat faster in hope and pushed her luck again by tugging him closer. "REALLY. ANYTHING."

He was turning redder by the second and Roman allowed herself to imagine all sorts of lewd acts she'd only seen in Desire Climax not that she read anything but the classics.

Whatever his answer would have been, whether a no, a heart attack or an erection, it was interrupted by the student council president's voice, what her prince had once described as a freaking annoying secret pervert. "Tsubaki-kun, please bring all confiscated materials to the student council room for evaluation. Tsubaki-kun, please bring all confiscated materials to the student council room for evaluation."

Roman only made the mistake of blinking once and the vice president was already gone.

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To the victor, the spoils is the one rule unbroken in war and Astarothe Aslan has had more years than the Vatican's Knight of Ruin to learn the movements to victory. Fast and just as strong, the flash of her Gae Bolg echoed in the curved gleam of her fangs and her golden animal eyes are fixed on his throat. Nailed to a wall, the blade shoved into his wrists, blood in frayed ribbon tracks down his arms he is resolute, long-learned prayers is his only response to each question, each cut she makes with with her nails. Pater noster qui es in coelis... They have no father, she murmurs while leaving tiny, pricking kisses along the veins in his neck. Only a mother, ancient and unchanged who taught all her children more than the strength of power but the subtlety. Sanctificetur nomen tuum... Her kisses, her soft lips and the bite of her teeth, knives in velvet. The slide of her legs between his, the sweet fall of her hair teasing his skin, the violence of his blood just under the surface that she seeks out unerringly. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem... He had no idea it could be like this, all their lessons, the warnings, the training to fight against these rough, damaged creatures that prowl in the shadows of good men. Always his life bound in steel but she is softness and heat and when she kneels before him and bares him, he stares up at the sky almost blind. Sed libera nos a malo. She is a contrast of edges and soft curves, her mouth when she takes him and the cutting drag of her had on his tensed thighs, and his skin and his center.

It all breaks.

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It was all a matter of control. Control in all its rigorous perfection. That was how she'd made her name, unassailable in a field dominated by overgrown army boys who played at war with their phallic cigars and even more phallic weapons. Even as they walked about in a cloud of hazy smoke and their own self-importance, she cut through it all with brisk impatience and a sharp look. Kati Mannequin, as untouchably perfect as her name might suggest, crisp uniform lining her body in angles, the arrogance of her stride like a man's. It was necessary to command, to lead. Anyone who didn't ask perfection of themselves as hardly worthy of her respect.

This too was a matter of control, the tidy routines of her life. Even returning to her own room, she didn't fall on her bed or kick off her shoes. She took her time, studied an actress, patient for her audience. And an audience she did have. She'd known it as soon as she'd walked into her room, heard the squeak of that familiar AEU pilot that she pretended not to hear. She'd already warned him not to take such liberties but with typical impudence he'd ignored her.

Warnings hadn't been enough, only made him more excitable like a child who couldn't be told no. Discipline could be a matter of trial and error... his error.

A small smile was all she permitted herself, the slow drift of her eyes to a close as she removed her glasses was an invitation for him to keep looking, keep watching. Her beret was next, falling in the sweep of her hair, usually pinned up and proper and she parted her lips as she ran her hands through it, shaking it into curls over her shoulders. Her fingers trailed down to her neck and she began to undress, shedding each layer slowly as if to draw the eye to each act, to the slow slide of cloth from her bared shoulder to the tiny rose-colored ribbon pink like a kiss on the prim white of her bra. She moved on to her skirt without removing her uniform top, close to falling and half undone, a promise hiding the soft rise of her flesh beneath.

Not all punishments needed to be done to him. The most satisfying were the one she did to herself. She would have to bring in a rice, paper panel next time, tease him with her shadow and see how long it would be before he'd given in. Before she would. Control was all well and good but the moment it breaks is pain at its sweetest.

wham! bam! THANK YOU MA'AM
THE 1 SENTENCE PORN-OFF CHALLENGE

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In his mouth, the taste, the curl of smoke and tongue and the rise and fall of breath and half-heard words, cadenced to seduction. He'd come to Lau to learn and oh I know I know I know.

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Ranka in her sweet lace, confection of a girl, candy mouth and skin melting on Sheryl's tongue, impatient as always to get to her half-wrapped present. Her teeth rip through the silk.

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Next time, he thinks somehow, ragged remains of thought and self and breathing, next time, light and lightning under his skin, behind his eyes, the world is heavy on him, every sound a pressure but everything spiralling down and around Tsubaki's hand around his cock, stroking with merciless steadiness. Next time as the world goes away, he would hold out long enough to win the bet and get that stupid vp to call him 'nii-san.

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Queen of a species of destruction, she breaks him apart even when she doesn't mean to: her questions his distance growing from suspicion, his resolve with the line of her thigh languid on his own, his breath on her lips, her waiting mouth.

In her hand, his heart.

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He is under her, superiority in his smile as though his were the hand taking the edge to his own skin. His the look of expectation, though she runs the promise of the blade in a long slow slide under the overlap of his shirt, garish pink bunching in her hands, twisting into rope she levels at his neck, over his eyes, to his wrists. Hitagi is efficiency and seduction with knives.

She leaves one hand free to coil through her hair as she bends back down to her work.

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After they become a conspiracy of isolation, each holding moments they could share, pieces to revive whatever ghost of her they could, each holding moments as only their own. Shinji reads this lonely recognition in their gestures, Yukari's sideways glance mid-joke to the empty space she once occupied, a reflex unanswered by Minako's laugh, Fuuka reaching for an ingredient Minako would have had ready.

She has left them behind habits formed by being with her but Shinji, stoic and contained except in the private space Minako has made for him, on the surface seems most unaltered.

That space she has made, circumscribed by her gestures, expansive in her energy, a girl who has never learned to hold the world away, who pulled him close, to protect, so she could look closer at whatever it was she thought she saw in him. That space she has made, crossed by her grip on his sleeve, the brush of her arm as she pushes past him to his room, her touch of her hand on the nape of his neck, tracing a trail down his back.

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