Immortal Regis/Murder Princess
Title: sharp edges Author/Artist: shiegra Fandom: Murder Princess/Immortal Regis Pairing/characters: Faris/Serin Rating: R Warnings: violence, and hinted girlsex Prompt/challenge you're answering: *Serin/Faris: weaponkink
Her feet land, catch; twist. Steel shimmers and chimes as she lunges in, the long blade skimming off of the black hum of magic drawn tight to solidarity, pointing for Serin’s ribs. This woman—this princess—isn’t playing. She’ll kill her if she can.
Or maybe, Serin thinks as she leaps in a cat-lengthy spring backwards, heels striking ground, this is her version of play. There’s a joy to the murderous light in her eyes, a feral triumph to the curve of her red mouth. She laughs, a bright hot sound, as Serin lunges in.
Their blades crash, the impact shocking up her arms, and she plants her heels and swings from her hips, body shoving into the pivot as the blade tears free and the black edge on the other end hisses through the air.
The princess's sword’s preoccupied, still flung out of balance—nearly out of her grip, Serin is impressed that she kept hold—and wine-red eyes flicker to the quickly approaching danger, narrowing minutely. What will she do?
She’ll roll and leap, a high jump that takes her off the ground and into the air. Serin follows, enough force behind her to smash them together, no air no traction or balance and they tumble apart, the princess’s blade drawing a hot shallow line over her skin. She could have died, easily. This killer is too good to take risks against.
Her heart lives in her throat with slick-hot adrenaline, bubbling anticipation. The princess laughs as she lands, and then goes silent, red eyes hot.
She’s cut a line over Serin’s breasts. Nothing revealing, her clothes are hardly about to fall away, but the red stains fine white cloth, and trickles invisibly between her breasts.
“Who are you?” The other woman asks, gold hair fanning over her shoulders.
“Serin,” the demon girl returns almost in a whisper, hand tightening. “And you are—”
“Faris.” Faris offers graciously. Her eyes glint, an eerie ripple of luminescence. “Princess. No, queen. Shall you kneel?” A dangerous smile, slow and savage.
Serin lifts her chin, proudly, and approaches. “I kneel to no one.” She says, still quiet. The flat of Faris’s long, slender blade touches her legs, a warning she does not heed. “Will you kneel to me, human?”
“Perhaps,” Faris says, dreamy and murderously amused. “You are a fine opponent. If I knelt to anyone—”
They’re too close now. If one of them moved fast—but no. They’re both too quick for that. So close, they could not kill one another without dying themselves. And it would, Serin thinks strangely, almost be a glorious thing to die against this woman, heated and brazen and ferocious—
But not that way.
“I desire only to pass through this world.” She says, picking her words carefully. This close Faris smells like blood and metal and the heated breath of female exertion, a soft and startling feminine touch—perfume, maybe, cool dark sweetness—from her hair and throat.
“I’ve lost your attention so quickly?” Faris cocks her head and her smile goes from feral to wry in an instant, scarlet eyes flaring with amusement. “Far be it from me to impede peaceful passage.” It is so easy for her, it seems, to slip away the joy of battle and violence that it startles Serin. Her eyes widen.
The cool blade touches her neck and she freezes, watching her opponent. “Would you care to stay for just a while?” The savage smile is back, a hot animal invitation. “Could I entice you?”
Serin banishes the long mist-dark two headed blade and puts her hands on Faris, against her ribcage. She almost flinches at the boldness of the touch, again at the warmth and the quick-beating thump of heartbeat, but Faris is still and quiet, the only sign of her alertness the slender pupil contracting further.
“I have,” Serin breathes, “time.” Her hands flex into claws against Faris’s side, draw blood to the surface through fragile white silk.
Faris laughs and the blade pulls her closer. Even when their lips collide, the copper tang of blood and the wet, demanding certainty of the princess’s mouth, the sword presses closer still, drawing more blood. Serin shreds the dress, down the side in angry retaliatory stripes, mars pale skin beneath.
Her legs are kicked out from under her and they go down in a willfully messy tangle of limbs, the princess’s callused, warrior-strong hands between Serin’s thighs, over stockings and high thin, delicate skin and wetness between.
She cries out at the first touch, a scream that wavers into a hawk’s piercing demand, and Faris laughs breathlessly and writhes sinuously against her, mouth hot and sharp on her skin, her breasts and neck until she rises enough to whisper against her ear, “neither of us kneeling, then, and all victors.”