D.Grayman, Tykki Mick/Rinali
Title: Demon in my View Author/Artist: shiegra Fandom: D.Grayman Pairing/characters: Tykki Mick/Rinali Rating: R/NC17 Warnings: slightly disturbing mental content Prompt/challenge you're answering: * Tykki Mick and Rinali: love is blindness / I don't want to see / won't you wrap the night around me
He was standing in a corner of the gardens, the air heavy and redolent with the scent of roses, and for a second his hands were hidden in the blooms and she thought his gloves were red, with blood or like blood, and it was the bright flare of crimson that drew her aware from her path patrolling through the hedges, toward him.
He turned to look at her when she approached and his mouth curved in a smile, slow and warm. His eyes were hooded; she didn’t trust that look, but she still walked toward him, if slower. His hands were bare, she realized, and he held one red rose, fingers running idly over it.
Some feet away she stopped and waited. Her throat still felt raw from screams, for all that it was weeks since the last nightmare and as it always did being absent from the Order loosened the chokehold its shadow laid over her. He would speak first.
“Shouldn’t you be back at the party?” He asked, indulging her wordless expectation, sloe-dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. The white dress is heavy, cumbersome; he had a tiger’s stare and she would be far too slow in activating should he make a move.
The prospect exhilarated her.
“Shouldn’t you?” She parroted, a child’s mindless echo.
Long dark fingers closed over the soft flushed petals and they both watched as he crushed them, moisture bleeding out over his skin invisibly. She crossed the ground between them in two steps, staring at the soft butchered folds.
Her eyes rose to his—he had a patient, peculiarly leonine stare, mouth sensual and curiously stern, like he was continually a little disappointed with the world.
“Murderer.” She whispered, and red flared somewhere deep inside—the place where she’d watched while they broke her like he’d crushed the rose to pulp—the urge to murder, Invocation hovering on the tip of her tongue. And wouldn’t that be a bloody mess? She thought dizzily, drunk on the thought, the anticipation.
Something shifted beneath the fine bones of his face, an animal peering out through those eyes, and a hostile one. He measured her like prey for a second that had her heart in her throat, and she reached over—viciously immodest, her bare skin on his—and scooped out the softness of the rose, claiming it for her own. His mouth moved, a softness along the corners, a sensuous threat.
She could kill him here, she was sure. If you surprise him, a tiny voice hissed while logic lectured that as an Exorcist, she could kill him if she gave warning and tied one hand behind her back.
“Murderer.” She whispered again, and shook the remnants to the stones.
He reached for her. Black swelled around his eyes and battle-hardened instincts screamed, a shrill whine in the back of her skull that said not human, fight him, kill him—and Rinali didn’t do anything, let him drag her closer with almost-cruel fingers and his eyelids dropped heavy over his eyes.
But when he kissed her she refused to be quiescent. Her teeth sank into her lip and she arched into him, hands fisting in the coat, the heady smell of the plants drowning her. It’s probably at least half perfume, logic noted dryly even as his fingers curled hard against her hip and he hauled her onto her toes. He smelled like dark smoke, the blood of the rose and the spice of incense. Her fingers clawed against his front, and then his hand as he caught her wrists and dragged her into the shadows of the vines.
Roses against her skin, her hair and her neck and cheek as he pressed her into the trellis, her legs parting as he leaned between them. That sad sensual mouth turned sharp with threat. He had a gentleman’s hands, too, and when the fingers damp with the rose—and more likely dew—slid up her thigh her stomach tightened and she sighed and gasped at once, releasing his lip from her teeth in order the spread her legs.
She thought, briefly, that she could taste the blood and cobwebs of her captivity, but then he drowned it out in the curious scent of his skin, the rasp of his fine clothing, the dew on his fingers against her slick flesh. Her heels dug into soil and as he moved against her--filled her in a sharp burning motion, his hips tight to hers as she gave a short, muted wail of pleasure and pain--he made a sound against her ear, almost a growl, and his hand tightened on her wrists and in her hair.
The garden swallowed the sounds they made, and she drowned in the moment and briefly, passionately, wished to expire here with the roses and this killing stranger as her Innocence sang a paean of trilling warning in her mind.