Her teeth sank deep. Copper flooded her tongue, warm and sharp, mixed with the grease and ozone that lived in his skin. She held the bite, feeling the muscle jump under her jaw, and the groan he swallowed vibrated through his chest where it pressed against hers.
His hand found her throat. Not squeezing — just there. A question wrapped in calluses. Her laugh came out breathless, cracked at the edges, and she rolled her hips against him, grinding through the layers between them. Glass crunched somewhere under her knee. She didn't care.
"You always this desperate, or is it just me?" His voice was low, rougher than she remembered, and the words scraped against something in her chest she kept locked in a box with the other sharp things.
"Desperate?" She tilted her head, a braid swinging across her cheek. "Blue boy, I'm just getting started."
She dropped her weight onto him, grinding harder, the seam of her cargo pants pressing against the growing heat in his lap. His jaw tightened. She saw it. The tell. The crack in the machine.
"You talk too much," he said.
"And you think too much." She grabbed his wrist — the one with the Firelight crest — and dragged his hand down her stomach, past the torn hem of her tank top, until his fingers brushed the waistband of her pants. "Feel that? That's not talking."
His breath hitched. Barely. A microsecond of broken rhythm. She catalogued it like a kill.
His fingers hooked under the fabric, knuckles pressing against her hipbone. "You sure?"
The question landed wrong. Too careful. Too much like he was checking a box instead of burning one. She bit his lip, hard enough to taste the split, and whispered against his mouth: "Do I look like I'm unsure?"
He pushed two fingers inside her without warning. No tease. No slow. Just the sudden fullness of knuckle and callus, and her back arched, a sound punched out of her — not a gasp, not a moan, something between. Something real.
"That's not talking either," he said, and his thumb found her clit, rough circles that made her grip his shoulder, nails digging in.
She was wet. Soaking. The slick sound of his fingers moving inside her filled the space between the hissing neon and their ragged breathing. She rode his hand, grinding down onto his palm, and when he curled his fingers — found that spot — her head fell back, her braids brushing the grit-covered floor.
"Fuck," she breathed. The word came out honest. No performance. No laugh behind it.
His eyes changed. The amber went dark, pupils blown, and he watched her like she was a schematic he was finally reading right. "Say that again."
"Fuck." She said it slower this time. Let it hang. Let him hear what he was doing to her.
He pulled his fingers out, wet and glistening in the pink light, and brought them to his mouth. He tasted her. His eyes stayed on hers the whole time.
Something in her chest clicked. A lock opening. Or breaking.
She shoved him flat onto his back, concrete scraping his spine, and straddled him, her hands finding his belt buckle. "My turn."
She ripped the belt free, leather snapping against the grit, and his hips jerked up to meet her hands. "Impatient?" he breathed, that dry half-smile flickering, but she was already working the button of his pants, yanking the zipper down with a screech of metal that cut through the neon hum.
Her fingers hooked into his waistband, dragging fabric down his thighs, and the smell of him hit her—sweat and ozone, the raw dust of the undercity ground into his skin. She shoved his pants to his knees, then further, until they tangled around his boots, and she laughed, sharp and cracked. "Too slow, blue boy. Way too slow."
His boots came off with a kick, then the pants, and she was on him again, straddling his bare thighs, the heat of his cock pressing up through the thin cotton of his boxers. She ground down, feeling the length of him, and the groan that escaped his throat was something she caught between her teeth.
He grabbed the hem of her tank top, fingers twisting into the torn fabric. "Off," he said, not a question, and she raised her arms, letting him pull it over her head, her braids swinging free and whipping against her bare shoulders. The pink light painted her skin in streaks of neon and shadow.
Her cargo pants came next—belts clinking, straps catching on the debris—and he worked them down her hips with a roughness that left red marks on her skin. She helped him, kicking the fabric away, and then there was only the cool air on her damp skin and the grit digging into her knees.
She leaned forward, her bare tits pressing against his chest, and her mouth found his ear. "Even, now," she whispered, and bit down on the lobe, tasting salt and old blood. His hands slid up her sides, callused palms catching on her ribs, and for a moment, the only sound was their breathing, ragged and synced.
His boxers went the way of her pants—torn off, discarded—and his cock sprang free, thick and dark against his stomach, the head already slick with pre-cum. She wrapped her fingers around it, feeling the pulse jump against her palm, and he hissed through his teeth, his hips bucking into her grip.
But she wasn't done. She rolled off him, onto the rubble, the broken glass crunching under her bare ass, and dragged him with her. "Sheet," she said, spotting a dirty canvas tarp half-buried under a collapsed shelf. It smelled of mildew and oil, but she pulled it over them as he positioned himself between her thighs.
The tarp covered them in a rough shroud, trapping their heat, their scent, the wet sound of his cock sliding against her inner thigh. She spread her legs wider, the grit scraping her heels, and guided him in with her fingers, the head pushing past her lips, stretching her open.
He sank in slow—an inch, then two—and the fullness took her breath, a sharp inhale that she didn't bother to hide. Her cunt clenched around him, adjusting to his size, and he held still, his forehead pressed to hers, his amber eyes blown black in the shadow.
"Fuck," she whispered, the word catching in her throat. "Move, sparky. I'm not glass."
He withdrew, then thrust back in, harder, and the slap of his hips against her thighs filled the space under the tarp. She arched up, meeting him, her nails raking down his back, drawing new lines over old scars. The rubble dug into her spine, but she didn't care—the pain was just another sensation, sharp and real.
His rhythm built, fast and desperate, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The Z-Drive at his hip crackled, a blue spark that jumped against her skin, and she felt her orgasm coiling, tight and dangerous, like a spring wound too hard.
He shifted, pulling out, and before she could protest, he flipped her onto her side, spooning behind her, one arm under her head, the other hand sliding down her stomach. The tarp slipped, exposing her hip to the dust-choked air, but he didn't pause.
His fingers found her clit, circling slow, and she pushed back against his cock, the tip pressing against her entrance from behind. "Like this," he murmured into her braids, and she nodded, her hand reaching back to grip his thigh.
He entered her again from behind, the angle new and deep, and his lips found the back of her neck, trailing kisses down her spine. She shuddered, her body clamping around him, and his rhythm turned steady, relentless, each thrust pushing her closer to the edge.
Then he withdrew, and she felt his body shift lower, his breath hot on the small of her back, then lower still, until his mouth found her cunt. His tongue slid through her folds, lapping at her wetness, and she cried out, a raw sound that echoed in the rubble. He kissed her there like it was the only thing he'd ever wanted, his lips sealing over her clit as two fingers pushed back inside her.
His tongue was a machine — relentless, precise, tracing patterns across her clit that made her hips buck against his face. The two fingers inside her curled again, finding that spot, and she grabbed the back of his head, her nails scraping against his scalp. The tarp above them trapped every wet sound, every broken breath, and she didn't care who heard anymore.
She was close. The coil in her belly wound tighter with each flick of his tongue, each thrust of his fingers. Her thighs clamped around his ears, and he groaned into her, the vibration rippling through her clit, and that was it — the spring snapped.
Her orgasm hit like a bomb going off. Her back arched off the rubble, her mouth falling open in a silent scream, then finding sound — a raw, cracked cry that echoed off the collapsed cabinets. Her cunt clenched around his fingers, pulsing, and he kept his mouth on her, kept licking through every shudder, drawing it out until she was shaking, oversensitive, her hands pushing weakly at his head.
"Enough," she gasped, her voice wrecked. "Enough, sparky, fuck—"
He pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with her, and that dry half-smile flickered across his face in the pink neon light. "You taste like chaos."
She didn't have a comeback. For once, the words were gone. Instead, she grabbed his shoulders and rolled, putting him on his back, the tarp tangling around their legs. Her braids swung down around them both, electric-blue in the dim light, and she straddled his hips, her slick cunt pressed against his cock.
"My turn," she said, and her voice was still hoarse, still honest.
His amber eyes watched her, pupils still blown wide. His cock twitched against her, thick and hot, the head smearing pre-cum across her stomach. She reached down, wrapped her fingers around him, and positioned him at her entrance. The head pressed against her lips, and she held there, letting him feel how wet she was, how ready.
She sank down — slow, an inch at a time — and the stretch made her gasp. He was thick, and even after his fingers, the fullness was something else, something that pushed the air from her lungs. Her cunt gripped him, adjusting, and his hands found her hips, fingers digging into the jut of bone.
"Jinx—" he breathed, and the way he said her name — not a joke, not a taunt, just raw want — made her clench around him harder.
She started to move. Slow at first, rolling her hips, finding the rhythm that made his jaw tighten and his fingers bruise into her skin. The tarp slipped, exposing her shoulder to the dust-choked air, but she didn't stop, didn't slow. The grit under her knees, the smell of mildew and ozone, the sound of their skin slapping together — it was all Zaun, all them.
She leaned forward, her bare tits pressed against his chest, and her mouth found his ear again. "How's that for talking?" she whispered, and bit down on the lobe, tasting salt.
His answer was a thrust up into her, hard enough to jolt her forward, and she laughed — the sharp, cracked laugh that was more honest than any words. She rode him faster, her braids whipping behind her, the Z-Drive at his hip crackling blue sparks that jumped against her thigh with every movement.
His hand slid up her spine, rough calluses catching on her skin, and fisted in her hair. He pulled her head back, exposing her throat, and his mouth found her pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She moaned, loud and unguarded, and the sound was swallowed by the rubble around them.
She was building again, a second wave coiling low in her belly. His cock filled her completely, and his grip on her hair kept her pinned, and the pain and pleasure blurred together until she couldn't tell them apart. Her rhythm stuttered, grew desperate.
"Look at me," he said, his voice rough, and she did — her magenta eyes meeting his amber ones in the pink glow. His face was open, unguarded, and the intensity there was a different kind of bomb.
She shattered a second time, her cunt spasming around his cock, and his name tore from her throat like a confession.
Her body was still trembling when she rolled off him, the tarp sliding away, leaving her skin exposed to the dust-choked air. The cold hit her damp thighs first, then the grit pressing into her shoulder blades, and she lay there for a moment, staring up at the cracked ceiling where the pink neon sign threw jagged shadows.
She sat up, the movement sharp, and reached for her torn tank top. "I should go," she said, the words flat, practiced. "Aisha's gonna wonder where I am."
Behind her, she heard him shift, the rubble crunching under his weight. "Jinx." His voice was low, rough-edged, still carrying the heat of what they'd done. She didn't turn around. Her fingers found the fabric, pulled it over her head, the cotton sticking to her damp skin.
"Don't," she said, the word coming out sharper than she meant. She stood, her bare feet finding a patch of cold concrete between the broken glass, and reached for her cargo pants. The belts clinked as she gathered them, the sound too loud in the silence.
She felt him move before she heard him — a shift in the air, the scrape of his knee against the floor. His hand caught her wrist, gentle but firm, and she stopped, her pants half-lifted, her breath catching in her throat.
"Look at me," he said, and the softness in his voice was worse than any demand. She turned, her magenta eyes meeting his amber ones, and his face was bare, unguarded, still smeared with her wetness. He didn't wipe it off.
He leaned in, slow, giving her time to pull away, and when she didn't, his lips met hers. The kiss was nothing like the sex — soft, searching, his mouth warm and tasting of her, of salt and sweat and something that made her chest ache. His hand found her cheek, callused palm against her jaw, and he kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her lips.
She didn't kiss back at first. Then she did — a small, broken sound escaping her throat as her lips parted, letting him in. His tongue brushed hers, gentle, and she felt her knees weaken, the pants slipping from her fingers and falling back to the rubble.
He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her skin. "Stay," he whispered, the word barely audible. "Just a little longer."
She shook her head, but the motion was weak, unconvincing. "I can't—"
"Then don't go yet." His hand slid from her cheek down her neck, tracing her collarbone, then lower, his fingers brushing the curve of her breast through the thin cotton. "Not like this."
Her breath hitched. She should leave. She should grab her pants and walk out into the ruins of Zaun and pretend this never happened. But his hand kept moving, sliding down her stomach, his fingers finding the waistband of her underwear — the only thing she hadn't taken off.
"Ekko," she said, and his name came out like a question, like a surrender.
His fingers slipped under the elastic, sliding through her slick folds, and she gasped, her hips pressing into his hand. She was still wet, still open from him, and his fingers found her clit, circling slow, drawing a shudder from deep in her chest.
"Let me," he said, his voice rough, and his fingers pushed inside her — two of them, sliding deep, curling against that spot that made her see stars. She grabbed his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, and her head fell back, her braids brushing the dust-covered floor.
His thumb found her clit, pressing in firm circles, and his fingers moved inside her, steady and knowing, like he'd mapped every inch of her body in the hours they'd spent in the rubble. She was already close, oversensitive, her body trembling from the two orgasms he'd already wrung from her.
"Look at me," he said again, and she did, her magenta eyes hazy, unfocused. His amber eyes held hers, dark and intense, and his fingers kept moving, pushing her higher, the coil winding tight in her belly one more time.
"Come for me," he said, soft but certain. "One more time."
She shattered again — a third time, smaller but sharper, a cry tearing from her throat as her cunt clenched around his fingers, pulsing, her body shaking against his. He held her through it, his fingers slowing, gentle, drawing out the aftershocks until she was sagging against him, her breath ragged, her forehead pressed to his chest.
He pulled his fingers out slowly, and she felt the loss, hollow and aching. His hand found hers, and he pressed his wet fingers into her palm, closing her grip around them. "Remember this," he murmured against her hair. "When you go."
She didn't answer. She just stood there, in the rubble, in the pink neon light, her hand wrapped around his, feeling her own wetness cooling against her skin. The silence stretched, filled with dust and breathing and the distant hum of Zaun.
Then she let go. She bent down, picked up her pants, and pulled them on without meeting his eyes. The belts clinked as she fastened them, the sound final, and she walked out into the gray haze without looking back. Behind her, the pink sign hissed, and the rubble settled, and she carried his taste on her lips all the way to the surface.