Friday, March 8, 2013

An Adult!Skull Lemon -- Precarious

Character: Adult!Skull

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: I'm experimenting with 2nd POV in the present tense at the moment.  I quite like not having to work with OC's specific personalities ^_^

You are attracted to danger.  It is an affliction you have always had, since the day you were brought into this world.  And it is the sort of attraction that stays with you indefinitely, molding to your personality and making you quite a precarious person to know.
Skull is the sort of danger that confuses you, yet sparks an inconsolable interest through you.  He is the embodiment of danger, the soul of it.  But he is struck down with a certain shyness whenever he is around you that doesn't make it seem that way.  And you see his danger levels deplete whenever he is around the other archobalenos.  It is like his sense of danger is only real when he is alone, not pretending to be someone more powerful than he is.
You watch the purple haired man from across the room.  You're sinking into a soft leather couch, stocking-ed legs crossed in an almost demure way.  But there is nothing demure about you, and that is obvious in the bright way your eyes shift over the room like it is your territory.
It is, to an extent.  That man is, anyway, whether he likes it or not.  But you have a feeling he likes being yours.  You can feel his appreciation in many ways, but it is mostly exhibited when close to a mattress.
You smirk lightly and he notices.  His eyes crinkle just slightly to show that he is smiling back, but he doesn't do anything to provoke you.  He wants to, but he knows that you'd rather just provoke him, instead, and he can't say that he'd mind.  You have ways of easing him into any situation.
You are alone with him for the first time all day.  The fire is sparkling merrily before you and it warms the entire room, but it isn't hot enough.  Not for you, not for the scorching desires that have been building up the atmosphere.
So you lean back and you hand drifts to the door, which is situated directly beside your couch and just close enough to touch.  The lock slides easily in place and you drag your hand back, allowing it to rest gingerly on your leg.  When you call out to him, your voice resembles that soft quality, but there is an ever-present tone of impatience, of want, of desire that makes Skull quiver and respond.  "Skull…come here."
You don't call him 'darling' or 'honey' or 'baby'.  He is neither and you refuse to sink to a level that would degrade him so.  He deserves respect, and you will give it to him.  He deserves much more than respect, and you will try to give him that as well.
He sinks into the couch beside you and watches you through lidded eyes as you roll into his lap.  Your passion has been working in overdrive since the moment he'd walked into the room, with a bloody lip and a sense of incurable danger.  You'll ask him where he got that bloody lip later, and why he seems so deliciously in control of himself.  But for now, all you can think about is how badly you want to press your lips against his rough ones and kiss him senseless.
He knows what you're thinking about.  He can see it in your eyes, in the way they flicker at his mouth and stare at the blood still drying along the edges.  He feels the tension in your body.  It is like radiation, like the pounding of blood through his veins, like the uncontrolled, blurred edge of pain and pleasure that you often bring to him.
He craves this edge.  He craves it with all he is and all he becomes when he's around you.  It makes him feel dangerous and wanted, like he's something of a God with all his power.  But always, always, always there is you behind that power, controlling each and every radiating, punctuated shot of relief and desperation and need.
He is something a puppet to you, or at least he thinks that.  Sometimes, in the darkness of the night when you are curled up around him, powerless and innocent and human, Skull wonders if he shouldn't try to wield some power as well.  But that craving always turns into something darker, more primal, and he is always left with simply the desire to see you at your best: when you are hovering above him with your dominatrix smirk and your painted red lips and you see-through lace negligee.
"Skull."  He turns to you, coming out of his inner thoughts and glancing at your body, which is still in it's former position.  His eyes linger on your legs, covered by the black silk that intrigues him so much.  When his gaze lifts far enough up to meet with yours, he notices that your eyes are amused.
Of course they are.  You're always amused when men get like this over you.  It is as though you can't get enough of their attention, as though you dress up without realizing just how much those legs could fatally charm a man, or just how much those lips silently scream 'passion' and 'danger' and 'sex'.  And when you finally do realize that your body is arousing to others, it always seems to surprise you, even though you've been over this countless times and already know, instinctually and otherwise, that red lips and stockings and black lace and negligee spell out 'sex' in big, bold letters.
You tip your head back and smile, not in amusement this time but in something else, something similar to endearment.  "Skull, you must know that I like you better than anyone else."
It is a broad sentence, but somehow sentimental.  Because Skull knows that you are often with other men and even other women.  Sometimes you aren't always 'with' them, but you enjoy knowing what people like and using it against them, and in your line of work, that is always useful.  So to hear you say this, Skull actually smiles.  It is as sentimental and honest as you get.  He knows he will never hear you say 'I love you', but that you like him better than anyone else is practically the same when it comes to you. 
"I like you because you're dangerous.  Do you know why I think that?" you wonder idly, except your voice isn't really idle.  You're never idle.  There's always something going on, always something shimmering beneath the surface of your skin.
Skull shrugs and stares at you.  He's never asked why you think he's dangerous before.  The question has surprisingly never crossed his mind, even though you seem to be the only one who thinks he's the least bit dangerous.
He watches you lean forward, legs slowly sliding over his lap until you are straddling him.  Your fingers gently but firmly tilt his chin up and you look directly into his eyes, no doubt seeing everything with your powerful gaze.
"You're dangerous…because you like the things that other people don't."
He stares.  You smile.  Your lips hover just above his skin and then you watch as he visibly struggles to resist you.  His resistance makes him dangerous, too.  But the other things that he likes, the things that aren't confined to the whips and the chains and the knife-play, those things are what makes him irresistible to you.
You tell him that, softly, in a voice so low that he can barely hear even though he's directly in front of you.  And then you kiss him, firmly, roughly, lovingly, with lips so red and so bold and so wanting that he cannot resist you, not this time.  Not even if he wanted to.
You work everywhere at once and it is blissful, beautiful.  You kiss and your hips grind his and your fingers slink beneath his shirt and he is so far gone in such a small amount of time that it amazes him, and you as well.
"You want me very badly tonight, don't you Skull?" you whisper to him, pulling away from the harsh kiss for a moment to watch him.  He swallows thickly but doesn't move to answer you.  Answering you would be like saying that you've won, a sentiment that Skull is not yet ready to disclose, even though you both know that you won this particular game the moment you locked the door and focused all your attention on him.
You hummed and pressed nibbled kisses along his jaw and chin and lower lip, making a disappointed noise that wasn't really disappointed, but rather excited, energetic, electrifying.  "I want you very badly as well.  I want you so badly that I'm aching something awful for you."  You kiss him again and this time, he responds.  Not with his voice but with the fierce desire in his lips, which scream out, 'God yes, I want you so badly, so badly.'
It is so true, so honest.  You can feel just how much he wants you and you won't admit how berserk it is making you feel.  Every little circle of your hips makes his manhood harder as it strains against his pants and you.  He is your favorite, because he is danger and resistance and gets so hard that it shocks you every time, even though you are already so familiar with him, so used to his body.
His body.  You want to melt against his skin, sink into the contours of his chest, taste the man that is really such a man even though the others don't always believe in him.  Your kisses turn brash, bolder, hard.  Your fingers press tight bruises to his skin and he groans at the pain and at the strange pleasure that accompanies it.  It is always pain and pleasure with you, always always always.  And he loves it, craves it, cannot get enough of those delicious bruises and masochistic thoughts.
"What should I do with you first?" you ask him, pulling away and making short work of his clothes.  The buttons of his shirt fall away so quickly that he is left to wonder if he was even wearing anything at all.  Your question rings through his mind like an avalanche, rocking back and forth as he tries and fails to grasp at it.  What should you do with him, what should you do with him, what should you do with him.
Your lips stretch into a smile that could almost be considered a smirk and you tilt your head a little, watching him.  Your manicured, rouge nails scratch down his chest.  His skin blossoms with the strange pain, red marks tailing the pressure.  God, he loves those nails, loves it when you use them on other parts of his anatomy, loves to feel the pain mixed with the stark, delicious, irresistible pleasure.
And he knows, then, exactly what he wants.  And you know it, too, because after all you did put the thought into his head.  So you pull away just a little and sink down down down toward the floor on legs that are so firm and angular they remind Skull of a spider, or a cat, or something else that is weirdly lovely in a grotesque, random way.  But you are not a spider, not yet.  You'll save your poison for later, stash your litheness away until you need it.  Right now, you are a puppet master and you're about to watch Skull dance for you.  And oh, what a dance it will be.
His pants come away at the touch of your practiced hands, so quickly that he can hardly draw a breath before he is naked before you.  His cock strains up, so hard that you wonder if maybe you missed something vital.  Because how can he be so turned on after only fifteen minutes?  But this is Skull, your favorite, and of course he is ready for you.  He is always ready for you because you are his favorite, too.
Your eyes snatch his and he breathes hard, his chest rising and falling heavily at the sudden exposure of his body.  He is always like this, every time.  So shy, so nervous at being bare.  But to you it is beautiful, natural, lovely, and you always spend just a little bit of time getting him into the situation before giving him what he really wants, subconsciously or not.
You kiss his leg, just above his knee.  Your hands rub soothing circles on the edges of his thighs.  He relaxes, just a little bit, but doesn't look away from you.  He can't look away, not when you are nestled between his legs, so close to his cock with lips so red and eyes so wide. 
Your fingers move to his manhood and he stops relaxing.  He is tense, suddenly, tense because it is the moment just before the plunge, just before the pain and pleasure and happiness and sadness.  Just before reality collides with fantasy.
But the moment is only the edge of a second, only the beginning of a breath, the exhale of a gasp, and then Skull allows himself to plunge into that pain and pleasure and happiness and sadness because he wants to so, so badly.
Your nails scrape down his cock.  Your tongue brushes over the red welts they leave.  Your are usually gentle with men.  They don't like the pressure, the pain, but Skull is different.  He likes what the others don't, and that makes him interesting, special, yours.
Your nails continue to play for a while, but are soon replaced by your mouth.  Skull watches with thankful bliss as those red lips put themselves to work.  But this isn't gentle, either.  This is teeth and more pain, more pain that is almost pleasure, almost bliss.
He groans and tips his head back, body tense and straining against yours.  Your hands hold his hips down firmly but it doesn't stop him from trying to get more of you.  He can never have too much of this, and of you, and that knowledge always makes him both happy and sad, sort of bittersweet.  Because he doesn't want to take all of you.  There is always a piece of every person that remains their own, no matter how much another wishes to take it away.  And because he does want all of you, because human nature makes him selfish and jealous of the other men and women who also hold pieces of you.  Bittersweet, like chocolate, like happy and sad, like a piano that had just a few keys broken -- just a few, but enough to sour a melody that could have been beautiful, could have been complete.
You are his in a way that can't possibly be understood.  You don't understand it and Skull doesn't understand it and nobody else does, either.  But it's true, it's truer than anything you've ever experienced.  You are his when the darkness overtakes the light and when you are in bed, alone or not, and when you breathe in and out slowly and wait for sleep to take you.  You are his when the morning breaks free and when you wake up in arms that don't belong to Skull.  You know you are his because each and every time you look into a face that isn't his, and pleasure a body that isn't his, you wish it was. 
"Mmm…Skull," you draw away, looking into his face, his face that is tense and pained and pleasured and wanting.  Your hands rub comfort into his legs.  You bit your lip.  Finally, you murmur, "Skull, come to bed with me.  I've decided I want you without the pain tonight.  Just the pleasure."
He stops breathing.  Stops blinking.  Just stares.  You've never said that before, ever.  You've taken him so many times, pleasured him so many times, but you've never told him you want to split the pain and pleasure and break them apart.  He isn't really sure what to say, or think.  He only knows that this situation is different and special, and he'd be a fool to turn you away.  And why would he do that anyway?  Turning you away would be like turning away the sun, the world, the galaxy, his heart.
"Just…just the pleasure?" he asks, voice soft and unsure.  He's never had just the pleasure before.  It's always, always mixed with just a little bit of pain.  He likes it like that, likes to see you work your magic on his body.  But he wonders what pure pleasure would feel like coming from you and your red lips and your black negligee.  He finds himself very much wanting to know.
You smile and slowly stand.  You are slipping out of your lacy robe before he can take another breath and then you are bare before him, bare in a way you've never been before.  He's seen you naked in the past, of course, but now is different.  Now, you are revealing a piece of you that no one has ever seen, ever felt, ever tasted. 
"Just the pleasure," you confirm.  Then you take his hand and help him up and lead him through the door into the private bedroom that you call your own.
And Skull is tense, but it is not quite the same tenseness that he had before.  This tense is something sweeter, something different.  And different is tonight.  Different is you.  He wants different very, very badly.



  1. That was amazing!! :D
    I love the fact that its present tense, made me feel apart of the story. <<33
    Definitely do a sequel.

  2. So amazing! I loved it, You must do a sequel!

  3. Yes, I do believe a sequel is in order. ;3