#Richard B Riddick | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xfandomwritingsx · 18 days

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Are you still willing to right for Riddick? Because like... I could definitely use something slutty about that man 🥵 maybe you're neighbors on a planet he's lying low on and he gets a little obsessed by you? Or really anything with him!

Hell. Yes. Thank you. *please note* this is completely unedited. I didn't even re-read it before posting.

It started as a curiosity; the pretty woman living in the multi-tenant building across from where he’s crashing for a while. He needed something to pass the time and you’d caught his eye. So, he watched. Watched you as you came and left for work, as you made yourself dinner with the curtains open, as you carefully closed those curtains before changing for the night. You probably didn’t even realize when you kept the light on that it created a stunning silhouette of your body through those curtains. A silhouette that he could see perfectly. One that tempted him to creep inside and run his hands over your skin.

But he could only watch. He was in hiding and his face was far too recognizable, too prominent on the streets to risk interacting with you in any way. Not that he’d even know how to interact with you. You looked nice. Respectable. He was neither. You probably dreamed of a sweet boyfriend who would sweep you off your feet and make love to you. But him? He went to bed dreaming about breaking in and waking you up by covering your mouth with his hand the same moment he shoves his cock into you. And as much as he wanted to do that, it still wasn’t worth having the local authorities called and his hiding blown.

The only thing that changes his mind is when he realizes that maybe you’re not as sweet as you project.

He’s watching you from his window, just like always, when a man comes to your door. A man that looks too much like a merc even though he tries not to. Merc’s aren’t uncommon, but he hasn’t seen one in this neighborhood in the weeks he’s been here and his neck prickles in warning. Something’s not right.

You come down and greet the merc and Riddick’s eyes narrow, breath becoming short and angered. What in the fuck were you doing talking to a merc? You step aside, letting the man in and just before you turn to follow him, your eyes flicker to the window. To Riddick.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he whispers to himself. There’s no way you can see him through the tinted window, but that little look, the one that holds more fire than sweetness, is unmistakable. You know he’s there. And you just invited a merc over.

Fucking bitch.

~~~

Riddick waits until the suns go down. Waits until his host goes to bed along with most everyone else on the street. Ther merc has long left your place and you’ve gone through your nightly routine, settled into bed well over an hour ago. That’s when he creeps across the street and through your window.

Leaving his goggles in his pocket, he can see everything in clear detail. Your living room is casual, tidy. Staged. He hadn’t noticed before just how forcibly normal it all looks. Everything has its place, but it has no personality. There’s no pictures on the walls, no art or personal touches. He curses himself for never noticing before he starts to creep towards your bedroom.

The door is open and he stands in the frame for a moment, thinking about how often he fantasized about being right here for a very different reason. He’d wanted to strip your sheets down slow and soak in your body before making you shake beneath him. Now, he kind of wants to wrap his hands around your neck and watch the light fade from your eyes. And maybe, just maybe that thought still bleeds into fucking you hard and rough before he kills you.

He only think about it for a few moments, but it’s enough for him to lower his guard too much. It’s about a half second after he realizes the lump in your sheets is misshapen and unbreathing that he feels the gun at the back of his neck. It makes his lips quirk up in a small smile.

“Think real hard about that,” he growls out. “That’s going to make a lot of noise and one hell of a mess. Plus... I’m worth more alive.”

“You couldn’t just wait one more night?” you ask him bitterly. “One more night and they would have grabbed you up, paid me a nice finder’s fee, and hitched me a ride out of here.”

“Or that guy would have ended up dead and you would still get nothing.”

“There was a group. Not one guy. I’m not stupid enough to think one merc was going to take you.” He chuckles a little.

“One guy, ten guys. Doesn’t matter. Always ends up the same.” He cautiously turns his head to look at you from the corner of his eye, confident you’re not going to shoot him dead right here. “What’s your next move, pretty girl?” Your eyes harden, clearly not a fan of the nickname. It only makes him like it even more. “You gonna wake the neighbors by shooting me? Or are you gonna wake them when I make you scream?”

Your momentary surprise at the dark layer of innuendo in his voice gives him time to spin around on you, grabbing the gun right out of your hands and throwing it across the room. Before you can react, he’s shoved you back into the hall, up against the wall with his hand coming up around your neck.

It’s hard to explain the satisfaction he feels pressing against you, the woman he’s watched and dreamed about. The woman who apparently watched him right back and then betrayed him standing on her toes, her hands wrapping around his wrist, trying feebly to pull his hand from her throat. He smiles viciously as he squeezes. Unable to stop himself, he leans in and runs his nose along your jaw, taking in way you smell. Something sweet and bitter at the same time. Something warm.

“How-” you choke out, voice ragged and hoarse. He eases up his grip, just slightly.

“What was that, pretty girl?” he whispers in your ear. You suck in a deep breath before trying again.

“How are you supposed to make me scream if I can’t breathe?”

He pauses. Well, this just took an interesting turn. He lets his body come off survival mode to reevaluate. Your chest arching into him. His leg having slipped between your thighs, hardening cock pressing to your hip. Fuuuck.

“You want me to make you scream?” he asks. You don’t answer him, but flatten your feet on the floor, bringing yourself down onto his leg, practically grinding down on him.

The hand around your neck slants upwards to grip your jaw possessively. He turns your head sharply to the side allowing his mouth full access to the side of your neck. Shivers run down your spine when he latches on, biting sharply then sucking and smoothing his tongue over the small expanse of your skin.

You shouldn’t be as turned on as you are with a killer, a man who came here to kill you, holding you down and pressing his knee into your pussy. And yet your brain seems to have left the building, replaced by this primal desire to have him take you against this wall. A most slips through your lips.

“Set up across the street. Acted all innocent. Sicced mercs on me,” he growls your sins against your skin. His grip shifts again from your jaw to your chin, yanking your face back to look at him. “Then you thought about trying to kill me.” His thumb runs over your bottom lip, pulling it down crudely. “And here you stand still, blood and organs in your body. Limbs attached. Heart still beating.” His silver eyes watch your mouth. “I think you owe me a thank you.”

You slowly dip your head down, taking the tip of his thumb between your lips. His eyes darken, pushing his thumb further into your willing mouth, settling on your tongue. When you start to suck on him, bob your head just a little on him, he snarls almost hungrily. His other hand lands heavily on your shoulder and starts pushing you down.

“There’s a good girl,” he praises as you sink to your knees, his thumb gently popping from your mouth. His fingers slide up, fisting in the hair at the back of your head as his other hand goes to the front of his pants. There’s a retort somewhere on the tip of your tongue, but your voice has stopped working.

And once he frees himself from his pants, your mouth is on him, too full to be worried about speaking. You don’t even know for sure if he pulled you to him or if you simply opened your mouth and swallowed him down on your own. He’s thick and heavy as his hips give a few involuntary thrusts, threatening to choke you in a very different way than he had a few minutes ago.

“So fucking pretty,” he moans above you and the praise makes you even more eager. Your pussy is aching, begging for relief, but instead of allowing yourself to slip a hand between your legs, you put both hand on his thighs. Using him as leverage, you start to slide your mouth back and forth on him, sucking hard, flicking your tongue over him. You’re rewarded with him tipping his head back while he bites back another groan while he twists his hand through your hair.

He starts to guide you, roughly with that hand. He pulls and pushes you in time with his thrusts, taking back the control and fucking your face. Your eyes start to water and you gag when he hits the back of your throat, but he doesn’t stop. He looks down at you, a pathetic mess taking his dick so well, and feels himself start to swell.

He pulls his cock away from you suddenly and you gasp for air you’d forgotten you need. Any trace of a smile is gone from his face as he stares down at you. People had referred to him as an animal and you finally see it. That’s all he is right now. And as you open your mouth and stick your tongue out in offering to him, you realize that may be all you are too right now.

“Stand up,” he commands. “Hands on the wall.” You obey without a second thought, bending slightly at the waist as your palms hit the plaster. He doesn’t bother to pull your pants down, simply rips his way through the wet material between your legs. You whimper when he runs his fingers over your bare pussy. “Fucking soaked for me,” he taunts. You press back against him shamelessly, trying to angle yourself so his fingers slip inside of you, but he doesn’t allow it. Instead he pulls his hand back.

The feel of his fingers is quickly replaced by the feel of the head of his cock notching itself in their place. He doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t give you warning. He slams his hips forward, forcing his cock inside of you in one thrust.

“Fuck,” you moan out, finally finding your voice. Even as wet as you are, it’s rough and he stretches you wide. There’s a twinge of pain, a bit of pressure, and you fucking love the way it feels. “Riddick,” you breathe into the wall. He answers with a growl and a possessive squeeze on your hips.

He holds you still as he starts to fuck you. Just like he’s done everything tonight, he fucks you with a mix of anger and desire. He fucks you like he craves you. And he fucking hates you for it.

“Don’t stop,” you beg him. His dick curves just right inside of you and each time he slams into you, you feel it push you closer and closer to the edge of an orgasm. “Please don’t stop.”

“I wish I could,” he grits out through grinding teeth. “Make you suffer for the shit you did.” You whimper again, afraid he may actually do it. One of your hands darts for your clit in panic, rushing to finish yourself off before he can pull away. “No, no.” He takes your hand and pins it back up to the wall. “Can’t fucking stop,” he admits, hips losing rhythm for just a moment as he leans into your back to press his lips to your ear. “You’re so fucking tight. Feel so good.” His fingers interlock with your own and you squeeze him tightly, legs starting to shake.

“Riddick.” Your voice is small, quiet and he thrusts even harder. He rips his hand away from yours and his fingers find your clit, making small, firm circles.

“Scream for me,” he demands. “Scream for me while I fill your cunt with cum.”

“Fuck,” you pant, feeling the orgasm right there.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he coaxes, hips sputtering again. “Give me what I want. Wanna feel that pussy come on my cock.”

“Oh fuck, Riddick,” you scream suddenly as the orgasm crashes down on you. It washes over you unrelentingly. Your thighs shake, his hips pinning against yours as he comes the only thing keeping you upright. He spills himself buried deep inside of you, fingers stilling against your clit and bruising your hip.

And then he pulls out slowly, holding just the tip of his dick in you before gently pushing back in. He repeats this a few times until you crumble beneath him, collapsing forward onto the wall and pulling yourself away from him. For the first time all night, he lets you.

You’re both breathing heavy, trying to let your minds catch up with whatever the fuck you just did with each other. Vision blurry and mind swimming, you turn to put your back to the wall, willing your legs to stop vibrating.

“You were trying to hitch a ride outta here?” is the first thing he says to you and his voice is much clearer than yours when you respond.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Grab whatever shit you need. We’ll leave in ten minutes.” He tucks himself back into his pants and steps away, headed towards your living room. Or maybe your kitchen. Fuck if you know anything right now.

“What?” you ask dumbly. He looks back at you and smirks, thoroughly enjoying how fucked out you are right now.

“I’ve got a ride off this planet. You coming or not, pretty girl?”

“You’re leaving?” You swear you’re normally more coherent than this, even after an orgasm. He barely contains rolling his eyes.

“Don’t have much of a choice,” he says before once again smirking at you. “Some bitch blew my cover.”

#chronicles of riddick imagine #chronicles of riddick #riddick imagine #riddick smut #richard b riddick imagine #richard b riddick

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gggoldfinch · 1 year

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Hatchetknife

Richard B. Riddick x OFC (or reader)

(disclaimer: photo found on pinterest ^ )

A/N: I’ve been gripped by the most manic and inexplicable riddick brainrot ever and needed to get this out of my system or I’d deadass explode ‼️I usually don't write oneshots like this so it was a nice breath of fresh air actually. Hopefully now this sexy bald bitch will leave my poor brain alone so I can do something else other than binge watching vin diesel movies

warnings: original female character (descriptions vague enough to be reader insert), possibly a little ooc, very brief discussion of SA (in a non-threatening manner), minor violence & injury, explicit language, forced proximity, only one bed, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, light choking, biting, pet names. MINORS DNI

word count: 12,114

{AO3 Link}

summary: A low-profile merc masquerading as a man has her ship (and life) invaded by an unlikely guest. She gets found out, and things progress interestingly.

***

There's a ship that's been sitting idle in the upper-east Storage B-Port for weeks now; Riddick knows this. He also knows he hasn't been this incapacitated in a while. It's a hard thing to admit to himself, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. He hasn't slept in over 72 hours, and has been fighting and running for most of that time. He's out of his element— stuck in the heart of a congested city-planet rather than out in the wilderness of some uninhabited backwater planet. He's bleeding from somewhere— his side, maybe. His nose is broken, too, and there must be some sort of nerve damage too, because he can't scent who's coming after him anymore. He lost his goggles somewhere during this most recent scuffle, too, so all the neon signs are like miniature suns searing his retinas.

There's an idle ship gathering dust in Storage B-Port. He recalls it looking like a good model, some custom parts. It'll be easy to hijack. It'll be easy to leave this planet and his merc pursuers in the dust.

———————————————————————

Everyone has their own way of surviving in this nightmare of a universe. Some kill, some are killed. That's just something each and every person has to come to terms with while they draw breath. While not exactly thriving, this one particular individual has found their own way to survive. Some may call her a mercenary, and they wouldn't necessarily be wrong— but she prefers to call herself a mere gun for hire. It's easy to make a living when you have a thick head and nothing to lose, going from one job to another with little in the way of possessions and even less in the way of social relationships. She goes where the proverbial wind takes her, planet-hopping and working odd jobs. Sometimes the jobs entail hunting dangerous quarry, but more often than not she's hired for non-violent jobs running security for personnel protection or transport. Honestly, the only jobs she turns down outright are those having anything remotely to do with the Necromongers. Sure it isn't ideal, but it's better than living in the slums of the over-crowded metroplanet where she'd grown up.

It's a risky job, no doubt, made no less difficult by her deliberate choice to fly solo. Solo is safe. Solo, she don't have to worry about crewmates stealing or betraying her, or worse, taking advantage of her. Barely an adult when she'd begun her life hopping between merc crews, she'd learned early that being on her own is better, safer. No— she keeps to herself with nothing but the ship's computer system for company. And, when the occasion rises where she does have to venture out into civilization again—to find a job or stock up on supplies—she takes heavy precautions.

Strong from years of fighting and labor, her body can shoulder the burdensome weight of armor; broad shoulders and sturdy bones make her intimidating and capable. Years worth of mismatched armor plates make up her regular uniform, both metal alloys and plastic prints. Some pieces were taken off fallen quarry—or former crewmates—some purchased responsibly. Each plate has a little story she can recall, fondly or not. When worn all together, her form is virtually unrecognizable, and more importantly, masculine. The crown mantle is her helmet: sturdy, sleek, black, with a visor capable of internal screen display. The vocal distorter programmed into it deepens her voice to a disguised pitch. The suit of armor isn't entirely comfortable, but it's a requirement for her safety.

"Hatchet!"

She swivels her helmeted head, looking in the direction from which she hears her codename. She hadn't been calling herself anything when she'd assumed this masculine persona. Her various employers just began calling her a shortened version of her ship's name—the Hatchetknife—and it just ended up sticking within the merc circle she floats in. No one knows her true identity, as far as she's aware. If they do, no problems have arisen from it yet.

A man approaches her, stocky and shorter than her. He's been her employer for the past several weeks, paying her to be a glorified bodyguard for his uppity son, on probation for yatta yatta yatta. She'd tuned out the rest once she'd heard the price of the paycheck. 350 thousand units just to babysit an alcoholic man-child for a month while he's on probation. She couldn't pass it up.

Her employer holds out a datapad, the blue screen alight with money transfer information. She's about to receive her payment and get the fuck off this stuffed metroplanet. Maybe she can finally replace some of the older parts on the Hatchetknife with this payment.

"Don't be a stranger, now," the man says amicably once the digital paperwork has been filled. She receives a notification ping on the screen of her visor, indicating the payment has gone through successfully.

She inclines her concealed head, thanks him for the business, and turns tail to leg it back to the ship. The thing has been docked in storage for nearly a full month cycle now— long enough for the ticket expense to be a bit of a blow to her newly acquired units. It doesn't matter; this planet will be long behind her in only a matter of a few short hours. She's been idle, been on this polluted and overpopulated planet for too long.

And she'll be damned if a little blood on the exterior hatchpad of her ship is going to deter her from getting out of dodge in a timely manner. It's a handprint, maybe a couple, smeared all along the white panelling of the cargo bay door's control console. The cargo bay door is locked up tight though, so she's not particularly worried that any ne'er-do-wells have tried breaking into her sturdy old ship. It's a good model, she tells herself. It has a security system that would alert her of suspicious activity through the link between her helmet and the ship's mainframe. Sure, someone clearly tried to get in, but there's no sign the bay door had been opened recently.

She pays her exorbitantly priced docking ticket and opens the bay door herself. She remains completely oblivious to the other trail of blood, smeared up the side of the ship and leading to the secondary hatch. She doesn't notice the cut wires either, spraying pathetic little sparks instead of warning signals to her security system. To be fair, she doesn't notice much of anything—doesn't even remove her armor or helmet—in her haste to take off. She just charges through the cargo bay, vaults the ladder to the upper deck, and wedges herself behind the control console.

It feels like home, being behind the console. More of a home than she's ever really had, at least. She exhales against the interior of her helmet. Her reflection gleams in the bare windshield, the sleek black glass and metal of her high-tech helmet staring back. Gloved fingers press buttons and flip switches, igniting holoscreens and a rainbow of lights. Meters and regulators all seem to be in check despite the ship's extended idleness, and the hyperdrive kickstarts with a comforting purr. She has to take the ship up and out of the atmosphere before kicking it into warp speed, lest the planet's nasty police force pick a fight with her. Fog and flames lick the nose of the Hatchetknife as it accelerates upward, breaking through the upper atmosphere at a smooth 15 kilometers per second, and an even 75 degree angle. Only then does she crank the hyperdrive and watch as the countless stars warp around the nose of the ship.

She plots an aimless course, avoiding setting a firm destination until she can get her hands on another potential job lead. Upon throwing it into autopilot, the ship's automated computer system welcomes her back on board. Hatchet, it calls her. Not even her own ship uses her true name anymore.

Her boots are heavy as they tramp out of the cockpit. Reinforced steel and acid-resistant soles, these boots are. They're her favorites. They make a robust thump thump as she walks into the narrow hallway of the Hatchetknife. Here resides her bunk, and across from that is the kitchenette and table where she eats and works and sometimes sleeps. It's barely wide enough to fit two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. She's used to close-quarters; it's almost comforting, like a womb. The hatch and ladder down to the cargo bay gapes at the end of the hall, and this is what she beelines for once acclimating herself with the interior of her ship again. Her bunk looks awfully inviting, but first on the agenda is to shuck off all the armor.

Boots bracketed on either side of the ladder and gloved hands holding tight to the side-rails, she slides down until landing on the grate panels of the cargo bay floor. This area is vastly larger than her living quarters— it has to be, in the event she has to transport sizable goods or heavy machinery. A armory case for her weapons and uniform sits bolted against the side wall, its grate doors barely revealing the contents. She opens the thing up, removing the machine gun strapped to her back to place it on its rightful hooks.

She hooks her thumbs under the seal of her helmet and disables the suctioned airlock. Just as she's preparing to lift the burdensome thing from her head, something collides with her right side, knocking her clean off her feet. It takes only a few frantic moments to realize it's a human being— a male attacker. Her deactivated helmet collides with the metal flooring at an odd angle, instantly disabling the visor's screen as a result of some internal damage. The force of the tackle and impact against the floor has the breath drawn from her lungs in a violent, rattling wheeze. The muscles over her ribs convulse and tighten, sending a shock of panic and pain and adrenaline through her system. With little time to think, no weapon handy, and no opportunity to scan the stranger, she starts thrashing. Amidst the scuffle and blow to her head, she can't quite see clearly, only able to make out a blur of squirting blood. The blood isn't her own— she's sure she would feel it if she'd been shanked in any of her armor's vulnerable spots.

She thrusts a gauntleted arm upwards in the direction she thinks the intruder's head is. Her metal-sheathed wrist collides with something and the oppressive weight above her slumps over to the side.

Hatchet scrambles up to her knees and tears the nearest gun from off the rack. She spins, points the weapon at the stranger's head, and... doesn't shoot.

Sprawled on the cold metal floor is a man. A large man. Bald-headed and covered in blood she knows she hadn't drawn from him herself. It's old blood, old wounds— maybe hours, maybe days. Despite the vaguely stunned look about him from being hit in the head, he wears a wry little smile upon his full mouth, lips and nose bloody from what looks like a previous beating. His eyes glint in a peculiar fashion, almost like feline eyeshine, silvery and shifting.

He holds his hands out by his head placatingly, palms facing upward. Then, he grins. "Okay, okay. You got me." His voice is deep and smooth like rolling thunder. It's almost startlingly in its intensity.

"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing on my ship!? What do you want?" she barks into the voice modulator, keeping the hardy submachine gun trained on him.

"Got a pretty nice ship here, don't you think?" he rumbles out.

"Fuck you!"

He chuckles at that, although the action looks like it pains him. The blood, she realizes, is oozing from a substantial stab wound on his left flank, just below the contour of his shapely pectoral muscle. She swallows thickly, choking down the apprehensive lump in her throat. Still a little off-kilter from the blow to her helmet, she shakily rises to her feet, steady finger not leaving the trigger once. The man clenches his silvery eyes shut, sucking in a substantial breath only to groan it all out again. One broad, tan hand shifts to press against the wound on his side, the other remaining innocently idle.

Without prompting, Hatchet's line of sight raises to the secondary hatch within the cargo hold. There it is: a smear of blood and sparking wires. That's where he'd gotten in. Must be a determined fella—let alone smart—to have hacked the ship's security system to override the locking mechanism and find which wires would send out a warning signal before they even had the chance to. She looks back to him, curiously tilting her head to the side in observation of him.

"What the fuck do you think is supposed to happen now?" she grits out. The voice modulator gives it an extra bit of bite.

The man laughs, blood staining his straight teeth. "I dunno. Thought you might hand over your ship."

"Hand over my— Do you have a fucking head injury?"

He laughs again and she kicks his calf roughly.

"What about this is funny? Please, illuminate it for me. Because all I see some fucking stowaway who has a gun to his head and a nasty stab in his side. You're not getting my ship, pal. You'll be lucky if I let you see tomorrow."

"Bad timing," he murmurs, voice thick with strain and sardonic amusement. His expression slackens, the crease between his thin brows flattening out gradually.

"What?"

She kicks his leg again; he's unresponsive. Unconscious, actually, judging by the sudden lack of tension in his face and limbs. She drops the gun-wielding hand to her side and lets out a high-pitched wail of frustration.

She's not a cold blooded murderer. Sure, she's had to take a life or two throughout her days, but then again, who hasn't in this line of work. Those times were different— kill or be killed. This is... this is an injured, apparently unarmed guy on her cargo bay floor. Yes, he'd broken in, but maybe he has a valid excuse. She's had to break into places to survive before, it's really not that unusual. And despite all the shit she's been through, deep down Hatchet has a bleeding heart. She'd be pressed to admit it, of course. The sight of the stranger, wounded and unconscious, male as he may be, pulls at her tender and guarded heartstrings.

Fucking hell. She can only hope that someday in the future, if she's ever in time of need, that some stranger will treat her with kindness.

The man is heavy. Not deceptively so, as his height and build imply a great amount of mass, but hell if she's not winded by the time she drags him over to the cargo lift. The small elevator is usually for objects and not people, but it's the only way she can get his dead-weight ass to the upper level where the only cot and good light source are. She hasn't taken her armor off, and at this point she doesn't think she's going to. Certainly not with a strange man aboard, unconscious or not.

Upon both arriving at the upper level, it takes a great amount of effort to haul the man over to the bunk. The space is barely big enough to comfortably hold Hatchet, and she's nowhere near the size of this beast of a man. The cot creaks as she lowers him onto it, his boots scraping the wall as she crams him into the broom closet sized space. Flicking on the overhead light, it illuminates him with white fluorescence. It's only then does she realize he's not entirely unconscious; somewhere in there, he's aware enough to wince at the light coming on. She squints at him for a long moment, scrutinizing the situation. He doesn't show any other sign of cognizance besides for that averse reaction to the bright light beating down on his eyelids. When she decides it had only been some sort of odd reflex, she goes to retrieve the medical supplies from an aptly labeled storage cabinet.

Modesty be damned, she has to remove his shirt. It's barely holding itself together, anyway, and she has replacements to dress him in after she's patched him up. She feels hot under all her armor and layers, nervous as she stares down at the stranger's bare chest. Christ, he's build like a tank. It's intimidating, actually, once she chokes down the insidious feeling of attraction that prickles her skin and bubbles in her abdomen. Anyway— upon closer inspection, the wound on his side is largely superficial. The extensive bruising along his ribs, however, indicates some unknown level of internal damage. It may only be deep-tissue bruising, or his ribs could be broken. She can't be too sure either way, and makes sure to properly bandage up his torso regardless, though only after disinfecting and stitching up the gash.

His nose is broken, that much is obvious. However, it looks as though it's already been set, so all she has to do is clean the blood, disinfect the small cut on the bridge, and properly bandage it. He has a nice face, apart from the bandaged nose. She can't really describe his features. Harsh, but soft at the same time. She huffs against the interior of the helmet at the thought, crossing her arms and leaning back.

She has stationed herself at the table across from the bunk, cautiously watching over the stranger through the deactivated visor of her mask. Hot and stuffy and heavy as the armor may be, she won't risk taking it off just yet. She doesn't quite have a plan yet as to how this is going to unfold. She'd chosen to spare his life, yes, but that isn't to say she won't protect herself to the nth degree if the need arises going forward. She doesn't want him out of her sight—especially considering her unprofessional lack of manacles—which means she can't program a route into the ship right now. The task would've been made simple if he hadn't gone and broken the screen display mechanism in her helmet. She can't even scan him in this state, to gather his identity or vitals status. She hadn't realized how dependent she'd grown on the visor display until now, having worn the damn thing for weeks straight at this point.

It takes a couple of hours by her count for the stranger to rouse again. He's disoriented at first, but soon grows aware of her shielded gaze burning into him from the other side of the narrow living area. He shifts in the cot, turning onto his wounded side to better assess the situation. He doesn't seem threatened—or particularly threatening—at the moment.

"Rise and shine," Hatchet speaks into the voice modulator.

She kicks a boot up onto the edge of the cot from where she sits barely three feet away. She tells herself it's a show of dominance, to plant her boot right beside the stranger's head, but in reality she probably just looks stupid. The man just looks at her with those silvery eyes, squinting under the bright overhead light. She doesn't shut it off.

"Now here's the deal—"

"How many people you got on this ship?" He cuts her off, tone both aloof and detached despite the situation. He breaks into an odd little grin, then twists his head to scent the pillow. "You hiding a lady somewhere? Fella like you sure wouldn't smell this sweet."

Hatchet's face crumples under the cover of secrecy. She has to school her perturbed reaction for the sake of her anonymity. What the hell kind of guy is she dealing with here, exactly? Not only must she refrain from showing any physical reaction, she shouldn't verbally address it, either.

"Now here's the deal," she repeats. "I spared you once— even did you the favor of patching you up. But, it's not gonna happen again if you try something funny."

The man tucks his chin to his chest to look down at the bandaged wounds, holding a curious hand to his side. She can't quite interpret his expression perfectly, but she thinks he seems vaguely impressed by her medical treatment of him.

"I'm going to take you to the nearest inhabited planet and dump your freeloading ass off at the first dock I come across. You aren't going to resist or complain. I'm doing you this favor— clearly you were on the run from someone dangerous, and I got you out of dodge. I don't expect payment, but I'd be mighty grateful if you didn't do anything violent or stupid." Hatchet kicks the bunk when his eyes slip shut again. "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

He does appear to fall unconscious again, but she can't be totally sure he isn't just fucking with her. Irritated, she sucks her teeth and curses him out, kicking off the bunk to stomp off into the cockpit. Forget keeping him in sight, he can suffocate for all she cares. There's a shotgun under the control console, anyway.

She seals the cockpit door shut behind her. Only then does she feel safe to remove her helmet. Once again she's greeted by her reflection in the windshield, though this time it's her own face that stares back. It's a tired and sweaty face, with hair matted flat to the scalp from the tight interior of the helmet. She needs a nice long shower—that much is obvious—but now isn't the time. Finally breathing fresh, unfiltered air again, she gulps it down greedily and deposits herself in the pilot's seat. The autopilot had taken itself out of hyperdrive some time ago, and now the Hatchetknife careens at a steady pace through open space. The stars are magnificent, as always. The endless, unfathomable sight almost makes her forget her burdensome stowaway.

Hatchet pulls coordinates for the nearest inhabited planet. She expands the view on the holoscreen projected across the console. The information, illuminated in a fluorescent blue, scrawls across the screen just fast enough for her to barely be able to read it in time. Her eagerness to be rid of the stowaway slowly melts into a nauseating apprehension. Apparently, according to the data, the nearest planet for several lightyears just happens to be crawling with Necromongers. Fucking Necromongers. If there's anything Hatchet hates, it's violent religious cults that double as armies. She avoids well-paying jobs on the off-chance that those psychos might catch a whiff of her— she's sure as hell not landing her ship in a hive of those wasps.

"Fucking shit!" She kicks the console.

There goes the plan to drop this motherfucker off. It'll take days at the very least to make it to the next viable planet. She tosses her head back and groans loud, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until they come away leaving splotches in her vision. Venting her frustration, she kicks her heel against the console twice more.

———————————————————————

If Hatchet learns anything during her time in close proximity with the man, it's that, 1. he's a shockingly fast healer; 2. he doesn't like bright lights; and 3. he's quite sharp-witted despite the meathead look about him. In the few days that follow the unexpected detour, she avoids him as best she can in such cramped quarters. They only interact on the occasions when she checks up on his wounds or gives him MRE meals throughout the day— always outfitted in her armor, of course. He only takes power-naps, never a full sleep, and reacts tensely to loud and sudden noises. He's smug and facetious when he speaks, and brooding when he doesn't. He's like a storm in every aspect of the description: thunderous voice, eyes like lightning, and a stormy personality to match. Despite Hatchet's aloofness, the man has found a way to wheedle himself under her skin. Once he was stable enough to stand on his own, nothing could stop him from getting up and wandering around the ship, hiding in the shadowed areas like a predator stalking its prey, much to Hatchet's chagrin. He makes little quips and witty comments in that deep voice when she's least prepared for them, and he stares at her with those glimmering eyes like he can see right through her disguise. Sometimes, she worries he does. He's like a fucking ghost the way he soundlessly moves around the small ship. That's more unnerving than his appearance, she thinks.

It's all getting rather frustrating. At first she'd been pissed that a man had the audacity to impose himself upon her time, energy, and ship. Now, she can't help but feel a strange tug of loneliness when they aren't in the same room. It's upsetting how the mind perceives human connection. She doesn't even know his name, yet the thought of being on her own again seems... well, lonely.

It does help that he's easy on the eyes, too. She finds herself locked away in the cockpit more and more frequently, brooding long and hard over the increasingly frequent thoughts of how fucking fine the man is. That soft yet masculine face, those thick arms and sturdy torso. The deep, intense tenor of his voice alone is enough to make her weak in the knees. And those eerie, glowing eyes, which watch her every movement like a hawk. Oh, for fucksake...

Hell, in all honesty she might as well be swimming in her armor with the way she sweats when he stands close and talks real smooth. She's afraid she's making it a little too obvious, actually. That carefully crafted persona is slipping through her fingers and all because she's a little hot under the collar about this stowaway she'd sworn to dump like a box of rocks come first chance. It came to a point approximately three simulated days into their time together when she couldn't stand the sight of him shirtless anymore; she ended up handing over one of her spare XL tanks, which still managed to look small on his burly frame. There's a sort of undeniable animal magnetism about him which is almost a little distressing in its intensity. What a fickle thing her trust in others is— and how tragically simple it was for her to get comfortable with the situation.

She doesn't insist on taking her bunk back from the healing man. While he rests his battered body on the cot, she kicks back at the well-worn table every night cycle, sprawled across the bench seat with a flimsy pillow beneath her helmeted head. This way she can keep the stowaway within her line of sight. Once his intimidating nature is overlooked, he is surprisingly amicable and seems rather appreciative of all her efforts. He hasn't tried to attack her, or otherwise threaten her person, which she takes as a sign he'd heard and accepted her deal before passing out on that very first day. In fact, he only ever deliberately menaces her when standing over her shoulder, or appearing out of nowhere. Or when he belligerently thumps his fist over wall panels to deactivate overhead lights he finds irksome.

Hatchet, though she herself is nameless to an extent, finds his lack of proffered identity a little frazzling. Though she's come to accept his presence as a whole, it would make her a lot more comfortable if she had a name and background to put to the face. Which brings her to the locked cockpit, wherein she works tediously to repair the screen and scanning mechanism in her helmet. With her tongue poked out from between her lips and one boot up on the console, she takes the helm apart and repairs it with a notable proficiency, then puts it all back together again. The screen automatically powers on when she activates the airlock seal, illuminating her field of view with digital notifications and vital statuses.

She catches him unaware, aiming her visor at him for long enough to scan his facial features and biometrics. Identification data scrawls across the screen before her eyes, her blood pressure spikes. Under the guise of piloting the ship, she locks herself in the cockpit again and feverishly scrolls through mugshots and bounty reward data.

Holy shit. She's been harboring the infamous convict Richard B. Riddick.

Her jaw clenches, muscle twitching against the interior padding of the helmet as she absorbs the newfound information. She should've known. She should have known. Those eyes— she'd heard the merc legends about those eyes.

But fuck... for a guy who'd spent half his life in the slam, he's certainly been affable within these restrictive quarters, mingling with a complete stranger, no less. It's hard to reconcile what she reads on the screen with the man she's been interacting with for the past few artificial cycles. She yanks the helmet from over her head, roughly scrubbing her palms over her face.

When she returns from the cockpit, nerves gathered to the extent they can be, she finds the man halfway through shaving his tan scalp. She stands at the mouth of the living area, the girth of her armor nearly taking up the entire doorframe. Richard B. Riddick, her reserved and shockingly mannered stowaway, sits at the metal table with a compact mirror and razor— a feeble weapon which she now knows could be used against her in all sorts of ways if she were to get on his bad side. Does he even have a good side to be on? She hopes he does, and hopes she's on it. Largely without thinking, one of her hands flutters up to her touch throat as images of it being brutally slit flicker through her mind.

She sits down across from him, folding her hands on the tabletop. He doesn't pause his grooming, doesn't even glance up. His eyeshine remains trained on the little mirror as he meticulously scrapes the stubble from his head with help from what looks like motor gel, no doubt nicked from the cargo bay below. Hatchet purses her mouth into a nervous line beneath the safety of her helm. She can't help but silently observe the flex of his muscles as he moves, every innocuous gesture striking a flustered chord within her. She swallows against the tightness constricting her throat.

"How are you feeling?" She hopes the modulator eliminates the shakiness she feels in her voice.

Logically, she has nothing to be afraid of. Unless this guy is prone to switching demeanor on a dime—which she has no reason to believe he does, based on what she's seen so far—why wouldn't this passive companionship continue? If anything, Hatchet is more afraid of how he will react to knowing she knows his identity now. Either he's been assuming she has known this entire time and just doesn't care, or knows she's been blissfully ignorant and has taken advantage of the anonymity.

He finally spares a glance at her across the table. His jaw visibly twitches, then one corner of his mouth quirks upward. He returns to shaving his head.

"Better. Thanks." He sniffs, sounding indifferent.

"You... uh. Want anything to eat?"

"Naw."

Hatchet exhales, both relieved and oddly disappointed. The storage compartment for the MREs is right beside him, meaning she would've had to stand right over him to retrieve anything.

"You got any goggles laying around?" His deep voice brings her out of her mind. "Been looking but..." he sucks his teeth.

Her brows raise confoundedly. "Goggles?"

"Yeah, you know. Goggles."

Fuck, he must think she's an idiot. She fumbles for words. "Uh. I'm not sure, probably not. I usually just wear the helmet when I need to shield my eyes. Why do you need them?"

He snaps the compact mirror shut and sets down the razor, using the bloody tank he's arrived in to wipe the remaining gel from his scalp. It looks like he'd shaved his beard recently, too, if the dark shadow on his jaw has anything to say about it. Setting the tank down, no more than a scrap rag at this point, he inhales deeply and briefly sinks his teeth into his plump lower lip. Hatchet bites her cheek hard enough for it to hurt, deliberately keeping her gaze from his mouth.

"I wouldn't need them if you didn't keep turning on all the lights," he replies. A hint of dry amusement hides within his flat tone.

"I wouldn't have to turn on the lights if you didn't hide in the shadows all the time," she retaliates. Riddick chuckles like deep, rolling thunder. Hatchet's pulse jumps; fear, arousal. "I'll keep it in mind not to turn them all on. I know your eyes are sensitive to light," she continues.

He suddenly pins her with a suspicious, scrupulous glare. She realizes her mistake and backtracks, sweating bullets beneath her armor.

"I mean, you squint a lot. And you make your way around in the dark better than in the light. I shouldn't have assumed." She's babbling. She can't keep a lid on it.

If he suspects what she knows, he doesn't let on. He cocks his head to the side, eyes glimmering as they trace the contours of her hefty armor. His gaze stops on her visor, right where her eyes should be. Somehow, she feels like they're making direct eye contact.

A questioning smile graces his handsome face. "Do you ever take that damn helmet off? Or do you live in the thing."

Hatchet's face falls beneath the shield of the visor. Her pulse thumps in her throat; a part of her thinks he can sense it. Her demeanor becomes prickly, unchecked. "Why do you care? You're a stowaway on my ship— what is it your business how I eat, sleep, shit—"

"Fuck?" He raises a thin brow, tickled by his own addendum. Meanwhile, Hatchet flushes a fiery shade of red beneath the helm in question. Then, he huffs a short little laugh— more a harsh exhale than anything. "I have to say, your little getup had me convinced at first. But, I know you ain't a man."

Hatchet's heart skips a beat. She disguises her anxiety with derision. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest, sweetheart." A white canine glints when he flashes that oddly charming smile.

That combination—a quaint pet name and that devastating smile—has her feeling lightheaded and confined within her suit. Her hands slip from the tabletop to clench into fists in her lap. He appears upsettingly smug about his little revelation.

"How'd you figure it out?"

His nostrils flare; he takes a deep breath. "Thought I smelled a woman my first night in the bunk. My nose was all fucked up, but... eventually I figured out that sweet smell was coming from you and not some phantom scent hanging around. I give you credit, you had me going for a little while."

Her brow twinges. What a strange man.

She's faced with an internal conflict. She could deny the accusation, but something tells her that won't work in the slightest. She could keep the helmet and armor on until they part ways, but really what's the point, seeing as he already knows she's a woman; he looks strong enough to pry the armor right off her body anyway. The most logical choice she can make is to take the discovery in stride and go back to living comfortably, with the addition of a slightly threatening guest who does one-armed push-ups in the hallway and lurks around dark corners. The jig is up. He's just that good. Her choice is practically made up for her.

Hatchet's hands raise, slow and tentative, and she maintains what feels a lot like eye contact with Riddick. Her gloved thumbs hook up under the seal, disabling the airlock and visor screen. Air hisses out from the seam at her throat, loosening the helmet's grip on her head. Somewhat dubiously, she lifts the burdensome metal and glass dome from over her head. It comes to rest in her lap as she shakes out her sweat-dampened hair and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

They look at each other's faces for the first time, unencumbered. The visor distorts perception a tiny bit, so it's almost like seeing him for the first time. A permeable scent of sweat and metal lingers between the both of them, despite both having showered recently in the ship's minuscule wash room. She can also smell the motor gel he'd used to shave his head (so strange— must be a leftover trick from the slam, she thinks). The woman is overcome with a bout of anxiety and shyness upon revealing her true face, and flushes under his heavy gaze. She resists the submissive urge to tuck her chin to her chest and avert real eye contact.

"Well... I guess you know who I am, now." She clears her throat; she hasn't heard her unfiltered voice in ages. Her jig may be up— but she still has something of a trump card on him, too. Sure, he might kill her for it, but this entire conversation is toeing the line of life-threatening risk to begin with. She musters courage to utter her next words; "Just like... how I know who you are now, Richard B. Riddick. Thought I wouldn't do a facial recognition scan?"

Hatchet squares her shoulders and raises her chin by a fraction, feigning confidence. He can probably smell her fear. The man inclines his head, brows raised as a chuckle rolls in like a storm. He almost looks impressed with her mediocre detective work.

He smiles that wolfish smile, showing teeth and smile lines. "So, you think you know who I am now, huh? You afraid of the big bad monster now?"

One corner of Hatchet's mouth quirks downward. "Should I be?"

"If you're smart you would be." He levels her stare with that inhuman eyeshine.

"I only fear true monsters. Men who kill for pleasure and nothing more. I read the files on you. You don't kill unarmed women— children. You don't rape them."

It isn't phrased as a question, but he replies regardless; "Naw."

It's actually kind of relieving that he looks a bit offended by the idea. "Then you aren't a true monster. You do what you have to to survive. We all do out here. I can't fault you for killing people trying to kill you. I won't fault you for anything you had to do in the slam."

There's more she would like to say—to tell him he'd been dealt a really shitty hand—but that feels too intrusive for the context of their relationship. She doesn't want to risk angering him by coming off as pitying.

Riddick narrows his naturally suspicious gaze at the woman. He doesn't touch her previous soapbox comment. "So... that mean you're gonna try to turn me in for a payday?"

"Fucking— Jesus, dude," she guffaws incredulously. "Why the fuck would I turn you in after I did so much to save your ass? You're worth more dead than alive, you know. If I wanted to, I could've."

The big man shrugs. "Who knows. Every other merc would."

"Well I'm not every other merc, am I?" She leans back, crossing her arms over her chestplate.

"Naw, definitely not."

If she'd been any less observant, she may have missed the glimmer of flirtation in his tone and demeanor— in his eyeshine. Stifling heat rises like a kettle boiling, tinting her face a noticeable hue. She can only hope she looks disheveled and sweaty enough for it to pass as an exacerbated flush. Abruptly, she stands from the table, wringing her hands in an uncontrollable combination of nerves and bashfulness. The helmet is dumped onto the tabletop, rolling towards the seated man.

"I'll uh—" Her voice cracks; she clears her throat. "I'll look for those goggles for you."

"Good talk," he calls after her as she hastily turns on her heel.

She pauses her stride, mind running a mile a minute to find a way to gain some sort of traction and authority amidst this interaction. She shifts halfway to turn back and face him.

"Hm. Yes, good talk... Richard."

His uproarious laughter follows her down into the cargo bay where she quickly disappears.

———————————————————————

Riddick is both a complicated human and a very simple man. On one hand, a selfish part of him wants nothing more than to take control of this cramped little vessel and fly it fuck-knows where. It's clear to him that this ship and its pilot are a package deal, which brings him to a sort of moral crossroads. On the other hand, this woman—this merc—has been undeservingly kind to him, more so than anyone he can remember. She has a point, too. He'd been dangerously incapacitated for a short while, in which time she could have easily gone and ghosted him or handed him over to some other scummy mercs. But she hadn't. This lone woman, mistrustful enough of others to go so far as to masquerade as a man, had saved his hide and given him shelter and transport, all out of the kindness of her heart. She isn't threatening or outwardly malicious; he doesn't know how the hell she's survived this long out here. Perhaps her assumed persona has gotten her this far after all, amongst the masses less perceptive than himself.

Fuck. Merc or not, he can't just ghost her now.

And besides— he's a man, and she's a woman. Simple as that.

Even suited up to the jaw in armor and reeking of sweat, her newly revealed face stirs something all-too familiar within him. Hell, her scent alone is enough to get him off. Riddick doesn't even have to know what the rest of her looks like to know he wants to fuck her. And she doesn't seem all too averse to the idea of him, either, based on the subtle changes observable in her posture and scent. His senses are too keen to miss the physical and vocal cues she tries so hard to hide with that modulator and beneath the suit of armor. He knows hot and bothered when he sees it; and it's a fucking ego-boost.

After their little conversation, she'd grown more comfortable— if that's the appropriate word for the scenario. He'd revealed her identity and she responded by completely forgoing the suit of armor. Not that he's curious or anything, but he finds himself asking more about her. She shares that she is called "Hatchet," which he thinks is a little entertaining given her rather docile nature. He also learns that she's been in the mercenary business since her early teenage years, which almost always spells trouble for young women— hence why she'd taken up the persona of a more masculine, faceless merc, rather than be perceived as lesser-than by her professional peers. She's funny too, he pleasantly discovers, when not restrained by that helmet.

He's surprised when she comes up to him a few cycles following their conversation. She's dressed in a tank like his (which he realizes is hers) and a mechanic's jumpsuit, the top of which rests tied around her supple hips. He eyes up her body with a brashness that usually intimidates even the most battle hardened of men. She doesn't even flinch— she grows shy, instead. He stands by his previous statement in which he'd wanted to fuck her without knowing what her body looked like, but he's certainly not complaining now in getting to see her without the bully armor to conceal her curves and soft shape. Even the light musculature of her arms and width of her shoulders is hot.

She holds something as she approaches from the cargo bay ladder, and he quickly deduces it is non-threatening. She sidles up to the table where he has been parking himself at more frequently lately. She wears a sweet expression halfway between anticipatory and nervous— not much different than usual.

"Hey, dollface," Riddick greets.

He cocks his head to the side as he looks up at her, observing her through the purplish hue of his shine-job eyes. He quickly discovered that playfully teasing the young woman almost always earns a flurry of entertaining responses; namely flustered yammering and a red flush which trails all the way down to her full breasts. The pet names come easily, oddly enough. She blushes as expected and leans a hip against the table edge. While toying with the object in her hands, she glances between it and him.

"I uh. I found a pair of goggles, since you'd been asking."

She holds her flat palm out towards him, displaying a set of simple black welding goggles. They're essentially like the pairs he usually sports: midsized circular lenses, held in place by a thick plastic compound. Riddick takes the proffered eyewear and tests the weight in his own palm. The strap is a fabric material rather than a continuation of the flexible plastic, but still appears sturdy. He pulls them over his head, lowering the lenses over his eyes. They block out the Iight sufficiently, subduing the vibrant hue of his altered vision.

He scans the woman through the shades, smiling appreciatively. "Thanks, sweetheart. You're a real peach."

Hatchet releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, sure. No problem... Richard."

She doesn't use fluffy little names on him like he's begun doing for her. When she does refer to him, she only calls him by his first name. Which, given the fact virtually no one else does, feels like a more powerful naming. It's humanization in its rawest form. She shifts to sit down across from him. Neither of them can ignore the way their ankles tangle together beneath the table, hefty boots knocking into one another. Riddick watches her throat bob as she swallows. He raises the goggles and leaves them perched on his knit brow.

"Okay, so, I've been thinking," she begins, somewhat hesitantly. "Here's the deal— I'll take you wherever you want to go, so long as you don't, you know, kill me in my sleep and steal my ride or something. I think that's only fair since I didn't do the same to you when you were incapacitated. Also, I guess it goes without saying that I'm not gonna tell anyone about this encounter or your whereabouts. If you don't trust my good will, just think how negatively it would affect my life if it got out among the wrong crowd that I've been in cahoots with an escaped convict."

Riddick barks out an abrupt laugh. "In cahoots, huh?"

Hatchet blanches, her jaw opening and shutting several times before she gathers her words. "W-Well, I'm willingly harboring a fugitive, aren't I? I haven't booted you out the airlock yet— so yes, we're in cahoots."

The man's laughter tapers into a light chuckle. He perches his chin on his fist in a way that makes Hatchet tense with bashfulness. A muscle in his thick forearm flexes, drawing her curious eye. Lately, she's been daydreaming about those strapping arms. She's been catching herself daydreaming about the rest of him, as well.

Her eyes dart back to his silvery ones, clearing her throat. "Well, what do you think of my deal?"

Riddick tilts his head, unable to resist smiling. "Sounds good."

The woman blinks at him, big doe eyes wide as she picks apart his reaction. "Ah... uh. Okay, cool." She drums the tabletop with both hands, fidgeting under his heavy stare.

She pushes to her feet suddenly, and Riddick launches up after her. Instantly he crowds her in the tight space, his large frame taking up a majority of her vision. She startles, automatically pressing her hands flat to his built chest. This draws a rumbling chuckle from him as he gazes down at the flustered woman.

Hatchet's heart rate quickens, the muscle thumping wildly in her chest. That pulse begins its mortifying throb between her thighs, too— a desperate, hot desire which boils up without her expressed permission. It's not an entirely unwelcome feeling, but it's certainly indicative of her poor self-control given the situation. She has no clue if this dangerous convict is about to crush her head like a clump of dirt, or if he's going to make a move on her. Those are the only two explanations for his startling proximity to her.

Nervously, her eyes raise to meet his. She finds his head bowed towards her.

"Uh."

"Why don't you ever sleep in your bunk?" he asks, derailing her frazzled train of thought. "Don't you need your beauty rest, sweetheart?"

"O-Oh? Where are you supposed to go if I take back my bunk?"

He hums and sways his shaven head. "We can share."

Brain unable to catch up with what he's offering, she defaults to thinking in a blunt, literal sense. "W-We can't both fit. It's too narrow."

He steps forward and she steps back, only to realize he's effectively backed her against a wall. One of his beefy arms rises, forearm and fist resting on the wall beside her head. He leans further into her space, smiling as he takes a deep breath of her scent. Fuzzy butterflies explode in her abdomen; she goes weak in the knees.

"Oh really? 'Cuz I got a few positions in mind that we can fit into," he purrs. Hatchet lets out a surprised little noise and he ducks closer. "Aw, don't get all shy on me now, babygirl."

"I'm— I—" she stammers.

Her eyes flick between his own and his lips. That now-familiar eyeshine glimmers with heated desire as he carefully observes her. He leans in real slow— torturously slow. The tip of his nose brushes against hers and she shudders. Riddick's breath is hot as is fans across her face. She finds herself panting heavy through parted lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his steady one. Her chin ducks low, shyly averting his advance to where he has to chase her lips.

His full lips are shockingly soft when they do finally graze hers— his mouth gentle and curious at first while he tentatively pecks her. The few kisses he lavishes upon her lips are short and teasing, serving only to rile her up further. The heartbeat at her core prompts her thighs to clench; the action doesn't go unnoticed. One of his broad hands clamps over her upper arm, effectively pinning her in place against the wall. The shared kiss grows more frenetic with each passing second. His other hand slides rather possessively up the length of her back, coming to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull. He uses it as leverage to tilt her head back— a move which earns a quiet gasp and unintentional whimper through her parted lips. With a small self-satisfied grin, Riddick takes the invitation to claim her open mouth, exploring teeth and tongue with his own.

Hatchet can barely catch her breath— especially not when Riddick slips his tongue past her lips. The pulse between her thighs grows increasingly unbearable and she squirms desperately in his tight hold. That hand holding her arm in a vise grip shifts instead to press against her shoulder blade, pinning her to his broad chest. Her own hands find the courage to come up, fingers taking liberty to slip beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt. His tanned skin is warm and pulled taut over an ample amount of muscle. Her hands are cold—they always are while in space—which results in a string of tangible shivers as she drags her fingers up his sides. The thin fabric of the grey tank bunches up around her wrists as her hands continue their exploration upward. Her right hand is careful to avoid irritating the stitched wound over his left-side ribs. Instead it glides to his smooth chest, squeezing a generous handful of his pec.

He chuckles into her mouth and she swallows the deep noise with fervor. Without warning, he crouches and drops his large hands to her ass, hoisting her up with ease. Her legs clamp around his waist on instinct, canting her hips to shamelessly grind her throbbing core against his hard stomach. Her hands continue to grope his muscled chest and arms, appreciative of his powerful physique. All the while, mouths slot together in feverish kisses.

Riddick pivots on his heel and effortlessly pitches forward at the waist, dropping the woman clinging to him down onto the cot. There's little give to the canvas fabric bunk, but it's certainly more comfortable than a metal tabletop. Not that Riddick particularly cares; he's already swimming in visions of bending her over the table, anyway. Only when he deposits her on the bunk and crouches over her does Hatchet release him from her clinging grasp. Her hands barely leave his chest long enough to yank the tank up over his head, relying on his aptitude to fully rid himself of the thing while she continues her impromptu anatomy lesson. While she latches her mouth onto the pulse point of his throat, he plucks the goggles from his brow and flings them aside. They clatter down somewhere unimportant.

Wordlessly, there lingers between them a mutual agreement that this is consensual. This is needed. This has been building up for a while now.

Riddick's broad hands engulf Hatchet's soft waist, squeezing her affectionately. His fingers push upward, skirting along the hem of her own shirt. She parts her mouth from his neck only long enough to allow him to tug the garment up over her head, hastily followed by the discarding of her sports bra, too. His palms are rough with calluses against her sensitive flesh, and unrelenting when they come up to squeeze her bared breasts. The topless woman licks up the column of his throat to just below his right ear, tasting sweat and skin as she suckles the sweet spot. Her fingers dig into his biceps, keeping him in place as she straddles him. She smiles against his hot skin when he groans. His weathered hands explore her torso, sliding from her chest to her back, then down to grasp her waist tightly.

"Fuck, come on," Riddick grunts into her hair. His hands slip lower to her ass, yanking impatiently at the fabric of her jumpsuit bottoms. "Pants."

It takes no effort for him to lift and flip her onto her back again, taking pride in the surprised expression she wears. Her limbs and eyelids feel heavy as she undoes the tied sleeves around her hips, helping him shuffle off her slate grey jumpsuit. She doesn't even realize he's also slipped off her underwear until she feels the cool air of the ship against her bare core. Fuck, all her constant worrying over her appearance, and in the moment she isn't even concerned. She just needs to feel good with him.

Despite this minor revelation, Hatchet briefly feels a tad in over her head as the burly man holds her down by the hips and leans over her. He eclipses the dim overhead light, his eyes shining magnificently. Those nocturnal eyes are growing on her at a frightening rate.

"Richard," she whispers. One hand reaches up to touch his face, petting his cheek before skating over the stubbly crown of his head. "Fuck, Rich."

He drops his head and growls against her hot, bare skin. The sound rumbles beneath her palm where it presses over his heart. That's a new one— Rich. He's never been called that before. He doesn’t dislike it, mainly because it comes from her.

Riddick leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck and across her chest. His fingers press into her supple flesh of her hips hard enough for it to dimple under the force. He continues downward, laving his hot tongue over her pebbled nipples, teasing his teeth against her delicate skin. With her head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, she remains ignorant to the garland of lovebites he leaves across her skin, decorating her chest with the constellations of the open universe. His lips follow the line of fine hair down the middle of her stomach, until finally stopping just above the curly thatch at her mons. He shifts his attention, choosing to nip at the skin of her inner thighs. He kneels on the floor and roughly yanks her to the end of the cot for better leverage, earning a surprised yelp from the woman. In the same moment, he tucks his thumbs around the underside of her knees and hoists her legs over his broad shoulders. Her ankles automatically lock overtop his shoulder blades.

Hatchet shudders with delicious anticipation. Her big eyes shoot open and head cranes, meeting his silver gaze from where he has positioned himself between her thick thighs. Without much civility or warning, the man stuffs his shaven head into the tight crevice of her thighs. She is suddenly relieved that he'd taken the bandage off his nose almost immediately after gathering his bearings all those days ago, because now he puts the prominent feature to good use against her swollen clit.

A wanton moan claws out from Hatchet's throat as she throws her head back against the rigid cot. Riddick's breath is hot against her cunt, tongue skilled as he works it into her most sensitive area. Two fingers pry her labia apart to get at a more effective angle. Her hands dart to clamp down on either side of his head, her nails digging crescents into his nude scalp. Panting and squirming, she uses her iron grip on his head to grind up against his big nose. He groans low against her core, the vibrations on his tongue adding to her pleasure. Her thighs squeeze against his flushed ears, and for a moment the thought she may suffocate him flashes through her mind. That worry is ejected out into space when his tanned hands come around to grip her where her thighs meet her hips, dragging her even more securely against him.

Her eyes roll back, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms as Riddick brings her increasingly closer to her peak. His nose is replaced by a skillful thumb, rubbing firm circles around her clit. He continues lapping at her cunt, groaning and taking intermittent gasps for air. Just as she feels that hot coil tightening in her lower abdomen, sees white light flickering beneath her lids, he does the unthinkable. He pulls away. Hatchet whines at the sudden neglect and desperately claws at his head in an attempt for him to continue, leaving red stripes on his stubbly scalp.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" he asks lowly, smugness dripping from his tongue. That isn't the only thing dripping from his tongue; his nose, mouth, and chin are coated in her arousal.

Hatchet laughs breathlessly. "Fuck off."

She welcomes him with open arms when he crawls up over her again, accepting his lips as he presses down to kiss her. She can taste her own wetness on his mouth, but is largely distracted by his hips slotting between hers and grinding down.

He pulls back for a moment, leveling her with an entertained but mildly miffed eyebrow raise. "You got protection?"

Hatchet has to take a moment to catch her breath in order to answer. "Don't worry, I got that fancy implant. Unless you're riddled with some horrible penitentiary disease?" She smiles brightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with playfulness.

Her hands cup his face when he returns a dazzling smile. "Me? Who do you take me for? A convict?"

She curls against him when he ducks his face to the crook of her neck, warm and blushing as they both laugh. Unabashed, laughing together. It feels bizarrely intimate, and so completely foreign to the both of them. When the brief chuckles taper off and the weight of the scenario sinks back in, Hatchet wriggles her hips against his, attempting to stimulate some friction. The rough fabric of his cargo pants sparks a little something, but nothing spectacular. Catching on to her renewed desperation, Riddick presses weight against her hips, teasing her with his clothed erection. She mewls softly, grinding up against him.

A calloused hand slides up the length of her body to her neck, first two fingers and thumb pressing lightly against either pulse-point. He squeezes just hard enough for her to squirm with an intoxicating faintness, but light enough for it not to harm her. She swallows hard, feeling the pressure of his palm against her larynx. It would be child's play for him to fully wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze the life out of her. This flirtation with death is not only exhilarating, but it's something she'd never considered as enjoyable before now.

She's too busy with panting against the hand around her throat to realize he'd slipped his other one down towards the apex of her thighs. That is, not until there comes a delicious and unexpected pressure against her swollen clit. She jolts from the sudden stimulation. The moan that slips unbidden from her lips is loud and breathy, and she arches up into his devilish touch. His thumb rubs concentrated circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, the middle finger sliding lower to tease her slit. Meanwhile, he drops his head to press against her temple, lips leaving sloppy kisses on her cheek.

Riddick groans, rutting against her soft thigh. He drags his lips against her cheek, bottom teeth scraping her skin. A tingly shudder ripples through her body.

"You want it, babygirl?" he growls in her ear. "Tell me you want it."

Hatchet whines when his thick finger breaches her entrance, sliding in easily with the wetness of her arousal. Her toes curl and back arches when that searching finger strokes that hidden sweet spot, her entire body overcome with a delicious shudder.

"Fuck," she pants, "Please. I want it."

The hand at her throat inches upward to clasp her jaw, angling her head for him to effectively whisper in her ear. "Want what, sweetheart? Use your words."

Another finger is stuffed into her pussy; she pants and squeezes around them. An embarrassed flush heats her chest and face at being made to speak her desire aloud. In some little act of defiance, she merely continues huffing and rutting against his hand. Punishment for her disobedience comes swift however, arriving in the form of the ceased stimulation. Riddick sucks his teeth and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"So stubborn," he tsks.

Fuck— that rich, buttery voice sends a desperate throb straight to her neglected clit. She sobs out a pathetic whine, making a futile attempt to force his hand to continue its work.

"Please. Okay, okay. Please, please. I want you, I need you. Fuck me, please, Richard," she begs, voice coming out ragged.

He brings his lips to the corner of her mouth and smiles into the kiss he places there. "Good girl," he purrs.

Hatchet squirms under him, clit pulsing with an immediate flush of blood at the praise. "Say that again," she pants, sliding her hand over the back of his thick neck. "Please, please, Rich. Say that again. I'm— Hah."

She can feel the fond chuckle under her palm as it rumbles in his chest. He wrestles with the button and zipper of his cargo pants while keeping himself aloft with one arm. "My girl. Good girl."

Each kiss steals her breath away, dizzying her with butterflies and anticipation. It takes a hurried moment of effort, but Riddick manages to shuck his trousers and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor with the rest of their discarded clothes. Perched on his knees between the woman's spread thighs, he greedily admires the sight of her laid out before him. There's something particularly special about this woman. She's managed to weasel her way into his frigid heart, and he can't find it in himself to complain. She's sweet, and kind, and sure fucking hot. She too watches him greedily as muscles flex in his arms. He plants his hands on her bent knees, dragging them down the length of her soft thighs. Fingers sink into the fat of her hips, dragging her closer.

One glance at his proud erection is enough to draw a flustered whimper from Hatchet's lips; his dick is thick, befitting of the rest of him. She thrusts an arm up over her face, if only to hide the embarrassed blush which splotches her skin. The big man lowers himself over her once more and gently pushes her arm away, murmuring about her shyness. The weight of his cock resting on her belly makes her squirm, which he seems to enjoy greatly, much to her impatient desperation. He slots his plush lips with hers while his left hand slips around her right thigh, encouraging it up. Her knee brushes the bruised wound over his ribs, but he doesn't seem to care all that much as he pins the long limb tightly against him.

In the space between them, he fists his dick and pumps once, twice. He holds Hatchet's lidded gaze with those intense eyes of his, drinking in the dazed sight of her. He drags the cockhead through the wetness of her arousal, teasing her swollen clit before aligning himself properly. His throaty groan mingles with her gasped noises as he slowly presses into her, sheathing himself within her hot cunt. It's a snug fit, lax as she may be. He bottoms out painfully slow, taking his sweet time in stuffing her full of himself. That hand returns to her throat and gently squeezes while he holds himself aloft with the other arm.

Hatchet sucks her teeth against the slight sting of his size. The discomfort quickly fades into a satisfyingly tense pressure once Riddick gets a steady rhythm going. With her leg hiked up over his side, he continually pulls out almost all the way before plunging back into her, driving her down into the stiff cot with each powerful thrust. She shudders with each drag of his thick cock against her inner walls— with every gentle squeeze of his broad hand around her throat.

"Fuck, babygirl. You feel good," he grunts out. "Such a good girl for me. Real pretty." Riddick groans through clenched teeth when her cunt spasms particularly hard around him. His words are like a match to her gasoline.

The hand at her throat shifts away in an attempt to touch as much of her skin as possible— caressing her breast, tangling in her hair, touching her lips, squeezing her waist and hip. It's almost like a compulsion to feel every part of her warm body, to get lost in her skin and pretty noises. Hatchet's hands perform their own exploration; she can't get enough of wrapping her fingers around his biceps and broad shoulders, her breath panting hard against his collarbones as she clings to him. The middle two fingers of his wandering hand come down on her clit again, sparking electric spasms throughout her writhing body. Those fingers rub circles against her sensitive bud, and every so often slip lower to stroke around the spot where they join together.

An especially rough drag and thrust has the tip of cock kissing that sweet spot within her. She cries out and he repeats the motion with an exact precision. He continues hammering into her at that perfect angle, grunting and shuddering with each of her clenches and moans. Light blooms beneath Hatchet's eyelids, that hot pressure coiling up in her belly once more. The combination of internal and external stimulation is enough for her to see stars and arch into the man like her life depends on it.

Nearly animalistic in his frenzy, Riddick can't control himself when his teeth sink into the woman's shoulder. It feels right.

Hatchet cries out at the sharp feeling of his bite, shock mixing with odd delight. He doesn't use enough force to break the skin, but his teeth leave a sting nonetheless. In retaliation, her nails sink into his muscular back and drag downward to his sides, leaving crisscrossing stripes across his tan skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes that she may have torn one of his stitches, but he doesn't make any indication of it bothering him. That delicious tension deep in her belly increases almost unbearably; she bucks up into his fingers on her clit, grinding against the hilt of his cock stuffed in her. His mouth latches onto the slope of her neck and bites again, licking the minimal damage each time he retracts his pearly teeth.

Her orgasm comes suddenly, like fireworks. She spasms around him as she comes, back arching up against his hard front as she cries out. Riddick continues pounding into her— continues rubbing her clit through her shuddering orgasm. The sounds of their sex seem awfully loud in the quiet confines of her small ship.

"There we go. Good girl," he murmurs into her throat.

He pushes up on his supporting arm, putting a bit of space between himself and the spent woman. She twitches and pants beneath him, cunt contracting around his continued thrusts. Her nails haven't yet retracted from his sides, clinging as though grasping for purchase. Riddick sits upright with her legs slung around his hips. One hand wipes over his head to clear away beads of sweat, before both come down to clutch her hips.

"Fuck... Where do you want it, sweetheart?" He punctuates with a harsh snap of his hips, plunging deep into her.

Hatchet's wrists demurely cross above her head. Her breaths come in short, exhausted puffs as she wriggles against him. Overstimulation is beginning to fray at her edges, but the feeling of being so full of him overrides the discomfort. She can barely think straight enough to give him a proper response— fucked thoroughly out of her mind.

"Richard—" She groans low in her throat. He's practically rearranging her guts. Tears prick at her eyes. "Fuck. Inside. Please, just— ugh, inside."

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Sounds good to me, baby." She doesn't have to open her eyes to know the smug, cocky, sexy bastard is grinning. "Nngh, fuck."

Riddick's head tilts back, shuddering violently. He groans loud and holds her steady with his fingers dug into her hips. She feels his hot release spill into her, coating her insides as he ceases his relentless pounding. She's overly sensitive from the intensity of her own orgasm, so his sudden stillness comes as a relief for her tender parts. His chest heaves, fingers twitching.

After an extended moment of basking in the bliss of his finish, Riddick slumps forward. While he's careful not to crush the woman, he does rest a bit of his weight atop her. Sweat-slicked skin meets sweat-slicked skin as they recover together, lounging in the afterglow. He remains partially sheathed within her, allowing a minimal amount of his seed to trickle out around his length.

Amidst tenderly petting Riddick's back, Hatchet nearly gets lost to the grips of sleep. That is, at least until his rumbling voice stirs her again.

"I think you needed that." He noses her throat, inhaling deeply. She cants her hips without thinking, then grunts softly at the feeling of him still buried within her.

"Oh?" she chuckles quietly, "Is that right?"

She smoothes her palm over the back of his head, then traces her fingertips up and down his neck and shoulders. He hums against her clammy, flushed skin. Sentimentally isn't even remotely his forte, but this intimacy feels surprisingly good. Odd and unfamiliar, but pleasant. He feels safe to relax in her hold, resting a little bit more of his weight against her capable form.

"Yep. You're a little uptight."

Briefly pressing his lips to the bite-shaped bruises on her shoulder, he lifts his head. She cracks an eye open to peer at him, then sighs wistfully. He really does have a beautiful face. She caresses his cheek.

"And hey, would you look at that. We fit." He grins wide and smug and raises a brow, referring back to the conversation which started this whole affair.

Hatchet drops her head to the cot and closes her eyes again, laughing heartily. "Fuck you, Richard."

#second time ever writing smut and I think it melted my brain #this is way too long to read on tumblr just go to ao3 lmao #pitch black 2000 #chronicles of riddick #richard b riddick #richard b riddick x oc #richard b riddick x reader #goldfinch writes

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writingkeepsmewhole · 3 months

Text

Stay In The Light

This is part 9 of Snow In The Dark. I hope you like it :)

Fic Summary: Snow has never known who she was. Being raised in the streets made her strong but lonely. That changed when she met Jack them becoming as close as sisters. She thought she found her family. That all changes when she crashes on a planet with only one rule. Stay in the light.

Part Summary: Snow learns who her true friends are.

Riddick x OC Snow

Warnings: Language. Mention of deaths.

Let me know if you want to be tagged :P : @here4thespice @amarokofficial @backseat-serenade-dizzyhurricane @pinkcrystal44 @goblingirlsarah @shelbyteller @classyunknownlover @sparklingnightfox @murphy3691 @vvs-dlxodyd @goblingirlsarah

The next half an hour is spent rushing to get everything that makes light and putting it on a makeshift sled.

All of us join together only speaking when we have to. My heart pounded in my chest telling me how worried I was.

Of course I was. I was trapped on a planet with things that wanted to eat me and really no dependable way to defend myself.

I couldn’t help but worry about myself, worry about Jack. She was helping just as anyone else, her being brave and acting like she was fine.

I hate to admit she reminded me a lot of myself at that age. Always trying to fight to keep yourself alive. She was scared I was as well.

We were all scared. The only one of us that didn’t seem to be was Riddick. Him walking around the ship telling us all what to do like he knew exactly how this night was going to play out.

The thing is I knew he was right.

“I’ll be running about ten paces ahead.” He says, Carylon following behind him while I sat next to Paris making cocktails.

“I want light on my back but not on my eyes.” He says, holding his hand up to block the light as he walks past Paris holding the cutting torch.

“And check your cuts. These bad boys know our blood now.” He says, his eyes meeting mine.

I had a busted lip. Is that what he meant?

Looking over at Jack I see her frozen looking up at him with fear on her face. My stomach drops, oh no running through my head.

Standing up I ignore Paris asking me where I’m going. Dusting my hands off I walk over to her and crouch down in front of her, her snapping back to work.

“Everything okay?” I whisper, helping her roll up the cord of light.

Her worried eyes meet mine, her shaking her head.

“It’s that time?” I whisper again, not wanting anyone to hear us.

She nods, not looking at me.

“I’ll find something.” I say standing up once more.

Using a flash light I found, I ease back into the ship half remembering seeing a first aid kit back there.

I stop hearing footsteps looking over to see Johns standing there.

“Where do you think you're going?” He asks, his gun pointed in my direction.

“To go pee, you wanna watch?” I ask glaring at him.

He flushed with embarrassment, and took a step back.

“Thought so.” I say, moving away from him.

Taking a breath I shine the light around in the darkness almost jumping out of my skin when the shine of eyes flash for just a second.

Without thinking I move closer to him, encasing us in darkness besides my flashlight. Keeping it aimed at the floor, I stop when I reach him.

The primal smell of him wrapping around me makes my stomach tighten. I take a breath, feeling his fingertips brush over my hand as he clicks the light off.

I open my mouth to say something, Riddick’s large hand coming up to cover it stopping me.

I try to ignore my racing heart or the urge to throw myself at him. I clench my fist as best I can, feeling Riddick bend down so our noses almost touch. I could feel his eyes looking deep in mine.

His arm wraps around my waist pulling me closer to him, making me bend into him as he leans over me.

If I could bite my lip I would, all thoughts of what I was doing back here are out the window. The only thing present is the bubble me and Riddick has created. Despite the darkness around us my eyes flutter close. The heat and pressure of him wrapped around me making me want to melt.

Dropping his hand from my mouth he places it on my back. Him dipping himself lower to run his nose over my neck makes me shiver.

My eyes snap open when I hear a sound, expecting a monster to come flying our way. I blush when I realize it came from me.

A low rumble leaving my chest or was it my throat it sounded almost like a purr. Blushing, I pull away from him and shake my head.

“I need to go.” I say, stepping back.

Feeling my foot hit something I don’t have time to react before I trip over whatever it was. My arms are flying out to grab anything to stop myself. Strong arms wrapping around me once again. Riddick kept me from falling.

“Sorry.” I say pushing my hair behind my ear from being nervous.

“I really should go. We don’t have a lot of time.” I say, not moving, Riddick’s arms comfortable around me.

I hear a familiar rumble of him humming an agreement, him letting go of me and taking a step back.

“Thank you.” I say, starting to turn around. Stopping when I realize I dropped my flashlight.

“It’s broken.” Riddick says, him seeing what I was doing.

“Great. I was looking for something.” I say more to myself than him.

“I’ll never find it now.”

I blush when I feel his large hand wrap around my wrist. Him pulling me behind him as he walks back towards the others. Back towards the light.

As soon as we reach the glow of the light both of us are still half covered in shadows Riddick’s touch leaves mine.

Him lifting a box in the air. It is clearly a first aid kit.

“Can you read minds?” I ask, taking it gently from him, a smirk dancing along his lips but quickly disappearing.

“We need to get going.”

“I’ll be ready in five.” I say, earning a slow nod.

Slipping on his goggles he heads back towards the others, I right behind him.

After we get everything ready. Including me helping Jack with her problem we head towards the door ready to face the beasts outside. Riddick pushing it open the weird sounds of them filling the air.

“Are we actually going to do this?” Paris asks, holding the cutting torch up.

“Did you have any better plans?” I ask, ignoring the glares I get from the others.

“We stay together, we keep the light burning.” Carolyn says sternly.

“That’s all we gotta do to live through this thing.” She says looking around at all of us. Her leaving us to go get Johns.

I stand by the door, next to Riddick, anxiously ready to get off this planet.

I don’t bother saying anything hearing Johns talk just over our heads.

“You give him the cells and the ship and he’ll leave you all out there to die.” Johns says, making me clench my jaw.

Johns seemed like he was only looking out for himself.

“He’ll leave all of you.” He says.

Seeing Riddick’s jaw jump I look over at him, him looking dead ahead.

“And they call you the criminal.” I say, him not answering me.

“Just so we’re clear, if he doesn't make it I won’t be sad about it.” I say, hearing them come down the steps not caring if they heard me. The rest gather at the door of the ship.

“Here.” Johns says, handing me some of the glowing cord to wrap around me.

“I’m not putting that on me and being tied to you, no thanks.”

“Everyone needs to pull their weight.”

“And I will, I'll help drag the thing but I’m not being tied to anyone."

“Even if it was him?” He says, jerking his head towards Riddick.

“Knock it off. Just stay close to the sled.” She says, everyone shutting up when Riddick walks up to us handing me a giant glow stick.

Kinda confused. I take it from him and crack it, shaking it up making the bright neon green lighting up the space around me.

“Let's move.” He says

I take a breath and get into position as we all take off jogging out into the darkness.

I try not to think about the sounds around me, just keep my eyes focused on Riddick. On the lights on his back. I kept telling myself follow that and you’ll be fine.

Just had to keep up.

It wasn’t long before the cutting torch used its last bit of fuel. The sounds of the wild animals around us grew louder, as the space around us grew darker.

“Stay close.” Imam says. Paris starts to get antsy. I look at him, looking around, Jack mimicking his panic.

“Just breathe, Jack.” I tell her, her looking at me.

We start walking again pulling the sled with us. My stomach drops when I hear something fall off it.

“Wait.” Jack says, taking the lights off her and starting to grab it.

“Don’t.” I say, going to stop her before it was too late.

In a blink, everything erupts into chaos. The sounds of creatures growing closer, as Johns starts shooting his gun blindly.

I go to get Jack back into the light when Johns spins towards me and fires, a strong rough hand pulling me out of the way before the bullet lands in my face.

I don’t get surprised when I feel myself pressed into a hard chest.

“Shh.” He whispers to me, bringing me to the ground as he squats.

I realize he’s just watching them, to see what’s going to happen. My muscles jerk wanting to get Jack but his hold on me keeps me from moving.

I feel the cool of a blade, him pressing it into his own cheek as he thinks, the back of the makeshift knife touching my neck.

I watch as the whole thing we spent rigging up is ripped from the sled, the glowing blue lights going out.

The only light around me is the green glow stick I tied around my neck with some string and the lights on Riddick’s back.

It didn’t take a genius to realize we were in a bubble of light the others now didn’t have.

I jump as a flash of flames a few feet away goes off, Paris blowing on a lighter, showing at least twenty creatures around him. As soon as the light is gone you hear the whaling of them along with his screams.

With the distraction I watch Carolyn light a flare, the green light brightening the darkness as she lights the few molotovs we have.

I stand up with Riddick, walking over to the group slowly.

“Well it’s good to see you're okay.” Johns says, looking at him.

I rush over to Jack and check on her, her looking up at me with fear. I hug her tightly and kiss her head.

I watch Riddick look out in the distance, where Paris was last seen.

“Do I even wanna know?” Carolyn asks, standing behind him.

“I don’t.” I mumble, holding onto Jack rubbing her arm.

Riddick looks at me then jerks his head to start walking.

I do as he commands us walking after him, us holding bottles of fire.

“Are we getting close?” Jack asks.

“Can we pick up the pace?” Carolyn calls out to Riddick ahead of us.

Johns gets mad as he throws down the strap he was using to pull the sled.

Not wanting to start yelling at him, I speed walk up to Riddick catching up with him.

“They want to go faster.” I say softly to him.

Him grunting in recognition he heard me.

“You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?” Johns asks, walking up to us, standing there.

“We crossed our own tracks.” Carolyn says, making me roll my eyes. Of course we didn't take that long to walk here in the day.

“Why have we circled? Are we lost?” Imam asks.

“Listen.” Riddick says softly.

I do just that, the faint roar of bodies and creatures around us, and even more in our path.

“Canyon ahead. I circled once to buy some time to think.” Riddick says calmly.

“I think we should go now.” Imam

“Oh I don’t know about that.” Riddick says, smirking, cocking his head to the side.

I clench my jaw, catching why he was being sarcastic now. We wouldn’t make it across the Canyon.

“That’s death row up there.” He says speaking my thoughts.

Without thinking I moved closer to him. Needing whatever power that radiated off him to soak into me.

I was brave, or rather stupid enough to get myself into danger but I wasn’t smart enough or rather had the gift of darkvision to get myself out of this mess.

“Especially with the girl bleeding.” He says, making my gut drop.

“Crap.” I say, softly to myself. Johns looking at me, fury lighting up in him.

“Where?” He snaps at me, making my own fury go through me.

“Not her.” Riddick says, calmly getting Johns attention.

“Her.” He says looking at Jack.

Everyone turns to look at Jack, her looking around scared and alone. I quickly move over to her, everyone having a light bulb moment.

I’m stopped by a tight grip.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Johns and Carlyn say in different voices to different people.

Her to Jack comforting her as Jack sinks to the ground.

Johns to me, glaring at me like everything that happened was my fault.

“Did the same thing at her age. It’s not easy being a girl on the streets.” I say glaring up at him.

He yells and jerks away from me storming as far off as he safely could.

“They’ve been nose opened for her since we left.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, they go off blood.”

“Of course they do.” I mumble to myself moving to roll my trying to hold back the part of me that wanted to snap and do anything it took to get out of here alive.

That part of me held down by protecting Jack but she was currently with Carolyn and the presence of Riddick seemed to make the part of me want to unfurl and bloom.

“Look, this is not gonna work.” Carolyn says standing up.

“We’re gonna have to go back.” She says, making me turn to look at her in shock.

“What’d you say?” Johns says.

“You're the one that got us out here in the first place.” He says pointing at her.

I watch them once again turn on each other, I can’t help but wrinkle my brow and cock my head to the side wondering when did people get so weak minded.

It made sense to stick together, keep moving. Do something.

With that thought in mind I turn around, seeing Riddick slowly walking to the ridge of the cannon I go up to stand next to him. Him turning to look at me.

“They're all losing it.”

“Not you?” He asks, softly. His low rumbling voice settled me in a way I needed.

“Not yet.”

He smirks looking down at me. He reaches to pick up my glow stick and look at it.

“Should keep you safe till we get to the ship.”

“We?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

He smirks once again and starts to walk.

I wait for a moment to follow, falling between him and the group.

When Johns joined Riddick I knew something was up. I was just outta ear, shot but close enough to catch a few words.

Sacrifice was the word I picked up on, that and when Riddick turned to look at us, his eyes met mine.

Something in them puts my body on alert. Told me to slow down, wait for him. So I did. I slowed my pace a few steps.

When I watched the green flare fly out of John's hands and a shot pop off I knew what was about to happen.

Despite the warning and the yelling of the others behind me, I race forward. I suddenly worried for Riddick so strongly I had to make sure he was alright.

I skid to a stop to watch the two men trying to kill each other. I get there just in time to see Riddick slice Johns’ back open, him falling to the ground groaning.

“You should’ve never taken the chains off Johns.” Riddick yells standing up, just as the flare gose out.

I was thankful for the light around my neck, the sounds of monsters hissing around me, them to dstreacted by the blood to really notice me.

“You were Billy Bad-Ass.” Riddick says from the darkness.

“The chains. The gauge. The badge.” He draws out as Johns stands up him trying to see with the light on the end of his gun.

“I told you to ghost me.” Riddick whispers taunting him.

I swallow the shiver of that act. It's like watching a cat play with a mouse. Johns was done for he just didn’t know it yet.

I jump but don’t scream when I’m spun around by strong arms and pinned to a rock behind me.

The crunching sound of bones behind me is forgotten as I feel the heat and hardness of Riddick being pressed into me.

“Did you enjoy watching?” He asks, his breath fanning my ear.

“Let’s find the others.” I pant out, knowing this wasn’t the time or place despite the want.

He hums but pulls away from me and starts to walk into the darkness. I stick close by keeping up with him, us finding the group quickly them barely moving,

Carolyn screams when she spins to face Riddick standing there.

“Back to the ship huh?” He asks, smiling.

“Just huddle together until the light burns out.”

“Get away from us.” She says backing up, I watch her eyes jump to me then back.

I couldn’t tell if she was scared of me or if she wanted me to come with her.

“Till you can’t see what’s eating you. That the big plan?” He asks them.

“Where's Johns?” Imam asks.

“Which half?” He asks, smirking, the rest of them gasping in shock.

“WHere gonna lose everyone out here.” Jack says.

“Not if we leave. Now before we run out of light.”

“We should have stayed at that ship.” Jack says tuning to look back the direction we came.

“He died fast.” Riddick says, walking past them.

“If we have any choice about it, that's the way we should all go out.” He says stopping to stand next to Jack.

Since I was following him I saw the tears in her eyes.

“Don’t you cry for Johns, don’t you dare.” Riddick says walking past her.

“How are we going to make it?” Jack asks, whimpering up at me.

“We are going to listen to Riddick, we are going to make it to that ship and I’ll find you someplace safe.” I say smiling at her.

She nods hugging me as we start to follow once again.

“Why do you trust him?” Carolyn asks, walking next to me.

“I’m good at reading people. He won’t kill us. We’re not a threat to him.” I say honestly, they look around scared every time something makes a noise.

I keep my eyes ahead focusing on walking.

“He killed Johns.” She says in a way I can’t tell if its a question or a statement, so I shrug hoping that gives her my answer.

“Can you talk to him?”

“About what?” I ask, looking at her.

“I…I don’t know. He’s…”

“Scary?” I offer her a suggestion.

“He doesn't scare you?”

“No.” I say leaving it at that. Quite the opposite I keep thinking about everything but being scared of him. Well maybe I was a little but not in the way everyone else was. My fear stimmed more from if I could survive a night with him.

Riddick was not a beast I was trying to tame. Oh no I knew if we made it off this rock and if something did happen between me and Riddick. I would never be able to turn back.

#snow in the dark #pitch black fanfic #pitch black #chronicles of riddick #riddick #richard b riddick #riddick fanfiction #pitch black riddick #riddick x oc #riddick x you #riddick x reader #riddick imagine #pitch black fic #Stay In The Light

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