Violet Eyed Angel
folder
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
3,014
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
3,014
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own Pitch Black, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
00A Riddick
Prologue
Riddick
They say that, in cryo-sleep, most of your brain shuts down. All but the primal side. The primitive side. The animal side. No wonder I’m still awake.
I can smell all of the other passengers. They’re all in cryo-sleep. But I can smell one especially. Why? Because she doesn’t clutter up and mask her sweet, feminine scent with perfumes and colognes like most women. I can smell her, smell her humanity, her femaleness. But I also smell something beneath the common human scent. It is an inhuman, animal smell, and I can tell it’s her, not a foreign smell. There’s something different about her, the violet-eyed angel girl.
I breathe her in deep, catching and holding her natural perfume in my lungs. When you’ve been around as many women as I have, you start to appreciate little things. Like their scent. Their natural scent.
But that’s not all I like about her.
I love the soft, lavender color of her eyes, and how they grow dark when she’s afraid, or angry. I have to wonder, would they darken like that if she were, say, aroused? The animal, the beast in me, which is always in the mood for a fuck- or a murder- says it wants to find out. But I doubt a good little girl like Angel Yasmine Johns wants to fuck with a murderer and con artist.
But that’s not what you want to know, is it? You want to know what a man like me sees in a prim, proper young thing like her. Angel Johns, the sister of my enemy, the burning flame of animalistic desire that flares in my sick, twisted dreams of her and her hot, tight little body. What did I see in Angel?
The truth is, as far as humans go, Angel’s a pretty decent person. She’s a good listener, when I feel like talking, though that isn’t very often. And when she hears one of my horror stories of the Slam, she doesn’t get sick or scared. She gets angry. Angry that they’d do something like that to another human being. Angel’s an idealist, sometimes.
She’s loyal to her brother, the blue-eyed devil, but she looks out for me the best she can. She doesn’t let him do whatever the fuck he wants to me, and from the horror stories I’ve heard her relive in her nightmares, he’s done worse shit than I have. Especially to her.
Now that I think about it, Angel would make a good killer, if she ever found the necessity to kill someone. She can get very, very, very cold when she needs to. Kinda like a softer version of me. Hahahaha.
Physically, Angel’s a tight piece of ass, with a lot of muscle to pack a pretty fuck-hard punch that can break a man’s jaw, or a swift, high kick that can bust a man’s balls and leave him screaming in agony. I’d seen her do it before, too. Once, she’d given a roundhouse kick to a man’s head so hard and fast she’d broken his neck.
Which had been the point, actually.
She’s beautiful, both in the normal sense and the dark, twisted sense that, to me, isn’t so twisted. She has a frightening grace, and a sixth sense that’s kept her, me, and her hard ass brother out of trouble. She can fight just as well as I can, and when she fights, it is a lovely thing to see. It makes my blood run hot to see her kick ass. I love that about her.
I love a lot about Angel Johns, the violet-eyed angel, the girl that, as a child, had worshipped me, practically. Yeah, I love a lot about her. And I kind of like her. But, I don’t love her, and if I have to, I’ll kill her in a heartbeat. And, thankfully for her, she knows it. But, we made a deal, and as a decent person, she won’t go back on that.
Suddenly, the scents in the air change. There’s still Angel’s sweet, slightly arousing scent, that pheromone mist that wafts off of her gorgeous body, filling the air, filling my nostrils and sending lightning bolts of desire through my body, but now her scent is marred by something. An emotional undercurrent.
Wait... she’s afraid.
But to be afraid, she has to be awake. You don’t dream in cryo-sleep, so she has to be awake. Why is she awake?
Then, thinking, I realize it doesn’t matter why she’s awake. What matters is that she’s awake, and afraid.
What matters is, why is she afraid?
oo8oo8oo8oo
In the words of JunoMagic:
Please feel free to leave a comment!
Anything at all: If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.
You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Disclaimer/Author's Note: don't own anything you recognize.
Riddick
They say that, in cryo-sleep, most of your brain shuts down. All but the primal side. The primitive side. The animal side. No wonder I’m still awake.
I can smell all of the other passengers. They’re all in cryo-sleep. But I can smell one especially. Why? Because she doesn’t clutter up and mask her sweet, feminine scent with perfumes and colognes like most women. I can smell her, smell her humanity, her femaleness. But I also smell something beneath the common human scent. It is an inhuman, animal smell, and I can tell it’s her, not a foreign smell. There’s something different about her, the violet-eyed angel girl.
I breathe her in deep, catching and holding her natural perfume in my lungs. When you’ve been around as many women as I have, you start to appreciate little things. Like their scent. Their natural scent.
But that’s not all I like about her.
I love the soft, lavender color of her eyes, and how they grow dark when she’s afraid, or angry. I have to wonder, would they darken like that if she were, say, aroused? The animal, the beast in me, which is always in the mood for a fuck- or a murder- says it wants to find out. But I doubt a good little girl like Angel Yasmine Johns wants to fuck with a murderer and con artist.
But that’s not what you want to know, is it? You want to know what a man like me sees in a prim, proper young thing like her. Angel Johns, the sister of my enemy, the burning flame of animalistic desire that flares in my sick, twisted dreams of her and her hot, tight little body. What did I see in Angel?
The truth is, as far as humans go, Angel’s a pretty decent person. She’s a good listener, when I feel like talking, though that isn’t very often. And when she hears one of my horror stories of the Slam, she doesn’t get sick or scared. She gets angry. Angry that they’d do something like that to another human being. Angel’s an idealist, sometimes.
She’s loyal to her brother, the blue-eyed devil, but she looks out for me the best she can. She doesn’t let him do whatever the fuck he wants to me, and from the horror stories I’ve heard her relive in her nightmares, he’s done worse shit than I have. Especially to her.
Now that I think about it, Angel would make a good killer, if she ever found the necessity to kill someone. She can get very, very, very cold when she needs to. Kinda like a softer version of me. Hahahaha.
Physically, Angel’s a tight piece of ass, with a lot of muscle to pack a pretty fuck-hard punch that can break a man’s jaw, or a swift, high kick that can bust a man’s balls and leave him screaming in agony. I’d seen her do it before, too. Once, she’d given a roundhouse kick to a man’s head so hard and fast she’d broken his neck.
Which had been the point, actually.
She’s beautiful, both in the normal sense and the dark, twisted sense that, to me, isn’t so twisted. She has a frightening grace, and a sixth sense that’s kept her, me, and her hard ass brother out of trouble. She can fight just as well as I can, and when she fights, it is a lovely thing to see. It makes my blood run hot to see her kick ass. I love that about her.
I love a lot about Angel Johns, the violet-eyed angel, the girl that, as a child, had worshipped me, practically. Yeah, I love a lot about her. And I kind of like her. But, I don’t love her, and if I have to, I’ll kill her in a heartbeat. And, thankfully for her, she knows it. But, we made a deal, and as a decent person, she won’t go back on that.
Suddenly, the scents in the air change. There’s still Angel’s sweet, slightly arousing scent, that pheromone mist that wafts off of her gorgeous body, filling the air, filling my nostrils and sending lightning bolts of desire through my body, but now her scent is marred by something. An emotional undercurrent.
Wait... she’s afraid.
But to be afraid, she has to be awake. You don’t dream in cryo-sleep, so she has to be awake. Why is she awake?
Then, thinking, I realize it doesn’t matter why she’s awake. What matters is that she’s awake, and afraid.
What matters is, why is she afraid?
oo8oo8oo8oo
In the words of JunoMagic:
Please feel free to leave a comment!
Anything at all: If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.
You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Disclaimer/Author's Note: don't own anything you recognize.