Title: Death Becomes Her
Fandom: Blade: The Series.
Prompt: Krista/Chase, death becomes her.
Author's Note/Disclaimer: Krista and Chase do not belong to me. This ficlet was written for ralst for International Day of Femslash. It's short, but hopefully it's (bitter?)sweet as well.
It's been years since you last saw her.
Years since her slighter form tumbled over the edge, fell all those floors, and vanished in the dust and confusion of the day, taking with her your hopes for something more, for something real.
Yet now she's standing in front of you.
Your senses flare to life at the sight of her, the smell of her.
She smells like sex and temptation; she looks like Death alive.
Only she can wear death like a fashion and get away with it.
Her lips curve into a wide smile, and unconsciously you lick your lips.
The words are there, at the tip of your tongue, but they don't make it past your lips.
Your heart aches at the sight of her, and your fingers long to touch, to feel, but you hold back. You don't know if you're dreaming; if you are, it is a wonderful yet painful dream from which you never want to wake.
She seems to understand.
She's always been the first to understand you.
She takes a step towards you, her blonde hair and pale skin taking on an ethereal glow in the moonlight, her eyes sparkling with unreadable emotion, and it takes all of your willpower to stand your ground.
Just like that, and your resistance is crumbling.
It's always been like this with her.
She's always been able to get you right where she wants you, and you realize that the years that have passed haven't changed anything.
She reaches for you, her hand caressing your cheek before withdrawing.
Even then you can still feel her, your cool skin heated where her palm was only moments before.
You stare at her, coldly, and she stares right back.
Then suddenly, swiftly, she has you against a cold brick wall, her breath warm against your ear.
It takes all you've got, but you don't put up a fight.
You try not to get lost in the curves of her body as she presses against you, not quite warm but welcome nonetheless.
And then her lips are descending on yours in a crushing kiss, her teeth nipping at your lips and drawing blood.
She tastes like iron and wine, and you don't want her to stop.
When she pulls back to meet your eyes, you're shocked to see the hesitance in her eyes.
"Krista," she repeats, more quietly this time.
It's been years, and you're mad as hell that she hasn't sought you out sooner.
But the intimacy of her tone, the fact that this is so out-of-character for her, stirs something in your gut, and suddenly all you want to do is to kiss her again.
So you close your eyes and give in.
When your lips reconnect, you feel whole again.