D.Gray-Man, Allen/Rinali, so this is love
She kissed him and tasted blood, sharp and coppery on her tongue.
She didn't like the taste, but she didn't flinch. She was holding on, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hair tangled and matted with blood and dust, and her mouth felt bruised with the urgency of each touch.
His eyes were near-black, stark with turmoil. "I can feel him under my skin," he whispered, his lips moving against hers, and her hands were inside his coat, on his ribs, sliding to dig her nails into the muscle of his back.
Her eyes closed, tears burning at the back, as she dragged in deep breaths and held on as hard as she knew how. "Don't let him."
He kissed her like he couldn't help it, hard and fierce and sudden. Beneath the man--the smiling quiet liar who was as quick to protect as he was to kill--she could see the boy, and he was fracturing. He was afraid. Rinali closed her eyes and kissed him deeply, slick and hot and demanding, and she moaned against his mouth as she dragged up her skirt and drew her panties down her legs. He'd reared back to let her, eyes wide as he watched her--fingers hovering over her thigh--and she tossed the scrap of fabric aside, fisted her hands in his sleeves.
"Allen," she said again, softly. "Stay with me." And he bent to her again.
He was still just a boy in many ways, just as she was a girl; you matured fast on the battlefield in some ways, and in others not at all. But they were familiar with this. His hands stroked the long sleek lines of her thighs and she pulled him against her greedy for the touch of skin. His eyes were closed, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open and he was vulnerable to her as he rarely let himself truly be to others.
A circus kid--an orphan, a trickster, a martyr--and all too well acquainted with masks. He still hated the very idea that he himself was only one more mask, the sheath for the monster, the coccoon for the fourteenth.
This anchors him. He loves her and it anchors him. She needs him and it anchors him. He slides inside her and she arched at the fullness, set her heels in the tangled sheets and pushed her hips up, whimpering through her teeth at the depth. She needed him, and on her bed in her dark room, bruised and bandaged and haunted, they--it sounded cliche, it sounded candy-sweet and sugar-false to say 'making love', the kind of thing people who don't know a thing about how the world makes you bleed might say. But 'fucking' isn't quite right either, so she abandons words, words that could never encompass what they mean to each other, and arches against him; works against him, meeting each thrust, his lips on her throat and chin and mouth, an almost chaste kiss in control to the hard, quick pace of their bodies.
Rinali wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him down to her sharply, and his hips jerked as she came in long pulsing ripples, shuddering and crying out, rich and trembling, through her teeth. And his fingers clenched in the sheets and he followed her, holding on with desperate strength.
In the twilight aftermath, they pressed together and kissed, languid and slow, savoring every moment. "Don't leave me," she whispered, and he gave her a smile full of sweetness.
When she woke, a stranger's dark, cold eyes stared down at her, and he crouched at the foot of the bed, easy and relaxed, and examined her--human, frail, brimming with Innocence--like an opponent.
Later, she told them she couldn't stop him. Didn't have a chance.
It is not quite a lie. She traded everything--the fight, the alert, the suspicion--for one last kiss as the morning sun crept in through the window, tasting the salt of her own tears on his lips.
Rinali had never known a love that was not heartbreak.