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neoplatinum · 19 days

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in sickness and in health - the finale | minatozaki sana

summary: it's time to face the two demons that lurk in the shadows

pairing: heiress!sana x reader

themes: blood, murder, gore, knives, kidnapping, assassins, katanas, arranged marriage au, fluff, angst, tension, lots of elitism, conglomerate power-hungry side characters, implied sex, misamo!

wc: 7.2k

(series masterlist)

index finger tracing along the scarred name, you stare into the open garden. the sound of a bamboo fountain trickling water, light sounds of wind passing by, hitting the wind chimes in the distance.

the warm air making your forehead sweat, there’s an unsettling feeling in your chest. a feeling you haven’t been able to put at ease for months. waking up from dreams of the abe brother’s killing your family.

after the abe ball, you took it upon yourself to do intensive research on their family clan. the history and intertwining of the two families like twin snakes. every generation there’s been an increasing tension between the minatozakis and the abes.

sana’s mother was married into the minatozaki family, much like you. a woman with a strong vision for the family, taking the power in stride. increasing the stretch of the power across industries, a move in which made the abes unhappy. there’s always been territory boundaries, unmoving and untouched for decades, no one crosses it.

sana’s mother crossed it.

taking over minor territories of the abe clan in japan: a means of expansion. one that the abe’s didn’t take lightly too. the abes took it upon themselves to kill momo and mina’s father.

a clear sign of distaste for the minatozakis, nearly sparking war between the two conglomerate powers.

which was why sana was set to marry kaito abe. a negotiation of peace and a possible united front against the smaller clans who were itching to take over whichever was killed off.

sometimes you stare at her, eyes just capturing her, wondering about the woman that you now devoted your every breath to.

there’s a shift, ever since the ball, she’s gone out less. more need to be around haruto and hanako. even spending days with you in office. she delivered an armchair into your office, to be placed near you while you work.

“it’s getting windy, let’s head back inside.” sana taps you, you take one final look over the garden before picking up a giggling hanako. grabbing at your ears and pulling at it.

haruto runs ahead, feet taking off ever since he found his own speed. running down bridges of the minatozaki estate.

his little feet lead him in front of sana’s mother. her eyes warm and inviting as she crouches down to pick him up. his grabby hands picking at the flower tucked in her breast pocket.

she looks so different like this. a woman who can kill as easily as she breathes.

but she’s so gentle with haruto and hanako, a real grandmother at times. the way she often visits, dropping everything to babysit them.

but she also comes to talk to you. sometimes you feel like she’s been watching you, the way you now try to take in her footsteps. to take over the family name, one that you didn’t want to bear in the first place.

that’s all this was supposed to be, a convenient enough marriage that was backed by the minatozaki power. you get to expand your business and lead your father’s, but now you stand, as a pawn.

likely the next leader of the clan.

hushed conversations in your office, her plans for the clan, molding you into another her. a vision she has long wanted, one that she didn’t want to force upon sana. but seeing your ambitious streak with your business, she knows you have the strength.

you just wonder if you can live up to the expectations.

“what do you make of the abe clan?”

“kaito and kenji. vicious, brutal, psychotic, narcissistic.” “right, what else?” she continues to take light sips of her sencha. you bought her favorite kind.

“birds, sana told me about killer birds.” and she nods. the abe’s are like crows, hiding amongst the shadows, swarming together for the kill. it’s so obvious why they chose killer crows.

those glossy beady black eyes, always monitoring.

like a 24/7 surveillance system.

“what about their vulnerabilities?”

you sit and think about the brothers, both so obsessed with murder and blood. hands probably holding the blood of ten of thousands of cronies.

you learnt of the aftermath of the watanabe, being dissolved like they never existed. their territories and power being absorbed by smaller groups clans. the whole family house being burnt to the ground.

it was a horrifying sight on the news, covered up under the guise of an electrical fire.

“i’m not sure.” sana’s mother stares at you, an eyebrow raised.

“who’s at the top?” she asks. setting down the cup of tea.

there’s no one at the top, that seat has been vacant for years. following the sudden death of their father, both brothers have been leading the clan.

some underground bosses have speculated that the brothers killed their own father. sent him to early retirement for the top seat.

you can’t tell if it’s true, or worse, who did it.

“it’s just the two brothers.” you comment.

“two leaders, as brothers. a clan of that size and prestige is unheard of, i think they’ll kill each other before this year ends.” she sits backwards, leaning against the cushion.

“likely, they’re both too greedy.” you also sit back, thinking about the two brothers. the horrors that happened that night, their eyes filled with pleasure at the killings.

delight flowing through them at the attention.

that night you returned from the abe ball, you had to hold sana, her just sobbing into your chest. making you bring haruto and hanako into the bedroom.

her hands shaking as she held haruto and hanako. giving them little kisses as she hugged them close.

you hope to never see her so distraught again.

“do you know why you were chosen, to marry sana?” sana’s mother stands up, grabbing a folder from her drawing. unraveling the string, and taking out the contents.

“no, i don't.”

“you and sana grew up around each other. i had always known your father, he used to be an associate of the minatozakis. he was too greedy and unstable, and i always assumed that he would never amount to much. but you, you were different.”

she starts showing you photos of you by your father’s side. small and young, without a clue in the world, just anger.

anger for something that was truly yours, one that wasn’t from your father.

“attended the same law school as sana, but you took your work seriously. devoting years to your business, i always kept tabs on you.”

she says, showing pictures of you during law school, in the background of sana’s photos. always there in the frame, just barely noticeable.

“all the heirs were power hungry, but they didn’t have a driving force. nothing to prove, all handed luxuries on a golden spoon.”

“you worked for your place in the world, and that i can admire. you remind me of my young self. when i married sana’s father, i acted much like you did. dismissive towards the minatozakis, until i had sana. she was the most precious thing to me, someone i had to protect.”

she says, handing you photos of a young sana, in her pretty dress and fake tiara. you smile at the sight, you remember often seeing her dressed up as a princess.

“i knew when i chose you, that you’d be loyal to sana, you have honor and duty in you, you can’t learn that. but this family and the clan, all of that you can learn.”

she says pointing around the room, and you think of how much you’ve changed. taking the leading stance on propelling the power of the clan.

“i understand.” you say, taking a look at all the photos laid out, you at different points of your life. a whole different you that wanted nothing to do with the minatozakis or any clan for the matter.

“when kazuki abe murdered mamoru, we assumed that they were going to kill off the rest of the minatozakis. but then we negotiated that sana would marry kaito.” she says pointing to a marriage contract. you stare at it, the wild lines of kaito’s signature.

“but then kazuki died suddenly, of a heart attack, they said. kaito was scrambling for the marriage. wanted to marry sana immediately, move up the marriage.”

“i told them that sana was set to marry someone else, this was a chance to change her fate.” she says, thinking back to when you were delivered a marriage contract.

“they lost their minds, swearing up and down that they were going to kill us for breaking the negotiations. but they had no leader, their father was dead, and they didn’t know how to wield the abe power. foolish little boys in dressed up suits.”

you nod.

“but now, i see kazuki in them both, ruthless and killer minded. that’s all they care about, killing those that stand in their way. i don’t even think kaito cared about marrying sana, was more concerned that she defied the negotiation.”

of course that’s where their priorities lied.

“do you understand now?”

“yes, mrs. minatozaki.”

“none of that, call me mom, you’re as much of my child as sana is.” she says, standing up, grabbing her cup of tea with her. you stand up as well.

“oh also, sana chose you because she thought you were captivating. her words, not mine.” and then she leaves with a grin.

“go go go!” little haruto points at the kite in your hand, the wind blowing your hair back. he jumps and claps as you run around the field, letting the koinobori kite fly into the sky.

the orange and red fish flying in the sky.

his laughs filling the air as the fish continues to weave through the sky. moving across the field as more string unravels from your kite.

“you having fun?” sana shouts as she walks up to you, hanako in her arms as she reaches out towards you. pulling your daughter into your arms.

“mhm, haruto is really happy.” he continues to run across the field, chasing the kite closely.

“she’s getting bigger.” you comment, bouncing hanako on your hip. handing the kite to sana. the fish flying up high. she stares at the fish in amazement, whining to reach out for it, trying to get out of your arms.

“isn't she? she might have my eyes.” sana comments, moving the kite to the other side, haruto cheering as he runs towards the other end of the field. you think they look like sana's too. ones that you used to look at as kids.

“what did you and my mom talk about.”

“talking about the abes. i learned why she chose me to marry you.” you say, trying your best to keep hanako in your arms. “didn’t know you had the hots for me even then.” you smirk.

“oh you wish!” she says, a light pink dusting on her cheeks.

“i think you said i was ‘captivating’ or am i wrong?” you laugh as sana refuses to look at you. too busy trying to wipe the smile off her face.

“you’ve gotten so cheeky lately.” you just smile at her, giving her a kiss. and you’re back to watching haruto running across the field.

you continue to sink into the water, letting the water move you around a bit. taking deep breaths as you dump more water across your arms. the large stones forming a barrier from the outside. lately you’ve been finding yourself more lost in your thoughts, thinking about how to best move forward.

what is your purpose now as a minatozaki?

without a doubt, you want to raise haruto and hanako properly, not letting them see the dark side of this family. they deserved a healthy childhood, one in which you and sana will foster their future. no matter what they decide.

but what about the other threats, smaller clans all itching to get a piece of the empire. you think about sana’s mother, how strong willed that woman is. wielding the entire empire in her hands, and expanding it to what it is now.

“what are you thinking about?” sana walks across the wooden boards, just to the edge of the spring. holding out her hand, you hold yours up as she takes a dip, her feet hitting the water and sitting next to you. you give her hand a kiss, before sitting closer to her.

“how lucky i am to marry you.” you say earnestly. days of the past before sana were filled with work and sleep. you rarely enjoyed yourself then. head down in paperwork after paperwork. now you get to experience life with the most beautiful woman in your life, along with two lovely kids.

“i feel the same.” she says, grabbing your hand again, tracing along the knuckles. she stills for a second before continuing, “you know how i was supposed to marry kaito?”

you nod, feeling a sharp distaste just at the name.

“i never loved him, and i knew i couldn’t be his wife. he would have killed me at some point, i think after mother dies.” his willingness to usurp the minatozakis is obvious, he would’ve killed the entire family if it meant being able to absorb the power that the minatozakis had.

“so i’m glad that you agreed to marry me.” she says, leaving feather-light touches across your palm. you kiss her forehead. letting her lean across your shoulder.

“me too darling.”

she gets up, pulling her hair off to the side. exposing her back. a long winding gorgeous blue and gold dragon across it. the tail winding down her spine and the tail ending near her tailbone. a full back piece, coloring her back in vibrancy. red clouds surrounding the dragon, wrapping in the curve of her back.

you trail your finger down the body of the dragon, feeling her shudder at the sensation. it’s a beautiful piece, adorning her back. with her gorgeous figure, you can’t help but admire her. everything that sana is and will be, you love every aspect.

“you’ve always liked this piece so much.” she comments, as you lift your finger. she turns around, pulling herself onto your lap. legs laid against yours.

“because you are gorgeous sana.” grabbing her lightly by the neck and pulling her in for a kiss. naturally, she lays her arms on your shoulder. “my gorgeous gorgeous girl.”

“yours.”

- -

“repeat that for me.” you stand up, watching sana’s mother continue to sit at her desk. pacing a bit as she continues to read down from the reports.

“the abe’s are trying to stage a coup.” she comments, reading the written report. “sent assassins to kill momo and mina, ‘finishing what they started’ they said.” you begin to bite your nail, they’re making moves now. “sent over a hundred of their foot soldiers to their sleeping quarters. momo and mina tore them all apart, but they’re recovering now, heavy injuries.”

you look at the pictures, bruised ribs, cuts along their arms and torsos. momo looks more bandaged from the sight of the photos. both of them sleeping in the minatozaki private hospital.

“you think they’ll come for us next?” you take a step away from the desk, thinking about sana. this is the last thing she needs, bad dreams of the abe brothers plaguing both your minds. now this threat is far more present, they intend to finish off killing off momo and mina, after the abe’s killed their father: mamoru minatozaki.

“yes.” she says, continuing to examine the report, reading down the lines. attacks made dead in the night, but momo and mina’s alert senses pulled them out of their sleep early enough for them to grab weapons to defend themselves. “likely soon.”

you let out a sigh, it seems the darkness is looming closer. some days when you’re outside you spot crows along tree branches, those same beady eyes from the abe manor. all ready to dive and kill at a moments notice. perhaps the abe’s have been monitoring your behavior as well.

“be prepared, the next line of minatozakis all depends on you.” sana’s mother stands up, eyes a little harder than usual as she exits her office. you look back at the photos of momo’s injuries. the bruises, the black eye, the gash along her forehead. mina got off a little easier, she’s more evasive than momo, but she looks pretty beat up too, leg in a cast.

“you look like shit momo.” you stare at her body, the bruising has faded a bit, leaving a yellow-ish green color along her ribs. the low sound of the machines running in the background. mina gave you a weak wave as she continues to read her book.

“i still look better than you, dipshit.” you grin, momo having enough energy to still insult you means she’s still herself. and for that you are grateful. you place the fruit basket onto her bedside table.

“you still doing the exercises i taught you?” she says, pushing herself up with some difficulty. you pull the pillow up to support her back as she leans against the wall.

you nod, that’s all you’ve been doing lately. training for hours, that you completely lose track of time. sometimes sana scolds you for not picking up her calls, walking into the weight room herself to take off your headphones. training for what, you aren’t even sure. maybe the looming threat of the abe’s has made you paranoid.

“momo, i came to ask you about the abe’s.” mina puts her book down gently, tabbing it before closing it. and momo crosses her arms. both of them staring at you.

“what do you want to know?”

“what happened that night? i want to know from the source.” you explain.

momo lets out a sigh while mina stares outside the window.

“they sent assassins, it was an open-contract just for that night, whoever takes blood gets the pool of money. meaning any assassin could take on the job, they wanted us both dead. didn’t matter how. so roughly 100 assassins or so, all swarming our house, they all came.” she explains.

“many of these assassin we both know personally, i think the abe’s weren’t serious about wanting us dead. i think this was just a warning to sana’s mother. that they’re coming for her.” momo says, and mina nods lightly.

“the abe’s are killers, they would never send assassins as proxies if they actually wanted us dead.” mina explains. the abe brothers are known for keeping a public record of every person they have killed, a competition to see which brother has a higher kill count.

“doesn’t mean that this was any easier though.” momo says as she tries to rotate her shoulders. you nod, the abe’s are psychotic killers and calculating while at it.

“the abe’s only kill with their knives, it’s like an extension for their bodies. it’s how they were trained, one blade for the rest of their lives. all the abe’s have to use that same knife to take their own life, or else their death is considered shameful. they won’t get an abe burial if they let anything else kill them.” mina says with finality.

sana has been pacing like crazy the past few days, her uneasiness continuing to spread through to you. she’s been so anxious since momo and mina nearly got killed.

some days she’ll stay in the nursery for hours, just spending time with haruto and hanako. or if they’re asleep, she’ll visit momo and mina in the private hospital. you can see how she’s losing sleep over this, eyes wide as she explains how scared she is that everyone will die in front of her eyes. much like what happened to the watanabes.

you don’t even know how to console her at times, just letting her tears continue to stain your clothes as she cries. often coming back from the hospital with hollow eyes.

you’ve stepped up security, placing more security measures around the manor, cameras, guards, even sensors. anything that’ll give you the upperhand against these vicious brothers.

but there’s been radio-silence, nothing to report.

and that makes you antsy, you feel like they’re plotting their next attack against your family but like a lost detective, there’s no conclusive evidence. forced to feel like this threat is a phantom, that it doesn’t actually exist at all.

sana’s mother has taken it upon herself to visit often for her grandkids, a second set of eyes that’ll be ready to jump at the scene. there’s still this trained calmness in her, one that won’t act rashly when provoked. she’s been through hell and back for this clan, and she won’t let these brothers provoke her.

“so they stopped sending you sunflowers?” sana asks as you stare at yesterday’s flowers. it’s a bit strange, for the past month, the flowers always arrive exactly at noon, no earlier, and no later.

it’s also a strange flower to gift.

“yeah, just today.” there’s never a post card or anything, but with how work has been booming you’re sure it’s just a pleased shareholder expressing their happiness. sana continues to examine the flowers, eyeing them closely, checking the vase for anything special.

“do you even like sunflowers?” she asks.

“no, not really, which is why i’m confused.” you explain, also examining the flower. the yellow petals bloomed around the disk florets. you’ve been asking shoko to figure out who the sender is, but the flower delivery is always anonymous.

sana nods, as she sits down near you, pulling out a magazine. you continue to thumb through the financial report you’ve been sent. great projections for the third quarter.

then shoko runs into the room.

“emi just called, they took haruto and hanako.” shoko shoves the phone forward, you take it out of your hand, putting it against your ear.

“emi, emi, can you hear me?” you shout into the phone, your blood pressure rising.

“they took them!” emi’s anxious voice squeaks through the speakers, her frantic voice as you hear footsteps all in the back. sana’s by your side, staring at the phone as her eyes go dark.

“who’s they?” you ask, grabbing your stuff, as shoko keeps the door open. you and sana take off, running down the hallway towards the elevator. background noise continuing to playthrough the speakerphone. you and sana keep sharing looks of panic, you can feel her shaking.

“the abe’s, the abe’s took them. both the brothers are here.” emi continues to speak, her voice getting quieter and quieter. you grab sana’s hand as you both race down the stairwell. rushing into the parking lot, handing sana the phone as you both take off.

“emi, do you know where they took them?” sana’s voice is on the verge of sobbing, tears flowing down her face. she continues to shake in the passenger seat, you offer your hand, as you speed out of the garage, and take the shortest road towards the manor.

“i-i don’t know miss sana.” emi’s voice cuts off and then you hear a scream, nearly stopping the car. your ears listening to the scream of emi, and then it goes silent. sana’s gripping on your hand the tightest she ever has.

then there’s a crackle before a voice comes through.

“hello darling, missed me?” the voice of kaito abe, directly reverberating around the car. sana squeezes your hand. you focus on driving as fast as you can, weaving through cars and traffic, all aimed at reaching towards your kids.

“kaito, you took my kids!” she shouts into the phone.

“oh don’t be like that darling, you know i would never actually kill them. such precious little things.” his laughter ringing out, him placing the phone directly at your kids’ mouths. their wails and cries coming through the phone.

“now, let’s get to the fun part!” his laughter coming back, you’re nearing the house. “come to us! we’ll be waiting.”

sana’s crying, her tears rolling off the phone screen, and you stop hearing anything, the ringing sound in your ears. your blood running through you like a waterfall. the thumping of your chest clambering out of your body, a desperate need to calm down.

the adrenaline that rushes through you, you press the gas pedal harder, the thought of losing your kids killing any other thought that dares to sprout within your mind.

“before i forget! i left little gifts for you! sunflowers, very fitting, since hanako means flower child and haruto means sun. i thought you would figure it out!” his voice comes back, the ringing continuing to play with his voice.

that fucker is getting what’s coming to him.

then the line hangs up.

you speed into the manor. outside in the lawns are lifeless bodies, all their blood staining the grass red. a massacre of minatozaki mercenaries taken out by the hands of the abes. tire marks against the ground.

you hastily put the car in park, throwing the door open as you race to the door, it’s all ransacked. the house, nearly flipped over. deep gashes on the family portrait hung on the wall. both your and sana’s face cut from the painting. sana chases after you, her body still shaking as she examines the room around her. running straight for the nursery.

you stop when you get inside, it’s not flipped over like the rest of the house, but both children are missing. where haruto usually sits to draw, his chair is flipped over. and hanako who likes to stand in her crib is nowhere to be seen. sana hasn’t noticed, but emi’s been murdered. her blood staining the carpet. you cover her eyes, as you lead her outside.

the absolute anger and venom coursing through your body, you reach the door.

you get a ring from your phone.

his voice through your ears, “if you’d like your kids back, come to the abe house alone, let’s talk.” it’s oddly normal, not his usual humored voice. almost like a friend calling. you shudder at how quick he can change himself.

“deal.”

you speed away from the manor.

you roll your car into the abe mansion, seeing the same red walls and dark red crest across the main entrance. a sigh leaving your lips. you weren’t really thinking when he called, and now you’re here, at the doorsteps of the abes. they could kill you right here and that would be it for you.

but your conviction to save your kids is stronger, the need to kill kaito and kenji for messing with your kids.

parking your car in the garage, there’s no guards around. it’s too quiet, almost like something’s wrong here. you can even hear the garden running in the background.

you step into the same tunnel where you once walked through with sana. there’s no line of birds up top, also strange. like a chill up your spine, and soon you arrive inside the main hall. the same hall that was the death place of the watanabes. it’s completely empty, the decorations are still around. but without the guests, it’s just a giant room filled with war artifacts/

you keep walking through the hallways, until you reach a smaller room, much smaller. with it’s door open. and inside you can hear some light music playing. the sight of kaito and kenji abe sitting in two chairs, no guards around either.

just them two and behind them your kids. little haruto and hanako hugging each other in the corner. haruto’s fearful eyes as he sees you, running towards you with tears in his eyes.

you rush to pick him up, while the two brothers eye you. unmoving as you grab hanako as well. placing them behind you. staring at them two. their hands spinning their twin tantos in their hands. you don’t say anything, rubbing hanako’s hair lightly as you set her down behind you.

“take a seat.” you sit down across from the brothers. both of them adorning their family crest, kaito’s lips are curled into a smile, while kenji has a bored look on his face.

“why did you take my kids?” you ask, continuing to keep hanako in your arms. rocking her slightly, while haruto peers from behind the chair. still scared out of his mind.

“just for fun!” kaito says as he offers a lollipop to hanako, you push it away. watching the way he laughs out in amusement.

“you minatozakis are always so stuck up.” he says, placing the lollipop down on his desk. kenji continues to flip the tanto in his hand. you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. it’s still too quiet, where is everyone.

“i wanted to meet my replacement in person.” kaito explains. “needed to see sana’s plaything in person.”

kenji rolls his eyes. you continue to let your eyes drift to and from the two brothers, attune to each subtle movement. “well i’m here now, what do you want from me?”

“i want you to beg, beg for your life.” he says, knife pointed at your head. you look around you, any sign of escape. the door’s still open for some reason. you stare at him, body unmoving in the chair. hands cupped around hanako’s ears. she sinks her head into your chest, completely unmoving.

“beg?” you ask.

“yes, beg for your life! you minatozakis always just take what you want. took away from my father’s empire, that silly old lady. so my father killed one of yours.” he says, pointing to a plaque.

engraved towards the middle is ‘mamoru minatozaki’, a list on names stretching down the plaque. all of them kills by the abes, when and who.

it’s sickening to see.

“so beg, beg for forgiveness, beg for salvation, beg for escape. because you just walked into the abe mansion like a fool.” kaito stands up, his knife back towards you, you place hanako into haruto’s arms.

his eyes filled with tears as he begs for you to hold him. you give them both forehead kisses as he cries with his sister in his arms.

you beg that they don’t see what you do.

you stand back up, slipping the tanto from your waistband. unsheathing it and rolling it in your hands. taking off the blazer you had on, and rolling your sleeves up.

“oh a branded one too!” kaito laughs out pointing at your forearm, you pay him no mind as he continues to laugh. “you’ve got some fight in you?”

you just nod, getting into a defensive stance, keeping your left fist leveled. as he advances forward. kenji’s still sat playing with the knife in his hand. marveling the sharp edge, while kaito’s got bloodlust painted all over his face.

he advances forward, faking a stab at your left side, the feint doesn’t bother you one bit, using the leverage to stab at his left side as well. letting your power move with your body, nearly cutting into his jacket. to which he claps at the sight, a strange man he is.

“keep going, keep going!” he exclaims, clearly getting excitement from the taunts that you are exhibiting. you begin circling him, clearly he’s excited, letting the stabs continue. you continue to flip the dagger in your hand, he lands a slash against your cheek and against your shoulder.

kenji hasn’t even moved an inch, his finger still grazing along the edge. you feel your blood pump faster, clenching your jaw as you grip the blade harder. letting a charged attack aiming for his neck, and at the last second letting the blade slice down his body.

he cheers unexpectedly, clapping with his hands. you continue to let your eyes move from him and his brother. confused with the lack of action from kenji.

“you know how to fight! i like when my prey fight back, it’s more fun that way.” he says, changing his smile from amusement to pleasure-filled. his stance getting lower, you feel yourself getting nervous. you don’t know what he’s trained in before.

he nearly lunges at you, an unexpected speed, you dodge the attack with your arms, his knife digging into your skin. and then he pulls it back out. eyes ablaze as he continues to try and aim for your head. you narrowly dodge each attack, and with each attack, he gets faster and faster.

you let him stab his knife into your shoulder, as you stab the knife deep into his stomach. staring at him centimeters away. the way his eyes roll at the pain, he’s a masochist. entertained by his own pain, and others. you let the knife continue to sink into him being pulling it back out.

the blood pooling from his shirt, dripping onto the ground. his knife stuck into your shoulder. he grabs a longer blade off a shelf, you stumble backwards a bit. the pain of the shoulder making you hold onto his blade. better to keep it in, than to let it bleed out.

his eyes gleaming with joy as he wields a katana now in hand, you stare at it, watching the way he moves his grip, adjusting it. all the while kenji steps near him, eyes squinted as he watches his brother wield a katana.

you heave a bit, your left shoulder feeling weak from the knife lodged within. you back up a bit as they both share a look, both their eyes wild, but for different reason.

you put your right arm up, readying yourself for an attack from them both,

but then it turns into a bloodfest.

kenji, in a quick rotating turn, grabs the katana straight from kaito’s hands and stabs the long katana into his brother. cutting through him in the chest. his brother’s eyes go wide.

“you, you, you!” kaito’s hands fly towards the katana trying to pull it out, kenji only stabs it into his body further.

“any last words brother?” kenji lets out a little smile, as kaito falls backward his hand outreached towards kenji, blood gurgling in his mouth. his body going limp on the floor.

kenji then he turns to you.

“thank you for that, let’s let the real fun begin.” he says, pulling the katana out of his brother’s now lifeless body. all the while you’re trying to make sure that none of your kids are seeing this brutal scene, you can hear their small cries.

he crosses the room in a few steps, trying with all his force to slam the katana over your head, you hold with everything in you against it, fighting it with ever muscle fibers in your body. being brought abruptly with the downwards force of his slash.

knees nearly buckling under the force. he continues to drive the katana deeper, you barely hold on, begging for something to hold.

letting the sweat continue to bead across your forehead, calves and thighs straining in pressure, and at last he lets go. a short knife sent straight at his heart. his eyes nearly bulging out as he grasps onto his shirt, his heart bleeding out. and you collapse onto the ground.

the adrenaline pumping through your body, and all the pain of the fight coming back to feeling. you stare at the ceiling as people start piling in. you roll your head over, the sight of the minatozaki crest upon the back of the people.

one in particular sticks out, sana’s mother. taking the knife from his heart and stabbing into it once more. “i pity you abe boys, killing one of your own.” she says before taking the knife out once more.

“take the kids away.” you put your hand up, and immediately the guards back up. you roll your head the other way, beckoning the kids forward. haruto wailing as he falls atop your body, and little hanako staring straight at you, before joining her brother.

you smile at them both, caressing their faces, giving them kisses as tears fall down your face. they’re okay, they’re safe.

you can feel the exhaustion finally seeping in, continuing to brush their hair out their face. as your eyes roll back, and then you’re out.

your eyes open to the bright light of the hospital room, one that you previously were in for momo and mina. the windows are open, a slight wind blowing against the curtains. a bunch of fruit baskets laying at the table near your feet. clearly you’ve had some visitors.

mouth drier than a desert as you try and grab a glass of water nearby. your whole body hurts, every part of it hurts. you grunt a bit reaching the full glass, getting some needed hydration.

and this searing headache that you can feel isn’t making it any better. you try your best to look around, vision still a bit blurry. then they refocus on a figure in the chair near you.

sana’s here.

you blink a few more times, eyes getting sharper, until you can see her features clearly. it’s a gorgeous sight after nearly being killed. although she looks mad at you, her eyes in fury. the same fury you saw when she found out you had her tailed.

she stares at you, getting up when she notices you’re awake, towering over you.

“you idiot!” she shouts at you. tears in her eyes already, you try your best to move but everything hurts so much.

“sana. please.” you raise your hand, outreached towards her. she storms out of the room, the door slamming open as she rushes outside.

then sana’s mother enters the room. a limping momo trailing behind her. both women rounding the side of the bed that sana was in seconds ago. sana’s mother doesn’t display much emotion, but momo seems rather amused.

“sana’s furious, swore she would kill you if you died to the brothers.” she explains, her hands folded behind her as she stares at your patient monitor, a small smile on her hand. “you did well kid.”

“doesn’t seem like it.” you say, feeling the pain of your left shoulder still burning. a searing pain even as you try and relax. she shakes her head no, momo’s staring at your bandaged body. your injuries much like hers, minus the bruised ribs. to which you have to be thankful for. you think back to the room, how dark it was in their study. the sight of your kids cowering in fear deep in the back corner of the room, their small eyes staring at you in relief when they saw you enter.

you hope they never remember this event, and most of all that they didn’t see anything.

you know that you’ll forever live with this memory, the scars, the bloodshed, the pain. all of it will live through you and hopefully only you. a reason that you went straight for the abe brothers, without giving sana a chance to even follow. you don’t want her to deal with the repercussions of the deaths that were bound to happen. to put ease into her mind, you would shoulder the world for her.

a true testimony of your devotion to sana.

“you did it for sana, didn’t you?”

momo’s words bring you out of your thoughts, and you nod, because it’s true. sana is everything and more, someone that you find yourself leaning on when things get rough. you want her to never experience the sights of the killings. those night terrors were enough to snap you awake, you feel protective of her. wanting her peace to remain for however long she lives.

“she called me and mina up, begging us with her snotty voice to save you.” momo says, a little too serious for your taste. “she begged, sana is not one to beg. she loves you as much as you love her.”

“i know.”

momo rolls her eyes.

“what i’m trying to say is, despite how mad she may be at you, she loves you, even this part of you that wants to shoulder all her burdens.” momo explains. and you listen intently.

“when she told me that you were going to marry her, i always wondered why. but now i know, you mean every word you say. there’s no games with you. in this world, all there is are games, everyone has their motives, their greed, their lust. but you speak from the heart, and that’s all sana wants, someone genuine. their love as obvious as their words.”

you nearly choke up at the words, it’s a feeling that you’ve been thinking about lately. ever since sana’s mother explained why she chose you (sana as well).

“thank you momo.” and with a small nod she leaves the hospital room.

you feel like you haven’t deserved the love that sana gives you, as much as you want to. just not understanding why, but it’s clear, even in this dark and cruel world that you’ve been married into.

you sob openly, just letting the tears of everything that’s been building up in you fall like flowing feelings. all the pain and suffering of being married into this family, the strange stares from outsiders. enduring the rigorous training from momo and mina all in order to become someone strong enough for this family, all those nights you had to hold a crying sana.

“you are an absolute idiot.” you get wheeled outside, sitting in your hospital gown as you get placed next to sana’s bench. there’s tears still in her eyes, and she refuses to look at you.

“i know, i’m sorry.” you respond.

“what if you died? what if they killed you and the kids? what am i supposed to do then?” she exclaims, tears gushing from her eyes. tissues in her hands as she stares at them.

“i, i don’t know. i didn’t think that far. i just knew i had to save them.” you explain, trying your best to not pick at the IV needle.

“i should kill you myself, sending yourself on a suicide mission.” she bites out, an anger you haven’t heard in months. you just nod letting her continue to talk. “i stayed outside, momo holding me back. and then i saw haruto running towards me, tears in his eyes.”

you nod, feeling a deep shame running through your body, hoping that he didn’t see anything.

“he just kept saying you saved him and hanako, i thought you died in there. but you didn’t. you didn’t die in there, and you saved them too.”

“i did what i needed to do.” sana continues to speak over you.

“and i’m frustrated, because it should’ve been us saving them together, but you shouldered all my burdens once again. you took on this marriage which saved me from marrying kaito, and you continue to shoulder my burdens even now.”

“because i love you sana.” you declare. “it isn’t a burden to me because i love you. and i always will sana, until death do us part, i promised to love you forevermore, and i choose you as my partner.” you pull yourself in front of her.

“i want everything with you, even in sickness and in health, all these vows i said during our wedding, i didn’t know it then, but i know it now. i mean every single word!” you cry out.

you stare at her, and her eyes lift up at yours, you wipe the tears off her face. a small smile on her face as she kisses you, even with salty tears rolling down.

a/n: the series is finished! hehehee, i left an easter egg!! message me if u figure it out :P, also thank you to the lovely @d3viant0n3 for helping me move this series forward, forever thankful <3 as well as my moots for listening to my troubles w this fic (forgot to mention!! dragon back tattoo is @cry4mina's idea) LOL and as always, stay safe and stay healthy everyone!

#sana #twice #twice sana #sana twice #sana minatozaki #minatozaki sana #sana x reader #sana x you #kpop imagines #twice x reader #twice x you #neoplatinum

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daosies · 4 months

Text

counting!

4 things yuta loves about you.

okkotsu yuta ♡ gn!reader

warnings: pre-established relationship, smitten yuta, reader orders udon, injuries (blood, gore), reader has heavenly restriction

notes: YUTA NATION ... RISE ... !!!!

Okkotsu Yuta likes the way stars form in your eyes.

He likes the way your irises twinkle, the way you fumble over your words as you struggle to explain your thoughts when talking about something you like. Yuta likes the way you lean a little closer to him, the sound of your voice growing louder as you tell him about the greatest part of the show you’re watching.

Hm, is all Yuta thinks. Maybe I should watch that show too.

“Yuta,” you say, “are you even listening?”

He blinks once, then twice, before offering you a kind nod and a fond smile.

“Of course.”

He swears he’s listening, but his gaze can’t help but trail over the flutter of your lashes and the bridge of your nose. Yuta swears he’s listening, but he finds himself fixated on the glimmer of your pupils, captivated by how you stare directly into his.

His breath hitches.

“I was never into volleyball before,” you continue on with your rant about a particular sports anime. “But wow, it really is a great sport!”

Yuta hums in response. “Really?”

Only when you direct your attention elsewhere does Yuta regain his ability to breathe. He heaves out a sigh, watching you greet the rest of the second years before glancing down at his forearms.

A great sport? he wonders, tracing his finger over some of his faded scars. Would you find him great if he played volleyball? Would your eyes light up with constellations, with entire galaxies, when talking about him too?

Subconsciously, his gaze finds its way back on you. Yuta thinks he is trained to see you, to perceive you. He thinks that, no matter where he is, his eyes will find you, and they will cherish you in the center of his pupils, the windows to his soul.

Yuta thinks that you own these eyes of his, this soul of his.

Toge sits down next to Yuta, and even though the bottom half of his face is covered, Yuta can tell that the boy is looking at him with a knowing expression.

“Tsuna mayo?” he asks. Yuta slumps in his seat.

“Do you think I have a future in volleyball?”

“Okaka.” Toge deadpans.

“Right,” Yuta affirms. “Guess not.”

Once more—as he was made to do—Yuta’s gaze finds your form. He observes how the sun pierces past the windows of the classroom, bathing you in a golden light. He observes how words spill quickly from your lips as Maki and Panda laugh at your jumbled syllables. He observes the way you shift your weight from one leg to the other, giddy with excitement.

Then, you smile. It reaches your eyes, crinkling them slightly, and Yuta feels his heart pounding against his chest. His ribs threaten to break from the sheer force, and he feels himself grinning in return.

“Sujiko.” Of course, nothing slips past Toge’s eyes, and the cursed-speech user merely stares at Yuta with incredulousness.

“It’s nothing,” is all Yuta says. He hides his smile behind the palm of his hand, pretending to glance outside the window and observe the scenery.

As he was made to do, Yuta finds you in the reflection of the window. He always finds you, his eyes are naturally drawn to you, naturally made for you.

His smile grows wider, and his heart threatens to lurch from his chest completely.

Okkotsu Yuta likes the way your smiles reach your eyes.

He likes the way the corner of your eyes crinkle a little, the way you glow. No matter how many times he’s seen it, Yuta’s stomach begins to flutter a little, the beat of his heart suddenly becoming too much to bear as it pounds against his ribs. Every time you smile, Yuta finds himself mirroring you; it’s contagious, really.

“What did the ocean say to the other ocean?” Panda asks. Nobody responds. “Nothing, it just waved!”

Nobody laughs. But Yuta notices the way your lips curl into the slightest of smiles, the way you glance away in order to hide it from Panda, who’s eagerly searching his classmates’ expressions for an ounce of mirth. Yuta notices the way your hand comes up to your face, awkward coughs escaping your lips in an attempt to mask your amusement.

He sees your smile. He sees the way your eyes crinkle, the way your irises glimmer. Yuta sees all of you, and he thinks—knows—that he loves all of you.

“Hah, Yuta found it funny!” Panda exclaims. At some point, Yuta began to smile too. He doesn’t know when it happened, but while he was observing the twinkle of your irises and the curl of your lips, he began to mimic your countenance, your demeanor. At some point, Yuta’s eyes began to glimmer like yours, his smile meeting his eyes as his dark irises crinkle a little.

At some point, Yuta began to act like you. He began to pick up your mannerisms, the habits of yours that he loves most. He integrated them into his being, placing parts of you delicately into his bones, his blood, his very essence. Somewhere along the line, Yuta became a part of you, a mirror of you.

“Right,” he says, letting Panda relish in the glory. Yuta’s gaze—as always—finds you, noticing the way you heave a sigh of relief, grateful that Panda didn’t catch you laughing at his lame joke.

Again, he smiles. It’s the kind of smile that meets his eyes, the kind of smile that makes his eyes shimmer.

It’s the kind of smile that is vaguely, no, utterly reminiscent of yours. It’s the kind of smile that he loves, the kind of smile that he engraved onto both his memory and his face.

Okkotsu Yuta likes your smiles so much, he made it a part of himself.

Tap, tap.

Okkotsu Yuta likes your habit of tapping things whenever you’re nervous.

Tap, tap.

He thinks it’s endearing, the way you have subconscious ticks that nobody else seems to notice. But Yuta was made to perceive you, to observe you, so of course he notices. He notices how the pace speeds up whenever you’re especially anxious, how you sometimes tap your finger against your own leg when there’s no surface nearby.

Yuta wonders if you know how his heart matches that tempo you set, how he accompanies you like a violinist to a piano. He wonders if you know how he was made for you, how his heart beats to the flick of your hand.

Tap, tap. Thump-thump.

“Are you nervous, Yuta?” you ask. The two of you sit side-by-side in the back of Ijichi’s car, heading towards another one of the higher-ups’ missions. This time, the two of you have to exorcise a special grade curse.

“No,” he lies.

You grin. “Right.”

Yuta wonders why old men are forcing high schoolers to do their bidding. He wonders why it has to be you, because Yuta is willing to fight anything any day if it means you’ll be safe. He’s willing to fight a thousand special grade curses all at once if that’s what it takes for you to look at him the way he looks at you, the way he was made to do.

“If you get hurt,” Yuta says, staring directly into your eyes. “You’ll tell me, right?”

Tap, tap. This time, your index finger comes to rap against his arm.

“Yeah.” You look out the window. “And you’ll tell me, too.”

He smiles. “Of course.”

Tap, tap.

Because Yuta trusts you, he doesn’t force you to utter more reassurances. Because Yuta trusts you, he doesn’t egg you on when he sees your gaze becoming distant, looking past him even when you stare right into his eyes. Yuta doesn’t say anything, even though he knows that look in your eyes—the kind of self-sacrificing, heroic look that makes him want to fall in love with you and hate you all at the same time.

Love, because Yuta loves how justice-driven you are. Hate, because Yuta hates how you don’t prioritize yourself. He hates how you don’t see yourself the way he does.

The way he does, through those rose-colored, lovesick lenses of his.

Tap, tap. The next time you tap against a surface, it’s on the handle of his katana. He’s staring down at your battered form on the floor, his lips trembling as his mouth hangs slightly agape. Yuta doesn’t know what to make of himself, he doesn’t know where to put his hands and how to bring you to safety. He doesn’t know where to begin.

Should he call Ijichi? Or should he carry you out of the area? Yuta managed to eliminate the special grade curse, but not without any repercussions. While fighting, he was clumsy and accidentally got hit, causing you to use a lot of your cursed energy on healing him when you should have been healing yourself.

I’m so stupid! he berates himself, his fingers quivering as he attempts to patch up the gash on your side. His heart aches and aches, weeping within the confines of his ribs as he tries his best to ignore the warmth of your blood on his skin, the way it soaks his entire hand even though there shouldn’t be that much, there shouldn’t be any blood at all.

Yuta doesn’t know why you would waste your technique on him, knowing that he has the ability to heal himself. At the same time, however, Yuta knows; he knows you healed him because his own healing is messy and unrefined, because your healing gives an additional curse energy boost. He knows you healed him because it’s in your nature, because that’s the kind of person you are.

“[Name],” Yuta says, his voice wavering as he struggles to face you. His eyes are fixated on your wounds, his palms applying pressure to them as he attempts to heal you with whatever semblance of a reverse curse technique he has. “Please… please tell me how to heal you.”

You have a unique form of Heavenly Restriction that allows you to heal others and yourself. This form of restriction stops others from healing you at all, and any attempt to apply some sort of reverse curse technique will only result in a nullification of cursed energy.

Yuta knows his question is stupid—how can he heal you if that’s in your restriction? Still, he asks. He begs you, urges you, to tell him how to heal you, to tell him how to take care of you, to help you, to save you. Because the blood staining his fingertips is becoming overwhelming, because he hates the sight of you on the floor, bleeding out, waiting. Waiting for Ijichi, waiting for death to take you in its tender embrace.

Yuta doesn’t want death to take you in any embrace, tender or not. And maybe he’s being dramatic, maybe everything will be okay, but to Yuta, it’s not. You being hurt is not okay, you bleeding out is never okay.

Tap, tap.

“It’ll be okay, Yuta.” Even now, it’s you comforting him. It’s you reassuring him, with your gentle taps against his arm, your gaze tender yet determined as you cradle him in the center of your pupils. Yuta likes the way you look at him, the way you say his name, the way you exist with him.

Tap, tap. Again, your fingers lead his heart. Thump-thump. It’s yours. All yours.

He forces a smile. “Yeah.”

With you, Yuta thinks everything will be okay. He feigns ignorance to the way his hands feel warm—too warm—as his pale skin stains vibrant red. He feigns ignorance to the way your eyelids lower, the way your gaze becomes unfocused, the way your taps become softer.

Everything will be okay. You said so.

Tap, tap.

Okkotsu Yuta likes the way he can always predict what you’re going to say.

“Yuta,” you whisper, the end of your pencil coming to poke the boy’s shoulder. “What if we went to karaoke later?”

And a photobooth after, he thinks. “Today?”

“Yeah!” you exclaim, trying to keep your voice low. “And we could go to a photobooth after!”

He smiles. “That sounds good. What should we eat after?” he asks, yet he already knows the answer. Udon, he thinks, you like udon when it’s cold out.

“Udon,” you respond, leaning closer towards him. Yuta’s breath hitches, his hands becoming clammy as his eyes trace over your features. From the bridge of your nose to the curl of your lips, your countenance makes a lover of him, his thoughts, his being belonging wholly to you.

Again and again, Yuta falls in love with you. The flutter of your lashes and the excited tone of your voice (which slurs your syllables, which crinkles your eyes) makes him love you as if it were the first time. The taps of your fingers and the stars in your eyes reminds Yuta of everything that he’s ever hoped for, of everything that is worth the world, of everything that gives him purpose, reason.

When school is over, Yuta lets you drag him by the hand, relishing in the way your fingers fit perfectly around his. Yuta traces the pad of his thumb over your calluses, tenderly massaging them in an attempt to ease the stiffness. Yuta follows you, not caring to look behind him, not caring to ask where you’re taking him.

(It’s not like he needs to, anyway. Yuta knows your favorite places, your favorite streets. He knows your favorite paths and your favorite restaurants. He knows where you’re taking him, but even if he didn’t, he’d let you string him along anyway.)

Yuta likes the sound of your singing voice, even if you hit all the wrong notes. Yuta likes the look of your face in the silly, absurd filters offered by the photobooth. He likes the way you squeeze his hand whenever you tug him to cross the road, the way you swing his arm a little when you walk down the street.

“May I take your order?” a waiter asks.

Kishimen udon, Yuta thinks, his face resting against his palm as he stares at you from across the table. Kishimen udon with narutomaki.

“Kishimen udon with narutomaki,” you reply. You don’t notice the way Yuta’s gaze is fixated on you, the way he hasn’t spared a single glance at the menu since the moment you two arrived. You don’t notice how Yuta’s pupils have your silhouette imprinted on them, the way your figure is etched into his very bones.

(It’s a part of him now. Your image, your smile, your very being is tattooed into Yuta’s bones, carving him in order to become someone like you, to become someone for you.)

“And you, sir?”

Yuta smiles tenderly. It crinkles his eyes and creates stars in his irises. “I’ll have the same thing, thank you.”

From the glimmer in your eyes to the taps of your fingers, Okkotsu Yuta loves you. All of you.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #okkotsu yuuta x reader #okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuta x reader #okkotsu yuuta #jjk x reader #jjk #yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuta okkotsu #jjk okkotsu #yuuta okkotsu x you #yuta

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tadpolesonalgae · 11 days

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On The Wrong Side of History: The Queen of Hybern

Azriel x Hybernian!Reader

synopsis: Reader is one of Hybern’s generals, fighting for her freedom after Prythian turned her back. Born with no magic, she was forced to cultivate a different kind of power, one that could prove deadly to the inhabitants of magic-blooded fae of Prythian. But when she’s captured and thrown into the scarred hands of the Spy-master, which side of history will prevail? Will Hybern’s story be told, or will it be covered up and concealed before the suffering of her people ever makes it to the light.

warnings: miscarriage at the end, war, general suffering and grimness, slight torture(?)

a/n: I had this idea yesterday and wanted to write something so fair warning it’s a little rushed! It also lightly brushes over miscarriage which might be a delicate subject for some so please take care of yourselves 🧡💛

word count: 3,810

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The war is coming, and not a single inhabitant of Hybern will stand by and let the chance for freedom pass. It’s been five-hundred years since you were confined to that island, cut-off from the mainland and left to rot and starve. Now is the time to reclaim the ground you were deprived of. War is coming, and she is starving for revenge. Starving like your people have for centuries, and nothing will stand between you and fighting for your right to life. Not even the baby you know is growing inside of you.

The air is fresh and damp, and you take the time to inhale its freshness before hot blood is spilled, turning the ground to a mushy, fleshy soup. The day is overcast, heavy grey clouds that look like the mould on bread swelling in the sky, ready to start leaking, dripping down into the open fields. Grass stomped into a muddy mush as feet frantically fight for ground, desperate to keep steady before they’re trodden down into the dirt, trampled and crushed beneath the weight of an army.

If you fall, you cannot rise. Not with a writhing mass of violence crowding the land, oozing bloodlust so thick it won’t matter which army you fight for. A body shouldn’t rise from the mud, any attempts to would be met with steel slicing down in a frantic jolt.

You turn from the entrance of your tent, making for the bed, moving slowly, peacefully, to the protective coatings you’ll be wearing in a couple of hours. The leather that will stick and slide over your skin, wet with blood and sweat, hopefully some rain, too. Heat gathers quickly in the midst of battle, and between the stink of gore and the sweltering sweat that greases any soldier’s grip, rain and wind are much appreciated for their gentle touches.

Your nose twitches as a breeze passes through the camp, quiet in the early hours of misty, grey dawn. Even beneath the cover of your tent, the smell of the battlefield can reach you—damp and bloody, contaminating the fresh air you’d been treating yourself to.

Something shifts inside of you, and you glance down at yourself, hesitantly raising your palm to your lower stomach. You only found out about your condition mere weeks ago, but even had you only found out this morning, you would still be here, preparing for your freedom.

The baby won’t survive, anyway. Not with what your body has turned into.

————

“You’re ready for today?”

A wry smile curves your lips, settling deeper into the chair that’s been set to one side of his room, the large bed in the centre already made despite him having risen as recently as yourself. Neither of you have ever particularly been ones for sleeping in, having so much to do at all times of day. “I’ve been ready for the past five hundred years,” you answer, leaning your chin on the heel of your palm.

The King of Hybern reflects your smile—the slightest twist of his lips. “Perhaps I made a mistake sending Amarantha to seize control of Prythian,” he muses, slipping the shirt over his head, pulling his dark, shoulder-length hair free of the collar once it’s on, making to tighten the laces that can be used to close the V of the hem. A note of dissatisfaction slides beneath your skin as his amulet is obscured—a hollow iron circle, his crest welded from the dark metal inset to its centre.

“Perhaps,” you agree lightly, watching as his fingers tighten the ties of his trousers, noting the distinct lack of armour—he’ll be watching over the Cauldron today. “Though in that case she might still be alive,” you murmur quietly, a little smile dancing in your eyes.

“You disgrace her,” he chuckles lowly, pulling the thick coat from his bed, leather on its exterior to keep out the bite of wind or the lick of rain, while lined with a warm fleece. “You trained beside her for a good portion of your life, at least honour her memory.” The King of Hybern shucks on the coat, the hem of leather coming down past his knees, and he adjusts the cuffs before making for the large, wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

“There was little to honour,” you counter, straightening in the chair as you watch him decide on which daggers to hide beneath the coat. “She was brash and brazen at the best of times, too quick to grow comfortable on her throne. And I never liked her bedside manner. She was always too grabby and rough for my liking.”

“She was ambitious,” he counters, strapping a small blade to the interior of the coat, hidden away in a pocket on his left side. He pauses, briefly considering something, then glancing over you, how you’re lazily sprawled across his chair, “though her nails could have been a bit shorter. They were an unpleasant surprise, at times.”

Your lips curve at one corner, sharing a look with him, before he returns to selecting his daggers, settling on one with a jagged, serrated edge, a wicked hook to its tip.

It’s then he turns, blades concealed beneath his coat and he silently walks to you, charcoal eyes glittering as you sit straighter. “How long have you been serving me now?” He asks, pausing at your side, so you have to incline your chin to look at him, baring your throat. “Five centuries? Six?”

“Six and a half,” you reply, “if you’re counting foot soldier duties as serving.”

He smiles a strange smile, glittering teeth showing briefly beneath familiar lips. “Loyalties are rewarded,” he says cryptically, his palm settling beneath your jaw, inclining your chin—it would be easy for him to snap your neck with the slightest snap of his hands. “Have you thought about what you want?”

“It seems greedy to ask for something before I’ve even succeeded at winning this war,” you reply.

“Consider it a show of assurance,” he remarks, “I have no doubt you’ll prove instrumental to Prythian’s ruin. Now, what would you like, upon your victory?”

Your eyes gleam with hunger, and you wonder if it’s at all possible he might not already know what you desire, more than anything. And looking at the way those charcoal eyes of his are gleaming, as if goading you on, urging the words to spill like honey from your velvety tongue—you feel it’s impossible. He knows what your request will be. And he’s practically dragging the desire from your throat, with the grip he has on it.

“Make me your queen.”

———

Darkness pounds at your mind, eyes aching as if the blood vessels are bursting, hot pressure building, ready to splash out through your pupils. The air is cool…cold, skin hypersensitive to the slightest shift in temperature, telling you there’s a layer of sweat over your exterior, alerting you to each swish of air.

Your thigh stings, the laceration taking its time to heal, longer than others of your kind would. The small cuts you’d been given the day before—a few inches long—have scabbed over, no longer in danger of leaking blood, but there’s going to be a definite pucker around each cut. A shiver traces up your spine, an involuntary shudder passing through your lungs as coldness sweeps across your skin, like a winter’s breeze.

Slowly, keeping your breathing as even as possible, you crack an eye open, only to be met with darkness. Hesitantly, the other slides open, and you peek at your surroundings but the dark seems impenetrable, thick and absolutely solid. Your nostrils flare, and the faint smell of ammonia and iron waft up along with the sharp tang you associate with stomach acid, the air itself thick and damp, slightly humid. Fertile and rife, perfect for things to start growing.

Casting your gaze downward, you can spot the stitching that’s covering the split in your right thigh, jaggedly stitched up, and from the looks of it you’re quite glad you weren’t conscious for it. You also notice the grime that’s already begun settling on you, dirt and mud and gore still layering your skin, save for the small perimeter that’s been cleaned around your thigh. The thought of how you must smell is a grim one.

“You’re awake,” a voice observes from the darkness, making your ears twitch.

You keep your mouth tightly sealed, waiting to hear what the observer has to say. Let them speak their part first, before you start making your own moves. Already you can tell this one is different from the previous ones—yesterday’s one had a lighter voice, squeaky and dragging. This one sounds like the first roll of thunder before a storm breaks.

“You’ll forgive me for the haphazard stitching. Healers are needed elsewhere.”

So this one’s to blame for the child’s-quilt on your thigh. It’s more than likely it was done intentionally carelessly, rather than simply poorly—poor stitching could lead to further infection, while careless stitching just might leave a trace of a scar. On a regularly healing body, at least.

Straightening in your chair, you try to pick out where the voice is coming from, but the darkness is so thick, and your eyes have barely had a chance to adjust, and with the faelight bobbing above your head there’s little chance they will anytime soon. Keeping them shut would be the quickest way, but it would be leaving yourself open. More open than you already are, that is, with your arms bound at your back. They haven’t bothered to shackle you to the chair itself today, the ties from yesterday are gone, and you can feel the weight of the stone around your wrists: Gorsian shackles—utterly useless on you.

“What do you want today?” You ask into the darkness, stretching your fingers to keep them awake and ready. It’s already been at least three days, and you suspect whoever has come to visit today isn’t just any old torturer. You can tell from the silence they keep, how undetectable they are despite your honed senses, sharper than most’s. They had to be, for you to survive.

“The same thing anyone might want from a prisoner of war,” the voice replies, ghosting through the room, bouncing about in the darkness so it’s impossible to tell its root. “And what is that?” You ask, following the script, familiar with the direction of the conversation—unaccustomed, however, to be on this side of it. “Information,” the voice replies, and there’s less than a second of detectable presence before your hair is wrapped around a fist and dragged back, your throat exposed as you’re positioned over the back of the chair, making it impossible to swallow. The faelight glares down at you, beaming into your adjusted eyes, and you’re forced to squint as your vision blurs from the sting of the light and the grip on your scalp. Cool steel settles just below your jaw, the tip of a blade spiking into the soft flesh just beneath the hollow of your mouth.

Your teeth grit together, hissing sharply at the roughness of the touch, thigh aching from the tension that shot through your body. A laugh forces its way from your chest, ragged and strained as you peer up into the faelight, pupils tightening to slits in the face of the brightness, “give me something in return. I can’t very well go back empty handed, can I?”

Your captor roughly tugs on your hair, your lip twitching a little from the pain but otherwise unruffled. “You might go back with no hands at all, unless you’re careful.”

“Threats already? You haven’t even told me what you’re after,” you bite out, voice heavy and grim.

A beat passes between you, then the steel is flipped away between deft fingers, removed from your throat in favour of pressing to your sternum—a warning before the cuts begin, gradually skinning you alive until they get what they want. Fury simmers quietly inside of you, but you keep it tucked away. That’ll only come in useful once the pain starts setting in. A fuel to fall back on when food would become a problem. But it’s high time you return to your king. You’ve spent long enough here, all because of a stupid, foolish…

“Would you like to hear something interesting, then? In the name of compromise?” The voice asks, low and rasping, and you sit silently, waiting for what they have to say.

“The one who visited you yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that…each one refused to come back the next day. Insisted there was something wrong with you.” The hand tightens on your hair then releases, the presence vanishing like a flame snuffed out, leaving your skin tingling with awareness. “Once is by chance, twice is a coincidence, but three…three’s a pattern.”

Something hisses past your ear, and you jerk in your seat, not foolish enough to stand. You glare into the darkness, peering deep from beneath your lowered brows, lips turned down in the corners as you try to pick out even the faintest shadow, but they all blend together so seamlessly, like one giant, blank wall. Not a single shape to be found.

Something whispers to your left, then cracks to your right, your pulse beginning to pick up involuntarily form the confusing stimulus, attention split between both directions.

A figure steps into the grey shift in light, silent and menacing as it prowls forward, one military-grade boot in front of the other, and you take in the towering silhouette, the great wings looming in deeper shadow. Your eyes follow the light as it glides up his frame, revealing long legs clad in Illyrian leathers, scarred hands within easy reach of visible weapons, a lean waist and broad chest, the Night Court insignia clear over his heart. Cold, cutting hazel eyes, with a glint you recognise. After having spent so many centuries gazing into eyes like that, it would be strange to not be able to place the intense glint of honed reproach, the look that desires utter eradication of the thing that’s causing suffering.

Calm and deadly, he is your exterminator.

“We’ll start with an easy question,” he says, gaze unfaltering as he meets your own.

“What is it that makes all kinds of magic recoil from you, General?”

A slow smile breaks across your lips, delicately curving in a mocking grin. You should have known this would be his question, that they would have figured something was wrong with you by now—the slowed healing, the way their magic leans back from you, as if trying to scuttle away.

“And you?” You ask, a gleam in your eye. “What’s your title?”

His mask doesn’t shift, not even the slightest hint of emotion in his dark eyes. Just silence. Patient, grating, silence.

“Not even the name of my captor?” You push, smile slipping away, settling back into a wall of ice to match his own—you can play that game, too. “Or are you nobody? You don’t seem like you’re nobody, though.” You angle your chin, shifting in the chair slightly, re-flexing your fingers, testing the gorsian shackles. “You’re clearly important, if you were sent in to investigate after three turned away, and considering the insignia you’re wearing, with those wings…master torturer of the Night Court?”

He inclines his head, “Spymaster. Shadowsinger.”

“And how do your shadows like me, Spymaster?” You murmur, able to guess the answer.

His dark eyes narrow on you almost imperceptibly, then his right hand is wrapping around the hilt of one of his blades, inset with strange markings, as dark as obsidian. The hairs on the nape of your neck rise as he thumbs the blade free, a sharp glint in his eye being the last thing you see of him before he steps away into shadow, falling seamlessly back into the darkness.

“How long had you planned to let this war go on for?” He rasps from the darkness, the question bounding in and out, coming from different sides that make it impossible to track his position. All while he’s free to observe from the shadow. “You ask that like we have control over the nature of war,” you reply neutrally, keeping your gaze sharp, but all it looks the same. If you could find a way to put the faelight out, or to lure him to stand before you… Getting some information first would be preferable, though.

“But maybe we had an idea.”

The sound of steel slicing through air comes from your right, and you instinctively follow the familiar hiss of a blade, body tensing, as if expecting it to come flying out from the darkness.

“You’d have to be confident in a victory to have a timeframe in mind.” His rasp echoes throughout the room you’re kept in, whispering in varying volumes as it’s bounced off shadow. “We’ve had a long time to prepare,” you reply vaguely, features remaining blank, despite being unable to so much as feel the weight of his attention. If it wasn’t for the fact you’d seen him, and were having a conversation, you wound’t believe he was in here with you. You hate to admit it, but it’s impressive.

“And I suppose you believed you’d win?” He questions.

“I know we’ll win. Whether I’m in here or not.”

The steel tip of a blade grazes the top of your back, slowly tracing the length of your shoulders, occasionally pressing deep enough to disrupt the skin, but mostly remaining as a taunting reminder—he could choose to cut you at any moment, as deeply or as slowly as he pleases. “What made you believe that? Numbers? Experience? Speeches?”

“We have the cauldron,” you reply, keeping apprehension clear from your voice, the tip of the blade pressing a little too deeply into the back of your left shoulder. “What was it like, by the way? Seeing your soldiers wiped from existence in the blink of an eye?” The blade bites into your skin, probably pushed in to about an inch of flesh, and you grit your teeth as he twists the steel, opening the wound up. “I’m fairly certain we targeted your aerial armies on the first day,” you grit out, remembering the wings at his back. “I’m guessing you knew some of that scum?”

The blade retracts calmly, but he makes no further incisions, walking back around to stand in front of you. He’s strangely under control, considering how badly the war will be going for his side.

“Why are you so repulsive to fae magic?” He repeats. Unruffled by the comment. Good. “Why don’t you come closer and figure it out yourself?” You reply, noting the living shadows that are gliding down from his shoulders. “See if your shadows can answer that question.”

He regards you silently, then slides the blade back into its home at his hip, walking forward until he crowds your space, scarred fingers biting brutally into your cheeks, squeezing as he leans down. “I don’t think I need an answer. Not anymore.” You keep your mouth shut, confused by what he’s saying. “You see, despite your certainty, you were proved wrong. Two days ago. I would like to know what it is about you that makes magic react the way it does, but at the end of the day, it’s ultimately of no importance.”

You glare up at him, muscles tense from the grip he has on your cheeks, squeezing your jaw.

“You lost the war,” he says, quietly. “Your king was decapitated by one of the humans he used as a test subject. Felled by his own creation.”

There’s no falsity in his gaze, just ugly, unforgiving, truth.

And he’s in reach.

You twist your wrists in a snappy movement, harsh enough the already weakened gorsian stone crumbles away, allowing you to launch from the chair, hand seamlessly wrapping around the hilt of his blade, sliding it free with the familiar sing of steel.

He’s caught off guard—it’s impossible to break out of those shackles—his moments of surprise allowing you to use his weight against him, pushing into the frame of muscle in the places you’re familiar with, tripping him up. His wings thrash as they’re caught beneath him, shadows vanishing at your proximity, shoved away to some godsforsaken pocket as you aim the blade for his throat, his own scarred hands wrapping around your wrists to loosen your hold. But fae are made of magic, their very strength dependant on it. Encountering a creature that nullifies any and all types…his muscles tremble beneath you, shaking with the force of keeping you from plunging the blade into his throat.

“I’ll kill you, and your High Lord,” you hiss, leveraging your own weight, so the blade sinks down toward the bare, unprotected part of flesh. “I’ll end every single one of you, and I’ll save that abomination for last,” you snarl, in regard to the human who he’d told you decapitated your king.

His strength is draining swiftly, and he knows you can sense it, can feel the tremble in his muscles, and the steel inches closer, spurred on by his weakness.

The Spymaster grits his teeth as he shifts suddenly beneath you, allowing you to gain precious inches so the steel scratches the swell in his male throat, but in turn allowing him to raise his leg from the ground, stomping his boot into your stomach, sending you flying back, crashing into the chair you’d been sat on, the faelight flickering above.

Your lips part, eyes going wide as nausea rises up swiftly, having only seconds before you’re vomiting onto the floor, heaving up chewed food and saliva, a dizzying feeling sweeping through your entire body.

You’re flipped over not even a second after you get the first clear breath down, the Spymaster over you, dark eyes cold as ice as the steel of that blade glints in the unnaturally pale faelight. The blade hisses down, aimed to slice up beneath your ribs, cutting into your heart, but his eyes have dropped to the hand you have over your abdomen. Nostrils flaring at the slight tang of blood.

His features slack. “You’re—”

You take the chance, knocking the blade from his hand, reaching to wrap your hands around his throat, but something impacts with your temple, a second figure coming from the darkness that you hadn’t noticed, and you feel as the hit registers.

A fresh wave of dizziness slams into you, the world tilting dramatically before you’re slumping, heading for the floor before hands catch you. Making sure you don’t land on your front.

The world goes silent.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

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#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x yn #on the wrong side of history

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 8 months

Text

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, very intense gore and body horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, being hunted, VERY intense religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, etc.

A/N: All I can say is that I'm sorry...take that as you will

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

He was still watching you when you woke up, groggily blinking and your mouth dry. It was amusing to him, really, how you twisted your lips and furrowed your brows before you shoved your cheek back into the pillow away from the cold light.

Simon tilts his head and stares—letting you come to your senses while he sits in his chair. He hadn’t moved once, thinking and stewing in questions.

It wasn’t rare for him to completely forget what he had gotten up to in his…state. More often than not, he remembered only the scent of blood and wind; broken earth and the taste of the moon. This time it was different.

You were different.

Simon remembered your scent. Recalls tracking it down as he abandoned all the others in the air. Racing to it with a rapid heart like a simple fool. He knows he held you down, laid his great snout along your neck, and tried to scent you—layer your flesh with him so your sweet fragrance mixed with his own.

The thought made his lips thin and his hands clench, the blanket sitting tightly wrapped around his waist as his body expanded with a tight-jawed huff.

There was still a spark of pain in between his legs, but at that, he welcomed the grounding reality of it. In fact, a bit of pride even made his nose twitch. Simon’s lashes caress his cheeks as he blinks at you, shifting his thighs wider as his hands hang off the arms of the chair.

He hadn’t expected you to come to this forest during his little problem—this could have gone very, very wrong. The man runs a hand over his head, pushing his fingers through his locks and watching you slowly sit up; confusion is seen in the lines on your forehead.

“Can I ‘ave my fuckin’ clothes back now?” You flinch at the low question, sleepy eyes snapping open and locking onto the nearly nude man in his chair.

The air stalls in your lungs, strangled down as you bite your tongue so hard you taste copper. Brown eyes flicker to your mouth before Simon’s lips move in a thin smirk.

“C’mon now. Easy, then.”

“Mr. Riley,” you clear your throat, gawking at the rippling tension in his abdomen and the scars along his pecs. Your entire soul burns as you snap your head away from the image of his face—the first time you’d seen it fully.

Stubble along a strong jaw; bent nose and carefully crafted lips with pulling disfigurements.

“You…you’re back,” you push out, fingers intertwining into the sheets. Simon gazes into the sliver of flesh from above the collar of his shirt that you wear, licking at the corner of his mouth before he looks away.

“And getting cold, Love,” he levels to you. The strips of his own clothes had been thrown on the table, no use wearing them as they offered no coverage. All he had was the blanket. “You hear?”

“Right,” you’re still not looking at him, nervous. Standing quickly, you stubble and brush your hands along the man’s top—flattening it before scampering to grab your clothes from yesterday.

Ripped and dirty, you drag them to you while having to stand closer to Simon as his knee hits yours. He tenses lightly but doesn’t comment.

“My apologies, Mr. Riley, I didn’t want to dirty your bed, you see.” Your hands are shaking. “I suppose I could have taken the floor, of course, but I admit, I didn’t think about—”

A hand grabs your one shoe and hands it to you, Simon having stood up and his chest against your shoulder. You still, breath hitching tight.

You stare at the shoe before your free hand carefully moves out to take it, being side-eyed by an earthen stare and blank expressions. Fingers blush, and you have to swallow a sigh at the heat you feel emanating from Simon’s bareness.

Taking your shoe back, you clear your throat. “Thank you.”

“No need to apologize—that’s my bloody cross, yeah?” He moves back from you, and your lungs take down air again. You don’t like how you respond to him or his touch. How you’re stuttering and stumbling over words.

Sure you found him attractive…incredibly attractive, but with the knowledge you now held all of this became jumbled. The memory of your sheer terror flashes, a mad dash and gripping thorns. The murders. Your wounds pulse.

“Mr. Riley?” You ask, lips twisting at his comment. The man rubs a hand over his face, and you notice the bags under his eyes with a small bead of concern.

“Simon,” he glances at you. “Just Simon. Figure with all I’ve done that’s better than nothing.” A hand hovers over the bottom of your sleeve, pushing it back a smidge to look at the bloodied bandages. “Fuckin’ hell, I do this?”

He leans closer again, picking at the bandages as you explain.

“No,” you breathe. You’re taken aback by his attitude—his flickering eyes as they slowly move to look up at you. “No, I ran through some thorns.”

“Can smell the blood.” Simon bluntly eases out, releasing you and taking a step back. “Get dressed—there’s a stream. I’ll get some fresh water.”

Before you can say anything, the man’s walking outside in nothing but a tied towel, the door opening and quickly closing behind him. Gobsmacked, you blink rapidly as you open and close your mouth, pushing your clothes farther into your chest. Inside your ribcage, your heart palpitates; the flesh is an inferno of contained fire.

“My neighbor is a werewolf,” you breathe, putting a hand to your temple. “Simon Riley is the Ghost. Oh,” you drag. “Where’s the alcohol when you need it?”

Dressing went quickly, and you hope Whistlejacket is out of the forest and was able to find shelter like you had. It became obvious as you tightened your belt and slipped your silver blade into it, that Simon would not hurt you—not in this state or the other. When you’d woken up, you’d feared that if the man was back in the monster’s place, he would snap at the sight of you.

Damage control. But now…

“Now I’m just bloody confused,” you huff, glaring down at your one shoe as you wiggle your toes. Back in your skirt and shirtwaist, you frown at the damage done and vehemently avoid looking at Simon’s own scraps. It would only serve to make you angrier.

Pushing your gloves into your pockets, you grimace at the aching in your wrist and legs but push forward until you open the door to a small covering of snow. The world overnight had continued without you, it seemed, and you frown as you wrap your hands across your chest from the chill.

Wherever you look, the forest rules. It speaks and lives—writhing and bending; this place wasn’t meant for you or your kind. It was meant for monsters.

But was Simon a monster?

You find with all the memories you have in your head, you can’t answer that question anymore. Before you can, you need to get answers.

Real answers.

You wait for the man to return, and he does so with a wooden bucket sloshing liquid over his blanket-skirt. Blinking, you hold open the door and allow him in. He grunts in thanks, running his eyes up and down your outfit.

“You fell from your horse.” It isn’t a question, but the tone makes it seem like he doesn’t know for sure. Simon places the bucket on the floor and gathers his clothes that you’d folded.

“Miriam’s horse. Yes.” You take down a breath. “Simon?” He stares hard at his shirt, nose twitching and eyes going small.

The man’s fingers clench over the fabric before he comes back to the present.

“What is it?” He forces the shirt over his head, blanket holding fast. Simon has to stop himself from shaking as your scent buries itself into his nostrils. A noose around his neck that makes his voice gruff and breathy.

“You’re going to explain to me what’s going on.” He grunts.

“Bit complicated, that is—”

“What’s complicated is that I just got chased through the forest by a dog as tall as a damn statue that stands on two legs. Not to mention the strange obsession you have with smelling me.”

“It’s not fuckin’ me,” Simon growls, eyes flashing. You tense and he settles, snapping his head away to glare at the far wall. He grabs for his blanket and you just manage to snap your head up before you see anything besides the very tops of his large hips and the dip of his pelvis.

The fabric hits the ground and your under-the-skin hellscape spreads all the way to your curling toes.

“You weren’t supposed to be in here.” The man pulls up his pants, shoving himself into them and pulling the strings tight. “Got distracted.”

“I apologize for having work to complete,” you huff, still hyper aware of every sound from the man a few feet away. “I wasn’t aware that I’d get favored by a dog.”

A low growl lets you know his displeasure at the comment.

“Dog, yeah?” Simon grunts.

“Am I wrong,” you state dryly, glaring at the ceiling.

“Bloody mutt can’t compare to me, Love.” The man scoffs and pushes his top into his pants, walking over to his trunk to peel it open and snatch at the pair of large boots inside.

“Oh,” you breathe, slowly looking back to him and sighing when he’s fully clothed. “I’m so very lucky, Sir.”

“Would you quit it?” Simon snaps. “Christ, just ask your damn questions. And use the water on your wounds.”

Rolling your eyes, you walk forward and pull out a chair at the table—grabbing at the bucket and pushing up your sleeves. You tap at your forearms with your fingers, open your mouth as you think, and begin to speak.

Yet something’s missing. A weight at your side. Something that was there before but is now absent.

Pausing, you blink slowly, finally able to calm yourself and get a handle on your emotions. Looking down at your hip where the comfortable weight of your satchel is supposed to be, you grow tense.

Wait a second…

Simon pulls out a rough-looking jacket from the trunk, shifting his large arms into it and quickly fixing the collar as he rubs at his chin.

“...Where’s my bag?”

The man pauses, hand leaving the last few buttons of his shirt open to glance at you—confusion grows in his eyes.

“What?” You’re already standing, turning in a circle.

“My bag,” you say again. “I had it on Whistlejacket but now it's gone. I…must have dropped it when he bucked me off.”

Simon’s jaw clenches, expression going somewhat tight at the mention. “Thought you said you fell.”

You wave a hand and step around the bucket, walking swiftly to the door with your one shoe and intent on trekking back to the path.

“Same thing,” your lips utter, frowning. “It must have slipped off my shoulder. Hell.”

You’re only able to put your hand on the barrier before you’re pulled back into a firm chest. You’re reminded of the blanket of fur that had encompassed you just yesterday, and while the sensation might not be the same, the pure muscle underneath is still just as prominent.

An arm circles your waist and you’re lifted easily.

“Hey!” You shout, but Simon says nothing until you’re dropped back down into the chair and you’re glaring heavily at him. His heat leaves for only a moment before he pulls up your sleeves with his large palms; fingers slipping under the bandages and caressing your skin with scars and calluses.

Watching, wide-eyed, you grumble out, shocked, “What exactly are you doing, you brute?”

“Making sure that you don’t get fuckin’ sick if you insist on being difficult.” You pull your head back, lips parted.

“I’m the difficult one? Simon, you do realize that you turn into a god-forsaken gigantic wolf in your free time?” You’re leveled with an unimpressed look and dead eyes. “Don’t you stare at me like that,” your face burns, nose pointing up. “You know I’m right.”

“You speak too much,” the accent gravels, blunt.

“Well you kill people too much,” is the answer, and none of the fear that should be there is. It’s as if the second you realized that the Ghost was Simon Riley, the terror had leaked out of you steadily to form annoyance instead. “And rip up all of my work.”

Simon clenched his jaw and reached for the water in the bucket, picking up a rag from the table and dipping it in before closing his fist around the fabric to wring most of the liquid out.

“I pay you,” he tries, voice hissing.

Growling, you glare into his head as he presses the rag into your small cuts. “Not enough.”

“Why were you in the forest,” you’re snappily asked. You try not to show how his grasp on your wrist makes you weak to him, the scent of his body so close bleeding into your nostrils. Even Simon seems to react to the close contact, a pulse in his veins making his grip tighten before loosening. Something flashes his deep browns; brows tight on his scarred forehead before he grunts and rolls his shoulders.

“I needed wool from the farmers.” You huff, body lightly shifting on the chair. “Why did you kill all of those hunters?”

“They were trying to kill me.” Tight orbs glance up as the inside of your forearm is soaked with the warmth of his touch—the essence of his inner care. You tilt your head, narrowing your vision. You could believe that, of course, but there was one man you couldn’t.

“And Mr. Lambert?” Simon pauses, chest expanding with a grating sigh. But even he knows you won’t be taking anything short of the truth.

He shifts his feet, moving back to grasp your ankle and begin peeling at the wrappings there as you blink in surprise at his willingness to help. You rewrap your arm and frown, shivering at the slide of his hand under your calf; yet you can’t stop the shaky inhale you take.

The man delays, half-narrowed eyes turning their attention to you in slow intervals of flicking earth and glinting charcoal. He stares, not blinking, not moving. Exactly like the beast that had waited at the edge of the glade to lock eyes and turn your insides outward—splaying you open like a book and flipping the pages of your mind.

You don’t know how someone can stare like that, can’t make sense of it. If those brown eyes kept stuck with yours, you wouldn’t find it entirely unpleasant.

Simon grips your leg tighter and blinks, tilting his head away. The rag lets water drip long down your flesh, but it’s wiped away by a thumb before the accented voice graces your eardrums.

“He was trying to bite you.” You’re torn back to the present, your face and neck tight with burning sin. You clear your throat and re-think the words you’d just heard.

Silence falls for a moment.

“He…what?” Simon’s lips flicker into some semblance of a smirk. He stands and tosses the rag to the table.

“Vampire.” It’s like your heart nearly jumps out of your chest.

A Vampire? Speechless, you stand carefully and turn your head to the side in rapid thought.

“That’s not…” Simon interjects.

“Pinned him to the tree branch, right?” He had done that. “Never came to visit, ‘cept at night, yeah?” The man shrugs, putting his hands into his pockets. “Could smell it.” Watching. Dead burial-mound eyes. “Didn’t like him comin’ ‘round to bother you.”

It’s how he explains this that makes you wonder, an internal understanding as you stutter a question.

“You don’t remember things when you’re…like that,” you breathe, “do you?”

He had said the beast wasn’t him—that had stuck with you. The shock of Mr. Lambert being a monster sunk in, dots connected with thread. It made your shoulders tight to imagine what could have happened if Simon wasn’t there every time the other man was. There was no way you’d be able to fight something like that by yourself.

The man blinks, and for the first time, he can’t answer that question honestly because now he truly doesn’t know how to.

Simon hums, looking at the door.

He only remembered you despite all else.

“I’ll bring you back to the path,” the man grunts, moving to the door and exiting the hut with a last comment over his shoulder. “Keep the knife on you.”

Simon slips out of the house, door open and the chilled breeze filtering through. You watch him take a silent deep breath and begin walking into the trees. With one last shaky twitch of your hands, you look at the journal on the desk and dart after him.

It’s a silent affair until you speak, and Simon had known without a doubt that you would the minute the dark trunks were all around. He guides you with heavy steps.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Don’t know.” A lie.

“Why did you shove your head under my neck?”

“I don’t know.” A second lie. The man’s tone doesn’t change, a bare grumble as he walks ahead of you.

“What else lives in this forest?” Simon stops walking. The dead air all around you is thick and heavy, like a blanket of uneasy weight; you can put a description to it now, and your last question wasn’t only out of curiosity but a hunch.

It felt like the very trees were listening when you spoke.

“Things like me. Things that are worse.” Simon turns and gives you a tight look as you stare up at him and barely feel yourself breathe. “So never for one second leave my sight.” He nods his head to your knife in a quick jerk. “And ever lose that if you don’t want to end up on a bloody butcher’s block, eh?”

You nod slowly, swallowing. The man looks like he wants to say more but refrains, making a noise in the back of his throat before he locks onto the shivering of your body. Not even noticing that the cold was getting to you, you had words coming off your lips in small chatterings of teeth.

“W-Well, if all of the things in this forest will let me live, they can’t be that b-bad.” Squeaking, a jacket is layered over your shoulders, and in a flurry of skirts, you’re picked up into a bridal hold as your hands snap to wrap a thick neck.

A voice in the shell of your ear.

“They’re not like me, Love.” Your eyes widen. “An’ they won’t take a fancy to you like I ‘ave, hear?”

He carries you with as much ease as the trunks of fabric for your shop, stepping over rocks and easily stomping up ravines. From the side of his eye, he blinks at you as his smell surrounds your body to coat it just the way he wants it to, even if he hates the instinct with a bitter grudge.

Why couldn’t you have just stayed away until he came back to the city? When all of his senses were eased back to normal, when the song of the wolf was no longer in his head—that call and primal embrace of fang and claw.

There was a reason he left, there was a reason he always wore your clothes to keep him here—away from others and not to seek you out.

Your scent.

The oils on your flesh that press into him and make his head swim; hold you tighter into him to take it in. Simon’s heart pounds, his eyes going small the longer you stay here with him.

You were both a blessing in the dark and the very phantoms that haunt it at the same time. A hurdle and a stepstool. You made it worse, but, damn him, you also made it better.

Grunting, Simon shakes his head once, staring straight ahead and willing away the sharp pinch of claws poking from his nail beds. He clenches his jaw as you melt into him, legs swaying with the loping movements of his legs. Your hands around his neck dig into the skin softly, letting it mold around you as you lick your lips and avoid his eyes, shy to this type of chivalry.

You shivered far less than before.

“Thank you,” you say, hesitantly.

Simon huffs a chuckle at the tone.

The man carries you through the bed of thorns that you remember, and he hikes you farther into his arms until not even a single one thinks to touch you—no sharp drag. Your face gently rests on Simon’s head, the top of his scalp as your nose itches at the feeling of his hair.

You blink softly, holding on as he moves you back down after the threat is gone.

“What other monsters, Simon?” Your voice is tiny. “What’s out here with us?” He sighs, and you feel it.

But he doesn’t answer you.

“When I get you out,” Simon explains. “You don’t come back. You never come back.”

Your heart skips a beat. “And what about you? Do I just…” You trail off, licking your lips. “Do I just let you keep living like this?”

“Yes.”

“Simon,” his hands tighten on you in warning, but you continue without fear. “I want to help you. We know each other enough to care, don’t we?” You both make it back to the path and Simon clears off a rock with his foot before placing you down next to the large boulder from yesterday.

Simon turns to look around the area for your bag, glancing at you with thin lips. You grow more serious and ask him again, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“It’s nothing that you need to know about,” you’re glared at, though it holds no true venom to it.

“I have been thrown from a horse,” you stand, pulling Simon’s jacket closer as you spot your lost shawl off in the bushes. “My practice insulted, and most certainly thought dead by now. Mr. Riley, I am not asking you for answers—” You set your jaw. “I am demanding them. So speak and be a good boy.”

Simon watches you, his face blank and his mouth slightly slackened. He doesn't answer you for a long time, as if put in a trace as his eyes flash with life for a moment. You hear him clear his throat at your last sentence, cheeks gaining a sheen of red that could be played off as a reaction to the cold.

His stomach flips.

“It’s your scent,” he says, low and even like a steady promise. You had already started to gather that, at least, so it wasn’t as much of a shock to you—but it was still strange. “It’s like a fuckin’ opium. Can’t get it out of my damn head.”

Simon speaks as he looks around as if to distract him from what he’s telling you. “Whenever I smell it, it’s like my head’s about to cave in, yeah? Like I can’t think of anything else.”

He leans over the small hill to where you fell, and he hones in on long three-fingered drag lines along the earth. Simon’s brows pull in, eyes fluttering from one tree to another, his ears twitch.

You don’t notice, sitting back on the rock and rubbing a hand on the back of your neck as the air changes.

“But why, Simon? I don’t understand what’s so important about that—besides what soap I use.” You mutter the last bit and groan. “This is hurting my head.”

“Stop talking.” The forest is dead. No bird wings flapping, no wind, even. No smells besides yours, which makes Simon back up a step.

Yet, no…no there was something else. It smelled like flesh rot and maggots; a church’s pews that had been laid with black fire.

You throw up a hand at the man’s comment. “Would you stop saying that to me—!”

A palm is placed on your lips and held there firmly, fingers digging into your cheeks. Simon’s eyes bore into you, far darker than they had been at any other time than when you’d been face-to-face with the wolf. You take in a swift breath, hand snapping up the wrist and gripping it in shock.

The snow begins falling again, flakes sitting in his hair as Simon puts his free finger to his lips and motions you to not speak again. Growing more and more nervous, you nod twice before the flesh is removed.

“Get your knife up.” It’s a deep rumble like a falling stone. Felt more than heard. “Stay behind me.”

You do so with a swift hand, knowing something else is going on just by how he keeps glancing at you and then at the trees. That's when you hear it—the low whispering like it’s almost speaking in tongues.

The same you had heard on short occasions when you’d been with Whistlejacket. And then far off into the woods, that shaping of bark.

It wasn’t a twig—you’d known that. You glance at Simon and he seems tensed for something to jump out at the two of you, his large shoulders hiding you from most of the view. One of your hands grabs onto his shirt, your un-shoed foot freezing but you don’t make a comment.

“Simon?” You whisper, and he holds out his hand to once more tell you to not speak.

The long shadows in between the trees darken, and that whispering choir infects your ears—what is it saying? You can’t make any sense of it…it jumbles and jumps like these flakes of snow as they fall to the ground.

Girl…Girl…Listen

You flinch—free hand releasing Simon and coming up to your head to grasp at it as a bad headache starts to form. The man ahead of you, for whatever reason, seems to not be affected by this.

He stands rod-straight and you see his fingers curling into fists, the knuckles going white and facing deep into the open forest—wound up and tight. You try to speak but it all goes like metal on metal behind your skull. The whispers come into focus before the light is swallowed by a shade of gray.

It is a void of all else; you have forgotten what your heart feels like as it pounds in your ribcage.

I can show you the sound of your soul tearing in two.

You gasp and then the screaming starts.

Dropping your knife you fall to your knees, your fingers both dig into your scalp and draw blood from the sheer volume of voices inside of your head—yelling in tones accumulated by victims and imprisoned specs of being. Old, young, middle-aged, yet still the rattle of diseased bones going through osteonecrosis; clacking of baby’s teeth.

You’re screaming with them.

Simon’s panicked face comes into view, grasping at your hands and trying to move them away from your flesh. He’s calling to you, loudly and in an ordering tone, but you can’t hear it.

The screaming, oh, the screaming. This is what Hell sounds like.

Something in you is ripping, and you plead for it to end as Simon begins looking around the space, standing and bringing you with him as he keeps you to his chest; you feel his heart hammering twice as fast—hands grasping at your clothes and pressing you into him with all his might. He’s growling and snarling, trying to find what’s hurting you so he can help.

The reverberation of his challenge is felt in the vibrations of his throat as you scream again. Simon flinches, cursing, and you feel the poke of claws on your spine as the scent of your fear enters the air—your suffering.

Your body is shaking; quivering, and in the state of here and there reality begins to blur like a musty window, like mud on a cup. In Simon’s grip, you’re entirely slackened, coughing and choking down saliva.

But then it all stops.

You gasp so loudly that your busted vocal cords finally snap, blood is expelled from your mouth and it ends up all over Simon’s neck, staining his clothes and splattering onto his cheek. Trying to force down breaths, you push at the man’s abdomen—begging to be released weakly.

Your legs don’t work beyond the shaking.

Watching you with wide eyes and panting breath, Simon’s canines had gone sharp, claws on your spine fully out; he’d even grown taller, your feet only brushing the ground as pale skin began to gain pigment along his neck.

He lets you down just as you vomit all over the snowy grass, sputtering and letting vile tears make lines down to your chin.

“What in the bloody hell..?” Simon breathes arms still around your waist. Your ears are ringing, high-pitched, and reverberating in your skull. “Fuck!”

Whispered laughter makes you whimper through a sob.

Simon can’t get the smell out of his nose—the maggots, the black fire. He knows what this is, what game it plays.

It wants a show.

Oh, you never should have come here. This forest…it wasn’t just a place of black trees and buried deeds; of monsters.

It was a prison. And these lesser beasts were the wardens.

The shadows grow closer, and Simon, as a wailing breeze picks up from the South, covers you with his changing body; hiding a breathless gasp on his lips as muscles tear and ears elongate.

Pain encompasses him, making him bury his face into your neck and grunt out garbled curses as his teeth morph and shatter to re-form. You shake, shell-shocked, from under him, feeling the brushing of fur and the tear of fabric before you’re encased in a canopy of shaggy blackness and snapping jaws. The arms around your waist broaden and elongate, bones snapping.

You’re both panting now, breathing hard and in pain unimaginable. The glint of your blade is far off into the side of your fluttering eyes.

A figure forms from those wisps of shadow—those thrown-away memories of death and the recollection of ancient cities burning back to before the creation of metal machines or the wheel. Formed before oceans or continents and ultimately trapped here in ages long past when these trees were saplings.

You felt it under fur and muscle just as the Ghost did atop you as your shield, his eyes now shining with rage and horror.

This being was not old. It wasn’t even ancient.

It was primordial.

Your eyes look up slowly from behind the curtain of obsidian, arms shaking as they twist into the Ghost’s lengthy forearms still anchored to your waist. His snout slips past your right ear, digging you into him as a low snarl emanates from the back of his throat.

It stands on two legs, and has two arms—you could mistake it for a human at a far-off distance. But its body is malnourished, nothing but thin, twisting, skin over bone as if devouring maggots live under that barrier. Your terror increases the longer you look at it, snow hitting your eyes not even making you blink.

This being was a very stain upon reality as if the body it takes is a rip in time itself—a ripple of disease and an unforgivable sin.

Look at me.

You are looking.

Looking at a featureless face and the large black hole that takes the place of nose, mouth, and eyes—unending and limitless as if what had once been there had been ripped through and replaced with eternity. The shadows writhe to make an imitation of wings on its back, a leaking circle above its head, and the slash of fleshy, pulsing horns that secrete blood down to the snow.

Fingers that shake and twitch as if in the throes of death. Its arms are melting like gray wax. An appendage slowly leaks out from the void of its face, forming a hand holding something like rope, and then a long, blackened arm deeper than a moonless night. It turns over and the intestines, not ropes, are dropped from its grip. Long and viscera-coated; flies dig themselves out from the tubes and you have to stop yourself from heaving again as they flinch and quiver.

As if the owner was still alive.

The hand splays itself, waiting for another’s palm to slip over and grasp it. An invitation as it’s clicking body takes a stumbling step forward.

It’s calling to you.

Look at the face of God.

The Ghost roars and you snap your vision away, burying your face into his neck to shake the image from your brain.

You don’t know what to do—what to think. But you knew you had to run.

“Simon,” you gasp out, and the Thing laughs through muttering generations as sigils flare to life on its skin, words and powers that have no meaning to living souls. “Simon!”

A panting maw shifts to you and the threat of violence is still in the air. Large human-ish hands tighten as blood drips off your chin.

“Run.” Your hand scoops back up your blade, and not seconds later the wind is making your clothes ripple all around you as you’re lifted and carried away. Arms around the Ghost’s neck, you breathe shakily, your head still pounding something awful as the Primordial watches Simon’s rapid dash—far faster than any dog or horse.

It tilts its blood-slick head, and, for some inner intuition…you know it’s smiling.

The beast below you keeps you tight to him, one hand pressing on the small of your back and the other under your knees, not at all slowed by your weight; he can smell your fear and it makes him enraged.

The Ghost’s eyes are small when you press your face into his cheek, but they flicker to you as you send your bone-deep distress his way. He lets loose a low whine in between pants of breath.

“S-Simon, what was that—”

There’s a glimpse of that monster from over his shoulder and you startle, head popping back up to stare fully as you pass trees at an alarming rate. But when you blink the maggot body is gone. Looking behind, you see it again as the Ghost runs faster, taking a sharp right and you once more get the view blocked by a large stone.

Everywhere you look, that blackened halo shows up, hands grasping the side of a tree or watching from a river—its third hand outstretched. Whispering still dances in the shell of your ears, and in your heart, it feels like a string is being plucked; stitches undone from a tapestry.

Until it ends up right in front of Simon in a blink of a second.

All he can do is roar and twist himself, curl around you as his claws kick up snow and dark earth before there’s a sudden sweep of power that ricochets through the trees. It breaks down trunks and makes the world scream, and you, trapped under the body that does anything to protect you, hit the ground hard.

You think perhaps you flew through the air at first because you seem to remember the sensation of flying before the ground came up to meet you.

Yelling Simon’s name, you shatter and slide, clothes ripping more, and other shoe gone to the wind. Flesh peels and tears, cheek skinned on harsh material.

And the whispers laugh, and giggle, and speak in a million voices of the damned.

Look at me.

You cough and stagger upward, stumbling with twigs in your thighs before backing up and immediately looking for Simon while keeping this monster at the edge of your vision. This was more than fear—more than terror. You can’t describe a feeling like this; can’t put it into words or thought.

It made your body shake just by it being here, made you want to turn your blade—which you’d held onto, miraculously—on yourself to end it.

Simon was the only thing to stop you, and you kept backing up, feet knocking over roots and stone. You find his limp body far to the right, wisps of shadow leaking out. You yell, glancing at the Thing as it limps to you with failing legs.

“Simon, get up!” You can’t get to him without taking your eyes off the Primordial—can’t risk that faster-than-light movement as if it wasn’t falling apart just by standing. Its third-hand dribbles black liquid from its fingertips; pooling it in its palm. Closer now. “Simon, fucking get back up!”

You can’t leave him here, but the instinct to run was infecting you just as much as your care for him. The more you looked the harder it was to turn away, mind slipping from you. But you can’t move your eyes from it either.

What was this? This temptation and possession? Oh, God, it was sucking you in.

The great blackened beast does not stir and you grasp your blade until your knuckles ache.

This headache was ripping your brain apart, and you gasped and gripped your head again, noises of agony escaping your lips.

It laughs, but the action makes it sound like an entire world is on fire.

Groaning in suffering and wrenching your eyes closed, you send your palm into your skull; hitting it over and over again.

“Get out of my head!”

Your voice echoes off the trees, breaking and desperate. Shaking your head back and forth, you growl and whine like a dog with a knife through its stomach—intestines in your body bunching and turning in knots.

The presence gripping your mind leaves.

Immediately, you sag to the ground; knees slamming into the earth. Eyes still closed but able to think again, you take a breath, cold sweat falling quickly down your temples to mix with congealed blood and bile.

Knife-hand burning from all of the force you’d exerted, you loosen it and sag forward to take a deep breath.

A hand lightly captures your chin, and you sigh out easily, leaning your weight into the grip as a thumb caresses your cheek.

“Simon,” you open your buggy eyes in relief but only see a void.

You freeze, comfort immediately turning to pure horror. Black sludge drips down your neck, staining your shirt and burning as it absorbs into your flesh.

Its head tilts, and that blackened limb levels your face with the nothingness behind the vale of its ripped-open flesh. There’s a jumbled twitching and horns that make the tight skull dance like it's on a string.

There’s a brush against your mind and the fingers dig into your flesh; pushing and breaking the skin. You can’t move. You can’t look away.

Its face moves closer, demented elbow bending as your neck is dragged forward to meet it. Infinity rolls out behind your quivering eyes.

Don’t worry, it breathes, though you don’t know how because you can’t see its chest moving. God sees you.

Your throat closes, and the black dig of its hand leaks into your open flesh, tendrils of infection that move like worms into your being and up your veins; maggots, flies.

You start choking on air, your spine arching and your hands jerking around, tensing up closer to your chest. There’s foam at the corners of your mouth, eyes still stuck open into the bleak reality of your future.

You smell rot. You smell like rot.

Simon, you think of him—of his actions in the city and the way he always came to you to fix his clothes. You wondered then, in a moment of numb hysterics and revelation, that if he liked your scent so much then he must have stuck around you because of it. To feel your presence and bask in your company. Recalling moments of soft words and looks you could not decipher before.

Surely he could feel when he was going to change, he could have slipped out of his clothes and left them somewhere.

The question that you think of in the small moment before your hand twitches over your blade is like a spark of light.

Was he purposefully wearing them because he wanted you to fix them for him later?

A sniffing nose can almost be heard in the clutch of your neck, and the whispers dim. One shoulder shaking and spasming, you’re able to push back just a small bit.

Brown eyes and ivory fangs. A deep voice that you can feel against your heart. Blood runs from your nose, down your face, and splatters to your bent knees. It bleeds down your throat; your chest and your shirt. Bathing in it, mixing with black damnation.

The grip on your lower face tightens, fingers drilling deeper until muscle tears and snaps.

Your fingers tighten along the hilt once more.

It clicks at you as its bones break in its throat, corpse-like body’s flesh opening to let unearthly tendrils of blackness leak out like it was a cup of wine only holding something until it can be drank down.

The corpse shivers with pleasure. My Vessel shall please Him. Let your soul join His choir.

Your throat feels like it’s being slit, your very essence being corrupted. It’s hot, burning—it all gets brighter, like a fire and a pit of ice. A beast at the very center of Hell; three faces and bat-like wings under every chin. Great and terrible—beautiful and disgusting.

A slobbering, wordless being punished just as all sinners for eternity unending.

You throw up black blood, and as the concerning amount of gore floods you, your mind flashes one last time.

You blink softly, holding on as he moves you back down after the threat is gone.

Simon, you plead, Simon, oh, my Simon.

Your hand seizes over the blade and in a brief second of fading thought—mind flickering between screaming souls and black fur stuck in your ears as blockers—you force your watering eyes to blink.

And when you blink you bring the silver blade up…and then stab it directly into the oblivion of a starless sky.

It rips its fingers out of your skin, screeching louder than a mountain being split in two. You do as well, arm jerking out of the gaping face and bringing the smoking limb to your chest. It was like you’d just put your arm into an oven—your sleeve was on fire before you fell backward and shoved it into the snow, yelling and screaming in pain.

It mirrors.

Third-hand snapping and waving as it whips its head back and forth, its halo quivers and melts atop of it like black fire; sigils glowing brighter. Smoke comes out of its face, wings jerking up and down.

You notice none of it—mind fading fast with maggots still in your flesh. Worms. Parasites. You can feel them moving, up and down and to the sides of your ripped jaw, to your burning arm.

Infected.

All you can do is lay there and vomit them out—black writhing blood mixed with crimson. You feel empty inside, void of something important. Cut in half.

The Thing backs up and as it does it begins to bend in on itself, body splintering like a wet piece of paper before it begins to stretch back out. Reality shifts, time warps as you blankly watch through leaking eyes that hold burst veins.

Its legs break backward as its rib cage pushed in, but before it can entirely be sucked away, it points at you.

You will never forget how it speaks. It’s a wail—a brand of unholy tongues and a world lost to distant memory. A clanging of war bells and dark deals signed in a night of eclipses and the hidden homes of shadow. But you know what it says to you.

I know the sound of your soul and I mark it as mine in Hell!

Something snaps in your chest, and you flinch wildly, bending over yourself and shrieking.

And then there’s a strike of wind and a roar of rage, and the being gets sucked into itself without another word.

You pant, slamming back down to the ground and laying limp—quiet. Dead to all else besides the agony you can now express. With one last wheezing breath, your eyes flutter closed and you pass off into a blessing of unconsciousness.

—

The Ghost’s nose sniffs the air, eyes tight and small, head roving from where his back is large in front of you. You see his tail lightly swish, feet lifting and settling back down to the floor.

Simon seems confused, one leg limping more than the other and leaning heavily to one side; he shakes his large head and his ears slap as he does.

It’s deep night now, and you slowly, weakly, push yourself to stand up. You’d been out the entire day.

Your blood is all over the snow, and as you stumble to your feet, you can’t speak beyond a slurred gargle from your ripped-open jaw.

How have you not bled out yet?

“S–Sim…” A black head snaps to you, but there’s nothing familiar in those eyes.

They shine in the moonlight and those ivory teeth glint. Ears swiveled forward with sharp tips and tiny whispers of tufts. Long arms that scrape the ground in front of a bent spine.

He doesn’t blink.

Stumbling, one leg giving out, your only option is to breathe through your mouth in shallow gasps.

The Ghost’s nose twitches, but otherwise he is deathly frozen. Too frozen.

Like he can’t recognize your scent.

Infected.

Your burst eyes widen, but it’s already too late.

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

TAGS:

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 1 month

Text

Being Kidnapped HC (ft. poly!Mates Bat Boys)

Warnings: I’m on a bat boys kick 🙃 has nothing to do with the fact that i'm missing my ex and now just want a strong male (or three) to take care of me lol, blood mentioned, violence, protective boys, polyamorous, drugged reader (faebane)

Summary: Bat Boys rescue their mate

It’s bound to happen

No matter your own power, there will always be others in Prythian who think kidnapping you will give them some sort of leverage over your winged mates

Others kidnap you to experiment on you. Why is it that the Cauldron gifted you three mates? Many wanted to know what made you different than the other fae who only have one mate

Whatever reason they had, it kept you constantly on your toes when you didn’t have one of the boys by your side.

Even in Velaris you were always on guard. You could never be too careful

Many were close calls where you were able to escape

The worse cases were when the boys had to intervene

One of Az’s shadows always accompanied you everywhere you went. Finding you was never a problem for them. There was nowhere in the world they wouldn’t be able to find you

That always set whatever worry you may have at ease

What you never looked forward to was the bloodshed that would follow

“Just take me back. Take me back and I’m sure you’ll be forgiven.” You’d try to talk your captor out of whatever plan they had in store for you. Give them a chance to change their minds.

Usually that earned you a slap across your face and vile words thrown your way

You’d have no choice but to sit back and attempt once more to pull at your restraints. Faebane still flowed in your system. There was no way you could use your magic, let alone your strength.

No way to telepathically contact your mates because of the Faebane

But you can feel the comforting coiling of Az’s shadow around your wrist

And slowly, the shadowsinger appears in the room you are kept captive

The guards assigned to watch you are easily killed by Azriel who doesn’t bother looking at them. Concerned eyes concentrated on you. “Are you alright, sweetling?” He frees you from your shackles and cups your cheeks in his scarred hands. Something dark flickers in his eyes when he spots the red mark on your face from where one of your captors had slapped you.

You could hear the sound of battle going on the other side of the. Well, mainly screams as your fae captors were torn limb from limb by Rhys and Cassian.

The splattering of blood against stone walls hits your ears. You can only imagine the carnage

They tried to shield you from most of the violence but you knew that this offense would not be taken lightly from your mates. Only seeing red and hungry for the flesh of whoever dared to lay an aggressive hand on you.

When quiet finally reined, the door opens to reveal Cassian. Wordlessly, Azriel hands you over to Cassian's strong arms. You don't care that he's covered in blood and gore. He's smiling widely at you.

"Sorry we took so long." Cassian would apologize and hold you closely to his barrel chest. He cocks his head over to the doorway. "Rhys has the boss. I'm sure he'd appreciate your help with him."

Azriel, like always, leaves you with a kiss to the cheek before he leaves.

"Shit, they really banged you around. . ." You catch Cassian curse under his breath.

"Nothing I can't handle." It wasn't the worse abuse you'd been dealt with. "Their punches were as light as a feather."

Snorting, Cassian places his lips against your brow. "You wanna go watch the interrogation?"

"Fuck yeah I do."

Just because you were accustomed to it, didn't mean you wouldn't be petty as fuck

later when they got you home, Rhysand refused to let you out of his arms. You were cleaned up on his lap. Rhysand had a few specks of blood on his face that he didn't bother to wipe away. When you take it upon yourself to reach up and clean it, he turns his face into your palm and kisses your fingers.

Safe and sound, surrounded by your bat boys.

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diejager · 1 month

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Hello! I hope you’re doing well!! I was wondering if I can request more of percht König! If not that is totally okay!! Thank you ^^

Cw: blood, gore, injurie, inaccurate medic stuff, violent shift, tell me if I missed any.

He couldn’t remember much, after a rough and impromptu shift, his bone cracking and spine reshaping, snapping back together after his fat and muscle stretched along his back, his body rippling and shuddering, howls ripping through the stormy sky. Urgent shifts had always been painful, his body hastily and roughly shaping into the beast he was born as, leaving the ground beneath him bloody and his limbs shaking and throbbing with agony. His mind was a blur in the moment after it, every shape muddled, smell enhanced, his hearing filled with the loud beat of his heart, gurgling screams and booming shots, and his mind blurry.

The last thing he remembered seeing was the insurmountable number of enemy, a trap they’d fallen into and left surrounded and caged, only knowing that he and Ghost had fallen into a stupid trap. Like a fly stuck in a majestic spider’s web, the intricately woven lines spun and interlaced to build the trap, unsuspecting and invisible until they flew into it; buzzing and squirming against the sticky web while the spider, big and dangerous in it’s beauty slowly crawled over, long and delicate legs threatening to stab the fly. They had stupidly fallen for an embellished trap by their backstabbing ally.

And when he woke up, laying in the biggest bed in the infirmary, the thick taste of iron lingered on his tongue, the disgusting flavour of rotten human skin and fat, the muscle fibres breaking so easily under his sharp teeth and eyes heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion. He was glad the lights were dimmed, the air sterile but gentle on his sensitive nose and the sheets soft around his rough and scarred skin. He layed naked, body tense under the blanket in his private corner of the infirmary, a thick, grey curtain hiding him from wandering eyes or other patients.

He relaxed when he saw you poke your head between the wall and curtain, a mask hooked under your chin to flash him a gentle smile, slowly approaching his bedside without spooking his frantic and confused mind. He tried to smile back, but his balaclava would barely show it with how subtle the curl of his lips was, his tired eyes fleeting over the heavy bags under your eyes and the worried air that oozed off your shoulders as you sat on the chair beside his bed, a clipboard placed on your lap.

“How do you feel, König?” He loved how soft your voice was, the quiet rasp of it to not worsen his pulsing headache, but he caught the worn tone. You probably stayed up the whole night, stuck by his bedside and leaving only to shower and get another cup of coffee.

“Tired,” he sighed, closing his eyes and slumping into the comfortable mattress and sinking deeper into his assigned bed, “Everything hurts.”

He heard you nod, scratching something on your clipboard, probably writing down his symptoms and noting down what you’d plan to give him for his pains.

“Headache?”

”Ja.”

The pen scratched again.

“Muscle pain and exhaustion.”

“Ja.”

You already knew that, he hadn’t heard you write anything, only the subtle sound of a page flipping.

“Do you want coffee or lunch before I give you painkillers?”

“Coffee.”

You placed the clipboard down, your boots quietly thudding against the slick floor and the click of a door letting him know you left his side. He appreciated your care, your tender affection to provide for him when he felt sickly or worn out.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #konig x reader #konig mw2 #monster 141 #monster 141 au #monster cod au #könig x reader #konig #konig cod #konig call of duty #könig mw2 #könig cod #könig #könig x you #könig call of duty #monster!konig #monster!könig

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 4 months

Text

the cleansing

lilac, chapter nineteen

a/n: second to last chapter of this entire series!! aahhh! the final chapter will be posted in exactly one week, so get ready!

summary: “I’m gonna ask you one last time, are you sure you wanna do this?”

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, hurt/comfort, angst, lumberjack AU, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, cuddling, blood and gore

word count: 751

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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Shivering slightly as you layed on the couch, your pyjama pants kicked off and crumbled by your feet, you absentmindedly counted the small, spiral knots on the wooden ceiling where branches once grew, back when they weren’t panels of lumber but mighty trees reaching up towards the clouds.

“I’m gonna ask you one last time, are you sure you wanna do this?”

“Yes,” you breathed, glancing down at Frank who kneeled on the floor next to you, the warm light from the fireplace catching the blade in his palm and glinting back at you, “please just do it. If you don’t then I’ll probably just get up in the middle of the night and do it myself and I don’t know if I trust myself enough not to do it wrong and hurt myself more than necessary.”

Even though the brand wasn’t much bigger than a small coin, it somehow still felt like it covered your entire body.

“Alright,” he exhaled, placing a steady palm just above your knee, “but it’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker.”

“I can take it, I don’t care if it hurts, I don’t care if I’ll have a scar there for the rest of my life, I just want it off me.”

“You want another swig?” he lifted up the glass bottle of whiskey he’d encouraged you to drink from since he didn’t have narcotics lying around the cabin to numb the pain.

“No, just do it,” you rested your head back down and stared up at the ceiling, “I’m ready.”

“I’m gonna try and be quick, okay?”

“Okay,” you felt your body tremble in anticipation.

Holding up a folded leather belt, he urged, “bite down on this so that you don’t chew off your tongue.”

Accepting it between your teeth, you exchanged one last round of confirming nods before he offered you his free hand to squeeze.

As he pierced the knife into the edge of the marked skin on your upper thigh, your nails dug into his palm as you let out muffled screams of agony. The pain was nearly too excruciating to endure, your other fist slammed down against the couch cushion as he sliced the scorched scar clean off.

“Done,” Frank swiftly pressed a clean rag against the wound to soak up the blood, “that’s it, you did it, you did it.”

Letting go of his hand, you ripped the belt away and dropped it to the floor, as you filled up the cabin with your shuttering shrieks, briefly redirecting your beating of the couch to a few that collided with his shoulder, an impact that didn’t even make Frank flinch.

“Hey, hey,” his fingers found the side of your face and urged you to meet his brown eyes, “breathe, breathe,” and he offered you a few clear examples for you to copy, “good, good, there you go, that’s it,” his thumb gently swiped over your cheekbone as you found a slower and deeper pattern of breaths that helped you deal with the pain.

You tried your best to keep it up as he then carefully began to patch you up. Before every stitch he gave you, even though it wasn’t that many, he nevertheless warned you every time by asking you to take a deep breath and exhale just as he pierced the tender flesh.

When a broad band-aid soon covered up the wound, you felt his hand once again find your cheek and you peeled your stare away from the ceiling to gaze back into his eyes.

“Let’s go to bed,” he uttered softly before you offered him a nod in return.

Scooping you up into his arms, one behind your knees and the other along your shoulder blades as if you were some fair maiden, he carried you the short distance into the bedroom, gently helping you down onto the mattress and tugging the soft duvet half over you before he rounded to the other side of the bed and slipped in as well.

Rolling over to face him, you couldn’t help but notice how you still trembled. You actually weren’t sure if you’d completely stopped yet, even though nearly a week had passed, but as you reached for him and he in return scooted a bit closer, letting you curl into his warmth, the sensation seemed to ever so slightly fade away as you found yourself in the tangle of his safe arms.

Nuzzling your face further into his burly chest, you murmured against his t-shirt, “thank you…”

#lea’s writing #lilac series #lumberjack!frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle imagine #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle fic #the punisher fic #frank castle fanfiction #the punisher x reader #frank castle series #lumberjack au #frank castle hurt/comfort #frank castle angst #frank castle fluff

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yaekiss · 11 months

Note

on this sinful sunday, i’m having very holy thoughts of either branding or carving my name onto childe’s skin— maybe that tummy he’s so insistent on not covering up, maybe a nice little tramp stamp. i know he’s making sure it scars, picking at the scabs and whining for you to redo them if they dare to fade away— he belongs to you!

꩜ Room Content: Dom! GN! Top! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Yan! Tartaglia, reader's dick can also be read as strap, gore + eroguro, knifeplay + blood, masochist Tartaglia, spanking (just once, on Tartaglia), terrible wound care by Tartaglia please don't follow his actions, lmk if I missed out anything ! ꩜ A/N: Happy Whore Wednesday pulpie! Or uhhh, it was Wednesday when I started writing this. Got a lil carried away hehe :3 Happy Thotaglia Thursday! Slut on! (With you, Childe feels like every day is Thotaglia Thursday)

Anyways. Childe thinks of you as pure divinity, the holiest of beings, and he’s eager to worship all of you and bear everything that you’re willing to bless him with. Who is he to say no to the pain you inflict on him too?

This time, he’s cockwarming you, the heat and desire he feels is dizzying. You’re inside him and just the sensation of you filling him up perfectly has left him giddy with lust. His face is smushed into the mattress with his azure eyes already rolled into their sockets. Prior to this, he pressed a lavishly decorated dagger into your palm with a fervent sort of urgency, begging for you to mark him up however you like. You try to think back on what could’ve spurred this on. Was it that merchant trying to chat you up at the market the other day? Or perhaps it’s just a sick kind of longing that hangs around the ginger no matter how much time you spend together? One thing remains clear, at its core, Childe wants to be utterly and irrefutably yours.

Taking up the dagger, you admire the inlaid gemstones glinting in the lighting of the room, their colours matching the exact shade of your eyes and you’re sure that this must have cost an arm and a leg. Tracing the cold metal down the ridge of his spine, you feel him shudder, your ears picking up a soft keening whine. You start off slow, the tip of the blade breaking past skin and revealing glorious liquid crimson. Childe sucks in a breath at the delirious buzz of pain and pleasure that he’s subjected to at your hands.

“Nghh… please I wanttt-! to be yours!” Greedy as always.

You take your time carving out your name into his flesh, revelling in just how many moans and whines you can wring out from the harbinger. Despite how muddled his senses are, he’s acutely aware of each and every searing twist and pull of the knife. Some of the warm blood trickles and drips down to where the two of you are connected and the sensation has him losing the ability to speak, brain reeling at how disgustingly intimate this whole act is. However, over time, Childe gets squirmy and twitchy with how pent-up he’s getting, the arousal in him pooling and heightening. That simply won’t do. Good boys need to stay in line while their lover is being so so so nice to them after all. With a pointed “tsk”, you land a hard smack on his ass as a warning. He yelps loudly at the impact but he gets the message, obediently staying still as you finish carving the tramp stamp.

When you’re finally done, you pull out of him, the lack of your cock filling him up has Childe whining again but it snaps him out of his reverie. You reach over to grab a mirror and angle it so that he can see (read: marvel at) your handiwork. His eyes glint as he catches sight of the fresh cuts, the wound spelling out your name and the fact that you’ve claimed him as your devoted believer. However, he doesn’t let you go further than cleaning and disinfecting the wound site. (Secretly, he hopes that it leaves a permanent scar, an eternal pure white etched into his skin to show that he belongs to you without question.)

Throughout the whole healing process, he picks away at the scabs that try to cover the wound, opening it back up again so that your name is written in a carnal raw red. Whenever he stares at it in the bathroom mirror for too long and thinks that a certain part of it is fading away too fast without leaving a mark, he rushes to you, whining and begging for you to redo it with a frenzied tone in his voice.

He wishes you’ll dig even deeper, maybe even push your fingers into his flesh until he’s screaming and clenching down on your cock, use his blood as lube as you fuck up into him relentlessly. The thoughts keep coming and you can’t go a full week without Childe pleading for you to lay your claim on him.

Maybe next time he’ll convince you to leave your mark on his abdomen so that everyone can see who he belongs to.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

#📜.qi rambles #yandere #gore #eroguro #yandere genshin #genshin smut #sub genshin #tartaglia x reader #yandere tartaglia #tartaglia smut #sub tartaglia #childe x reader #yandere childe #childe smut #sub childe #dom reader #📜.qi writings

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neoplatinum · 27 days

Text

i choose you - part 3 | minatozaki sana

summary: a darkness in sana's past comes back into light

pairing: heiress!sana x reader

themes: blood, murder, gore, knives, arranged marriage au, fluff, angst, tension, lots of elitism, conglomerate power-hungry side characters, implied sex, misamo!

wc: 5.9k

(series masterlist)

you stare at her as she stares at you back. the eyes of a woman who's held her domain for decades, bursting in power through the new age of technology. her eyes are still as sharp as ever, despite her age. it's how she's kept her power for so long.

long brushes of the tea cup lid against the cup, nursing a cup of sencha.

"tell me, how devoted are you to the mintaozaki clan." she continues to swirl the tea in the porcelain cup. her eyes never leaving yours.

you stare at her, but also to take a glance at the elders of the minatozaki clan all staring at you. strong eyes and the crest pinned to their delicate fabrics.

momo and mina are sat on the second row of chairs lining the edges of the room. various council advisors and distant family members sat in the back corners as well.

"i would lay my life on the line for the minatozakis." she stops her swirling. the gentle drop of the lid back onto the cup as she sets it down next to her.

with the flick of her wrist, a man shuffles towards, head bowed as he hands her a folder. the sound of papers being flipped through while you keep your eyes trained on the floor.

all around are eyes peering in, a dare. they stare, daring you to make any sign of weakness, you keep your eyes unwavering as you wait. it's so quiet that an outsider would expect no one in this room. you can even hear the faint sound of wind outside.

"let me rephrase. would you survive for the minatozaki clan." she places the paper down. eyes instantly back on you.

"until my last dying breath. i would utter it for the minatozaki name." you say, staring at her with intensity of a thousand flames. you think of sana, of haruto and hanako. the person you have become since being part of the family.

the matriach leans back into her chair. and you stare, for any sign of emotion. the way her eyes remain neutral and unchanging, hands comfortably laying on her lap. her feet tucked together and that large pendant on her neck.

"understood." another flick of the wrist. a different man walks forward, head bowed just like the last.

his head low as he presents a tanto with both hands. the six inch double edged blade. a long dagger, sheathed in dark brown wooden scabbard.

lined with the proud name of the minatozaki clan in hiragana, etched into the layered metal. she holds it within her palms, unsheathing it and holding it out.

"do you know of the etching tradition?" she says as she feels for the blade, the tip piercing enough of her skin to let out a drip of blood. she wraps it into a cloth as she goes back to staring at you.

"no, i do not." you've never even heard of the tradition to begin with. eyeing sana from the corner of your eye but she keeps her eyes focused on her mother.

"present." and then the cacophony of hands folding up their arm sleeves, and the turning of their forearm towards the matriarch, you can barely see it, but it's there. the scarred skin in the symbol of the minatozaki crest, just in the center of everyone's right forearm.

a glance to your right, and you notice it on sana's forearm, it's always been there. even in the curiosity you never asked, always wondering how she had a perfect scarring of her family name. the way it stretches across her arm, like a branding.

like an imprint of being in a cult, you look back at the matriarch.

upon her forearm, the same name is etched deeply, a long stretch of scars lining around it, never touching the name directly. the room all around you, are filled with minatozakis, each and everyone one of them.

"the minatozaki name will be etched into your skin. do not show weakness." the matriarch calls you forth, you rise to your feet, making quick steps to her. kneeling before her as you present your arm, to which she gently rubs over.

the tanto digs into your arm, and you grind your teeth willing the pain away as the tip of the blade drags along the skin. clean and sharp lines that are moving like brush strokes on a painting.

you grip onto your pants for a distraction to shift the pain. the burning and sweating sensation making you tremble a little. you will it away when you feel the blade lift up suddenly.

"breathe." you can hear sana's voice behind you, calming the pain brewing all over your body.

letting out a held breath that's been burning your lungs. a reminder that this pain is temporary, the breathing chills the burning sensation in your head.

the final mark is laid upon your skin, and you can feel yourself feeling faint, holding onto the floor to keep your body upright. you feel the blade lift off your skin, the sound of the blade being cleaned, while you stare at the pool of blood on the marbled floor, dripping and seeping underneath your shoe.

"rise." she speaks. you stand up, letting the blood continue to run down your arm.

the ringing in your ears gets louder and louder. she speaks of tradition, the value of the name across your arm. all eyes continue to stare you down, eyes like steel.

"this blade, has etched every minatozaki in this room, and those that have been laid to rest. this blade, will continue to etch into the minatozaki clan for future generations." you stare at the blade now in your hand, only seconds ago tearing your skin apart and being branded as the family's new pawn.

"to a new generation." she says as she hands it over, the drippings of your blood still across the double beveled edge. you stare at the blade, the weight of it, the memories of each person etched. it's heavier than you expected.

generations of minatozaki's all carved into submission. you begin to feel it, stirring low in your subconscious, you need more.

every night in the dark study, you stare at the name. forever in your skin, and upon your body. a sign that you are now a minatozaki, even years spent becoming a figurehead didn't sear the idea until now.

the scarring has scabbed over and begun to heal, into that perfect shape of the name.

sana's been telling you stories about her late father, the patriarch of the minatozaki clan before he was assassinated by the abe clan. the abe's who wanted his land, his ability to rule over japan.

stories of his strict rulings, his inability to feel remorse, his lack of fear. his dictatorship under his ship, even more fierce than his father.

the golden age of the minatozaki clan.

you often visit the matriarch, learning family secrets that wouldn't be uttered under broad daylight. understanding the inner workings of a regime that's lasted centuries.

more so, you've been trained by the matriarch to take over the next generation for the minatozaki's. receiving training in the philanthropy for public image, but also training on how to take out an enemy without letting a single drop of blood fall.

you can see how the minatozaki's have gotten so far, extremely cautious and calculating, much like other conglomerate group families. as much as you didn't want to be pulled in, here you are. fighting both momo and mina in hand-to-hand combat.

a swift kick of the leg, and you topple over. the pain of the right hook that momo landed earlier still leaving a stinging in your cheek. you turn over, breathing in and out.

"you're still too slow." momo comments, sitting down with mina doing the same.

you continue to stare at the bright light overhead, the feeling of your heart beating thumping in your ears, the sweat dripping down your body.

"i know."

mina gets up, grabbing water bottles and passing one to you. you sit up, drinking it as the two woman stare at you.

"why do you do this?" momo starts, a curious question that's been plaguing her mind lately.

the minatozaki's never asked you to be trained to be the next head of family, but you took it upon yourself to do so. grueling physical training, while learning the arts of the past generations.

mina continues to sip at her water, eyes watching you.

"duty. for sana, for haruto, for hanako." you explain, as much as you didn't want to become a pawn for their family, you care so deeply for the family that you now have, one that you would tear apart the world for.

mina nods, but momo rolls her eyes, "how noble." and with another sip, she gets up again. you begin sparring once more.

rolling your shoulders when you walk into your office, grabbing some soothing oil to rub onto the bruise on your ribs and the smaller bruises along your shoulders.

you stare at the tanto that now lays in a secret compartment under your desk. the etching tradition still leaves you in a heavy daze these days, how much you have changed all for sana's family.

when the devil herself walks in.

"you need to fire that assistant of yours." sana walks in, handbag hanging off her arm. glasses perched on her nose bridge, the exhaustion rolling off her words. she seems aggravated.

"why?" you cock your head to the side.

"she just told me you have a meeting in five, which i mean sure thank you for the information but i seriously don't care." you laugh out, as she crosses her arm. sitting comfortably in the armchair in front of you.

it seems today is one of those days.

"she's just doing her job." you explain. you liked shoko, she did her job well, often reworking your schedule when you needed her to. and she rarely complained about it, you even gave her a raise recently.

"yeah and i'm doing mine." sana gets up, leaving her bag on the floor and crosses over to you, dropping herself onto your lap.

she takes the glasses off your face. letting it slide across the table. you're about to get up to pick it up, when sana pushes more of her weight onto you. keeping you in your seat.

"last time you just waltzed into one of my 1 on 1 client meetings and sat on my lap the whole time." you point at her, showcasing the same exact behavior.

"yeah, like i said, i'm doing my job." sana says, taking off her sunglasses.

"sana...." you say dejectedly.

"i didn't hear you complaining when you bent me over this table and ate me out the rest of the afternoon." and with that she smashes her lips against yours.

you completely forget what you were complaining about earlier.

"what's your favorite color?" sana's voice is quietly coming through the microphone, she called you multiple times, and texting you urgently nearly ten times.

you silenced it, only to get a note from your assistant to pick up her calls.

"hmm, green." you say, watching as the shareholders stare you down, waiting for your approval.

without another second, the sound of the call ending comes through, you glance at your phone screen, seeing the call disappear, and a little confused.

"sorry, please continue." you point at the junior executive, he's been trying to get through this presentation without peeing his pants, and really you would like to get through it enough for him to finally calm down.

fifteen minutes later you get multiple pings on your phone.

"so like i said, we expect the project with akira industries to go well-" the junior executive's voice completely drowns out into white noise when you see what's displayed on your screen.

sana baby: attachment: 3 images

sana baby: you like?

your phone screen is filled with green, all three photos illuminating your face in a green hue.

green lingerie set, green bows tied around her hair, and your dress shirt draped over one. good god, she looks like a vixen.

photos of her laying across the bed, aimed at the mirror, long legs that stretch across the comforter. gorgeous lithe body framed by that light green corset. pouty lips in a selfie, aimed down at her cleavage.

you nearly curse out loud, instead letting a cough come through at the last second to cover it up.

another message comes through. you lift your phone back up to your face.

sana baby: you come home in thirty and you can take it off with your hands, any later and you do it with your teeth.

you're trying to pick out your work outfit for tomorrow, eyes glancing at all the dress shirts that you had hung up in the walk-in closet. you can hear sana faintly humming through the other side of the closet.

"sana..." you pick out one shirt, noticing the pink-ish red color across the collar.

"yes darling?" she says in a light-hearted tone, you see her walk over with her eyes a little playful. her eyes landing on the dress shirt that you have in your hand.

you hold it up to her face.

"why are my dress shirts littered with lipstick marks?" she takes the dress shirt out of your hand, eyeing it with happiness.

"they need to know who you belong to." she says and hands it back to you.

you shake your head at it. putting it back onto the rack.

only to notice another shirt, and another shirt, and another shirt.

"i mean, literally every single shirt is covered in them." you point at the whole rack, now noticing the pink/red littered across the collars. all of them have it. you turn to look at her, eyes wide as she just smiles at her handiwork.

she gives you a peck and just leaves. turning her head to look at you over the shoulder and give one last remark.

"you better not wash them off or you're sleeping on the couch."

"the abe clan cordially invites you to the 2027 annual ball." you stare at the invitation in your hand, red cardstock, beautiful crest in the dead center.

with sana's quiet humming, you barely register that you've arrived at the abe clan's main estate. dark and light reds adorning the walls, intricate wooden carvings of dragons. the dark red crest and lapels on each security guard.

the sedan rolls forwards, until you're stopped by two guards. handing the invitation card to the chauffeur, and letting the guards scan the car.

you watch sana, her eyes floating around, admiring the long trees that line around the garden's pond.

and then the car continues to roll forwards, and all around you are different black marked cars. each with their own crest, women and men donning different formal wear. kimonos, tuxedos, hanboks, qipaos, ao dais, all around.

the door opens, and you step out, rounding the corner to take sana's arms into yours.

"one rule with the abe's, do not ever drink first in front of an abe." she whispers quietly as you both enter down a deep tunnel, much like the minatozaki house.

large stone slabs lined underneath, but you can see it above, the lining of birds across a wired line. much like a telephone line. their dark beady eyes staring down, with jet black feathers that make their body look like voids.

they all move their heads in turn with the walking guests. "trained birds, trained to kill." she comments and continues to pull you forward.

then you enter a big hall, filled with different dignitaries, generals, top executives, council members, even a few celebrity faces.

sana smiles at the sight of the turning heads, everyone's excited to see another conglomerate family at these events. "just smile and nod." she whispers again through a smile.

you do the same, watching the eyes all peer back at you. they don't have the stillness of the minatozakis, there's bloodlust, there's evil, there's an ominous undertone behind those spheres. a predator lying dormant in each and everyone one of them.

with the sound of the doors opening, you hear the awws of the guests, all piling into the abe main hall. much like the grandeur of the minatozaki clan, it's lined with artifacts of war.

great katanas and bows hung along the walls. dark and deep red colored accents, a giant abe crest upon the center. there's beautiful music playing in the background as you scan the room. sana tugs you along.

"how much do you know about the abe's?" sana stares at you as she hands you a small knife. you tuck it into the breast pocket.

"a little." you offer, brushing her hair out of her face, and she gleams at that, giving a little kiss before returning back to her stoic face.

"kaito and kenji, two sons of the abe clan. kaito's set to become the head of the family. there's rumors that kenji might kill him for the seat." she explains, adjusting the knife in her thigh holster.

you nod, her mother has educated you on all the conglomerate groups, especially the abe and watanabe clan. both have been vying for the possible absorption of the minatozaki clan.

you adjust the knife holster for her, as you check your surroundings, just as you expected. nearly the same power in their private military, donning red fabric. you both take off to the other side of the room, eyes darting from face to face trying to remember significant figures, but who are you kidding, they're all people in power.

browsing through plates of delicacies, waiters and waitresses circling with plates of drinks. each more colorful than the last, it seems the abe have distinct taste.

you're leaning to your left when you're suddenly pulled into a conversation, the woman making large and loud gestures at you. most of which you nod and let the words flow through your ears. you never thought you would see her again.

sana's staring, taking turns staring at her and staring at you. her hold on your arm tighter than ever, feeling the blood thump in your arm. she continues to drone on until finally she gets swept into another conversation with someone else.

sana unhooks her arm from you.

"who is that?" sana stares at you, arms folded and that tick in her jaw. you can't help but keep eyeing the long black dress that she has on, with a deep thigh slit along the left side.

you try your best to keep the impure thoughts to yourself, instead offering a kiss to sana's forehead when you stand in front of her.

"hmm, old friend from law school."

sana had been eyeing the woman even as she moved across the room. even more upset when she slid up next to you. talking your head off about something that must have been boring because she could recognize the attention leaving your body.

but she can't help but notice how forward the woman was, unnecessarily putting her hands on you. unnecessarily laughing at whatever you are saying, just a bit too hard. unnecessarily pushing her cleavage up against you.

"our year?" sana says, brushing off a piece of lint from your jacket, also brushing off the feeling of the woman off your jacket.

you stare at her manicured fingers. long slender fingers that wear your ring proudly. you smile at the sight of the large diamond.

"no, a year younger." you say softly, bringing her hand up to kiss it. she flips your hand over to kiss it back. "why do you ask?"

"didn't know you liked younger women..." she comments, back to nitpicking what the woman is wearing tonight.

how dare she try and lay her hands on you? sana's thinking of calling momo and mina to do some 'intervention'.

"i don't, like younger women i mean." you watch sana as she stares down the woman. the way she holds onto the neck of the champagne flute, the way she has that tick in her jaw, the way she can't keep moving her eyes up and down in disdain.

"good." she comments back, it's more so to herself, so you roll your eyes at that.

"i only like you sana." you say the golden words that make her heart melt. she stares at you for a bit.

"mhm keep sweet talking me like that and i’ll let you fuck me in the bathroom." she drapes her arm over your neck pulling you into a hot kiss, tossing a wink to the woman from earlier.

you pull away, her chasing after you, but with all the prying eyes you'd rather enjoy sana in a more private place.

you begin to pull her towards anywhere that isn't open space for people to watch, when you bump into someone on accident.

"oh hello." the man turns around, a tall man toying with a knife in hand. his eyes dancing with amusement. "apologies, hope there's no hard feelings."

"none here." you offer, trying to side-step around him when he places his small knife at your neck. you look down at it, engraving in the base with red ink.

"kenji abe." you whisper to yourself, but he claps in delight, nodding quickly and sheathing his dagger away.

"that is me!" he exclaims, offering his hand. you shake it, his grip awfully loose, too loose.

"nice to meet you mr. abe." you explain, still trying to drag sana away. he stops you with a hand, a little smirk on his face. taking a glance at you and sana.

“nice to meet the minatozaki’s new lapdog.” he smiles, and then takes a look at sana, “hello sana, it’s been a while hasn’t it. kaito misses you.” the curling devilish smile as he hands both of you a drink. and taking one for himself.

“cheers! to a lovely abe ball.” he says as he holds the glass in the air, you take a quick look at sana out of your eye as you both clink his glass, letting it linger away from your lip.

watching the way he smirks, and then drinks his champagne. he smiles at you both before disappearing into the crowd.

“never liked him.” sana shudders as she says it, you just smile at her. letting her lay on your shoulder. “him and kaito. they’re dangerous. and he called you a lapdog, what an excuse of a man.”

you just nod, absorbing the information you’ve just been told. it’s not easy transitioning into this lifestyle, with structures and family systems in place, you feel like you really are out of your depth here.

a question still remains, what did he mean by kaito misses sana? you’re distracted by even more dramatic flairs of the abe ball. fire lighting up around, spotting several of your father’s old business partners, nodding to them.

"have i told you how gorgeous you look tonight?" sana starts, giving you a light kiss under your jaw.

"hmm, no, not tonight." you smirk, leaning into her, garnering another kiss. you smile when she rolls her eyes, kissing her jaw lightly too.

"well you do, and i think you would look even more gorgeous under me." she whispers into your ear, you lean back. it seems tonight’s been getting under her skin, constantly trying to get you away from the ball.

you shake your head ready to tell her no when you hear a mic being tapped.

“hello, welcome to the 247th annual abe ball!” a tall well tailored man is speaking into the mic, upon a lifted podium. his voice loud and commanding as he looks below at all the guests.

all around you are people clapping at him, so you begin to clap, interested in whoever this man might be.

“my name is kaito abe, thank you all for joining us tonight.” he booms into the mic, the sound booming off the walls, everyone clapping at his pauses.

“tonight, we have something special, a very special event.” he says, lifting his hand out to the other side of the podium. white flashing lights suddenly illuminating three bodies.

the sound of gasps and quiet whispers making you curious. you keep your hand on the knife, sana’s picked up on the same thing, her hand pulling the thigh knife.

“i welcome you, the death of the watanabe’s.” and there you can see it, white fluorescent lights shining across three figures. their eyes begging for help while they’re forced to face the bloodlust of kaito abe.

“sana, get behind me.” you push her behind you, her eyes staring at the watanabe’s.

they look roughed up, blood already pouring from their heads and clothes. the patriarch, his wife and the only heir.

“you see, a little weasel from their clan, a vermin even.” kaito begins throwing the tanto he has in his hand, one much like the minatozaki tanto you have in your desk.

he continues to flip it through the air with ease. “tried getting into our clan, how silly right?”

he leans forward, nearly off the edge of the podium as he laughs maniacally. you can see shuffling begin to happen, people are panicking, trying to leave the ball.

only to be pushed back into the center by the abe guards, all of them wielding weapons.

“oh no, you can’t leave darling, the show’s barely begun!” he continues to round the podium, letting out a laugh when the woman starts crying, his tanto hanging loosely in his hand as he points at the woman.

“see, when there's a rat in your home, what do you do?” he continues to pace the podium. “answer me!”

he shouts from above, more people are shuffling nervously and then you hear a distant, “you exterminate them!”

“BINGO! you. exterminate. them.” he laughs a bit, walking briskly towards them, pulling at the hair of the patriarch.

you curse out loud, his swollen eyes and chunks of his hair missing.

“but you can’t just exterminate one rat. no. no. they will just continue to repopulate. exterminate. at. the. source.” and then he jabs the tanto right into the man’s neck.

blood gushing onto his suit like a geyser. he lets out a laugh as the man sputters up blood before falling forward.

then he moves towards his wife, stabbing into her neck as her cries turn into screams. dragging out a laugh from him, meanwhile their son is crying silently, arms defeated as he watches his two parents’ now dead body.

“and remember. no survivors left behind.” he says with finality, as he shoves the tanto deep into the son’s neck, the tanto left inside.

sana’s covered her eyes into your back. you can feel her shaking a bit, you cover her ears as you pull her close, letting her keep her head against your chest.

“sana?” she just continues to shake in your arms, fear enveloping her entire body. memories of her younger self around the abe clan. you’ve never seen her so scared. she clings onto you like a lifeline.

“thank you, thank you! i hope you enjoyed the show!” he takes a deep bow, one in which he keeps his head forward with that smirk on his face. joy from killing, joy from being able to make others submit to him.

and then he walks over, using his foot as leverage as he pulls out the knife, wiping it clean off, and disappearing behind a door in the wall. the sound of shouts and chaos echoing through the hall.

the car ride is silent, sana’s gone quiet, simple nods when you ask her if she’s alright. eyes squeezed tightly and one hand curling around the other. you don’t even know where to begin talking about the events of tonight.

the abe’s are ruthless killers, you remember that even from when sana told you. it just takes a live performance of it to see how they are devoid of remorse.

kaito abe, kaito abe, kaito abe.

you barely knew the watanabe’s, only speaking to their son once, he was quiet. he didn’t seem the type to want to lead their clan, but now he lays dead, at the hands of kaito.

you play with your knife in your hand, thinking about how easily it shoved down the watanabe’s, killing them so quickly. the same blade that’s supposed to show honor and birth of a new member of the clan, used for killing those that harm the family.

the car rolls into the manor, and you take a deep breath, looking at sana. eyes still unfocused and staring at her own hands. you open the door and round the back to open the door to her side.

“darling? we’re home.” you offer your hand, she doesn’t even move. so you tap her shoulder lightly, she jumps at the touch, moving back from it.

“oh, sorry.” she takes your hand, and you pull her out, leading her towards the door. you immediately squatting at the sight of haruto and hanako walking outside.

picking up haruto in your arms, while sana picks up hanako, a warm smile back on her face. holding hanako tightly to her chest. haruto messes with your hair, pointing around and talking about his day. you kiss his forehead and walk inside.

there’s still a weird tension lingering around her, she refuses to look you in the eyes. instead preoccupying herself with putting hanako to bed. so you do the same putting haruto into bed. tucking him in and giving him a kiss while sana waits outside. you kiss hanako on the forehead as well before slipping out.

giving yourself a deep breath when you close the door, you see sana next to you, her eyes back to their unfocused state. there’s something she isn’t telling you, and normally you aren’t one to pry. but after the events of tonight, you need to know.

“sana, are you alright?” you hold her head in your hands, eyes peering into hers, for any sign really. she just nods, taking a deep breath, dragging you down the hallway.

“i have something to tell you.” she begins as she sits at her vanity. starting to take off her earrings, you unclasp the necklace that she has on, placing it into a velvet box before tucking it away.

she stares at herself in the mirror, memories of her past self resurfacing.

“kaito abe and i, we used to date. set to marry actually.” you sit next to hit, listening intently as she continues to take out hairpins and set them across her table. “it was what was destined for us, until his father killed my uncle. momo and mina’s father.”

you nod, you didn’t know much about momo and mina but there was an emptiness in their eyes, you always assumed it was because they were trained soldiers.

“seeing them up there on the platform, it felt like i was watching momo and mina being killed at his hands. then i thought, what if he killed you, what if he killed haruto and hanako. i’m so scared.” she bursts into tears, hands shaking to hold yours.

“he won’t be able to, i won’t let him.” you say confidently, kissing her gently.

“so, the minatozakis were here tonight.” kenji stares at kaito, both of them throwing knives at a corkboard, you and sana’s photos pinned to the board.

“yes, sana and her plaything.” kenji turns to a guard, handing him ten new knives. kaito just laughs, doubling over and wiping the tears out of his eyes.

“her plaything? how delightful.” kaito stares at the photo of you, and then down at the photo of haruto and hanako by your side. “and her spawns.”

“yes, two it seems.” kenji nods as he continues to throw straight into the forehead of your photos. the two continue to throw knives in the silence, slicing through the air, as they land on the different photos across the board.

“kenji, let’s topple the minatozakis?” kaito stares at sana’s photo as he aims for her heart, landing dead in the center.

“with pleasure.” his final knife aimed straight at your heart.

a/n: message me if you want a part 4 :^P

#sana #twice #twice sana #sana twice #sana minatozaki #minatozaki sana #sana x reader #sana x you #kpop imagines #twice x reader #twice x you #neoplatinum

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yandere-daydreams · 4 months

Text

Title: Contingent.

Commissioner by the very lovely @pale-horse-writing.

Pairing: Yandere!Warrior!OC x Reader.

Word Count: 3.5k.

TW: Dub/Con, AMAB!Reader, Mentions of Blood + Gore, Obsessive Behavior, Codependent Relationships, Unhealthy Relationships, Mentions of Past Trauma, and Possessiveness.

He returned from the battlefield only minutes before sunset, bathed in golden light and backed by the crimson sky. From a distance, you could almost trick yourself into believing you didn’t recognize him, that you didn’t know why a masked man carrying enough weaponry to supply the better part of a legion would be approaching your ramshackle home, but you weary mind was not so yet exhausted as to slip so easily into such pleasant delusions. Maybe, one day, you’d be able to find that escape, to allow yourself a world without such gruesome rituals, but for now, you didn’t have the time to be so optimistic, so hopeful.

For now, you had to entertain Hidemasa – lest he find himself craving pastimes less wholesome than vying for your favor.

Today was a worse day than most to be so closely tethered to reality. Even from the stone steps of your cabin, you could see the fruits of his labor, make out the scarlet blood dripping from his blade and splattered across his bare chest. A jagged cut had been carved into his right cheek, visible above the grinning mouth of his wooden mask, but you saw no other injuries save for the bruises and scrapes he brought on himself with his relentless training. Even the cut, as ugly as it looked, had probably been his doing; either a blow taken deliberately or his own work, committed with the shattered sword of a fallen enemy when he realized the battle had left him unscathed. He was many things – brutal, manic, unyielding – but Hidemasa had never been exceedingly strategic. To him, injuries were tokens that could be traded in for your attention. The idea that there would be a wound you couldn’t bandage was as foreign as that of an opponent he could afford to leave alive – something that scared and worried you in equal measures.

With a sigh, you shut your eyes and stood, an age-old injury protesting from somewhere deep within the scar tissue of your side. As you fought to ignore the pulsing ache, a pair of well-toned arms found their way around your waist, lifting you off the ground entirely and hauling you against Hidemasa’s broad chest. Thankfully, he remembered himself before you had to correct him, placing you back onto your own feet as delicately as a man the size of a mountain with the strength to match could. Still, his hands remained on your hips, his face soon buried in the crook of your neck, then the dip of your shoulder as he slotted himself against you. You could only be grateful exposure had left you numb to his constant affection.

Carved wood grated roughly against your skin. With no small amount of hesitation, you brought a hand up and raked your fingers through his long, untamed hair – tangled and matted with gore after such a long fight. You tugged, and with only a slight groan by way of protest, he raised his head, blinking curiously. “I saw the size of their encampment. Were there any survivors?”

There was a delay before his answer, and you reminded yourself to be patient. Speaking was still relatively new to Hidemasa. A well-forged weapon had no need to respond to its commands. “There weren’t.”

“This is not a matter you can take lightly. Warriors traveling in such great numbers might be here on behalf of the shogun, and a single survivor could bring—”

“There were no survivors.” His voice was gruff, his tone clipped, and yet, he practically keened into your palm, more than happy to melt into your touch. “Have I done something to upset you, master?”

It was a question asked with complete sincerity, his earnestness alone enough to lodge a tight knot of guilt in the back of your throat. You pulled away from him quickly, taking a step back. “Never, ‘masa.” You paused, nodded towards the two straw baskets sitting by the door to your cabin. Fruit and vegetation spilled over the sides of each in excess. Personal trinkets had been nestled among the bare necessities, and you saw Hidemasa‘s on a palm-sized plush rabbit before flickering back to you. There was no doubt in your mind that it‘d be added to his ever-growing collection before the night ended. “A group of women from the village wanted to show you their appreciation for staving off the newest wave of invaders. Can you take them inside?”

You watched as he stiffened, cocking his head to the side. “You…” Speech was still new to Hidemasa, you repeated to yourself. He did not have the necessary training to disguise negative emotions so easily. Even if he’d been a better liar, the way his eyes dipped to your exposed chest would’ve given him away. “You spoke to the villagers? Alone?”

“They came while I was fetching water. We only passed each other briefly.” You, on the other hand, were a skilled liar. It would’ve been hard not to be, when Hidemasa provided so many opportunities for practice. Before he could linger on the subject, you beckoned him inside. “If I must, I’ll recite the encounter to you in its entirety later on. Right now, you need to bathe - I won’t have you tracking filth through our home.”

At the mention of ‘our’ home, he immediately softened, any jealous outburst delayed in favor of following after you like an overgrown lapdog. The overflowing baskets were lifted without a trace of effort and carried to your meager kitchen while you found your way to the back porch, where a carpenter had been kind enough to build you an outdoor onsen after Hidemasa saved his family’s farm from a group of pillagers. Your routine was well-defined, and you played your part dutifully – filling the stone basin and igniting the small stack of coal and kindling that laid underneath. Hidemasa didn’t mind the cold, but he’d be unbearable if you caught so much as a chill.

He appeared as you finished, already undressed and, for the most part, unarmed. With a quick glance to you and a nod by way of permission, he collapsed into the basin. Water sloshed over the stone walls, and you took your place behind him, running a comb through his now-damp hair. He let out a satisfied groan, shutting his eyes and settling into place. “Heard there was going to be a festival in town tomorrow,” he muttered as you worked, barely audible. “Wanna go with you, to celebrate.”

You frowned. Handling Hidemasa was a balancing act. He was tolerated so long as he protected the village from greedy warlords and roaming samari, and you were tolerated so long as you were able to keep him in-line; a task easier said than done, considering his own strength had surpassed your own long before you’d ever met him. The fact that he had such a gentle demeanor only complicated things. Trying to read his expression was useless when he could strike down a hundred men without ever letting his smile falter. He didn’t have a taste for civilian blood, but he didn’t have to. A single misstep around you, and every man, woman, and child in the village would be cut down within the hour.

With a hum, you set down the comb and began to braid his hair with a rushed sort of swiftness. “What are we celebrating, exactly?”

“Our anniversary.” He glanced over his shoulder, a slight grin painted across his lips. “It’ll have been five years since the day we met, come sunrise.”

You tugged the final strand into place. “I’d hardly think that’s something worth remembering. It took three weeks before I could believe you wouldn’t die in your sleep.”

“It was the happiest day of my life,” he countered, his tone one of dream-like wonder. “It was the day I fell in love with you.”

Something large and sharp lodged itself in the pit of your stomach. Another sigh, another moment taken to gather your composure before you pushed yourself to your feet and found your way to the edge of the basin. You took a few seconds to reevaluate his injuries (or lack thereof), but again, found only the cut on his cheek. You didn’t think before raising your hand to it, dragging your thumb underneath the thin line of tattered skin. “You were barely alive. You would’ve fallen in love with whoever filled your stomach and gave you a place to sleep.”

“Which is why I’m so happy that it was you.” His grin widened as he melted into your palm. “You loved me too, right? I know you do now, but—” His smile took on a shy lilt. “—did you love me back then?”

It was a familiar question, one he asked as often as he could afford to, and you gave a familiar answer. “Of course.” You leaned toward him, letting your lips ghost over the top of his head and lingering there. “How could I not grow to love such a devoted student?”

He didn’t laugh, this time, but purr – the sound reverberating from somewhere deep in his chest. Before you could draw back, an arm caught you by the wrist and dragged you into the scalding water, into his lap. Out of instinct, you made a weak attempt to straighten yourself, to pull away from him, but your pride crumbled quickly under Hidemasa’s strength and, with only a thin scowl and a half-hearted glare by way of protest, you settled against him, his chest against yours and his face once again buried in the side of your neck. Without his mask to act as a barrier, he was free to latch onto you, his teeth gazing over the curve of your throat before he found the target of his harsh affection: the tender patch of flesh underneath your jugular vein. His canines pierced vulnerable skin without resistance, and he groaned as fresh blood washed over his tongue, as he lapped over the fresh puncture marks as if in apology. Again, you fought the temptation to push him away, your hands finding their way to his shoulders as his fell to your waist, then lower – his calloused fingertips digging into your ass through the now-soaked material of your yukata.

With his face buried in the dip of your shoulder, he rutted into the knee that’d fallen between his legs, his agonizingly stiff cock grinding against your thigh. You’d been fortunate enough not to notice his arousal before being pulled into his lap, but you could only imagine he’d been hard long before he’d gotten into the water. Since he got home, if not from the moment he departed from you that morning – his head full of thoughts of victory and his body already aching for the reward he’d come to expect from you. Distantly, you heard him whine, saw a dark flush begin to spread over his pale cheeks, and for a moment, you could almost believe that this was not the bruised, battered, half-staved boy you’d taken in, but someone else entirely. For a moment, you could almost believe that a monster had crept into the home in the dead of night and taken away your poor student, leaving only this unsatiable beast of a man in its wake. For a moment, you could almost believe that you didn’t truly hate Hidemasa, but only pitied the creature he’d become.

Then, one of his hands fell that much lower – gazing over your hip before curling around your limp cock, and once again, you were freed from such juvenile delusions.

“Need you,” he muttered against your shoulder, beginning to pump his fist over your shaft in stunted, hasty movements. You weren’t hard, let alone excited, but if Hidemasa could tell the difference between his eagerness and your suppressed dread, if he minded the pained look that came across your expression as your cock begin to pulse against his palm, then it would’ve been impossible to tell. As always, he was more than happy to do the work himself, to grind the heel of his palm into your base and swipe the pad of his thumb over your tip until you were leaking in his vice-grip. His technique was sloppy, his pace prone to waning whenever his attention drifted to nipping at your throat or nuzzling into your chest, but he knew your body well. It was almost endearing, his clumsy passion, how whole-heartedly he devoted himself to your pleasure. It might’ve been, had you been more willing to endure that pleasure.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day.” A hitched breath, his cock jutting against your thigh. “I never wanna be that far from you again. Thought I might—” He drew back, allowing just enough distance between your body and his to slip an arm between you. There was a moment of relief, then a renewed pressure as he took his cock up along with yours, pumping his fist over both in tandem. His gaze softened, and your skin began to crawl. “Feels like I can’t breathe when I don’t know where you are. Think my heart might stop beating if I ever have to be away from you for that long, again.”

His pace grew more erratic, this grip tightening to a nearly painful degree. You winced, moved to tell him to be more careful, but a ragged groan cut you off as his mouth crashed into yours. Kissing, too, was an art he’d never taken the time to perfect, despite all the time he’d put aside to practice it. His tongue forced its way past your teeth as his lips moved against yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he did his best to suffocate you, to leave you entirely pliable under his touch. He wouldn’t. As far as you could tell, his greatest desire was not unrestrained pleasure, but mutual pleasure – for you to be as obsessed with him as he was with you. If something were to happen to you, if you told him to stop and truly meant it, he would. You had to believe that he would.

Not that you would ever get a chance to try. Hidemasa had not been taught to endure rejection, and he sought your approval so relentlessly - you could only imagine what your refusal would do to him. You could only imagine what his anger would do to you, after that kind of—

His hand flexed around your cock and for a blissful moment, your thought blurred and distorted before blotting out completely. Moaning into Hidemasa’s mouth, you came into his hand and, although he’d only received half the stimulation, he did the same – the evidence of his satisfaction splattering messily against your stomach. You would’ve been content to sit in the lingering pleasure, to let the aftershocks fade with his body pressed against yours, but Hidemasa was less lethargic; winding an arm around your waist and hauling himself upward. The basin was forgotten entirely, and with a clumsy haste, he carried you into your home, into the bedroom you shared with him. You were laid unceremoniously onto your unfurled futon with another messy kiss, another hitched whimper that seemed to fall from Hidemasa’s lips in fractured pieces. Hands that you’d seen crush skulls and split open rib cages came to rest on either side of your head, and for a moment, he hovered above you, dark eyes boring into your skin, kiss-bruised lips ever so slightly parted. For a moment, all you could picture was the blood on his chest, the battlefield’s worth of bodies the villagers would be burning long into the night.

Your hand found its way back to his cheek. You shouldn’t have asked, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself – the question slipping out before you could so much as attempt to swallow it back. “Does it ever bother you?” His head lulled to the side inquisitively. “What we ask you to do, I mean. I know it’s gruesome work.”

His answer was delayed, and you ran your thumb over his cheek by way of encouragement. “I don’t like anything that takes me away from you,” he admitted, eventually. “If I could, I’d like to fight by your side again, but that’s—” His gaze fell to the scarring stitched into your side, and he shook his head. “Sometimes, I think it’d be better just to get rid of everyone else – everyone but me or you. That way, there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight, and we could always be together.”

You weren’t surprised. You couldn’t be, not he’d always worn his twisted heart on his sleeve. “That’s a rather callous solution.”

“Oh.” For the first time since his return, his lips quirked downward. “I’m sorry, should I… should I have said something else?”

He remained steady, but his voice shook, his hands curling into fists on either side of you. Of course, you rushed to comfort him and of course, he embraced your sympathy with enthusiasm – allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck, to draw him that much closer to you. “No, ‘masa, of course not – I shouldn’t have asked at all.” It was your turn to kiss him, now, although your affection was much more delicate than his own. You stopped yourself from pulling away until you were breathless and he was distracted, his concentration once again centered on rutting his cock (still hard, still leaking, you noted with more than a drop of despair) against your thigh. You couldn’t help but laugh, the noise more weary than amused. Still, it didn’t seem to make a difference to Hidemasa. “Do you want to take care of me, tonight?”

This time, there was no hesitation, his immediate answer coming in the form of an eager nod, an abrupt desire to paw at your clothes. Your sash gave out with a single tug and the damp material of your yukata was shoved aside; disregarded in favor of leaving you completely and entirely exposed. You let your head roll back, your eyes fall shut, but Hidemasa was far more proactive – straddling your waist as he aligned your cock with his entrance. There was only a moment of solace, of anticipation, and then, you were fully sheathed inside of him.

You’d tried alternatives, before, when Hidemasa was younger and you had yet to fully grasp the weight of your responsibilities. You thought it might be a more passive role, that you might just be able to close your eyes and allow it to pass over, but Hidemasa’s size made that impossible; even after hours of preparation, a single thrust had been enough to leave tears welling in the corners of your eyes as you begged him to pull out. You’d been unable to walk the next day, but this – his body on top of yours, your cock buried inside of him, the walls of his tight canal clenching around your length – was hardly better, only slightly less overwhelming than the feeling of him tearing you open had been. His back arched as the head of your cock brushed against something soft and sensitive inside of him, knocking his braid loose and leaving you trapped within an impenetrable curtain of pitch-black hair that smothered the world around you, swallowed everything that wasn’t Hidemasa, Hidemasa, Hidemasa. “Been thinking, and—” His breath hitched, and he rolled his hips, immediately falling into a steady but unrelenting pattern of rising and falling, grinding and rutting. “—I wanna marry you, master.”

For the first time in months, you felt your blood run cold. You only barely managed to stop yourself from shaking your head, from letting your revulsion show. It was a useless precaution – in his fervor, you doubted he would’ve noticed if you’d screamed, doubted he was capable of acknowledging anything save for the feeling of your cock fucking into him, of your nails biting into his scalp as your hands shot to his hair. “…think it’d be nice just to be able to call you my husband.” he went on, voice airy and concentration clearly elsewhere. You felt him clamp down around you and drew back sharply, only for Hidemasa to catch your wrist, to press your limp hand against his cheek, against the proof of his devotion to you. “Think it’d be nice to hear you call me your wife.”

“No, ‘masa, that’s not—” You were cut off by a ragged whine from Hidemasa, his hands soon braced against your hips as he started to ride you properly. The pleasure was rough and invasive, that sudden spark of heat enough to turn your body unbearably hot, and whatever you might’ve said was lost to the pure heat that coursed through your form. He’d caught you off-guard, last time, but you could feel him dragging you toward your second climax, see it on the horizon despite your best efforts to hold out for that much longer, to spare yourself the guilt of coming undone so easily for your former student. He was relentless, though, determined to split himself open on your cock, never happy unless you were buried as deeply inside of him as was humanly possible. He was warm, and tight, and you couldn’t stop your hip from snapping against his ass; your eyes clamping shut and your body going stiff as you came undone inside of him. Hidemasa wasn’t far behind you, his hand wrapping around his cock and pumping once, twice before you felt something thick and searing crash onto your stomach, your chest. You didn’t let yourself look at the damage, you didn’t let yourself look at him – letting your head roll to the side and keeping your eyes shut, even as you felt him shift, even as he leaned over you, your cum leaking out of his ask and spilling onto your thighs.

His tone was so light, his voice so innocent, you could almost believe it was a question posed out of love rather than obsession.

Almost.

“We’ll always be together, right, master?”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t have to.

There was only ever one answer you could give, when it came to Hidemasa.

“Of course.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere oc #yandere warrior #yanderecore #yancore

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shintin · 1 year

Text

The Hickey on Your Neck

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

One-shot

Summary: Only seconds before closing your eyes do you realize that the dreams you had forgotten among the lust and thrust of your lover were the life you were destined to lead.

Or a story about how You and Vash fucked from dawn to dusk on his birthday.

Word count: +17.5 k.

Genre: explicit smut, romance, angst (Trigun au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, established relationship, soft/dom Vash the Stampede, too much fluff and kissing, scar worship, plant patterns display, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering (with prosthetic arm), unprotected sex (c’mon! We want his seeds), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, two smut scenes (one romantic, other hardcore), aftercare, emotional trauma, violence, blood and gore, post-Trigun Stampede but no manga spoilers.

Notes: I'd never written a Trigun fic before, but with this Vash brain rot, I'm sure it won't be the last. I originally intended to name this fic "Sleepless Nightmare" after TOMBI song, but somehow changed my mind. You'll see why. "Elay" in my mother tongue means the Moon of a Tribe. A nick name Vash will use for reader.

By the way, you can also read the Disclaimers and Writer's Note at the end.

Song Recommendation: The Hickey on Your Neck Playlist

You can read my fics on AO3 and Wattpad. If you have any questions, don’t be shy and ASK. This is my DISCORD account, in case you want to contact me.

Back to master list.

07:30 pm – July 21st

A hole had been left in your heart. Throwing yourself backward, you tripped over your feet. Your head slammed into the floor as your arms did little to break your fall. It was a pain you'd never known, a pain you never thought you could feel, never would have even imagined. From the inside out, you were lit on fire by a bullet that went off in your chest.

All of a sudden, everything slowed down.

So this, you thought, was what dying felt like.

You blinked, and it seemed to take forever. The images before you were unfocused, with colors, bodies, and lights swaying in unison and stilted movements blurring. Your ears couldn't hear clearly. All the sounds were garbled, warped, and too high or low.

Who … she?

I asked for a tall, blond man with … eyes, and the folks pointed at her.

How come … shot her …?

She said … had never met such a man.

… idiot! What if she's with the gunman?

Whatever. … doesn't draw a gun anymore; rumor has it.

What a moron! The man may not kill, but … wiped out … whole city!

What … … we should … then?

If … … his girl, … … screwed up!

… the bounty! … get lost before the news …!

It was like all the words were banging into each other, colliding again, spinning around you. Your name seemed to be being called, but you couldn't hear it. Everything was muffled, slippery, and off-balance, like it was there, just out of reach, but you couldn't find it.

Heavy footsteps stomped, stomped, and stomped the ground, and a familiar face appeared before you. The shape, the golden and green colors drew your attention, and you tried raising your hand to feel his warmth once more and assure him that everything was okay, but it was too hard, and suddenly you couldn't breathe. Your throat felt like it was being slashed, holes punching into your lungs, and the more you blinked, the less clearly you could see. The tightest breaths, tiny little gasps, were soon all you could manage. Pain, pain, and more pain followed the dizziness and lightheaded feeling. It was terrible, never seeming to end.

Your sight suddenly went dim. Blindness overtook you.

Blood dripped from you rather than being seen as you blinked, blinked, and blinked in a desperate attempt to regain your vision, but all you saw was a cloud of white. A short frantic gasp and the pounding of your eardrums were all heard. Some warm sensation spread throughout your body as the fresh blood pooled under you.

You knew your life was about to evaporate, and it only made you think about how short you lived with him and how he would blame himself for your loss. Leaving your tears to fall, you whispered, "I-I'm sorry, Vash."

05:45 am - July 21st

A sharp intake of breath caused your eyes to fly open. Your skin froze in a cold sweat as your brain waded in waves of distress. Inhaling as much as possible was the only thing you could do. Your chest heaved, and your heart raced. You looked around, feeling the stillness within the madness, blinking hard against the white ceiling.

Your hands reached your throat and chest. No blood. No holes. You could feel your pulse. That must be the sound of your heart, at least, you hoped.

There was a strange feeling in your gut, like your instincts were stumbling through mud, and your bones were filled with stones. Your eyes shifted to the other side of the bed, and you sighed in relief. The reality sleeping next to you brought a moment of clarity. You sat up on your elbows, head spinning as you glanced at the nightstand.

The glass was empty.

You slowly pushed the sheets aside and felt more awake with your bare feet touching the cold floor. Picking up the glass, you tiptoed toward the murky kitchen.

You reached for the pitcher on the table, but the water never made it to your lips; instead, your trembling hands grabbed the faded and scratched edges of the cabinet as if letting go of this old piece of plywood would plunge you into the blackhole of your nightmare.

A muffled whimper escaped from the bottom of your throat, and you whispered, it was just a dream. Yet, your white knuckles became wet as tears streamed down your face, blurring the cracked tiles before you.

You shouldn't have cried. You should have been stronger. Not just for yourself, but...

Incoherent thoughts still occurred to you as you pressed your palm to your lips—a fruitless attempt to stop any further crying from coming out.

It was just a dream. Everything was fine.

Your glistening eyes were fixed on the glass of water as you took a sip and pushed the venom-like lump down your throat. Nobody was going to lose anyone. This fear was deeply buried under the sands of your heart. Why did it have to appear today of all days?

A chill ran down your esophagus. Your hand shook involuntarily, and a few drops of water slid from the corner of your mouth to your chin and neck and then ran to your perked nipples.

Looking down at your body, you wiped the drops away before feeling cold. After all, this planet didn't earn its name, "Noman's Land" for nothing. The weather could get pretty chilly and cruel in this desert when those two suns weren't out. Moreover, let's not forget how many people were denied heat due to a lack of resources. Ugh! So, it's not like you didn't know you should've worn something, but God damn it! You woke up feeling a great deal of fear. Fuck! Still, you weren't eager to catch a cold. At least, not today. As you were about to return to bed, you suddenly stopped. Random images filled your mind.

Tears staining emerald green eyes, red flowers blooming on blood, and heart-wrenching screams fading in the night, all in an empty room filled with balloons and mud.

The next gulp of water tasted salty, leaving you feeling numb. Tears must have flowed down your cheeks. You lowered your glass and let your thoughts drift away.

There was a flash of your limp body in your mind, accompanied by a sharp twinge in your gut, a screaming sensation in your body, as if your lungs craved for air.

You wicked away the images, expunging thoughts of pain and death from your mind. The churning in your stomach began to slow, but your skin took on a damp, clammy sensation in its wake. You struggled to recount the things you had eaten last night. It must be it. No doubt, you had eaten poorly.

It was just a dream. What the hell was wrong with you? Crying over a dream? What were you, five? No, not today! Not today! Not today! Get your shits together!

After a moment of hesitation, you rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, ran your palm across your forehead and nose, and stopped it on your mouth before glancing at the bed.

Your pale face bloomed with a faint smile as you saw the sight—a miracle in this barren wilderness.

The curtains of the half-open window fluttered lazily with the morning breeze, letting the suns' rays play upon his scarred shoulder blades now and then, and run their greedy fingers through the golden waves of his hair, an enraged sea of sunflowers bounded by rough rocky beaches on the side. Oh! His undercut was glorious from where you watched.

He was sleeping with his eyelids slowly moving. The corners of his lips were curved upwards. Today seemed to be one of those rare days when he was free of the burdens of his past. Was he dreaming? What was his dream about? Love? Peace? Foods? Probably sweets!

You tried to avoid the woods squeaking beneath your feet as you walked back. Putting the glass of water next to the orange-tinted shades, you slowly climbed back under the warm sheets without shifting the mattress too much.

Once your head touched the pillow, cinnamon, and caramel again filled your nostrils. The man ate so many donuts that you feared he would become one. When you pictured it, your smile reached your eyes, and you giggled silently.

Like on the days you woke up early, you rolled over to face him and let your eyes roam over his abs muscles and those beautiful V lines guiding you to his secret paradise. Other than the massive gash across his chest, he had several cuts on his arms, wounds on his shoulders, and scars all over his back and legs. This man was a walking history, marked with painful memories, and luckily, your lips had perfectly mastered the story behind every blemish, slit, and stitch on his body.

It wasn't that simple, though.

When you first met him, he was a broken man covered in an old cloak, his eyes filled with agony. He was consumed by remorse, but nonetheless, he was still full of life and willing to try and glue back all his broken parts. Indeed, it was a challenge for him, and somehow, it didn't come easy to you either. Your heart ached when you removed each piece of clothing from his body. You cursed those who hurt him. It took you time and love to learn how to cherish those wounds instead of looking at them with pity. And little by little, your eyes learned to see a delicate kind of beauty in them, as if, every once in a while, you could see the sunlight shining through the cracks of his heart, lighting up your world in a most wonderful way.

Perhaps that's why after years of running, running, and running, he stopped for once and decided to rest. Something about you must have felt like home. And how lucky you were to have this?

06:30 am - July 21st

You couldn't look away from him, your mind unable to comprehend the perfection of this happiness. He was so ethereal you could hardly fathom that he was yours, wanted and loved you. You couldn't even hear yourself think over the rush of blood in your ears. The sight of him sleeping beside you, relaxed and vulnerable, was causing wild, desperate thoughts to race through your head. God! The fantasies you'd had about him. The places your mind had gone.

You sighed and brushed your face to the pillow, hoping he would roll over to you in his sleep so you could get back into his arms and the legs draped around you. Your eyelids peered at the glistening prosthetic arm in the soft light of the down. Could he feel your warmth whenever you kissed those fingers? How come you had never asked? There were many things you hadn't asked him yet.

Maybe you should start tomorrow? Hm? It's not like the world was ending today.

"You're going to come back over here, or you want to leave me cold and lonely?" he murmured, the raggedness in his voice confirming that he had been sleeping. Your gaze shifted upwards to meet his eyes, only to realize they were still shut, but his lips were painted with a playful grin.

Something inside you melted. It moved by his words, his smile, and his voice.

"I thought you were asleep." You scooted closer, and he wrapped his arms around you, cautious not to accidentally hurt you when he slipped his left arm beneath your neck. "I didn't want to wake you up." Your forehead pressed against his chest, and you felt the coldness of the iron mesh against your skin. His chin rested on your head, and his toes caressed your legs. The prickles of scars and fine hairs of his limbs tickled yours, and you felt blessed.

Funny how your nightmare faded the moment you felt his warmth like he burned a hole right through your head and pulled all your thoughts out. Well, other than that, it seemed like this morning, everything about him was exactly what you needed. His voice was calm and caring, his arms protective, and his presence comforting. You didn't want him to let go of you.

"Even if you had woken me up," he said, his artificial fingers sinking into your hair, and he continued, "I wouldn't have minded." A light kiss on the crown of your head followed his honest words. Even though this man kissed you every day and night, you could feel a silent giggle seeping into your body, causing your face to blush bright red.

Vash yawned soundlessly as he pulled you closer, his eyes still closed. The two of you were so close, too close, but never close enough for him. You had come to realize that your body heat did more for him than any blanket could. It was always in his eyes, aching with a desperate yearning he could only meet with you and your touch.

A joyful happiness settled between you as his hands drew shapes and patterns alongside your spine like those bright ones sometimes you could see on his body. Your lips curved into a smile as you watched him. His hair thick and blonde. The lines of his body sharp and robust. Damn! He had everything about him beautifully crafted. His nose. His chin. His ears and eyebrows. The eyelashes any girl would kill for and those turquoise-green eyes you longed to see. He had a gorgeous mouth.

You lingered too long there, your eyes betraying your mind.

Vash smiled. "What are you doing?" He fiddled with your hair, wrapping a lock around his finger.

In response, you sighed. Clearly, you would never discover how to avoid getting caught red-handed every time. "Just enjoying the view," you said, still staring at his mouth. You reached and touched two fingers to his bottom lip only to feel a rush of memories.

Long nights. Early morning. His mouth on you. Everywhere. Over and over again.

07:15 am - July 21st

He laughed sheepishly at your response.

You brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. His hair had grown a little long. You stroked his cheeks and drew his head back toward you, pressing your lush mouth against his. It never took him long to part his lips. He kissed you back, holding your head steady with his prosthetic arm while his other embraced you tightly. You could feel him smiling against your lips.

He had your heart, and you loved him quite horribly, too. This fact always smacked you over the head so hard you felt dizzy. You should have been afraid and wanted to hide it, as he was the most wanted man on the planet, but love had made you bold and brave.

You pulled back and studied his kiss-inspiring lips. Your whole body was filled with a warmth you wanted to share with him because it was pure, and so was he. There was no way for you to find the right words to describe how you felt.

The morning light was shining through the windows at the perfect angle and time. His muscles were taut, bathed in gold.

"Can you lie back, Vash?" you asked, pushing his shoulder back toward the bed. Finally fluttering his eyes open, he lifted his head in your direction.

Oh.

God.

His eyes.

He blinked dark lashes, revealing a spectrum of sadness and beauty, unlike anything you'd seen before. The way a person could convey so much with a glance caught you off guard. He had an extraordinary amount of pain paired with even more extraordinary passion.

His face spread into a wide smile the moment he saw you. These smiles, they changed him, and moments like this killed you a little.

He had the kind of face that made you forget where you were, who you were, and what you might say or do. You held his face in your hands as you laid his head down on the pillow. A half-lidded gaze sat on his face as he leaned to your touch, and you kissed him. Slowly, this time. His eyes fell closed. His mouth responded to yours.

Your fingers moved to his neck, then to his hair, and your mouth followed them. Soft lips caressed his earlobes and nipped the tiny single hoop, hot breaths hitting his skin, surprising a giggle out of him.

His hands reached up to pull you closer, but you stopped him. "No," you whispered. "Don't move." Without a second thought, he dropped his hands.

"Lie back and keep your eyes closed," you muttered, and strangely, he didn't object. His obedience led to you kissing him everywhere. His cheeks. His eyelids. His chin. The tip of his nose and the space between his eyebrows. All across his forehead and along his jawline. Every inch of his face. Soft, small kisses that said more than you ever could. You wanted him to know how you felt. You wanted him to feel it in the way only he could, the way he could sense the depth of your emotions. You wanted him to know and never forget.

And you wanted to take your time.

As your mouth moved down his neck, he gasped. You peeked up at his features only to meet a crooked grin on his face. The moment was worth savoring. It seemed like Mr. Vash was enjoying himself, so your tongue continued to adore his arm's sculpted hills and valleys, the perfect shape of his torso.

You breathed in the scent of his skin and took in the taste of him as your hands ran down his abs, kissing your way across and down the line of his torso. You kissed around his navel, and the trails of fine hair underneath caressed your lips. He kept reaching for you, trying to touch you until you told him to stop.

"Please," he said, taking a deep breath. "I want to feel—"

Even though he couldn't see you, you raised your brows with a head tilt and gentled back his arms. "Not yet. Not now."

He let out a breath in protest and crossed his arms behind his neck until your hands went further down and his eyes flew open. Blinking at him, you found out you were still fascinated by his eyes—such a stunning shade of green. "Close your eyes, Vash," you had to tell him.

A big gulp of air filled up his Adam apple. "No." He hardly spoke.

"Close your eyes!"

With his sharp gaze following your every move, he shook his head and leaned on his elbows.

"Fine." You rolled your eyes, and your hand grabbed the base of his hardness.

As soon as your nails brushed the skin of his length, he sat up and stared at you. He was breathing so fast you could hear and see his chest moving.

With a smile, you looked him in the eyes and leaned your head down. Your mouth took in the tip, and your tongue traced circles as Vash gasped. The sight of your bent head made him bite his lip. No doubt every fiber of his being demanded you to take him fully in your mouth, but he wanted you to call the shots. Allowing you to control the pace pushed him to the edge. He enjoyed the thrill of knowing he was at your mercy.

Soft hairs of his thighs against your ears, your nose skimmed his sensitive areas, and your lips kissed all over those favorite parts. The smooth skin of your fingers rolled around was warm and delicate, so fragile you were afraid you might tear it with your teeth. You felt his hardness throb against your cheek, pleading with you not to neglect him. Your thumb rubbed the pre-cum off the pink tip as you raised your head.

You looked up at him, his hair gleaming like golden flames, his cheeks drenched with sweat, and his lower lip stuck between his teeth, and you realized that his eyes looked at you with a look of something like trepidation, as if he was nervous. His face was still flushed red, and he had an expression somewhere between unworthiness and pleasure. With every stroke, his breath grew heavier. Obviously, he wanted more but was trying to contain his desire. Did he feel he was getting something he didn't deserve again?

There was no way you could let him be alone with these thoughts. So, before his dazzled eyes, you licked your thumb and watched how blood drained from his head and rushed straight to his torso. In surrender, he fell back; his eyes squeezed shut. You closed your mouth to half his length, and he turned his face to the pillow, stifling a moan. A tremor ran through his body, and his hands gripped the sheets tightly. Your hands ran down his legs, grabbing them just above his knees and inching them apart so you could trail kisses down the insides of his thighs.

He looked like he was in so much pain. So much pain.

You licked the pain away.

Twirling your fingers around the length, you took the crown in your mouth. Only enough to tease. Too little to satisfy. Your lips gently pressed against it, and when Vash was ready to scream, you accepted his whole length in your mouth.

Your lips were sealed tight as you hummed and increased the speed of your ministration. He threaded his fingers through your hair and molded his hands into your head, not to push you further down but to tilt your face up.

His forehead and neck were dripping sweat. The lines of emotion on his face were so deep you wondered how you must look to him. His throat bobbed, and you felt yourself drown in his eyes, enigmatic yet expressive, like sea foam, tempestuous but very calm. His fingers trailed over your salivate-covered lips, and you noticed that the sadness in his eyes had receded.

The world was suddenly brighter, bigger, and more beautiful.

07:40 am - July 21st

Taking hold of you by the arm pits, Vash pulled you in until your chest touched his. Next, you were rolled over so that your back touched the mattress, and he crawled onto you. Now his arms were propped up on either side of your head so he would not crush you under his weight. Looking into his eyes, you were pinned in place. His urgency ignited your bones. The polished planes of his face glowed with rivulets of sweat. His hardness was poking desperately against your thigh.

"I want to … …, …," he whispered. Intoxicated, you couldn't digest anything except his body hovering over you.

"… ?" His body pressed closer, and you realized you were paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in your lungs.

His eyes were heavy now in a way that worried you, but his gaze was still so tender, focused, and full of emotions you could hardly bring yourself to say anything. As your words faded, they became an unspoken whisper. Your lips glued together.

Screams.

Death.

Screams.

Your heart suddenly raced. What if these moments were destined to expire?

The sound of a clock striking midnight. A pumpkin carriage. The possibility of losing him.

You didn't want your arms to be deprived of his warmth. His touch. His lips, God, his lips, his mouth on your neck, his body wrapped around yours. The nightmare had caused this all, you knew, but the realization was like a pendulum the size of the moon. It wouldn't stop slamming into you.

Blinking fast, you swallowed back the fear building in your throat. God! He was speaking with you, but you couldn't hear him.

You were worried, really worried something was going to happen to him. What if bounty hunters found him? Could his brother hurt him? No. No. No. Even though you were only a human, you would never allow such a thing to happen. You just couldn't. You...

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, so soft. His arms were stronger than all the bones in your body. He pulled your figure close. You heard the beats of his heart humming deeply within his chest, and the steel of his arm encircled your whole body, releasing tension from your limbs. The icicles in your body were melted by his heat. Something about this frame made you want to freeze it forever. "You okay, Firefly? Wanna stop?"

The words he said sent waves of emotion coursing through you. He could read you like an open palm. You weren't lost before you met him, but you were never found until he laid eyes on you. Your tears stung as they fell backward down your throat, burning as they went. "Kiss me, Vash," you said before closing your eyes.

He searched your face, unsure what to do, hesitating, until you felt his lips on your shoulder, tender and scorching, so gentle you could almost believe it was the kiss of breeze and not a man.

Again.

This time, it was on your collarbones and felt like an ache that needed to be soothed. You didn't want to do anything to stop his mouth from touching your body.

He pulled back.

Desire.

Crave.

Need.

Again.

Your eyes refused to open.

His finger grazed the corner of your mouth, tracing its shape, the curves, the seams, and the dips. You felt him so much closer, his body heat filling the air around you, along with his smell and something sweet, until nothing was left. Your senses were so engulfed in his scent you didn't even realize your back was arching toward him as you breathed him in until you found out his fingers were no longer on your lips because his hand had gotten around your body.

"So, where do you want me to kiss you?" Vash whispered, his chest heaving, his words almost gasping. A wave of blistering heat moved through you, sealed shut your mouth. You didn't specify precisely where you wanted him to kiss you, and he didn't seem to have any difficulty selecting the spot.

He whispered your name as he kissed the corner of your eyebrow. "Here?" His lips brushed over the shell of your ear, and your body squirmed slightly. "Or here?" He pressed a kiss against your neck, right beneath your ear, and you tipped your head to let him in, biting down the urge to beg him to take more, to take faster, as he murmured, "tell me."

Clasping your warm fingers with his cold metallic ones, he hovered over you to kiss your throat. You were the oxygen he desperately needed to breathe. His body was almost on top of yours, one hand in your hair while the other held yours delicately yet firmly. His lips crushed yours in no time.

A kiss like this was like swimming in honey rivers, like being dipped in gold, like diving into an ocean of bliss and not realizing you were drowning because you were too caught up in the current to notice. Nothing mattered anymore—neither your nightmare, this room, or the whole fucking planet.

All that mattered was this.

This.

This moment. These lips. This strong body pressed against yours, and these firm hands that always found a way you bring you closer. Oh, My Gosh! You wanted so much more of him. You wanted all of him.

Your eyes opened up.

Not content to be passive, your hands ran down his back, dancing over his broad shoulders, pressing into his dimples, and squeezing his hips.

Your hand grabbed a fistful of his hair when he broke for air with a groan, but you pushed him back, kissing his neck, arm, collarbones, and chest. It was amazing. Being with him, touching him, holding him like this. The rush of adrenaline was so intense and euphoric that you felt invincible.

He muttered your name, his lips mouthing the letters, barely speaking. Your skin was scorched everywhere he hadn't touched you.

He kissed your top lip.

He licked your bottom lip.

He kissed just under your chin, the tip of your nose, the length of your forehead, both temples and cheeks across your jawline. Then your neck, behind your ears, the space between your breasts. He nibbled your nipples and left trails of kisses all the way down your belly button until his entire form moved down your figure, disappearing as he shifted downward, and suddenly his chest was hovering above your hips.

Grasping your calves, he spread your legs apart just enough for his head to fit between. Your thighs were lifted, and you couldn't see him anymore. His only visible features were the top of his head, the curve of his shoulders, and the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Eventually, even that sight was lost, with your head falling backward and muffled moans leaving your mouth.

Vash ran his hands down and up around your bare upper thighs and ribs, and he held your hips to make you stand still. Your eyes lit up like small firecrackers every time his hair teased your groins until his lips kissed you there, and fireworks exploded in the back of your head.

As his right hand pressed against your stomach, his tongue played around to make you scream aloud. His mouth brushed against your skin in places you couldn't see but felt deeply. Oh my! You were out of your body, touching stars, when you realized he was working his way up your body, leaving two fingers of that prosthetic arm behind.

"It might feel a bit cold," he said as his nose glided the skin of your stomach, leaving random kisses around your breasts and collarbones just to ease your tension. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?" His hair was a mess, the wetness on his lips all familiar.

A nod came from you in response. He almost seemed to be smiling as his fingers slipped inside your slit, and your nails dug into the fabric. Moaning, you felt his warm hand brushing your hair backward as the other moved up and down inside your walls.

Your mouth was parted in a silent moan, and his small pecks covered you all around. There were tears in your eyes, baby hairs sticking to your sweaty forehead.

As his thumb and two fingers hit all the right spots, your throat wailed in frustration.

You grabbed his free arm, and he pulled himself up, onto you, on top of you. As if reading your thoughts, he kissed you hard. How strange, yet sweet, all you could taste was you, yourself, on his tongue. You moaned at the taste, and he opened his mouth more for you, allowing you to brush your tongue against his teeth.

The stinging coldness of his fingers was long gone. You had forgotten everything. There was something you shouldn't have forgotten, but you couldn't even remember why, what you were forgetting. Amid his length caressing your side and those digits thrusting backward and forward, paying attention to anything else was hard.

You could die from this, you decided. From wanting him, from the pleasure of being with him.

You must be smiling because he was looking at you and smiling too. His forehead was pressed against yours. His skin was flushed with heat. His hand had kept your head still. Your hands gripped his nick, sliding into the hollow behind it. You placed your palms just above his nape, and your fingertips gently began to squeeze and massage his undercut.

"Va-sh."

For a moment, you thought life poured out of you, or maybe your vision fractured as release barreled into you, and you grasped his name over and over again till your body calmed under his weight.

08:10 am- July 21st

Your eyes landed on his glistening wet metallic fingers, and you were dripping, burning, melting with anticipation. He was still on top of you when you thought you heard him speak, his mouth close to your ear.

"I love you," he whispered and kissed your brow. It never occurred to you that he could be like this, so human, so real, but it was there. It was right there. Raw, written across his face. You were about to mutter all the words and worries you held in your chest, but suddenly he stood up and stared blankly at the other side of the room.

You followed his gaze to the pane of glass separating you from the reality outside. You awaited his lips to part. You waited to listen to him speak. His eyes weren't revealing anything about what he was thinking, what was going on.

Something about the realization struck fear into your heart. In the span of a single instant, darkness surrounded your vision. Images appeared in the blur of your sight again.

The petals of red Geraniums floating in the sky, a boy running through blood-stained sands, the time speeding up and slowing down in fits and starts, streaks of green and red staining your dilated eyes, stars exploding, lights flashing, sparking, and then it's all darkness and Vash's screams.

You shook your head.

The images disappeared, but the heartaches and fears lingered, and you had to keep reminding yourself to breathe. Your lungs begged for air, but you looked around for Vash instead.

It seemed he wanted to scream, but you knew the words wouldn't leave his mouth. Those thoughts would expand in his head, explosive and angry, pressing against the ridges of his mind, and then he would hide them behind a smile. As he always did.

"Vash?" you called, just before witnessing how a car's radio sound from the street ripped open his past, pulled out what was left of his heart, and dropped it on the floor.

"… been two years since that fateful July 21st. A crowd has gathered at what used to be the third city of July to pay their respects. Even after two years, the pain of losing their loved ones has yet to heal. The suspect said to have murdered 90 percent of the city, also known as the Humanoid Typhoon, still remains at large. Vash the Stampede is on the run. If I were the demon who turned the whole city into a gaping crater overnight, I'd hide my face too. There is no forgetting the sorrow of loved ones taken from us. The Alliance of Cities has raised the dead or alive bounty on Vash the Stampede to $$60 billion, the highest in the history of…"

The loud words bounced around in the haze of your head, fogging your senses, misting your eyes, and clouding your concentration. In your bones, there was just ice. Your entire being wanted to vomit. Reality slapped you in the face, punched you in the jaw, and dumped you into sand oceans. You grasped the nightstand to keep yourself steady. The orange shades fell on the floor, leaving a big crack on display.

Vash was shaking his head over and over and over and over. He was looking at his hands like he would see some blood on them, as if waiting for the part where someone would tell him this wasn't real and he didn't actually kill those 200,000 innocent people.

Oh, my beloved.

The pain was so plain on his face; it was killing you. Your gaze was drawn to the balled fists at his sides, the furrows in his brow, and the tension in his jaw. Minutes ago, this man was free, but now he was a prisoner of his own crime. In your heart, you wished you could release him from the claws of self-reproach.

Having seen his terror too often, you knew it well.

Sometimes, even when he was asleep, his tormented mind would grip his heart, and such emptiness and sadness would fill him that you felt he was suffocating, as if his sleepless nightmares never had an end.

You didn't know him before,

but

you

thought

had

lost

bit

himself

the

day

July

incident.

As time passed, you assumed he had finally learned not to dwell on what had happened. You imagined he avoided it like a cripple learning not to put weight on his injured leg.

However, deep down, you knew he was living on eggshells, always wondering when something would break, when everything would crumble. You always dreaded this day. This silence. It was not just an ordinary silence caused by the lack of things that moved or made noise, but a deep and tired silence that sometimes covered him like an invisible cloak—like the one ruling between your shared walls right now.

Stacks of sorrow had grown inside him, settling on his bones and snapping him in half. A cable twisted around his neck, a worm crawling across his stomach. It was the night, midnight, and the twilight of indecision. Too many pains to bear.

How naive of him to think he could slip into the role of a regular being and live a normal life in love and peace.

Vash.

Vash the stampede with a dream.

The mere thought of it filled him with mortification. He began to think others were right when they said things like him were better off destroyed.

Shaking his head, he coughed against the torture in his lungs, heaving strange, horrible gasps until his whole body spasmed into submission, leaving him sitting on the bed's edge like a sack full of nothingness. The old gunman looked as if he might collapse, barely breathing, his life-force being torn asunder.

You felt like your throat was closing up. You knew the infamous humanoid typhoon was everything broken and glued back together, and now knives bore holes into his cracked bones, filled with grief that could take his breath away.

Your face was drained of color, your ears ringing with your heart pounding. His desperate screams from your nightmare echoed in your head as if on repeat. His agony was acute. His terror palpable. Tears sprung to your eyes. It was painful to look at him, being so close and far away from him.

"Local news. You know how dumb they are," you said, trying to hide your petrified and nerve-wracking thoughts from his reach. What if he never experienced peace? What if there was no sanctuary, and the pain was always a whisper away, no matter where he went?

Pressing your nails to your palm, you continued, "None of that incident was your fault. You know that too. You hear me?"

His eyes widened a little. No one had ever cared about him for this long. No one had kept him ever this closely to read his thoughts word by word. No one had ever treated him like a human being. Then again, he thought you didn't know about all of his sins. In a century and a half, he hadn't been able to forgive himself; how could you? It made him wonder how long you could endure him before running for your life.

His head was spinning, thoughts knocking into one another. He clenched his fists and pushed back down the misery that had stuck with him. Even though he didn't want this, you'd probably be better off without him.

"Vash?" You swallowed and dug your fingers into the sheets desperately, a tear trickling down your cheek. It kept hitting you in the face, in the skull, in the spine, this knowledge of just how much you loved him.

His lips looked like they were barely able to form words. He could only take these harsh gasps and wonder why his body hadn't given up.

On all fours, you approached him and sat on your knees on the edge of the bed with a slight distance between you and him. You knew he wouldn't object, but you didn't want to intrude on his privacy. Thus, you remained silent so that he wouldn't be left by himself, and he would know you wouldn't leave him alone.

09:15 am – July 21st

Time passed, and you checked on him occasionally to see if he wanted to talk until he raised his head slightly.

"I'm a demon," he said the sentence so quietly. So, so quietly. He ran a hand across his face, both hands through his hair, looking like he wanted to scream, to break something, like he was truly about to lose his mind. "The world sees me as a threat. An unfixable monster. An abomination. They want me dead." His voice sounded sorrowful, almost like he had already accepted these labels.

Thousand pieces of feeling stabbed you in the heart. "I don't think you're a demon. Also, I don't think you're some sick, twisted monster. I don't think you're a heartless killer, and I don't think you deserve to die. You're not a humanoid typhoon. No, you're not any of the things people have said about you," you told him, words tripping and stumbling out of you.

His mouth fell closed, struggling with some kind of emotion, struggling to find composure. Suddenly he gasped. "No." One broken word. Barely even a sound. He was shaking his head, looking away from you. He turned to face the window. "No. No, no—"

"Vash—"

"No," he said. His voice was so soft and so scared you could scarcely hear it. "No, you don't know what you're saying—"

"You're not a monster!" you said. "And I love you exactly as you are. I don't even want you to fix yourself; I don't think you need to be fixed. People here love you as you are. Your name is the only thing that scares them," you told him.

You knew people had the right to fear him. You knew. Humanoid Typhoon certainly wasn't made of sugar, spice, and everything nice, but rather from hurricanes, lightning, and all things that scared. Seeing dusty storms and raging winds, people thought he was scary. They feared he would harm them. In truth, he was only his own disaster, destroying himself for others. He was Vash. Your Vash. Vash the Stampede, and you loved him with all his fears and frights, dreams and nightmares, sins and scars.

You smiled and continued, "If they learn your name and start hunting you, we'll run away! We'll run, run, and keep running as far as we have to! And when things calm down, we'll settle by their side again. You won't kill. You'll never kill anyone again, and one day, people will begin seeing you as I do."

Maybe tears filled his eyes. Possibly his breath was trapped in his chest. Perhaps his heart warmed a little. No one knew, not even the author. He had his head down, his chest rising and falling.

You sat behind him. A map of pain had covered his entire back. Thick, thin, uneven, and terrible, scars like roads leading nowhere. There were bolts and ragged slices, marks of torture he was not protected from.

Kindness must be difficult when all you'd received was hatred. Being able to see goodness in the world must be so hard when your only experience had been terror. You wanted to say something to him. Something profound, complete, and memorable, but there was nothing suitable. This planet was a broken bone that didn't set right, and Vash wanted to glue it back together. Alone, all by himself.

You two differed in this respect. Fearless and unafraid were two different things. He was fearless. He dared to outshine the sun, stare down a bullet, kiss death and walk away with his back unguarded. He would hold the whole world in his palms despite its bone-crushing weight, despite its sharp edges crusted with blood, if only he could stop it from falling apart. But you? You were fearful. Sometimes you couldn't breathe around the clot of fear lodged in your throat. The only way to lessen its weight on your tongue was to scream until no words came out, while the only way to chase away its shadows was never to close your eyes at night. You were unafraid of one thing, though —he could tear down the world and bury you alive under the weight of his guilt, yet you would follow him without hesitation.

Your eyes rested upon woven strands of sunlight, alighting softly upon his scarred skin. These honeyed arcing rays gave him a light glimmer that revealed his plant patterns, pulsing slowly and dimly. Something about the scene was so divine, and you felt the dawn rise from your heart every morning and reach the sky.

You hugged him from behind by bridging the gap between your bodies and leaned your cheek against his sun-kissed back. Your hands gently caressed his stomach and chest as your lips left kisses on his love reminiscences—one by one.

You could hear him breathing in and out. Unevenly. Yet he was silent. Hands clenched, knuckles white. Of course, he wanted you with a desperate need he had never known. But his regret, sins, and crimes were so overwhelming they consumed him. He thought, how could you be so kind to a thing like him?

Unaware of the voices in his mind, you dropped a kiss on his spine. You kissed the curve of his shoulder. His shoulder blades. Five kisses down his spine, each softer than the other one. For every little moment of pain he had ever felt in his life, you wanted to make it all go away. You kissed his neck, trying to ignore the tension in his muscles, the ache spreading inside you, urging you to end his suffering.

Your words were heavy with sincerity when you said, "I don't care what everyone else thinks about you." You leaned your forehead to his shoulder, your breaths gently caressing his back. "Because you're the only good thing left in this world."

As his eyes widened, he breathed heavily, trying to gain control of himself. "What are you saying?" he asked, his hand caught in his hair. "How can you tell such a thing this after all this?" His hand pointed to the window, to the news on the radio.

Standing on your knees, you kissed the hand caught between his gold locks. The same hand he always tried to cover its scar with a glove. Because the idiot thought his scars would be repulsive. The idiot. Your favorite idiot.

You didn't sit back. Keeping your head there, your nose buried in his hair, and your chest pressed to his back—this smell. You had never seen a sea, but you had heard about them. And you believed if there was ever to be a sea in this hell hole, he would smell like a sunny beach. Sweet, enveloping, and warm.

"That is—" your voice broke when you spoke. "That's what the family is for, Vash."

A sudden searing heat flashed behind his eyes, and his heart leaped at your response. He dropped his hand on his knee and sat still in place by the weight of your words. His hand trembled, and his eyes were willing and wanting but filled with both sadness and happiness.

A family.

All this time, he thought you were with him all along because you didn't have a grasp on his sins, but now, he could see that you already knew everything. And despite all of this, you were still willing to forgive him and give him something he always wanted but never had without even requiring him to earn it or redeem himself.

You touched his arm and traced the tender skin with your fingertips. Scars everywhere. You kissed the back of his elbow. "I'm sorry for everything humans have done to you," you told him, and he took a shallow breath. "Forgive us." Another kiss. "Forgive me."

A delicate warmth filled Vash's heart and melted it into drops of warm honey that soothed the scars in his soul. He turned his head and stared at you with open, vulnerable eyes, a tight jaw, and tensed muscles. No one had ever apologized to him. According to his experience, he was usually the monster, the wicked one. The onus always was on him to make amends.

It stunned him how strange it felt. Up until now, he never thought he deserved forgiveness, let alone someone asking for it.

Running a tired hand across his face, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. A joy filled his heart, causing him to feel heavy with something he wasn't even sure he could describe.

Gratitude, perhaps.

The ache in his chest had grown more assertive, more painful. But for now, he didn't want to think about it. He simply just wanted to enjoy your proximity.

Your hand reached up to stroke the luminous curved shapes on his cheek, tracing them to the softness of the mole beneath his left eye. The look in those aquamarines breaking your heart. You couldn't bear to see his face covered in sorrow and guilt.

"You're a good man, my Vash," you said, your words soft, your hand gentle as you tilted his chin up toward your mouth. He was blinking fast, yet not denying. You whispered words on his lips that no one had ever spelled out for him. "Rem would've been proud of you," you told him, watching the movement in his throat and his effort to keep it together. It didn't take you long to kiss him once, tenderly.

He found himself at a loss for words, opting to convey his emotions through touch instead as he melded his lips with yours. He sighed into your mouth, and you kissed him even more deeply, almost desperately, as if trying to pass over your breaths to him. You could taste the salt on your tongue. The wet drops falling on your cheeks made your flesh burn. You were uncertain whose they were as you continued to try and cling to him.

10:00 am – July 21st

The sheets slowly slipped and fell to the floor as Vash pulled you into his arms, clutching you tight, hardly able to breathe. When he exhaled and looked at you again, there were stories in his eyes, thoughts, whispers, and feelings of things you had never seen before. His whole body seemed to be relaxed in relief. He looked like he was hanging on his sanity by a single, fraying thread. You.

And you promised yourself, at this moment, that you would hold him forever, just like this, until all the pain, the torture, and the suffering was gone, until he'd given a chance to live the kind of life where no one could ever hurt him this deeply ever again.

He touched your cheek. Soft, as if he wasn't sure if you were real. His four fingers caressed the side of your face gently before they slipped behind your neck, caught in that in-between spot below your ear, and his thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, then grazing your bottom lip.

You did so much with these lips, you thought. Touched, kissed, and pressed them against tender parts of his skin. You made promises, and the words they formed, the shapes and sounds they curved around, all for him.

Vash moved closer by just an inch. His free metallic hand cupped the other side of your face. He was holding you like you were made of crystals. Holding you and looking at his own hands, he couldn't believe you were real.

Gone was the man with guns and bullets. These hands treasuring you had never held a weapon. They were perfect and kind, never touched by death. He took your hands and pressed your palms to his face. Tears must have welled up in your eyes when you closed them.

You whispered his name, and he breathed harder than you.

Could this be a dream?

You shook, shuddered, splintered into teardrops, and he held you like no one had before. He wanted you. Seeing him cling to you as he might never let go did something to you, something heady, knowing that he might wish you, or need you, like this, made you want to protect him even though he didn't need your protection.

Gently, he stroked your hair and pressed his lips to your forehead. Gradually, his arms became the arms around your waist; his lips became the lips pressed against yours, his body the warmth you felt.

You weren't even breathing, but you were alive, and he was kissing you. Deeply, desperately. The palms of his hands were rubbing the small of your back as he lifted you into his lap. Your legs automatically wrapped around his hips, allowing him to kiss your neck, throat, and nipples.

You broke apart with his small licks here and there, breathing hard, and stared at him like a bonehead, your brain still too numb to figure out exactly how you two got here.

Tilting his head to a side, he pressed his lips against yours again, seeking you with a burning need, a new kind of desperation. His hands were threaded in your hair, his lips so soft, so urgent against yours, like fire and cinnamon exploding in your mouth.

Vash nibbled your bottom lip in a flash and pulled back just a little bit. Your body was flooded with heat and desire so intense you could hardly think when he parted his lips from you to sigh in your mouth, and that slight sound of pleasure drove you crazy.

Putting one hand under your neck, placing his mouth on your breast, and running his fingers down your back, he pressed your body closer, only to find something hard pressing against your groin.

Oh.

Well.

While he avoided your gaze, he smiled sheepishly and tentatively touched your thighs with his hands. Because of what had happened, you knew he would probably feel embarrassed to ask for it, but that didn't mean you wouldn't give it to him. He deserved the whole world if you had the chance to provide for him. His markings were glowing softly when you squeezed him closer to yourself, holding him tighter.

Biting his lip and stifling his groan, his smart-ass hands slid up your legs and into your thighs. Soon, his lips reached your chest. Your body ached everywhere, tasting colors and sounds you didn't even know existed. His forehead was pressed against your chin, and your hands gripped his shoulders. He was hot, gentle, and somehow in a hurry.

You were beyond the reach of rational thoughts. Beyond words, beyond comprehension. The world was beyond understanding because nothing could ever compare with this. Nothing could ever capture the way you were feeling right now. Nothing mattered anymore. You were left with only this moment: his mouth on your body, his hands on your skin, and his lust deep in his eyes, making you absolutely insane.

Your wetness was no longer a secret when he surrounded you everywhere. As he watched you, you reached down and adjusted his length against your slippery entrance over a few strokes. His pulse could be felt in your palm and soon inside of you.

Using both soft and hard hands, he gently grasped your hips and pulled you down toward him. As he entered, you gasped, every time surprised at his size, clinging desperately to his neck as he hitched your legs around his waist, his prosthetic arm settling beneath your thigh. You loved the feeling of him stretching you. You loved having him this close to you. You loved the way he manhandled you. You loved his hand around your neck and the little squeeze of his fingers around your nape.

His grip tightened when he sensed you were ready for him, and he started moving you up and down. You cried out and leaned your cheek to his nose, dying and somehow being brought back to life in the same moment, in the same breath.

Fuck! You were full of him.

He lifted your thighs, and you bit back the moan stuck in your throat. His mouth wouldn't let go of your skin, kissing you with an intensity that made you wonder why you hadn't died, caught on fire, or woken up from this dream yet. Then he returned his hands to your face and kissed you once, twice.

The room's silence was filled with your heavy breathing, your chest against Vash's. Your pulses hammered against each other. You felt his arms around you become unbearably tight as he yanked you up and down with even more force than before, hitting you in a place he seemed to know too well.

As his teeth caught your bottom lip momentarily, you pushed your nails to his shoulder, running your fingers through his hair to pull him into your mouth. He tasted so sweet. So hot and sweet. You kept trying to say his name, but you couldn't even breathe, much less say a single word.

The pace increased slightly; each thrust was hard, deliberate, wringing gasps, whimpers, and long, rolling moans from you.

Your eyes tingled with tears, falling fast down, traveling quietly down your cheeks, and he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs two parentheses in your mouth, against your tongue and saliva. As if he had found Adam's ale between million mirages of the desert, he stared at you, his eyes like fire in the water.

"I love you," he whispered over and over, his voice fragile, uneven. His lips covered yours in a tender kiss. He kissed you and tasted your tears, the lingering flavor of pleasure laced in your mouth. He kissed you and kissed you until time toppled over, and your head spun into oblivion.

Vash loved you…

His temple was leaned against yours when you took his earlobe between your teeth, stripped him to his bones, and ruined him from the inside out. Your sweet little tongue was frantic when you whispered, "I'm yours to love."

Hearing your words, he held still for moments, sucking in the air because he felt almost dizzy with satisfaction, running his hands over your thighs.

You. You were his. You, the one who knew if you left him alone at that moment, would fall into the depths of his own hell; if he'd slipped through your fingers, he would be gone, and no one could bring him back. You did not erase all his pain or offer to solve all his problems. You didn't fix everything that was broken, but that wasn't what he needed anyway. What mattered the most was that you stayed.

He loved you.

He loved you so much.

Grasping your soft hips, he buried his face against your shoulder and sped up. You were his undoing, taking him apart and putting him back together differently, better, and more himself than he ever could have been. He gritted his teeth as his orgasm came barreling at him. His hands glided on your back when you shuddered, your inner walls squeezing him so hard he couldn't prevent his release. With a growl, he thrust wildly, once, twice—and then everything around you both disappeared until it was all just colors and light, the sun shines and oceans, apple trees, and blossoms.

Your eyes were still closed, and you felt his hands laced with yours, just to remind you that you had him here and that he was with you. Your partner in everything. His chest heaving, he buried his face in your neck, sweat covering his temples. Kissing him there, you inhaled the scent of his hair.

"You're my family too," you heard him whisper, his words etched into your soul as his lips moved against your skin. And you wished, more than ever, that you could capture moments like this and relive them forever.

12:50 pm – July 21st

You woke up with a smile, your skin still hot from the memory of your vile. You were cleaned with a wet towel, placed in bed with a kiss, and promptly fell asleep. Thankfully, no nightmares this time.

What time was it? You didn't know.

As you stretched your legs under the sheets, you realized your back was against Vash, his prosthetic arm resting on your pillow, the other tucked around your waist. Knowing he had held you this close warmed the pit of your stomach and made you feel so safe that you didn't ever want to move, but you had a thousand things to do today, but you never, ever wanted to move.

Truth be told, you loved these moments the most. The quiet contentment. Being enveloped by his naked body. You never felt closer to him than you did like this when there was nothing between you.

Today was a big day delayed by your nightmare and the sound of that stupid radio! There was no way you were going to let anything overshadow his birthday anymore. Even for a few hours, he deserved this celebration, this little distraction. He deserved to be happy, eat, and laugh.

You sighed, hating to wake him up since he seemed pretty tired. Slowly, you turned around in his arms. A smile tugged at your mouth as you watched him, amazed at how his presence could bring you such peace. He shifted again, burrowing deeper into the pillows, and you realized he must be exhausted.

Watching the movement of his throat, you breathed him in, running your hands along the deep, strong lines of muscle in his arm. His entire being felt raw. Powerful. Being a plant had something wild and terrifying about it; somehow, this knowledge only made you love him more. You traced the contours of his shoulder blades, then his spine. He stirred, but only briefly, and buried his face in your hair.

"Don't go," he whispered softly, pressing his nose to your scalp alongside his lips.

You tilted your head, gently kissing the column of his throat. "Vash," you whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Taking a deep breath, he said, "good."

You smiled. "Oh, but we should probably get out of bed. I promised Rosalina I'll help—"

A disapproving sound escaped his throat as he shook his head, deftly helping you turn around. He hugged you close again, your back pressed against his chest. Soft and husky, his voice was full of desire when he said, "C'mon, let me enjoy this. Feeling good."

"You don't want a cake?" you blurted out, but it certainly caught his attention.

You could feel he raised his head, stiffened and confused. "How come Rosalina's making me a cake?"

Did you hear correctly? Had he forgotten about his birthday? Did this day become neglected to the point where it was forgotten?

Turning around, you saw he was sitting, his body frozen and his heart probably pounding furiously. Getting him to attend his birthday would take more effort than you expected. Because he asked how you could possibly plan a party for him, why anyone would throw him a party, what if he didn't even like birthday parties, and so on. Still, you didn't fall short. Since the day he told you about Rem making them a cake for their birthday, you kept track of his birthday. The July incident wasn't going to overshadow his birthday. It was your vow to replace that memory with better ones. That forever and ever, you'd strive to drown out the darkness that had ruined his life.

In his eyes, tragedy and beauty could be seen, a stoicism that wouldn't be shaken, and childlike joy that couldn't help but flow. When he swallowed, you noticed the gentle movement in his throat and moved your hand to his ear, your pinkie touching his earring, then tracing down his jawline. You didn't receive a rejection, but you didn't receive a yes, either. Why wasn't he saying anything? He had you on your worried until he clasped his hands over his face.

Your hand brushed against his undercut as you gently kissed his temple and tried to pry his hands away from his face. "Vash?" you said, your words hardly a whisper. "Is everything alright?"

The reply took him a few seconds to come out, but when he finally did, he nodded. It was only once, but it was enough. "Yeah," he said softly. "I'm okay."

The feeling of relaxation washed over you as you exhaled. "If you don't want a—"

He held and squeezed your hand as he looked at you, his eyes round when he said, a little nervously, "what have I done," he whispered, his voice trembling, "to deserve you?"

Did you die of joy? Because he took your face in his hands and kissed you so passionately, it blew your mind. Your heart began to beat violently, and you didn't recognize yourself. You didn't recognize your hands, your bones, your heart. You felt new. "Thank you," he whispered. "For loving me and everything."

"It's very, very easy to love you, Vash," your lips might have said, but the words never left your lips. You didn't know what to do, so you reeled him in, kissed him, and lost yourself in his taste and feel, in the fantasy of what you might have. What you might be.

But wait! Didn't you know fate was a jealous, vicious mistress that never ever slept?

You blinked.

You blinked again, but this time for too long. You saw a flash of blood spewing inside your open mouth. Nausea returned with a swiftness that scared you. A breath was drawn, your fingers fluttering as you desperately tried pressing them against your stomach. Pain filled your eyes as you kept them open. Clenching your fists, you attempted to control spiraling thoughts.

However, nothing helped. Nothing helped. Nothing, you thought. Nothing, nothing, and nothing.

Where was Vash? Where were you?

Throughout your open eyes, terror oozed from your heart. You heard someone calling your name. A hand brushed lightly along your spine as you shivered suddenly at the unexpected sensation.

" …," the voice said, "do you … ?"

The warmth moved in only to meet the coldness of your skin. You felt it all. Again and again, a touch of his finger did pull you out of your nightmare.

A rustle of sheets caught your attention, and Vash pulled you onto his lap. Straddling him, your legs stretched across the rumpled fabric. Wrapping his arm around you, he spread his hand along your back.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.

Turning carefully in the cradle of his arms, you pressed your forehead to his bare chest, your eyelashes fluttering against his rough gash.

"You okay?" he asked, his metallic fingers combing through your hair in a soothing act.

"Yes," you replied, forcing air into your lungs. You were breathing hard, head spinning as you held on to him. "Yes."

"Is something wrong, Elay?" He probably had lowered his head because his breath was touching your shoulder.

"Nothing," you claimed. Your heart was beating fast, too fast. You didn't know why you were lying. You should have just told him, but you didn't know why you weren't.

Wait.

Actually, you knew.

You were waiting.

You were waiting to see if this shit would pass. It had to, because today was a special day. Because you were already exhausted, and the radio's sound was repeating in your ears. Because you didn't want to add another burden to his shoulders with your silly nightmare. Even more, it wasn't real. Just a figment of your imagination, and saying it out loud would make it sound more real than it really was.

Vash asked no further questions. He was more of an "if you love someone, let them keep their secrets to themselves " guy. He pulled you close, and you melted into him, grateful for his warmth and steady hold. You took a deep, shuddering breath and let it all go, exhaling against him. A faint aroma of caramel lingered in your nostrils as you breathed in his skin's rich, heady scent. The minutes passed silently as you both listened to each other breathe.

01:45 pm – July 21st

It took a while, but your heart rate steadied.

You could feel it.

Here.

This.

Your bones against his bones. This was your home.

"What're you thinking?" His lips touched your neck, a graze that sparked, hot and cold, right down to your toes.

"Been thinking about you." You raised your head and looked at him. He was smiling, the unfaltering sun glinting in his eyes. You could see his fear, hopes, and love for you like a mirror to his soul in those mountain lake-colored spheres. Then there was something else as well—something like bliss. It was a faint glow, but it was there and made you so happy. You had blessed the blessing. He deserved happiness after everything he had been through. After all the horrors he had suffered alone.

"Me?"

As you closed the gap between you two again, you nodded against his chest. Nothing was said, but you could hear his heart racing until he exhaled. It was a heavy, uneven sound, as if he might have been holding his breath for too long.

Gently, you ran your hand along his back. "How long has it been since you celebrated your birthday?" you whispered.

"Hm?" He buried his face in your hair, and his nose glided over your scalp in what appeared to be caressing movements.

It didn't take a genius to figure out when he was ducking a question. You wiggled a little to loosen his grip and looked up. Your fingers ran through the soft, silky strands. The sight of him mesmerized you. His eyes were wide and bright. His lips soft and pale. He was perfect, bare, and beautiful, holding you in his arms. Sighing, you closed your eyes. "Let me ask it this way then," you said, "How many birthdays have you missed so far?"

Nothing came out of his mouth for what seemed like an eternity. You felt him finally move. In a gentle caress, his prosthetic fingers touched your face. "150 birthdays," he whispered, his voice uneven.

Your spine tingled involuntarily. 150 years of solitude. Loneliness. Alone with himself. On this giant planet. Where was his home? Where were his friends? His lovers?

You knew he was so much better at being alone as if being alone came more naturally. He led a life of deliberate seclusion, and when occasional loneliness crept in, he knew how to sink in and absorb its particular comforts or work his way out. After all, there were always bars and saloons and strangers around.

You knew he wanted to carry the weight of life all alone, even the burden of those he once loved. It wasn't fair, though. You had to be allowed to help him carry it all. A frown formed on your face, and you inhaled, "Happy birthday #1! Happy birthday #2! Happy birthday #3!..."

His metallic forefinger stopped your lips. Slowly, you looked up to meet his eyes. His expression was sad, sweet, and filled with love. You felt something thawed inside of you as you stared at him.

"You don't have to do this," he said as he separated his finger from your lips to brush away stray strands of hair from your face. A part of you wished his finger could stay there longer.

"Shut up and let yourself celebrate! We've got at least 150 birthdays to catch up on!"

He kissed your eye, and you felt his smile on your eyelid. His lips started moving tardily when he said, "I don't—"

"Shhhh! Since you interrupted me, I'm starting over!" you snapped and continued, "Happy birthday #1! Happy birthday #2! …"

The smile on his face grew bigger and bigger, as if he was filled with so much joy that he hardly recognized himself. You couldn't recall the last time he smiled this much. It was the most pure, unburdened bliss you had ever experienced.

He held you the entire time you felicitated all his forgotten birthdays. You could see it in how he looked at you. You could feel his fears disappearing and his emotions becoming something else. Now, his touch was hot and electric against your skin. Your heart was beating faster and harder, and he didn't have to say anything. You could feel the temperature change between you.

"You," he said, staring at your mouth. He touched his nose to yours, and something inside you jolted to life. You heard your breath caught, your ears turning red, unbidden. "I love you," he whispered.

The words did something to you every time you heard them. They built something new inside of you. You swallowed hard. A fire consumed your mind. "You know," you mumbled shyly, "It never gets old hearing you say that."

Leaning you back a little, he moved, his nose brushed the line of your jaw, and his lips touched your throat. You were holding your breath, terrified to move, to leave this moment.

"I love you," he said again.

Heat filled your veins. You could feel him in your blood, his whispers overwhelming your senses.

"Vash," you said. You wanted to talk to him about what happened hours ago. You knew you should've moved and snapped out of this but couldn't. You couldn't think. And then his hand brushed against your breasts. You breathed quickly, fighting against a sudden rush of pleasure.

It was impossible to pretend anything when he was this close to you. You knew he could feel how badly you wanted him. You could feel him, too. His heat. His desire. He made no secret of what he wanted from you. What he wanted you to do to him.

He kissed you softly, wrapping his arms around you, one too cold, the other too hot. Your body shifted forward in his embrace as you took another painful, agonizing breath.

"I know you're worried," he said, his lips too close to yours and his hot breath in your mouth. "I know we have to talk, but—" He never finished that sentence. He kissed you as he reached down, trailing his fingers along the inner parts of your thighs, and the movement seared through you. Your vision went white. You heard nothing but the pounding of your heart, then you remembered.

"Vash? Um-I have to-ah," you panted, "she is waiting."

You could feel his smile as he whispered the word in your ear. His fingers were teasing your groins. "Please." And you were gone.

One hand kept your head steady, the other roamed around your loins, and he kissed and melted you. Your eyes met his, and the feeling threatened to drown you. He kissed you, and every thought and worry wicked away, replaced by the feel of his mouth against your skin, his hand claiming your body.

Holy Molly!

He eft his kisses everywhere like he knew, like he knew how desperately you needed this, needed him, needed this comfort and release.

Like he needed it, too.

Taking hold of his neck, you raised yourself up to kiss his nose, cheeks, and lips. The line of your bodies was welded together. You felt yourself dissolving, becoming pure emotion as he parted his lips, teased you, and breathed into your mouth. "I love you," he said, gasping the words.

He kissed the top of your shoulder, and his artificial hand wandered over your body, down your back, cupping your back side, lingering on your upper thighs like he wanted to memorize the shape of you, always leaving you in awe of how gentle he was. Your muscles tightened with longing, and you were surprised at how much you wanted him.

Again.

So soon.

However, you had to stop this.

"I'd better get dressed," you said, pulling yourself back, grabbing sheets, and covering yourself with them. "I've got stuff to do."

A grin spread across his face as he watched you as if he could sense your frustration. You crawled from his lap, the bedsheets catching under your knees and making you lose your composure. Like a sneaky fox, he couldn't resist taking advantage of the moment. He yanked the rest of the sheet away from you and tucked you underneath him. His weight pinned you to the mattress, a knee intentionally jammed between your legs and slowly grinding you down.

"Here's what I want for my birthday," he said, kissing your parted lips. He knew what he was doing and knew you couldn't comprehend his words. "I have this idea. Just hear me out; I think that maybe you should consider being naked all the time. I mean, just always. Okay?"

"Okay. I have to—" What were you saying? He had his mouth all over you, sucking at your breasts, licking your throat, his fingers going straight to your sensitive spots.

The moment he got there, you knew you wouldn't let him go, even if he wanted to. So, you needed to gather your wits and act before it was too late.

Think. Think. Think.

"Vash!" you gasped, pushing him up with your hand as much as possible. "I know you're going nuts like a hunk in heat," you said, holding his cheeks between your hands and staring at his big downturned eyes. "I gotta shower and go to the saloon so you can meet me there at eight, okay, good boy?" You tapped on his shoulder.

With raised eyebrows, Vash got off you, but you remained trapped between his knees. Although he crossed his arms and pretended to be mad, you could see him fighting back a smile. It was amazing how that poor piece of sheet managed to cover his hips; otherwise, you wouldn't have been able to focus on his face.

"You were going to take a shower without me?" he said sternly.

You couldn't figure out what to say for a moment and then carefully asked, "would you like to join me?"

Considering your offer, he gazed at you, up and down, with a sweet, secret smile. The look in his eyes was enough to persuade you to agree to anything. You would do anything for this man if he asked. Even if he didn't bother to ask.

"Vash."

Your heart was heavy as you whispered his name, filled with emotion. You went still as he hovered over you, gently mouthing your nipples. His kisses grow more intent, leaving a trail of fire across your chest, down your torso, and rushing through your veins.

Suddenly, you forgot why you were even in such a hurry.

Your hands slipped around his neck, and you reeled him in. He felt incredible against you, his body fitting perfectly. You tilted his face up, your hand caught somewhere behind his neck and the base of his jaw, and you kissed him softly and slowly, heat filling your blood with dangerous speed.

As one hand held him steady, the other skimmed the smooth skin of your waist, gripping your hip hard. He parted your legs with his thigh, hearing you make a desperate sound deep in your throat, and it did something to him, to feel and hear you like that, to be assaulted by your pleasure and desire. It drove him crazy.

Vash buried his face in your neck, and his hand moved up to feel your breasts' tender skin, hot, soft, and sensitive to his touch. He wanted your body under his hands, the scent of your skin, and the light whisper of your hair against his. Licking your earlobes, he tried to ignore the strain in his muscles and the hard, desperate pressure driving him towards you, toward madness.

An ache was expanding inside you and demanding more, craving him to flip you over and lose yourself in you. You clung to him, your eyes half-lidded, your face flushed. Your breathes were heavy when you said, "take me, Vash."

His eyes widened, and he stared at you like he might be going deaf and blind at the same time, hunching over from the effort of inhaling and exhaling. He said nothing and only looked at you carefully from the top, drinking you in. His pulse was wild, his mind racing. There was no way he could refuse you.

02:50 pm - July 21st

Vash stepped aside, and you pushed the sheets away when he asked you to get up. Soon you were standing in the middle of the room as he had demanded.

He couldn't look away from you and probably couldn't even hear himself think over his heart beating fast like a thud against his skull. Pinning you against the closest wall, he kissed you wild enough for you never to forget why he was called the stampede. His fingers touched every everywhere. Every bend and arc. Every pit and hole. Leaving gentle slaps and smacks on the soft skin of yours.

It was lovely to feel your soft curves against his rough edges, and somehow, the paradox between the smoothness of your bodies pressed against each other made the scene even more surreal. In order not to miss any precious time, he picked you up, and you gasped, shocked, and scrambled to hold on for dear life. He pushed the bathroom door aside with his shoulder and carried you into the shower.

He needed you. Needed this. Now. You could see it in his eyes, in the upward arch of his erection.

He drew a deep, unsteady breath before switching the tap on.

A short scream tore through your throat.

You two got soaked in cold water as he pressed your front against the shower wall, losing himself in you like never before. His kisses were more profound, more desperate, and his hands less considerate than before. The heat more explosive, and everything between you wild, raw, and vulnerable. His mouth devoured you. He had his lips all over your body, his tongue tasting new places.

With the cold tiles touching your breasts, a sensation of pleasure spread throughout your entire body. You could feel it, the bottom half of your body urging you to press against him more deeply and fully. He had to hear the pleas of every cell in your body because his next thrust was so intense that you had to hold on to the wall with your palms to steady yourself while your cheeks pressed more and more against the cold ceramic as he had his way with you.

You lost track of time.

You had no idea how long you had been here. You didn't know how long he had gone haywire in you. Your knees were starting to shake when he turned you around, and your eyes fell on his soaked hair sticking to his forehead and clumping eyelashes blinking slowly. You considered yourself lucky for not only seeing such a marvel but also tasting him and feeling him.

With such hunger, he kissed your lips like he hadn't had them in years. You felt the hard tiles press against your back as he pushed himself inside, without hesitating to move up and down. Over and over again, you were lauded, his panting echoing within four walls.

So many times that you wanted to open your mouth to protest, but every time he took one turgid nipple into his mouth. Heat surged through your blood as his teeth scraped over the end of one, and you moaned instead of complaining. You couldn't stop thinking about how good it felt to feel him inside you, his tongue twirling around your other breast.

The pressure was built. You were consumed by the need to reach the climax in every action. Your stomach muscles were tightening and quivering.

He moved his hands from your hips to your head, tangles of wet hair wrapping around his fingers as he pulled you upwards for a kiss. His tongue immediately thrust past your lips, and he increased his speed.

God! Nothing had ever tasted as good as Vash, you thought. Sensual, decadent, the flavor of him slipped through you.

His hands clenched tighter in your hair, and his teeth bit the flesh of your neck, but you barely noticed, barely caring about the hickey it would leave as he threw back his head, groaning your name. The sight of him in the throes of his peak drove you to the edge, your inner muscles clamping around his hardness, pulling him in deeper.

You cried out, clutching his shoulders so tightly that your fingernails dug into his skin, and your screams were muffled against his chest. The plunk of shower water running between your feet could be heard as your body shook, and he leaned his forehead against your head.

His hot released load was dripping and sliding down on your thighs when you collapsed into his arms, feeling weak and unsteady. He held you close to himself, tight yet so gentle, stroking your wet hair with his fingers and leaving small pecks wherever he could reach. "We should eat something," he said, kissing the curve of your shoulder and the sides of your neck.

You were intoxicated by the pure, stunning power of his emotions, endless waves of love and desire, love and kindness, love and joy, love and tenderness.

So much tenderness.

You pressed your cheek against his chest and held him as he braced himself against the wall. Your bodies were wet and heavy with feeling, your hearts pounding with something more powerful than you had ever imagined possible.

Water was dripping from the mess of his hair. So gorgeous, you thought. Then you forgot where you were and what you were going to do. Your arms and limbs trembled slightly, and he was too terrified to let you go.

Too in love to let you go.

07:15 pm - July 21st

As night fell, the blue haze of the day lifted and revealed the stars brightening the sky, shining like beams of happiness, appearing still as an old photograph. The wind blew Vash's hair into a tousled bun.

He walked out of his favorite shop and leaned against the wall with a big bag of donuts and an even bigger smile. Yeah, he perfectly knew he would eat cake, but eating donuts had nothing to do with it: a warm-up, just appetizers.

His eyes followed the long shadows of townies milling around under the flickering lamppost lights, even though he couldn't make out any faces from such afar. He liked this town. It was so small that his typhoon hadn't yet found it. Or maybe because he was a stranger here. Nobody knew him, and everybody was safe from the curse his name carried around.

Everybody but you.

You already had been spelled by those fifteen letters.

V-A-S-H-T-H-E-S-T-A-M-P-E-D-E

Taking a look around, he tried to find a clock on a building or something. The birthday boy didn't want to be late. This and, of course, the words you uttered before you left the house:

"Eight o'clock, Vash. Don't forget! Don't be late! Don't be early and wear that white shirt. See you there!"

He sighed and took a donut from the bag, careful not to stain his white shirt with his clumsiness. It smelled great. What a heavenly aroma, smelling like honey. This and you and this town. It sure felt good to see happy people around.

Without further ado, he took a bite of his sugar-coated donut.

He expected it to taste incredible and super tasty, like being alive, but he couldn't feel it. There was a sense of numbness in him. The weight of an unknown worry was heavy against his heart.

A muffled whistle-like sound echoed in the distance, followed by several. Another shot rang out, this time sounding like it was meant. Suffocating silence, creaking doors, and screams that tore the sky open.

He felt strangely dull, as if his connection with his body had been cut off. The bag fell to the ground, and the donuts scattered around. People were crying, weeping, but all he could hear was the wind's wails in his ears, slapping sharply against his face.

He took uncertain steps forward. The area outside the saloon looked like more than a graveyard. It was worse than he had expected. There were injured people everywhere; some collapsed on the ground.

From where he stood, he counted two men, one woman, and a child dead. Open eyes, mouths agape, fresh blood still dripping down limp bodies. Where were you? Something about that realization struck fear into his veins.

The horrifying possibilities flashed through his mind. His mind was blank as to what had happened. Were you okay?

Vash looked over the crowd, still staring, waiting for you to show up. Waiting for you to find him. But you weren't anywhere to be found. In the chaos, he ran from one to another, people scattered around, and he didn't see you. The terror of this moment kicked him in the gut.

So many thoughts were tangled in his head that he couldn't untie the insanity. He glanced back at the doors you were supposed to come out, opening it with a smile.

He waited. He waited longer than was reasonable. Then he called you. Quietly at first, then louder. He shouted your name. His chest was being torn apart by fear, squeezing his heart. A part of him was afraid to speak the words aloud, fearful of making them true.

His legs felt like they had been formed from fresh clay, like he was moving through a fog. His voice reached everyone, pleading this time, running forward until the doors were in his line of sight.

"Is she in?" he asked, but no one answered. Everybody was frozen by the agony of the moment. All that could be heard were silent weeps and the wind howling.

Vash gulped, his throat all dry, and walked in; his lips parted, his eyes wide and horrified. The blood in his veins all ice.

Pain.

It began at his feet, bloomed up his legs, unfurled in his stomach, and worked its way up to his throat, only to explode behind his eyes. The sudden scream ripped itself from his lungs. It wrenched free from his chest without warning, without permission, and it was a scream so loud, so hard and violent, it broke his back. His hands were pressed against his knees, his head half bent.

Echoes of his misery would never be lost in the wind or carried away by the clouds but would always live between these walls. Forever.

His voice was unfamiliar to him. The horror, shock, and dread that flooded his body was something he had never felt — never known before, not like this.

The popped balloons on the walls. A half-ruined cake on the counter. Blood-stained confetti all around. A shoeless foot lying on the floor. Locks of tousled hair slipped from the makeshift shroud.

The numbness was now merciful, at least for a few moments. Then, everything crashed.

Vash fell next to the body. The knowledge rushed up in him, choking off his breath. Another scream tore its way out. Then another, and another. It felt as if his very essence had been ripped from him.

He pulled you into his arms, clutching you tightly, barely able to breathe. His fingers seized your hair and yanked it from your face. The golden strands of his hair fell onto your bloody face. You were called over and over, but it didn't seem like anything more than a sound. His pleas were like commands, begging you to open your eyes, but you ignored them as if playing a nasty prank.

Vash held both of your hands in his. There was no touch. All he felt was an empty coldness. The silence grew even louder, consuming him like a pitch-black shadow. Biting his lip, he tasted a faint metallic taste on his tongue. The desperation in his expression, the grief carved into his features, the way he looked at you as if he were about to pass the gates of hell and utter his last farewell.

Suddenly, he wanted to laugh one of those strange, high-pitched, delusional laughs that marked the end of sanity. Because this world, he thought, had a terrible sense of humor. It always seemed to mock him, making his life more miserable and ruining his dreams by destroying everything he ever loved.

You were dead. This pain was truly real.

Vash broke apart. Sobs cracked open his chest and cried until the pain spiraled and peaked; he bawled until his head throbbed and his eyes swelled. His fingers dug into your back as he called, desperate for a sign of hope. Your hollow body was clutched to his heart, and he felt the injustice roared through him. The feeling fractured him apart. His forehead pressed against your cheek, and his mouth trembled as he whispered, "C-Come ba-ck." The words fell apart. He could only mumble stuttering sounds.

He kissed your knuckles briefly. Would you have blushed if you were still breathing, whining about how cheesy he was being? He could only imagine your reactions now.

Hot tears streamed down his face, and he squeezed his eyelids shut in an effort to make them stop. He sat there unmoving for quite some time with choppy breathing and watery eyes.

09:00 pm - July 21st

Things were in a state of disarray in his vision. People were coming in with dropped shoulders and muffled weeps in the air. Someone approached and touched his shoulder for comfort, and a fierce unknown rage emerged in him. He could kill the man there but would have to let go of you, and he couldn't.

Vash turned his face back and held you so tightly like you would be able to feel the faint beat of his heart. He wept, cradling you, and he wouldn't move nor speak a word other than your name. It was like seeing the sun through the water. His tears fell, but you wouldn't be able to kiss them away this time.

"How dare you mourn her!" Someone bent over him. "You killed her!" Weak fists landed on his back but hurt him more than torture and shots. "She died because of you! You bring misfortune and destruction everywhere you go!" yelled Rosalina with a devastated voice.

Words, he thought, were such unpredictable creatures. No gun, knife, army, or enemy could ever be more powerful than a sentence. Blades may cut and kill, but words would stab and stay, burying into the future, digging and failing to rip his skeletons from his flesh. These weren't nice things to say. Not now. Not after what he was going through. Not when his white shirt was covered in your blood, and his hands burned with the bit of warmth left in your body.

Vash continued to hold you, silent and steady, even as the tears receded, even when he began to tremble. He had you tight as his body shook, held you close when the tears started anew, held you in his arms, and stroked your hair, whispering, "Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me." His voice was a terrible thing, cracked and broken.

He felt guilty. Anyone who got close to him was doomed to die. He thought his actions and inactions always took away his loved ones. Oh, stubborn, stubborn Vash! Of course, he would blame himself for something that had nothing to do with him.

The once happy eyes of Rosalina spilled hot tears on his shirt. "For two years, you lived among us, looked into our eyes every day, and lied about who you are, Vash the Stampede!"

Several gasps were heard from the crowd, followed by whispers filling the air.

Vash the stampede was here.

Chaos.

Questions flew, and weeps were muffled. Everyone was shocked, horrified, freaking out. You had long been forgotten, he thought.

"Is he the most wanted Vash the Stampede?"

"Were there raids in the saloon because of him?"

"The bounty hunters were after the money on his head?"

"They shot us and ran away because of this man?"

"This guy really had us fooled!"

"Is this true?"

Vash's reality was too broken, too distracted to process these kinds of talks. This horrible instant was one mess of insanity in his mind. He couldn't make any sense of it. He didn't answer a word to anyone and just stroked your cold cheek with as much gentleness as he could.

Someone shouted, "What's the hell's the matter with you? Say something. At least make some excuse!"

"Shame on you for bringing danger to our town!"

"We've heard enough of your crying!"

"At least have the decency and go die like a man!"

"No normal human being could cause all these horrible things! He had to be a monster! Who else could have been responsible?"

"Did you feel some of the pain of people who died because of your reckless behaviors?"

He was dying, he thought. He must be. He thought he knew what death was like, but he must have been wrong because this was a whole different kind of dying—a whole different kind of pain.

"That girl died protecting this demon?"

"She knew about the humanoid typhoon all this time." The man gulped and pointed at your dead body. "Our loved ones are dead and hurt because of her stupid devotion to this walking disaster!"

The scene was quite unbelievable, horrifying. His mind reeled, incapable of comprehending or processing what he was hearing. Everything in him came to a halt while his thoughts caught up. It was for him that you died. The shock brought a quietness, a moment to gird his soul for what would come. Truth poured gasoline on the spark of denial in his belly, burning him alive. It fashioned itself into a knife and stabbed him in the eye. And the funny thing was, he didn't want to do anything to stop it. Anguish was all that remained of you; he embraced it with all he was. He deserved it. So he bled with a smile on his face, wishing the pain to end him this time.

"If that self-righteous whore had revealed his whereabouts, not only would she be alive now, but the others wouldn't be dead either!"

Blackness seemed to press against his eyes, ears, and throat. He couldn't breathe, hear, or see clearly, and the suffocation of the moment was so terrifying that he was almost sure he had lost his mind.

How many insults can one person take before throwing in the fucking towel? For him, that number was infinite, but for you, he wouldn't allow even one.

He stood up and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. He pointed a gun at the infamous criminal, but Vash ripped the gun out of his hand. "What did you say about her?" he asked with a voice like a rusty saw that wanted to cut the bone. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were burning in absolute rage. Nobody had seen him like this. Not once. People were so used to his calm and kind demeanor that this side of him scared them. If they wanted a typhoon, they'd get one. He was fortified with a new kind of anger, a desperate, animal intensity that overpowered him and forced him to stand still.

The man was trembling in his grip. "N-nothing," he finally said. Vash's pulse was racing, breathing heavily, almost like he would burst. The muscles in his hand tensed, causing him to crack his knuckles. Almost like a blazing inferno, his blood boiled in his veins, burning him from the inside out. He was mainly angry with himself, but that wouldn't stop his urge to hunt each and every single one of those bounty hunters, just to make sure they suffered and felt a lot of pain, just like he felt. No longer did he want to show sympathy to anyone. Maybe he was really a monster, wasn't he?

"If they learn your name and start haunting you, we'll run away! We'll run, run, run, and keep running as far as we have to! And when things calm down, we'll settle by their side again. You won't kill. You'll never kill anyone again, and one day, people will begin seeing you as I do."

Recalling your words, his eyes widened, and his fist loosened. The man's face was devoid of color. Vash tried to read his eyes for something but saw nothing but terror in the end. He was afraid.

No.

Your race was merciless. How could they say such a thing about one of their own? This man probably deserved the worst, but you didn't want Vash to be cruel, only to be kind. And he couldn't do this to you. Because if he did and an afterlife existed, you'd probably be the only sad person in heaven right now.

Dropping the man on the floor, Vash crushed his gun in his hand and tossed it away. The stranger was groaning and hunching over when he returned to you.

It was the first time Rosalina had seen him like this, her brain unable to digest or process this information. Unlike the man she knew, this one had cold, sharp eyes only focused on you. The look on his face was different. Scary, even. Somehow that worried her even more. She might be sad for you, even hate her people for having talked disparagingly about you; maybe she would give them a piece of her mind and grieve your loss. Maybe. Right now, though, her child's safety was her top priority, and this blood-stained man didn't look very stable.

"Listen, we don't want to die! Leave here and never come back!"

Vash sat by your side, helpless, as if something had broken inside him and all his emotions had poured out. When you left him alone, did you take some part of him with you?

"Get her out of this town. This disaster would've never happened if you hadn't stumbled into this town. She'd still be alive," Rosalina said firmly, staring at your peaceful face like you were in a deep sleep.

Vash didn't answer or even glance at the woman who wanted to help you celebrate his birthday. Like an orphan, he pulled you impossibly close, your bodies soldering together. He pondered Rosalina's words and the night he saw you and wondered whether your life would have been different if he hadn't met you. Who was even capable of answering this? As he whispered your name and begged you for forgiveness, his tears washed the blood from your cheeks, and Rosalina felt something inside her die. As she watched him willingly take all blame upon himself alone, as if he was already familiar with this feeling, she felt something break apart inside her.

Vash resembled his wanted posters now. A tall man with blond hair covered in red, but this time, it was your blood instead of his famous coat. His hands were trembling so hard he couldn't even recognize them anymore. Even so, he picked you up, cuddling you in his arms, only to notice the hickey on your neck from hours ago. Pain cramped his joints, breaking away every single bone in his body. He wanted to shriek through the sky; he wanted to fall to his knees again and sob into the ground. He didn't know why the agony wasn't finding an escape through his tears.

"Think way back. Remember that story I told you? About the man that found a blank ticket that could take him anywhere he wanted? That man is all of us. Where you go is yours to choose. You'll always have that ticket in your pocket, no matter what darkness life throws at you. When you're ready, write down the destination. I promise you. You'll be alright."

He wished Rem was right, but there was no such concept as happiness in this world. There was only endless strife, destruction, and death. There was only loneliness, pain, and regret. Whatever he did, no matter how much he pleaded, no matter how much he wished with all his heart to make things right, life always had a way of taking everything from him.

It seemed like Vash the Stampede's life had peaked, and nothing that came after you would ever matter to him. Because for him, there was before you, and there was during you, but he didn't want any after you. You were the light he never knew he needed. He was lost in the darkness, wandering life without direction. Then he found you, and you brought him warmth and light. You were the one who saved him. Twice and he couldn't do the same.

As he walked forward, he pleaded with his bones to remain steady, to carry him through the rest of the day and into the rest of his meaningless life. He passed through the crowd as if he had never been a part of them. The sand dragged under his feet, his knees weak, but he held you tight and walked away. His footprints grew smaller and smaller until there was only the empty silence of a long, lonely night.

Let's let him be for now. Everyone deserves to be left alone for a moment or two, right? Be that as it may, he always lost his most precious ones on his birthdays. Maybe it would have been better if he had never been born so that he would not have to endure so much grief alone. Or perhaps it was the way it was so we could be part of his life.

Author note: My real world had grown so dark that I didn't want to live in it. That's why I escaped and spent the day in a world darker than mine. Please accept my sincere apologies for dragging you down here with me ^_^

If you have anything to say, don't be shy to use ASK and the comment sections.

Disclaimers: This fan-written story contains quotes from "The Song of Achilles", "King Killer Chronicles", "Shatter Me" series and "Reminders of him" books, "Hamlet" play, and "I am unafraid with him" poem by pencap on Tumblr.

The arts are from "Trigun Stampede" anime.

835 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

Callouses on his gentle hands was absolutely adorable! It kept making me thing of a continuation of the sorts where some years pass and the reader actually enlisted in the military earning the code name Bird too without Price having any knowledge. Only to show up when he's a captain maybe even to be part of 141 or something important.

Idk if this is a possible request as I don't want to bother you but it would be amazing if there was some well timed banter and just generally happy.

Again your writing is so good it leaves me speechless I love it so much! 👁️〰️👁️

Calluses and Milky Scars

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Synopsis: It's been years since you've seen or heard from John and yet you still can't get him out of your head. But can a chance meeting rekindle old emotions? (18+)

Word Count: 16.1k

Warnings: Angst, typical violence & gore, talks of human trafficking, vulgar language, eventual fluff, banter, smut, honestly I think I wrote switch!Price without even realizing it, p in v sex, fingering, teasing, breeding kink, etc.

A/N: Imma be honest I hate the first part of this duology - it was one of my earlier works - so I made this as standalone as possible. So if you don't wanna read the first part (please don't) you can still understand this one just fine by itself. (this is also an excuse for more smut practice). Anyway, enjoy! Part 1

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

They only saw the glint of a blade, the metal reflecting the light of a mist-filled night back into the whites of their eyes. You could see the result of your form in their terror-stricken visages as, one after one, they succumbed to the ministrations of your unyielding determination.

You had forgotten when the act of taking a life had become so easy for you. It was as natural as breathing, now. Elementary. Your fingers could pull a trigger just as fast as they would raise for a handshake or a wave. There was little need to be shy about it – your days as a victim were far behind you, and ‘Bird’ was nothing more than a callsign uttered under hushed breaths. Said behind back alleys by Human Traffickers with fear-slick eyes.

It was no longer uttered in a deep British accent, the word making your skin tingle and cheeks heat. No matter how much you longed for it to be.

You were a Captain in the military now. Working hand-in-hand with the CIA under the direction of a certain Kate Laswell. You even commanded your own Squad that specializes in getting others out of the very situation you had been in years ago with no mercy or hesitation.

Revenge, you decided, was most likely why this was easy for you.

You enjoyed it.

“Perimeter clear, Captain,” Wren speaks into your earpiece as you step over the bodies at your feet, boots splashing through puddles of blood so starkly contrasting the grass it makes you smirk.

“Move up.” A balaclava covers your face, and sweat dribbles down your brow before you blink it out of your eye.

Around your chest, the M4A1 sits with its familiar weight, and you wipe the life-fluid from your crude combat knife before sheathing it at your thigh. You had taken out three stragglers at the South End of the current Targets territory, your blood singing sweetly in your veins at the prospect of finally crossing another name off your list.

“Eagle,” Your voice bounces off trees and low shrubs, and you continue forward as your fingers press the button on the old-issue radio. There were better versions nowadays, and you got teased for still using the ancient one you have currently strapped to your chest, but it was sentimental to you. An old friend had given it to you for safekeeping a long time ago…How many years now was it since you had seen or heard from John Price? Ten? Fifteen? Who could really tell, anyhow? Time moved quickly, and you ran through it even quicker.

Your sharp eyes flick out over the view as you exit the brush, standing on the top of a large ridge – a series of warehouses lit up with large spotlights below your perch makes you frown.

“Let’s get this started then, shall we?” You mutter, shifting your feet and rolling your shoulders. “Blackout in 3.”

“Roger that, Ma’am.”

You watch the guards walking like obsidian ants below, your predatory gaze missing nothing – you spot the mannerisms fairly quickly; who limps, who favors their left over their right. Who’s sleeping on the job. A first victim was almost immediately chosen as you tilt your head and feel the chilled breeze on your visible skin. Your Unit knows the procedures you’ve ingrained into them and they’re watching just as closely and predatory as you are.

All four, including you, are stationed in a circle around the area, with Eagle, the man with the sniper rifle, taking point far off into the trees on a higher portion of the topography. Three seconds of prep time come and go quickly. And so do the lights.

A series of muffled pops and a shattering of glass break the night into chaos, and then the illumination goes out entirely. The area is plunged into an inky darkness of your own command – you revel in it. And then the screams begin.

“Take ‘em.” You mutter through the open channel, and your feet then propel you forward, dodging trees and jumping downed branches as you skid down the slope. Your heart beats with adrenaline, the hunt making your nerves twitch.

In your grip, you ready your weapon, flicking off the safety as shots begin to ring out over the land. Eagle was taking off the ones he could, but if you had to guess, Shrike was already in the fray, letting her face get bloody from the close quarters she favored. You only hoped the woman wouldn’t go overboard this time. Thrush was usually the one to help keep her head on, but the man was across the territory with his own hostiles to wipe the board of.

You fire at the first shadow with a light finger, watching it drop and pivoting to pull the trigger at two more before they knew what was happening – too panicked by the sudden assault seemingly out of nowhere.

“Shrike,” Your voice wafts over the buzzing line, “mind yourself. I don’t need you put on Suspended Leave again.”

“Don’t worry, Ma’am,” Thrush’s light voice meets your ears as you take cover behind a vehicle directly in front of one of the warehouses, “I’m making my way to her now.”

“Ah, Fuck off, Thrush!” Shrike growls, and there’s a distinct sound of someone’s gurgling last breath in the background. It makes you let out a huff of demented laughter. “I know the limits!”

“I don’t think she knows the limits, Ma’am,” Eagle grunts over the call, and a shot sizzles past your head and takes out a charging man that was making his way to your hunched and hidden form. “I really don’t.”

Rushing forward out of your cover, you chuckle breathlessly as Wren’s dignified voice pipes in.

“I’m making my way to the main building and getting set to download the data. Target’s nowhere to be seen, Captain.” Your lips thin under the fabric and you grunt, feeling a bullet graze your bicep. Ducking in an instant, you set your feet and fire, running past before the sound of the body slamming to the ground behind you can reach your ears. A burning heat enters your arm, but you barely acknowledge it.

“Eagle, cover her until I get there.”

“Affirm.”

“Shrike, Thrush, report. How’s the other warehouse lookin'?” Your body skids across the ground, and your hand connects with the warehouse you needed to clear before making your way to Wren and the Mainframe.

Half of the Op was data retrieval, and the other was taking out a human trafficker only named in his file as Buck – bastard’s been running for a long time, and you needed to leave him a bloody mess before he kept his ‘business’ going. Laswell only sent in your Squad because she knew you could get it done with an efficiency no one else could. Nearly a perfect success rate got the attention of people worldwide; your waiting list was long of the places the CIA wanted to send you and your team.

But you didn’t care, as long as your own list was getting checked off they could fly your ass to Antarctica for all it mattered.

“Our warehouse is cleared out. Must not have expected us…they were running around with their heads chopped off.”

Shrike snickers. “Just like chickens.”

“Good. Join up with Wren and make sure she can get the download completed. Copy?” You grasp the large metal handle and growl, locking your arms and pushing with all of your strength. The weight makes your thighs shake, but you only open it enough for you to slip inside, gun at the ready as breaths puff from your mouth.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Boots shuffle over the concrete floor, and your ears twitch in the quiet darkness at the crunch of stray gravel underfoot. Your finger shifts slowly to the trigger, glaring into the nothingness.

It was silent.

You heard it then, like a spike to the heart – the panicked breathing; the sounds of shaking lungs and grasping hands. Sounds all so familiar it made you pause, mind for an instant blanking at the implications.

There were people here. Drowning in fear.

You could see them in the corners, scores of bodies piled on top of one another to find some semblance of comfort. Their eyes wink in the moonlight of a single window in the roof, and the stench nearly makes you want to gag. Blinking, you lower your gun, feet shifting to stand straight like a statue; heart racing. These people weren’t supposed to be here, and already vicious comparisons to your own rescue by a certain man a long time ago invade your mind. Calluses seem to burn your hands under your gloves, and a gentle imaginary prod at an injury on your forehead makes the milky scar ache.

He readies the wipe in one of his hands, the other coming up to your jaw. When you tense he freezes, but as soon as the hesitance leaks away from you like a wave, the slow motion returns to his limbs; his fingers come to grab at your chin, gently holding your head in place. When you place more weight into his hold and release a deep-chested sigh of content he quirks a dark eyebrow.

“This might sting, Doll,” John whispers.

“That’s alright,” You mutter back, staring into his beautiful eyes as the wipe comes into view in the side of your vision. “Not your fault.”

He only releases a puff of air from his lips before adding the smallest amount of pressure to your forehead, running the wipe over the red and swollen flesh.

Taking a deep breath one of your hands goes to your radio stiffly. Eagle needed to know about this so he could send a message to Laswell – get an immediate Medical Evac for these people.

In your hyper-focussed state, memories you wished would stay away rear their head; infect your intuition and common sense. You missed the click of the safety until the barrel of the pistol was level with the back of your head. Freezing, your fingers tense over the device, your body going rigid and muscles tight as the people in the corners gasp and cry out into the night.

A panting man stands behind you and you feel his hands shaking as the barrel digs into the balaclava’s fabric.

Well, that’s unexpected.

“Show me your hands,” He breathes heavily, and you feel his puff of air echo out over the open space. Tinged with fear. Dripping with adrenaline.

Your lips pull back into a steady, hidden, smirk, head tilting as your hands slowly drift from your radio and let your weapon hang from its strap around your chest; feeling it bounce off the various packs and supplies you carry with pride. They splay beside your head, fingers lazily loose and leather gloves squealing into the night.

Selene herself holds her silver breath, the winds sucked down into Hades as Cerberus breaks sinner’s bones with his savage jaws and blood-slick teeth. It was silent.

Born and bred to violence, there truly wasn’t a better place for you to be than in the CIA. This was Hell, but you could play that black-clad ruler’s game just the same. You’d been dodging him for years.

“T-toss your gun to the floor.”

“You know that won’t matter.” You look behind you, side-eyeing that shaking would-be threat. Phobos lives in his very being. Coward. Pathetic. Red-hot anger lights your nerves, iris narrowing to black slits. This thing – he was little more than an entitled boy in a man’s body. Using others for his gain just like others had used you. This was your Target.

This was Buck.

“So this is the one who made an empire on the suffering of innocents.” You mumble, unafraid and unbothered with a scoff. “I really expected more than a man who plays with his food.”

Yes, the adrenaline was running in your veins; you were human. It was natural. But the way the wailing birds rampaged in your chest wasn’t – you should be afraid, not angry. Not enraged to the point you were shaking; fingers twitching for your knife. For spilled blood to coat the earth.

Phobos was this man’s ruler, but that Fear God’s father was Ares. And Ares was yours.

“I…I said drop your fucking weapon you bitch–!”

Your opposite hand knocks Buck’s wrist to the side and your body twists. In a single fraction of a second between the loud misfire that hits the floor and the ringing in your ears, the knife at your thigh finds purchase in his pliable neck. Crimson sprays over your eyes; staining the balaclava as your body falls to the ground as you jam the blade deeper – all the way to the crossguard.

Buck grumbles wetly from under you, hands coming to weakly grasp at your arms and attempt to pry your unyielding body from him. His grip is as strong as a child’s, and as blood spurts from his mouth and entry wound, you slap your free hand over his face and twist the knife. Strangling the hilt in your grasp, you viciously jerk your limb, sending the edge sliding over his neck; cutting tendons and arteries. Creating a red-lipped smile from ear to ear that explodes with gore.

Buck was already dead before the puddle over the ground grew an inch in diameter.

Ripping your weapon out, you shove your boot into his chest and push off, stumbling to your feet as you stare down wide-eyed. Your digits shake, but the flickering of your gaze goes from the dead eyes to the open mouth of the corpse. Flicking your wrist, you splatter more blood on the floor to rid some of it from your blade before sheathing it.

Gripping your radio, you speak clearly into the line.

“Eagle this is the Captain – get in contact with Laswell immediately. Civvies in the far South warehouse. Ask for Medical Evac.”

Say to bring only women, you want to growl but refrain. That was impossible to manage.

You stare at them now, the innocents, and see your own path reflected in the many colors and the feral glints in their irises. In the way their bodies huddle like cats with their backs flared. If life had been different, would you still be in a situation like this – waiting for your own John Price to break you out? It was a difficult question. Far more challenging to answer than why the body behind you was staining the concrete with blood and tears.

…What would have happened if he had never kneeled down before you that day? Offered you his hand stained with calluses and gunpowder residue?

You blink at the thin bodies, gaze flowing to each and every one in turn. With a slow motion you begin forward, hands at your sides and visible; you draw the memory to you. The one you think of often.

You had stayed there in fear, curled up in the corner, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Until John.

“Ma’am,” He had said, kneeling on one leg while his hands clutched his M16 to his chest, the muzzle still smoking, “I’m Lieutenant John Price in Command of Unit Bravo. You’re safe now.”

Unit Bravo? Safe? You had wondered, looking up at the man with confusion. How can I be safe?

Nonetheless, when he offered you a hand, you had taken it, looking in awe at how gently he gripped your limb in his own; John’s limb completely swallowed yours and yet held you like delicate glass.

You stopped before a woman far too young to be in a situation like this and kneeled. She watched you with a shaking body, the others curling away in fear. They didn’t know you, and so they feared you. Taking a breath, your hand raises, and the woman’s eyes are laser-focused on your form.

I should make myself smaller, you think. And so you do.

The fabric is sweat-heavy; laden with dirt and other substances, but you grasp it without hesitation and peel it off of you. It sits in your hand with the weight of the past in the thick polyester threads. Swallowing down saliva at the breeze that hits your face, you watch the lady blink at you, her gaze filled with confusion.

An easy smile comes to your face; if they hadn't just seen you murder a man, they would not believe you to be the same person. Yours was not the face of a killer – of someone who twists the knife deep and revels in death. It was soft beside the scar above your eyebrow, easy to look at. Innocent.

A simple Bird, no. A vulture perhaps suited you better, if they were to get into specifics.

You clear your throat and they all flinch.

“Ma’am,” Your voice carries. Again, not the voice of a monster. But even Ares marries a beauty. Could you not be a spawn of them? Beautiful and utterly bloodied by the rules of war? Oh, yes, that’s what you were, you had to be. Nothing else would make any sense. But they gravitate to you nonetheless – war and love often go hand in hand. Especially when one killed the ruler of their torment. “I’m the Captain of Raptor Squad. You can call me Bird, if you want. It’s alright. We’re gonna get you out of here and get you some help, okay? You’re safe now.”

The woman can’t help but nod sheepishly.

Who says no to an offspring of Gods themselves?

—

The helicopter ride back was silent, with everyone tired and covered in more blood, dirt, and sweat than they can recall. Buck’s body was stuffed into a black bag and sitting in the walkway at your feet – you needed it for positive identification back on Base. You had shuffled back into the balaclava, taking comfort in the security and anonymity it lent. Below, your eyes watch the word whizz past, one foot limply hanging off the side thousands of feet above the ground; you swish it back and forth like a child and allow yourself to think.

You had joined the military only a few years after John had rescued you – much against the wishes of your therapist, but seeing as you were of sound mind, it wasn’t that difficult to enlist. The brown-haired Brit had sent you letters for the first three months after you had left the Base you had been recovering at and then, inexplicably, they had stopped. No letters, no contact. The radio – along with you – was too far away to get a signal; that was how it ended.

Not with a kiss or a soldier’s goodbye, just nothing. Silence.

But you never held it against him. Perhaps, you reasoned and partially believed, he was already dead. At the end of the day, he had been a great motivator for you, and over the years your fists and skills had propelled you to top ranks. Laswell had been in contact soon after you had been promoted to Lieutenant and Raptor Squad had been formed when you had chosen the most violent and perfect bastards to join it.

From there it was win after win and the CIA soon counted this team as one of the most lethal in its roster. You’ve been all over the world.

More than I could imagine I would become in a concrete corner and locked in a cage.

Your eyes watched the expanse of forest outside, but there was still something missing. Why had John just…stopped? It was the one question you could never answer.

Did I really not matter to him at all? Around your vest, your fingers twitch as the helicopter bounces on airwaves. Blue eyes still haunted you – the ones that held silver starlight hostage. How they used to soften with care when they looked down at you. John shouldn’t have mattered this much to you.

Why can’t I just let go of him?

You bite at your hidden lip with sharp teeth, peeling back the skin as Wren shifts in her seat beside you. She speaks into the comms to avoid yelling over the drowning sound of helo blades and you lock your eyes on her form.

“You might want to look at the info I retrieved from the Target’s mainframe, Captain. Didn’t Laswell mention she had a separate Task Force going after someone named Casilda Kalpana? She’s mentioned in this file.” Wren hands you her tablet, and you hold it in one of your hands as your hard eyes slim down the screen, taking in compiled sources.

Casilida Kalpana was on your list of Targets to take care of, but Laswell had given the job to another Task Force – designated TF-141 – for the small difference that this woman had ties to multiple terror organizations. Raptor Squad was no stranger to that, but Kate had also stated that the Captain of that group had been incredibly instant on taking it himself.

Your head tilts in memory.

“Kate, I’m not understanding why you think we can’t handle it.” You huff, shaking your head with an exasperated expression. “It’s no different than anything we’ve done before.”

“I have no problem with you participating, but the Captain pulled in a favor. Said he ‘felt obligated’ or something like that.” You pull a face, and Laswell glares at you from behind her desk. “Bird, I really don’t have the time to argue today – I’m stuck with stacks of papers because Keller decided to get himself lost again.”

“I’m not trying to argue, Kate.” Holding up your hands you chuckle and roll your eyes. “The only thing that matters is that the Target ends up six feet under at the end of the day. You know what it means to me.”

The Agent looks up from her papers and pauses for a moment, a pen placed between her digits, and her eyes soften around the gray edges.

“I can personally assure you, Captain, that this Task Force will see it done…Now hurry up and get ready for your own mission – I hear South America is warmer than usual this time of year. Pack a cold drink.”

The words in the file make your stomach churn; leading to your eyes widening. You flip the tablet back to Wren and radio Eagle who’s blankly watching Shrike and Thrush play rock-paper-scissors across from you.

“Eagle,” the man’s head snaps to you and he blinks, “Patch through to Laswell. Tell her to gather Task Force 141 in the meeting room on Base and wait for me. Under no circumstances should they be allowed to leave on the Op for the HVT Casilda Kalpana. We’ve got vital intel.”

Eagle nods and gets to work on a secure call to Kate, as you turn to Wren, clapping her on the shoulder and leaning close to speak into her ear over the noise.

“Good work, Sergeant. Get all that transferred onto a flash drive for me, yeah?”

“On it, Ma’am.”

This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it? You sigh deeply, tilting your head back as the sun starts to slowly rise over the land, bathing it in an orange glow that spreads out like fire. The large Cargo plane following behind the Helicopter would carry the innocent victims of Buck back to Base, and you fight the urge to get in contact with the pilot's headset to ask how it was going for them. It was hard to not get attached – especially when you knew what was probably going through their fear-stricken brains.

Left wondering in silence, your fingers pick at themselves over your gloves, peeling at frayed threads and durable fabric. As the minutes stretch into hours, you lift a hand and run a digit over your scar, caressing the skin as the forest pulls back and buildings emerge. Turbulence overtakes the helicopter, and your hand grabs the net on the side of the wall to steady yourself as the descent begins.

Settling your nerves, you wait until the ‘all good’ from the cockpit before you hop out, signaling with your finger for your Squad to follow close behind. Someone else would come and grab the body bag – it wasn’t your problem anymore. Your feet pound the Tarmac, and you can’t help the look you send up to the sky, watching the cargo plane on the horizon as it comes closer. Frowning under your covering, you re-focus.

I need to stop thinking about it – I always get like this with civvies.

It was hard not to. You only wanted to bring them the same comfort that John had brought you.

God, stop fucking thinking about him! His phantom haunts your every step like the two of you were Orpheus and Eurydice – only one of you wasn’t dead in the first place. One had left; abandoned you to the wolves. You had said you held no bad feelings towards the Brit but was that true? And if he was really dead, would you ever even know it?

Your feet carry you forward as the helicopter blades slice the air, making your clothes ruffle and shake under the combat vest and around your ankles.

The last time you had contact with the brown-haired man, you had been reading his letter in a free-of-charge home given to you until you could get on your feet and secure a job. John had been sent back to the UK on another assignment, leaving you a nervous wreck surrounded by people you didn’t know the intentions of. You had been excited to go to the mailbox at the time – even if being outside still made you nervous. Everything was just so big to you back then. When your fingers had opened the small metal box and found the white letter with the elegant script on top, you felt a smile rip open your face.

But the contents had been less than they usually were. Stiffer; formal in a way you had yet to associate with the man. He had always been nice to you. But maybe he had grown past that – you feared that thought.

“This’ll be my last letter for a while, Bird. I’m going Black. Make sure to remember to go outside and drink water for me, yeah?”

-Price

There had been the start of another sentence before it had been scribbled out and then had been it. No updates; no return address this time so you could write him back. And then you had bever received another letter until you had gotten fed up with your life going nowhere and enlisted. John Price had disappeared, and whether he was dead or halfway across the world you knew not.

He had been the only man you had trusted until Eagle and Thrush had become a part of your group. Still, even now, the opposite sex made you hesitant – you didn’t like being alone with a man you didn’t know. Your line of work didn’t help that notion, either.

“Bird,” Shrike’s voice brings you back, and your eyes slide to your side to look at the smaller woman. You hum in question. “What was in the file Wren downloaded? And who’s Task Force 141?”

“All in due time,” You mutter back, your hand opening the front door of the main building. No one was bothering to remove their gear or clean themselves – they all understood from the way you were walking faster that this was important. “And as for TF-141, I have no idea. Never met ‘em.”

Wren coughs, and Shike looks over as Thrush and Eagle listen silently, the former handing a cigarette over to the other.

“One-Four-One is a Multinational Special Operations Unit comprised of operatives from all over the globe. Much like what we do, but on an infinitely larger scale. I believe Laswell asked our Captain to join it a year ago…” Wren trials, not bothering to look up from her tablet where she still reads through files and other intel from the mission.

Thrush’s eyes widened.

“Holy shit, really? And you passed it up?”

“Obviously,” You snort, itching at your bicep where the bullet graze still sits in dried blood and dirt. You repress an annoyed hiss of pain. “Why do you think I’m still stuck here with you lot?”

“Awe,” Shrike coos, scrunching her nose, “She loves us.”

“Loves to hate us,” Eagle whispers. You send a half-serious glare as Wren chortles to herself.

“I can always ask Kate for the offer again.” A loud uproar makes people in the hallway turn and stare, and you laugh under your face-covering, chest light.

You all arrive at the meeting room door and you don’t bother knocking, shoving your way inside with Shrike still giggling behind you. There’s the presence of five others in the room, and one stands at the head of a large table, a blank projector behind her in dim lighting. You don’t bother looking at anyone else – still keeping that habit of being nervous around new people.

Laswell sighs as she looks you over, crossing her arms over her blouse.

“We're all here, Captain. What was so urgent that you had to show us?” You slip past her and head to the computer atop a wooden stand, hearing whispers and muttered comments as your groups disperse around the room. Heavy stares that peel back skin like batter nearly make you sweat. They were boring into you, making your heart race.

They’re waiting for us, you remind yourself.

“Wren.” You call steadily and a second later you’re catching a well-aimed flash drive without looking and plugging it into the computer.

Before touching anything else, your hands reach up and grasp the balaclava, tearing it off your head in one quick motion and hooking it onto your belt. It was rare for you to wear it on Base.

A sharp inhalation of breath makes your fingers over the keys pause, but you only blink and return to typing – pulling up file after file. The air in the room was already tense, but whatever had just happened was setting off alarm bells.

Who are these people? What just happened?

Nonetheless, you get to work and turn to Laswell with the intel on screen.

“You’re going after a useless player. Casilda Kalpana is only a pawn in a much larger scheme.” Kate’s eyes snap from one digitized document to another as you continue, staring at her and no one else with a blank expression. “If you had sent your Task Force, they would have died. They already knew you were coming.”

“Well,” a distinctly Scottish accent makes your fingers twitch, but still you don't look as a comment is said into the air, “I’d have to disagree with that, now, Hen.”

Blood and sweat stain your skin, and you’re covered in more of it down your gear. Your gloves are stiff with dried crimson and even the small amount of interaction you had on the computer left stains over the keys. But you still find the energy to roll your eyes.

“Can you fight off upwards of one hundred hostiles while trying to sneak through a city so inhabited that it's practically a human ant hill? No offense, but if you answer that with ‘yes’ you may need a psych eval done.”

There’s a pause before a small masculine snort echoes out.

“Shut your gob, Garrick.”

“Laswell,” you remain on topic and the woman looks at you with inquisitive eyes, “The only way forward with this is cutting the head off the snake. I say we go one above Kalpana and take out the ring leader.”

“Abel?” Kate’s eyebrows raise, “Bird we’ve been looking for him for years – I don’t know what you expect us to do with noth–”

Your finger hits a key, and the next document pops up.

“You can thank Wren for compiling the sources. Lots of emails to go through on the helicopter ride. Some not as fascinating as finding coordinates for a Target.”

“You can say that again,” said woman huffs from the back of the room, “you know how many kinky photos these people send to one another. Shit’s disgusting.”

The Scot speaks up again, “really? On a scale of how bad it was – one to ten, Bonnie.”

“Fifteen. I need my eyes bleached.”

There is a gaze that doesn’t leave you; it hadn't since you had walked through the door. It is hard and unrelenting. It does not falter or blink away.

It makes you nervous.

Sucking down a deep breath you try to focus on what everyone is saying, but it becomes more difficult with every second. Your hand reaches up to your head, scratching at your scar as the presence follows your actions.

Who is this? You wonder, but clench your jaw and listen to Laswell speak.

“--reliable is this source?”

Shrike answers from near the door, chuckling, “very, Ma’am. Rarely do these people sugarcoat things. Small brains, you understand?”

“...At the very least I need more than a location and a vague date. Bird,” your head turns slowly away from the floor, “can you give me a week?��

The hairs on the back of your neck stand.

“A week?” You frown, eyes narrowing at the blonde, “He could be off in the wind by then. Do you have any idea how much this guy runs – I’ve been tracking him down ever since I joined, Kate. This is the most I’ve gotten in that entire time.” Splaying out one of your hands for emphasis, everyone hangs off your words. “He’s the source of all of it. When you cut a snake up, the head can still bite, sure, but at least you know where not to step. Kill Abel now, and all of them are left bloody in the dirt. Ready to be picked off.”

Before the stoic agent can say anything, the radio on your chest sizzles to life and you forget about the hot eyes and the thick air.

The people from the warehouse.

Hand snapping up, you turn your head down into it, facing forward as your eyes stiffen.

“Cargo plane is clear for landing, Ma'am. Just thought I’d let the Squad know.”

“Thank you, Cadet. I’ll be there momentarily to help out…” You blink, “Try to make sure only female medics work on them but make do if you have to.”

“Copy that. I’ll spread the word.”

“Rog.” You don’t bother to take the USB from the computer before you turn away – they’ll all go over it while you see to the Civvies.

“How many this time?” Kate asks seriously as you slip past, her body pivoting to orient herself as you pass.

“Warehouse full.” You grunt, itching at your bicep and shuffling to the exit. “Less than last time.” The agent knew better than to try and stop you.

“That’s an old radio you’ve got.” The British accent makes you falter for a second; it was deep, aged like a fine wine that coated the vowels with clipped authority. Familiar for some reason, but you took no notice of it. “Must be one helluva long story, eh?”

“Very long,” You say as your nimble hand connects with the door, “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to tell it–”

Your body freezes as you send a quick glance to the voice’s owner; stance suddenly locked tighter than a bank vault as your optics find familiar blue eyes.

…John? There was suddenly a violent silence in your head, a sheet of white paper held in front of your brain to block it from firing.

He looked older, but then again, it had been years. Many years. But the build of his face hadn’t changed so much to a point you’d be unable to recognize those blue eyes. Oh, that blue. Like deep water and sea foam on a cold shore. Was it possible to know someone only by their eyes? You had to argue that, yes, you could. Because the man sitting down at the table, flanked by three others that all watch the interaction with confused eyes, is not the Lieutenant you remember.

The beard was new – shiny brunette like his hair under his bucket-hat-covered head – along with the stature. Before, Price had been large, sure, but now he was built like a bear. Your tense eyes slip over the tight compression shirt covering his arms, the bulk of his thighs as he shifts in his chair to stand up firmly. John clears his throat, and your face heats under the flesh, but upon the doorknob, your fingers strangle the metal. He was taller.

In your chest, the aggressive pounding of your heart rivals a cheetah.

What the fuck is he doing here? You can’t help but glare when the man frowns, his eyelids half-down in a studying look as his eyebrows push in. Like he was just as surprised as you were. Hesitant. But I’m not the one who disappeared. I’m not the one who made the other think they died.

When your face shifts to anger, John freezes, his hands coming up to cross and grip the collar of his beige combat vest looking about as awkward as he can. When you huff out a breath through your nose, his feet shuffle shoulder length apart. Ever the soldier – waiting for a lip-lashing. You watch the wrinkles on his forehead with growing hatred.

“Bird, I…”

Breathe.

“Well, this just keeps getting fucking better and better.” Without another glance, you wrench the door open and shoulder though, tossing it back with a decent enough force to make the wall rattle as you disappear down the hall.

But he won’t leave your thoughts. John Price. Alive. Here.

What kind of game was this?

Your hands are shaking at your sides when the door, already far down the hallway, opens quickly. But the feet are not heavy. Wren slides up next to you, her feet pumping. She doesn’t say anything, just walks next to you as your eyes shutter closed and you take a deep breath.

“You up for helping out in the med ward?” You force yourself to say, hoping to distract yourself as your face once more moves back to a picture of innocent calm.

How can he be here? Fuck…h-how? John was part of the 141 for this entire time? Did he know I was here? He couldn't have, no. But what if he did…

Why didn’t he say anything?

“I’m certainly more inclined to lead my abilities to the nurses, Captain. You’ll find no resistance from me.” You liked that about Wren. She never pried about things she knew you didn’t want to talk about.

“Good. They’ll need them.”

—

“John!” You laugh, hands coming up to your head where the Lieutenant had placed his beanie, the chill outside had made your nose hurt and your breath puff out in clouds.

Standing just outside the main exit of the medical ward, you grab the fabric as your face turns up to the tall man at your side. He had just shown up from a meeting, and the door closed behind his back as he locked his arms on his vest collar and set his feet shoulder length apart.

“Well now, what’re you doin’ out here?” It was rare for you to be out of the building – open places still scared you. “You alright?”

But you needed to think.

Stiffly smiling, you try to hide your running thoughts from the man who narrows his deep blues at you. He shifts closer, and you can feel his heat melt into you, making your shivering slow for a moment. He made all of it better.

John huffs.

“You’re about as easy to read as anyone, Bird. Go on, then.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” You play with your fingers, skin pulling tight. “I’m just overthinking everything.”

“You’re nervous.” He states, glancing ahead with a tilted head and a raised brow at no one.

Under your feet, the snow shrieks as you shuffle, looking to the ground and sighing deeply. There was no point in hiding anything from him and his damn hawk eyes.

“It’s just…I’ve missed so much, y’know?” Your teeth bite your lips as you feel his firm eyes on you, locked onto the side of your face and caressing your visage with their path. You blink out over the base, seeing everyone move from one place to another with a purpose in their steps. “I have no idea what I’ll do with myself all alone.”

Whispering out the last sentence, you look at the ground, lips in a line.

It’s a good while before the Lieutenant speaks, and he sighs deeply before he does. You don’t suppose he’s ever had to deal with something like this before. But he’s learning. All the others at Base and in Bravo Unit had been surprised that the two of you had formed such a tight bond in the limited time you had known each other. John Price wasn’t known to be the easiest person to speak to – especially when traumatized victims were on the other end. His stoic and quite confident attitude was the main deterrent, usually, but his hard eyes and face that rarely showed any emotion were a close second.

But to you, he was the nicest person you had ever spoken to. He never made fun, poked, or prodded, and he certainly didn’t act mean or bossy toward you. John was kind and warm; gentle when you got to know him.

And you quite liked his company.

John’s sigh puffs out over the air, and you grab the sides of his beanie and pull it farther over your head to cover your ears. You send him a curious glance and watch his fingers tighten, one eyelid creasing farther than the other when he looks at you in turn. Locking eyes, you can’t help the small smile that twitches your lips, liking the natural handsomeness of his face. You wonder what a full beard would look like over his cheek beside the current scratchy stubble that you had always known.

His eyes flick to your lips, and his teeth grind against each other for a moment before they snap back to your face.

“They’re sendin’ you out in three days, yeah?” John asks, scratching at his jaw with three fingers before settling his hands back into his vest.

“Yeah.” You affirm, smile turning to a frown. The man tenses minutely beside you before clearing his throat.

“Well, where they shippin’ you off to? Someplace nice I’d imagine. Heard somethin’ about bloody Oregon, but they wouldn’t give me much more than that.” You tilt your head at that, expression turning amused.

“You asked?”

“‘Course.” He raises a brow, and his eyes crinkle down at you. “You expect me not to?”

Face suddenly hotter than the sun, you blink rapidly, snapping your head to look out at the base once more. You may have imagined it, but John’s chest jerks in velvety chuckles you miss due to the ringing in your ears.

What was happening to you?

A small silence wraps its arms around you before you gather the ability to speak again.

“I think it was Washington, actually.”

“Hm, that it?” John frowns to himself, “Lots of people, Love. How are you feelin’ ‘bout it?”

“I don’t really get a choice,” you chuckle, licking your chapped lips as your pulse rises, “whoever has space was kind enough to offer it, how can I say no to that?”

“By tellin’ ‘em you don’t want to.” Price shuffles so he’s standing in front of you, blocking the people you were watching. He splays his hands at his sides and waits, blinking with a loose jaw. You nod an approval, though feel confused.

His hands go to rest on your arms, holding them incredibly light; barely applying pressure but you lean into him anyways. You enjoyed it when he touched you like this – the only person you would allow to do so besides nurses. Your tension softens into pliable clay when he watches you.

You could get lost in them, you knew, his eyes, if you stared for too long. There was an undeniable attraction to the man that you wanted to push away, but couldn’t help yourself. John was everything to you – he brought you books to read, sat with you as you ate in the cafeteria; he sat up with you when you radioed him about nightmares in the small hours of morning.

That memory made you giddy. Price would stay in his barracks – unable to leave because of curfew – but would speak to you over your shared channel. Use that soothing tone of his to make your eyes flicker back into slumber until he hears your soft breath over the line and sighs.

John’s throat releases a grunt, bringing you back to the present. He was staring at you softly, a small smile on his lips. You try not to suck in a soft breath. How long had you been staring at him?

“Focus, Bird.” You can’t stop the mute giggle on your tongue.

“Sorry.”

The Lieutenant's head tilts, and his usual expression shifts back. He studies your face, eyes sliding over to the bandages above your eyebrow.

“If you don’t wanna go, tell ‘em, okay? No one can force you to do anything.” He sighs. “I need you to understand that.”

“...Where else would I go?” You mutter, keeping your eyes locked. “It’s not like I have a home, John.”

His eyes snap away to look at the wall behind you, narrowing. The expression makes you grin, finding it funny when the man thinks so hard. John blinks, cycling back to stare at your lips.

The air heats and in your chest, you feel your heart beat just a tiny bit faster. Grumbling, Price peels back and releases you before his hands travel up to his beanie. He pushes it down farther, lightly ruffling your head in the process.

“Hey!” You huff, annoyed. Your hands flap above your head, shoving his digits away as his chest jumps in low chuckles. “Jerk.”

You shove the fabric from your eyes and beam.

“Couldn’t help myself, Love. Here, let me.” John’s hands find your chin, fingers so delicately, brushing the chilled flesh that immediately warms at his work. One limb stays, while the other goes to fix the position of the hat.

Sucking in a slow breath, you look up into his eyes and blink as he focuses on your head with a concentrated furrow in his brow. How did he always manage to make you feel safe? Take away your worries as if they had never existed? If there was one man on earth that could make all of this better, it was the one standing right in front of you.

It would always be John.

“Will you keep in touch?” You whisper, nervous for the answer, and his eyes momentarily snap to yours as his motion slows. A pause.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Hm, well then, I'll write ‘til you tell me to stop.”

—

The reports make you want to bash your own skill in. In the dim light of your office, you sit into the deep hours of the night in your chair, spare reading glasses on your nose to help you force away the blurriness from fatigue. You had spent the whole day with Wren in the medical ward helping the civvies get settled and the nurses with the workload. Such a large influx of patients had set them back for weeks, but it couldn't be helped. They weren’t the people to push anyone away – you knew that firsthand.

You were still in contact with a few nurses from your own stay all those years ago. Good people.

Swishing another of your signatures on a confidentiality document, you slide it to the side and stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before picking up the next file. Your fingers flick the manilla paper open to where you plan to write gruesome details into the blank lines of the sheets inside, and you just begin to let your ink bleed into the paper when your mind suddenly runs to a brown-haired Brit. Pausing, you blink sleepily before pulling the pen back and setting it on the table with a long sigh.

“Fucking hell.” A groan escapes your lips. This had been going on for hours. You’d try to start something and then the thoughts would get blocked by that damn man.

He was even more handsome than you remembered him. Lightly tapping the tabletop with your nails, you can’t deny the heat that had entered your body when you had seen John again. The coarse beard. The writhing muscle of his thighs paired with that tapered waist.

He had aged beautifully down to the very atoms of his makeup to a point it made your breath go thin; pupils widened in a primal display of need. It was pathetic. But the carnal attraction had always been there along with the normal crush. There was something you had learned a million times over – it was never going to be anyone else but John Price. Even so, it wasn’t for a lack of trying. You’d had plenty of boyfriends throughout the years – small flings that never lasted.

None made you feel as secure as the once Lieutenant’s simple presence had. Wren had told you in the med ward that he was a Captain just the same as you, now. Captain Johnathan Price. If anything, it made you mad that the title had a nice ring to it.

Your face twists into thinly-veiled annoyance. What gave him the right to come waltzing back? You thought he was fucking dead. Instead, you had been ghosted so bad you joined the goddamn military to help cope. Fuck, maybe your therapist had been right all along.

You’re just about to let off a spring of audible curses when a knock on your office door makes you flinch, eyes scrunching before sense finally finds you again.

Can’t I wallow in peace? You ask yourself, hoping Shrike hadn’t gotten into a fistfight at the local bar in town again. I swear I need to put Thrush on watch duty for that woman. Maybe Eagle’ll convince him for me.

“Come in.” You stand as the door opens slowly, hinges echoing out as you slide the reading glasses off your face and toss them down. “I swear if Shrike got suspended again I’m going to hit her over the head with the code-of-conduct manual.”

Snapping your fingers and cracking your neck, you huff when no one responds before turning to the door.

“What’s going–Oh.”

John stood in the doorway, wearing nothing more than a thick black cotton shirt that covered his large arms and hugged just the perfect amount over his triceps. It showcased his large shoulders before being tucked into his cargo pants. For once in your life, you think you’ve seen him without some sort of hat on his person.

Freezing, you stare wide-eyed at him. John frowns from where he lets the door automatically shut, nodding his head towards you firmly in greeting as your heart kickstarts. His large hands enter his pockets like some guilty teenager as you gape at him.

John clears his throat.

“Bird.”

“Get out.” You deadpan, not bothering to hear the man out. Price groans, head tilting to the side to glare at the wall as his jaw clenches.

“Love, would you let me explain–”

“No. Frankly, I’ve had enough adrenaline rushes for one day, you damn jerk. Now, get out of my office.” You begin making your way from around the table; pulse flying through every point in your body.

You can’t be here, John, you clench your fists, please, you can’t be here.

Annoyance sparks in those blues that you love to stare into, but all you do is go to stand right in front of the man with a violet frown that he mirrors.

“Bird.” He says again, setting his feet.

“John.” You raise a brow and cross your arms. The Brit growls, gaze flicking away with a heat to it before wafting back like fog over water.

“What’re you doing here?” He says slowly, trying to keep the peace between the two of you.

“Well,” under your arms, your hands shake, “what the hell do you think? Working the same as everyone else. Or at least I was trying until you showed up.”

“That’s not what I bloody fuckin’...” John trails off, closing his eyes before taking a deep breath and letting the tension in his shoulders loosen. His hands exit his pockets, and you stare as they splay by his waist. “Please, Love. I’m not trying to argue with you.”

“Arguing is the least of what you should be worried about.” Grumbling under your breath you lick your lips as his eyes lock with yours.

There was something there you couldn’t name, but it sat on the tip of your tongue – perhaps close to the emotions of guilt and horror that left the Brit’s jaw tight and his eyebrows constantly furrowed. Had he really never expected to see you again?

Yes. You figure with a heavy heart and a spark of hurt. Had you really been so discardable? In your mind, you had thought that you meant something to him. But maybe that was just another lie.

Letting out a scoff, you roll your eyes before looking away.

“Weren't really many options for me.” You concede a small portion of yourself if only to get him to leave so the way he makes your lungs sputter and face heat can cease. The others would make fun of you for this. A pointless crush on a man you hadn’t stopped thinking about for ages and held a great deal of resentment toward. When would the self-sabotage end with you? “Thought it was a better way to help others like me.”

You turn back and raise an expectant brow. “Happy now?”

John just continues to stare, lips thin and pulling under his beard hair as he raises a hand to itch at his jawline. A growl digs at your throat.

“John. Leave.” Not able to help yourself, you spit out, “if you wanted to quit talking to me all those years ago – you could have just told me instead of making me think you were fucking dead.”

The man’s head immediately flinches back, face scrunching in genuine confusion as his mouth parts. Under his shirt, you see his heart skip a beat.

“What are you sayin’ Bird? I never did anything fucken’ like that. What are you on about?” He shakes his head, “you stopped answering me.”

“The fuck are you saying? No, I didn’t!” Reeling back, you throw your hands above your head in a display of surrender; about to slink back to your desk and try to forget the heat of John’s body and the blaze of his eyes. “God, I give up on you and your stupid accent. I have reports to get done without your presence making me want to vomit.”

“Oh, my presence,” The Captain throws out a humorless chuckle that makes you want to cry. “Eh, you’re angry at me – you have every right to be, Love. I fucked up,” He growls, teeth gnashing, “But don’t fuckin’ lie to me. That is not what bloody happened – I never stopped writing you.”

“What the hell do you mean that’s not what happened?!” Your scream surprises you, with your voice bouncing off the wall like a demented banshee was in the room. You snap back around on quick feet and stalk over to the man. John’s eyes widen at the enraged tone and he blinks in shock as you continue, backing up a single step when you get in his face. “I waited and waited for you to send another letter – I waited months for nothing! Do you know how that felt, John? To-to go over in my head that maybe you never made it back from that Black Op at all? That you were dead somewhere in a fucking jungle or a desert or anywhere? I tried to get in contact with everyone, and nothing panned out. They wouldn’t tell me shit. So don’t stand there and say it never happened like that, because that is exactly how it happened!”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears are dripping down your chin, hitting the floor with muffled plops.

John is slack-jawed, eyebrows all the way up on his forehead and orbs stuck on you – on your obvious panic. His breath is heavy, and you feel it spread over your face from how close the two of you were; you had ended up pointing a finger right into the Captain’s peck. Under your harsh press, your flesh felt his pulse flying off the rails. Your nose scrunches as you sniffle, aggressively ripping your limb back to your side. Oh, but he had been so soft under you; his skin beneath that fabric reacting to your own by pulsing to life. John’s tongue wetted his lips.

Scoffing, you take a step back, but the man speaks before you can get far enough away. It was quiet, how he said the words, and his expression was one of genuine confusion and concern. His eyes were brighter than the moon – that gray space rock put to shame by the rolling beauty of his optics that reflect light far better than she ever could. Gentle Selene, how did it feel to be beaten by a man covered in more death and blood than anyone? Who’s skin is tough and callused so perfectly that a child of Ares wants to feel those fingers caress her in forbidden places. Oh, to be kissed and loved by him. To be worshiped like a god.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” It was nothing more than a gasp, and you see his fingers twitch to touch you; to hold you to him as if nothing had ever happened.

“John, I’m not repeating myself.” You sob down a breath, looking away and shrugging pathetically.

“Bird, listen to me. Eh, eh. I…I never stopped sending you letters, yeah?” Blinking, you turn back to him and frown dumbly, your eyes furiously dancing from one wrinkle of his forehead to another. A minute passes where you feel more tears drop to the floor.

“...What?” Confusion laces your eyes, “but I never got anymore after…”

You trail off, letting the sentence die as your heart does.

What does he mean he kept writing letters? I…I waited and I never got any. None of this made any sense, but the man in front of you was never one to lie. Ever.

John takes a step forward and you tense. He freezes, face hard and jaw set beneath his beard. You can tell he’s still confused – just as you are, but his attention is fully on you.

“Can I touch you?” He asks lowly, hands outstretched but never even grazing your shaking shock-filled form. His thick fingers are all separated, the digits lightly curled inwards to the palm. Those hands. Would they even feel the same as they did back then?

But did that matter? Neither of you was the same person anymore. Both of those people had been lost in the annals of history – their story was already over and done. The pages turned. Cover closed.

Those two kind people had died. They were buried together under the ground, bones turning bleach white and wrapped in vines; nothing more than a ghost of a dream.

“Bird?” John whispers, his head tilting down to look at you closer as his chin bumps his chest. His feet move carefully as his hips shift and you feel his body heat like a noose around your neck. Your resolve was slipping, but it had already been fraying when you had first laid eyes on this changeling – this person wearing the Lieutenant’s face and eyes.

John.

You nod without looking at his creased eyelids, and he slips you into his firm hold without a second thought.

“Oh, c’mere, Love.” Standing heavily, you breathe in a deep breath as your head meets his chest, body wound tight. How many times have you dreamed of this? Finding him again despite all of it? It felt…wrong.

You had been sure he was dead. How was he not dead?

“Little Bird, I’m so sorry.” Your eyes widen, and a sharp gasp is ripped from your mouth; lips instantly begin to shake and pull tight.

No, you want to scream, no don’t say that to me, John. Don’t do that to me.

But he mumbles it again into your hair as his hand cups the back of your skull, weakly swaying back and forth in this dim office surrounded by blood and death. His body is like a rock all around you, and as your arms rise to wrap around his waist, you hear his breath shutter down over your forehead; his lungs hitch.

“I thought you died.” You hate the whimper that gets muffled by his shirt as you nuzzle into it. Hate it with a burning passion. When was the last time you had let yourself break like this? Left staining someone's shirt with tears and muttering fears into their chest. But this wasn’t someone, this was John – John had promised you he would come back for you, always.

And so John just holds you tighter and kisses your forehead. He lets you cry. He makes you feel safe where no one else ever could.

The man – a triumphant Orpheus – keeps you close until you can breathe firmly again. Only then does he carefully peel back, and you catch a glimpse of his soft face. The face that you missed ogling as you walked beside him. His hands go to cup your cheeks, thumbs slipping to wipe away tears that clog your vision with his quick eyes falling to study your visage; you liked when John took care of you, even if you knew you could handle it yourself now.

He made everything better.

Peering into his eyes, you catalog the new aspects of his face as your breaths mingle, bodies close and intimate. He had more wrinkles than you remember, and his eyes were even more cold. John’s beard was perhaps the change you liked the most besides the nicely trimmed head hair.

“MacMillan.” He grunts out and you frown as he continues with a sigh. One of his arms goes to slither around your waist, pulling you even closer as if he couldn’t be separated for one more second. “He didn’t like that I was writing you, Love. Said I’d been too distracted. Must have stopped the letters from gettin’ out…bloody fucken’ bastard, he is.”

You hum, content for the first time in a long while. John’s chest moves against yours – pressing into it and making you ache with every fast puff of air. Noticing the rapid movement of his heart, you look deeply into his expression and find his pupils blown wide, a deep heat taking root around the room.

“If I had known, I would have found a way to give ‘em to you myself.” Your body tingles, and your fingers dig into his skin from around his waist as your noses nearly brush. He doesn’t pull back. “You know that, don’t you? I’d have hopped on the first damn plane – shown up on your doorstep. Gear and all.”

“Now, I would have paid to see that, Captain Price.” He purrs, and the vibrations of his chest make your eyelids flutter. “Standing on my porch like a husband who came home from war. Pity.”

Chuckling breathly, you can’t help but giggle back, leaning into his hold on your cheek. You don’t remember ever feeling this happy.

A moment of stolen breaths and wandering touches ensues; beating hearts that make muscles writhe and inner tensions reach a breaking point. Finally together again after so long apart – there were so many things to say to each other.

“Hm, Love?” John mutters as his nose bumps yours, making your head lightly tilt to the side to make his lips brush yours with every panted gasp. You lick your lips and accidentally slide your tongue against the side of the Brit's mouth; you watch his eyes darken with a smirk.

“Yes?” You wonder aloud, eyes hooded, and his gaze narrows on you – a blatant enticing accusation making John’s skin thrum with electricity.

“Can I kiss you?” A breathless grumble.

“Yes.”

Your lips meet with a clash of hellfire and a song of lust, sparks like jumping embers lighting across lit flesh. Digging into his waist, you enjoy the way John’s ribs flare with large lungs as his teeth clatter into yours, the way his grip on your face trails to your neck, digging and making you gasp into his mouth when he slightly presses into your pulse point.

He chuckles pridefully before reconnecting his face to yours, feeling your heart pound outside of your body. The two of you were so close to one another that it was nearly like you were trying to melt into one being – an amalgamation of calluses and milky scars; violence and unspoken words.

The both of you had been waiting for this for years. Ages.

A swipe of his tongue over your lips and suddenly your mouth is wide open, letting the muscle delve into you before retreating once more; leaving strings of saliva as you let him separate. Face hot and breath panting, you both stare at one another with swollen lips, red and bitten. There’s a small moment of quick inhalations and banging chests before your nails suddenly dig into the small of his back, dragging him forward once more as he heaves under your hold.

No need for talking, you could get everything you wanted to say across just by how you bite into his bottom lip, how your knee brushes his crotch and leaves him jolting into you. Groaning into your mouth.

John’s fingers kneed your flesh, every brush like a cattle prod. Without even realizing it, both of you had started to back up, your feet skimming the floor as one of your hands went out behind you to connect with the desk edge.

“Lift.” You mumble into his mouth, and not a second later the man’s large hands grope at your thighs, squeezing once before he effortlessly manhandles you upwards. Your legs spread and go to wrap around his waist, locking at the ankles and producing a deep churning in your gut.

When your backside lands on the desktop, your lips have traveled to lay nipping kisses on John’s neck and under his ear; hand now over his abs and dragging down while your nails leave him shivering. He grunts and clenches his jaw when you bite into his flesh, the delicious tickle of beard hair brushing your nose as you watch with feral satisfaction upon the flush on his complexion.

The Captain’s hands run up and down your hips fervently, mapping out the flesh above your loose sweatpants. Before long there’s the feeling of pressure forming above your core, a deep imprint of tented cargo pants leaving a familiar feeling of passion leaking out into your panties. The both of you were utterly addicted to the other.

“Eager?” You breathily wonder, teasing, leaving another hickey on John’s pulse point as he side-eyes you with blown pupils. Your gaze only catches a flicker of a smirk before his hands suddenly bore down into the skin of your thighs and his hips cant into your core.

Gasping out a moan, your fingers twist into his shirt, face falling onto his shoulder.

“J-jerk!” You keen, face hot, and mouth open to help you suck down air before he does the same motion again, liking how you look when his erection rubs the right spots. Shaking, you feel John leaving hot open-mouthed kisses on your skin, beard coarsely stimulating your already warm skin. Under his unrelenting hold, your legs quiver to try and move faster.

Smug bastard, he was enjoying this.

“Now, then, who’s eager?” A confident superiority was stuck to the tone like the slick was making your underwear stick to your slit. It felt dirty, but you liked when he talked like that – tried to use your words against you as his own pleasure was making him go slack-faced.

How would it feel to have him moving inside of you? Leaving you sobbing from pleasure as your shared release dripped over the floor and his veins caught your ridges just right?

Your back arches into him, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling as his hand presses into your tailbone to angle you upwards into him as he groans into your shoulder and stutters his animalistic pace. The feeling was unlike any other you had experienced; you could feel the electricity every time he stimulated your clit, leading to involuntary jerks on your part and thin breaths. There was barely time to suck down air over the lightheadedness.

“I-” Your voice cuts as cold wetness slides down your folds, and you shiver despite boiling. “I think you’re the one rutting into me like a bitch in heat, John.”

“Well, you’d be right,” he growls, and your fingers slide down his shirt before you can slip into his pants. The Brit sucks in a sharp breath and his other hand, once on your thigh, goes to slam onto the desktop in a quick motion when you play with the strap of his boxers. “Fuckin’ minx.”

You smirk, angling your head to the side to watch his normally stoic face begin to break when your nails trace the trail of hairs that lead down. Close but not close enough to where his cock strains violently; twitching as the telltale leak of precum stains his underwear and pants. You doubt your appearance down there is any better. Everything sticks to each other so tightly that you were slightly worried your desk would need a deep clean.

John’s eyes are closed tightly, teeth clenched tight when your nails trace circles along his prominent ‘V’ line while his abdominal muscles tighten to an attractive degree of internal yearning. Around his waist, your legs are vibrating with eagerness, your skin so sensitive it was like every nerve was being fired. Oh, you liked that look on his face more than anything.

“You’ve got to say it, Love.” You watch as his biceps tighten and strain, hand over your desk clenching into a fist behind you. Your hand dips lower in his boxers as your core begs for something to fill it – anything to make the cum drip out of you and give overstimulated aftershocks. Your other limb goes to pop the front button of his cargos as your sweaty face angles itself to connect your nose with the Captain’s larger one, smashing against it desperately. “Open your eyes, John. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Breathing over his visage, he flickers his eyes open with a small struggle and you almost moan at the heaviness of them as they gaze at you. He says nothing to you, but his digits at your tailbone leave their position to mirror your own actions. Your confidence stutters when John deftly pulls at the string and slips his rough pads under your panties, stopping on your body where you wait on his.

Your eyes slightly widen and your heart beats impossibly faster.

So that’s what this is…some kind of cat-and-mouse game? Alright.

The desk is uncomfortable under you, but you find you don’t even care anymore. Staring into John’s unblinking eyes you raise a brow.

“Not saying anything?”

“I’ll leave it to you. Do what you wish, Princess.” Your fingers experimentally skim to the base of his cock, playing with the hairs and feeling his fingers mirror, stopping just above your aching clit and barely touching you. This would be easier with the clothes off, less awkward angles if you would just fuck each other like you both desperately wanted. Raw and fast, no time to breathe before starting another round to make up for lost time until the two of you were too tired and sensitive to even rut into each other without passing out. But the two of you were too currently obsessed with battling wills – this was a game that made you even wetter, and him harder.

But, fuck, it physically hurt not to have his dick inside of you right now. Maybe a substitute could work?

Your fingers grip him inside his boxers, and before you can laugh at his throat-strangled moan of carnal pleasure, his own are delving into your drenched heat relentlessly.

“Fuck!” You whimper, hips jerking as your mouth falls open, eyes rolling back. He has the audacity to steal your laugh from you and throw it back as it puffs out over your cheeks.

When John feels the drowning wetness stemming from your slit and he curls his digits, he can’t help the vile smirk that infects his lips; a raised eyebrow, and a comment on his hot breath.

“All this for me, hm?” You don’t answer, too lost in the blue of his eyes and the sparks that emulate at having another living being pulsing over your tight walls.

“S-shut it.” Groaning, you pant trying to move your hips before he growls in front of you, making you pause as your hand around his cock twitches.

“None of that, now.” There was no amusement in his eyes, but a steel-like determination and a demented tilt of his head as his forehead connected with yours. “We’re gonna help each other, yeah? Make it a little game of who can get off first. Can you do that for me, Dear?”

Where has your confidence gone? Has it leaked out of you?

You whine as your eyes crinkle, desperate for something on your clit despite the feeling of being stuffed by two of John’s large fingers. John frowns, and his thumb hits the perfect bundle of nerves like he could read your mind. Writhing, you feel your eyes wet with pleasure-tears.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Your mind is going so fast that it’s blank, only able to focus on John and how his hips sputter to try and fuck himself on your hand. He was just as needy as you were, skin flushed and muscles tight under his clothes.

“C’mon, Love.” He groans, nipping at your wet and red mouth and pulling at your lip as his calluses rub in small sparking circles, trying to get you to respond. Your hips careen forward to chase him. “Where’s my sweet Little Birdie gone, eh? She’s so wet for me, can’t have lost already. Listen, now, okay?”

He begins to fuck you with his fingers, moving painfully slow in and out, pushing and prodding as you moan and gasp when he runs over the tense walls. But you do listen – God, how couldn’t you?

“You hear that?” Your eyes widen and your hand tightens over his cock like a vice. Your own cunt was so soaked that every motion of John’s fingers made an obscene squelch, and your walls tighten in retaliation around him as he groans deeply, feet shoulder length apart. “There she is.”

You match his pace with your hand, collecting his precum at the tip and spreading it down the shaft as you both get each other off with fast breaths and locked eyes.

“T-that’s a girl.” John can’t help the way he moves faster, eager to release the strain on his balls, his fingers rapidly moving and thumb pressing tightly as you squeeze around him. “Fuck.” He growls, hunching over you and taking a peek down to where your sweatpants and panties strain to hold his hand inside as you work him. “Fuck,” he repeats, “such a lovely fuckin’ cunt of yours. Grippin’ my fingers like a damn noose, you are. Can’t wait to—”

A strangled whine breaks through his clenched teeth when you twist your hand, creating a rhythm of your own that makes sweat break out on John’s forehead.

“Bloody…” his head falls to your shoulder, where you lick and bite at the side of his ear with hard teeth, thighs burning as you jump every time his thumb weakly stutters over your clit. Your ankles dig into his tailbone.

“C’mon, John,” you gasp, sweat trailing your spine and soaking into your clothes as the sound of rabid slopping echoes off the walls along with loud moans and guttural grunts. “This is what you wanted, right?” He bites into your shoulder through your shirt.

The Brit was close, you could feel it in the fast careening of his hips; the way his dick in your soft hand was twitching and covered in just as much wetness as your splayed slit was, where John’s fingers continue to spread you violently wide. But his motions had faltered, but still, that tightening in your belly was there even as he slowed at his impending release. Your pleasure stemmed from seeing him lose it under the twist of your wrist and the lick of your tongue under his ear.

His groans were getting louder, body hunching in around you as the desk knocked into his knees.

“Little more,” you like the way his beard burns your neck flesh, how his body pulls you even tighter against him so you won’t take away his climax at the last second. “C’mon, let me feel it.” He gasps and twitches a whine stuck deep before it is expelled from his lungs as he shakes like a leaf against you.

He shoots his cum down to stain his boxers and cargo pants and you look down in a daze to look at the patch, but his locked fingers inside of you involuntarily curl all the way up, pressing into that spongy spot as you clit it pinched so tight your eyes widen. Before you can stop it, you're moaning out loudly and breathlessly, back arching and releasing just like that. Spazaming, it’s cutting through you like a knife, filthy stickiness coating John’s hand in a thick layer in an instant as your walls clench.

The both of you shake into one another, bodies coated and clothes wreaked – fingers and hands not willing to part from the other's wreaked pants.

Whining, you force your flicking eyes open and feel John breathing heavily into your neck. Sucking down fast breaths, you lick your lips and state, perhaps a little smugly, “I…I win.”

A panting moment of sweat-coated silence.

John starts laughing, deep bouts of shaking movements that make you follow. In the dim office atop a ruined desk, you both lean into one another, clean hands digging into the others’ clothes and hair. The lingering pleasure was addictive.

“Fucken’ hell…yeah, Love, guess you did.” The brown-haired man pulls back, and your hand falls from his cock and lands in your lap. You unlock your ankles and shiver when his fingers brush inside of you when he takes them out, teasingly running over your overstimulated clit and huffing, amused when you whimper pathetically and slap his hand away. Glaring, he smirks and you roll your eyes. Raising a brow as sweat falls from your nose, you shift over the wood and stare at John as his hidden emotions wash over you in the form of blue water.

You can’t really think that I’m done with you? You want to say.

“What do I get, then?” Your thighs twitch, legs still splayed around his wide hips. He frowns teasingly.

“What’s that?”

“I won, didn’t I?” Staring intensely, both of your hands go to hold you up behind you, leaning back so you can place weight on them. Already, your slit is aching again, your navel pounding as the room smells like sex and messy release. “I want a prize.”

“That how it works, then, Captain?” John sighs, crossing his arms and puffing his chest as your leg moves up and down his thigh, “You expect to be rewarded? Hm, you’re in the wrong profession, you are, Love.”

“No,” you smirk, “I’m not.”

Reaching, your fingers grasp the bottom of your shirt, feeling John’s eyes bore into your skin as you pull the article over your head and let it hit the floor. You hear his breath get shallow, and, disliking how the cum staining your lower body feels, you lift your hips and slide both your panties and sweats to your ankles with a quick motion.

Looking up at John, you smile innocently, only clothed in a bra.

“Take off my shoes for me?” His blue eyes are barely visible anymore, black already taking over as his piercing look stays on your shiny cunt like a dog with a bone. You see his breath get shallow and the hard-on under his clothes once more grow larger. “John?” Prompting him to move, you take one of your hands and spread your folds.

The man’s hands twitch, feet shuffling, but other than that he stays stone still until you speak once more, even if he’s almost physically vibrating at the sight of you.

“I’ll let you clean me up if you hurry up and get my clothes off.” His large hands snap to your laces, untying them expertly and pulling them from your feet so they clatter to the ground. The remaining fabric follows.

Giggling, your breath gets caught when John’s fingers trail up your ankle, his free hand going to lay firmly at your opposite knee. Using one of your hands you reach up and unclip your bra, slipping it off your shoulders. The reports on your desk are all most likely ruined – you’ll need to rewrite them tomorrow – but for right now you’re transfixed on the sight in front of you.

John looks into your eyes and utters, “you sure you know what you’re doin’ Sweetheart?”

“Take off your shirt.” You smile in return, your fingers going to slip into your eager cunt, still burning from John’s long-gone relentless digits. Your eyelids flutter at the fire. “And your pants. I wanna feel your muscles movin’ when your tongue cleans up my cum.”

His chest is heaving like a wounded animal, and you whine when you curl your own fingers in your heat, wishing it was John’s dick. Fuck, you needed him to hurry up already. Your digits couldn’t satisfy you as he could – when you had been stroking him you had marveled silently at the girth, the sizable veins that pulsed in your grip when you squeezed.

Watching like a hawk, John slowly moves and pulls off his shirt as you lazily fuck into your wet entrance. You spy his large pecs and nicely shaped waist as chiseled abs make your mouth water and lips part in soft puffs of breath. The coarse hair over him was the same shade as his beard, and you followed the trail with greedy eyes until it disappeared below his unbuttoned and stained pants.

Your chest gets just a little bit together; cunt tightening dangerously.

“You’re droolin’, lovely,” John smirks down at you, “careful now, don’t wanna finish on yourself. Just makin’ more of a mess for me, hm? Naughty.” He strips off his pants and boxers, kicking his boots off, and you stare wide-eyed at the spring of his dick, noticing the way it hits against his stomach with a molten red tip.

You would have gotten on your knees and sucked him off, but he beat you to it.

The Captain forsakes his own needs and does as he’s ordered – he kneels to the ground and levels his face where your cum stains your skin and nudges your fingers out of the way. He begins to lick along your thighs as your wet hand goes to slick his hair back, gripping the strands and observing the phenomena below you with a slack jaw.

Oh, hell.

He stares at you as he does it, cataloging the flesh that makes you jump and the places that leave you shaking with need. His tongue sucks and bites, but never goes where you want it to, instead, he just spreads your legs farther and makes comments as you grunt above him.

“Such a mess, Princess…I’ll have to take care of you.”

“That’s it, Love, fuck my face – try and get off. Good girl.”

“Fuckin’ delicious, that is, eh? Here, have a taste.”

You’re left a shaking mess by the time the remnants of your orgasm are traded for saliva, his muscle slurping up every droplet without complaint as his fingers leave bruises in your thighs from how tight he has to hold them to keep the limbs apart. This wasn’t going to plan for you.

Whining and whimpering, you ache for him, your lower body throbbing as more slick begins flowing. At this rate, he was going to suck you raw and leave beard burn all over your inner thighs.

“J-John,” you plead, disheveled as your hand grips his hair tighter, biting into the brown whisps. You were going to climax without him even entering you.

“Hm?” He groans out, licking a long stripe over your entrance but never sinking into it. Your body shivers and jolts, chasing that friction but he moves away too soon. You nearly sob. No, no, no. I can’t take it. “What is it, then?”

“Fuck me.” You feel the twist of his lips more than see it.

“Yeah? That what you want?”

“I swear to God, John–!” He stands so quickly that you yelp, legs wrapping behind him as his arms go around your backside and hike you into his hold.

Moaning loudly, you feel the press of his cock over your slit, whining and immediately trying to shift in his grip to attempt to slip him inside of you with a twisted face. But the Brit’s hand on the small of your back is tight, keeping you trapped against him.

“Not yet.” He growls in his ribcage, and you connect his forehead with yours and force yourself not to beg as he narrows his eyes at you. But you're not a fool, you can practically hear his cock trying to move against your heat; his thighs quivering. “Fuckin’ hell – you’re impatient. Your whole squad like that?”

“You’re a damn tease.” You huff, rubbing and pressing your nipples over his chest hair to stop the throbbing in them. “Ruder than I remember. Didn’t even let the girl suck you off.”

“Then you’re gonna hate what I do next.”

Your confusion bleeds into your expression as he situates himself in your desk chair, leaning back into it with a groan and squeezing you in his arms. His dick slaps at your backside when he lets you go and just stares. Furrowing your brow, he tilts his head down at you as your arms rest on his pecks, playing with the hair there and tracing scars.

“Go on.” The Brit prompts with a tilt of his head toward you, a nonchalant expression on his face that makes him look more like he used to – outwardly not caring but studying every move and twitch of your body.

He watches you like a wolf.

“What?” Questioning, your head pulls back as your legs fall limp at his sides to dangle above the floor.

He huffs. “You said you wanted your prize – take it, then.”

“...b-but…”

“Go on. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You glance down, utter exasperation showing on your face, “how am I supposed to…?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure that out, Love.” John’s hands go to sit on the armrests, fingers swishing as they hang off the ends. Your face burns, annoyance filtering into your veins as your eyelids crease.

Trying to prove a point, you stave off the awkwardness of the angle and shift upwards, using John’s broad shoulders as a way to lift yourself up. Taking a shallow breath, your breasts are shoved into his face when you free one of your hands, going to grasp him to line the joining up. You feel him distantly nipping at the supple flesh, his hands over the rests jerking as his legs open wider under you. When you grab him, he grunts, and your nails leave crescent marks on his skin as you clench your jaw as it rests on his head. Huffing, you jerk him off a few times to make his body writhe before, in one fell motion, letting yourself fall onto his dick.

You both let out sounds that are more animal than human, deep wails and keens that shake the office walls.

“Fuck, John,” you make noise like a damn porno, head slotted in his neck as you shake and jolt this way and that with rapid nerves that shoot down your arching spine.

He was tearing you open – ripping you apart with the spearhead that curves so deeply you struggle to breathe correctly. Jesus, was he in your throat? Gasping, you feel so full in such a unique way it leaves you addicted, your cunt so tight around John’s cock that the walls inside of you quiver with every small movement. When he gasps out breaths with his closed-tight eyes, you notice the way your body convulses, red-hot pleasure rocketing to your brain and pumping endorphins before clenching around him.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit, I can feel his goddamn veins digging into me! Your small mewls of pleasure spill out even as you both stay still to adjust. Sex had never felt like this before.

John spasms, hands immediately snapping to your thighs to keep you there as he wheezes.

“Fuckin’....christ!” Blinking rapidly, you bite into John’s neck to ground yourself, hips rocking despite his pleas. “So tight. Squeezin’ my cock just perfect. Take it, Love. Fuck, c’mon, take it.”

Your slick and his precum make it easier, the wet squelching once more resuming at a faster pace than before. You release his skin, intent on chasing after the orgasm building around this man’s dick that hits every spot like it was target practice.

“John, feel so good,” you moan, breathing loudly as the Brit watches you take him like it was nothing.

“H-hell.” He groans long, hands helping you jump when your legs shake too violently every once and a while. He’ll have blood dripping from his shoulders from how hard you dig into him, but watching your cunt swallow him over and over again is payment enough as a ring of milky white forms at his base. “Look at you. Fuckin’ good girl. Keep it steady, now.”

“P-please,” you sob, eyes shiny as your walls ache – your needy clit was burning. John watches wide-eyed; blues boiling. “Clit. I need…”

Trailing off you connect your lips to his when one of his thumbs goes to your nerve bundle, quickly working at it in tight circles that molds your lips onto a silent scream. John whimpers when your pussy clamps, his senses all covered in you – your scent and how your tits bounce so beautifully – a second later he can’t help himself any longer.

His feet plant themselves to the floor, and he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth as his hips rapidly thrust, skin on skin the only sound above high moans and muffle pleas of release.

It was far past words anymore, just feral animals seeking an earth-shattering orgasm at the other’s hand. Drool was slipping down both of your lips, splattering down chests and cheeks as sloppy kisses miss marks.

So close. So close.

The snake was coiling, walls shaking and alternating between squeezing too tight and letting John hit as far into you as possible. You suddenly wail into his hot mouth, eyes rolling back when he angles his thrusts back towards himself as he slouches in the chair.

“There it is. Bloody bastard.” John hits it again, leaving you collapsing onto his chest as his hands go to wrap around your back, large arms using you to stay still as he pants ferally, eyes wild as they stare down at your blessed-out expression. Fuck, were you even able to speak anymore beyond whines and gasps? The clench of your pussy?

“Don’t worry, Love,” One thumb still plays with your overstimulated clit, making tears splatter his chest hair and get stuck as every sliver of skin that’s coated in sweat and joined slick. “I’ll make it up to you, yeah, I’ll fuck you proper later.”

Your eyes roll back, back arching into him. God, was this not fucking you properly? But then again, John was a gentleman at the end of the day – his idea of proper was probably a bed and a glass of water on the nightstand.

But this was so much better. The neediness of it, the emotional release besides the physical. John could fuck you anywhere at any time, as long as you got to hear him speak to you like that. Breathless, whiny like he never was and probably never will be outside the company of just you – even after being separated, you knew he was never one to do things like this.

“Tell me you’ll let me cum inside this cunt, eh, Love,” his accent is stronger as he gasps, raspy, with muted growls, before his head tilts back behind the chair’s backing. He speeds up until you were sure the chair was going to break in two, the material squealing. “Let me breed you like I always wanted to, yeah? Watch that spent cunt drown before I pump back in and stuff you full again. Please, Bird, let me…Let me…!”

You're about to lose it, hands raking down his chest and legs numb before you can gasp out a single sentence before the rope snaps.

“God, John, don’t…don’t let any go to waste.” You moan and slot your head under his jaw, feeling his beard bristles burn your nose when you finally let the snake strike.

Freezing, your lower body jolts as if connected to an electrical line, walls constricting around the foreign entity inside of you as it continues to chase its own high. One firm thrust, two sloppy ones, before a groan so loud you feel it reverberate in your heart enters the heavy air. There is an undeniable fullness to your womb that shoots deeply into your being, splattering your thighs and staining John’s abdomen. From there it’s small instinctual thrusts as your ringing ears twitch at the sound of cum dripping on the floor. Panting, you can’t help the fucked-out way your mouth parts to release a satisfactory sigh at the feeling of euphoria in your brain and cunt.

It felt like you were floating on air when John finally started rubbing a hand up and down your back, shaky fingers hard and sure as they trace old marks.

Still short of breath, the two of you revel in each other's company with palpitating hearts and half-lidded eyes. Still slotted under his jaw, the brown-haired man mutters softly.

“New?” As he taps a bullet wound on your right side that’s been healed for years now.

“Hm,” uttering softly with a hoarse voice, you smile weakly with warm cheeks, “old. Three years.”

“...I have a lot to catch up on, then, yeah?”

“Very much. But don’t worry, I’ll be patient.” He chuckles, making your form move with him. You take a deep breath, finally feeling yourself come back to earth, albeit on unsteady feet.

A good bout of calming silence forms before you speak through a haze of fatigue. It had to be late by now – incredibly late. Maybe just using the pullout bed would be better than doing the walk of shame back to your barracks. John could join you here, you decide internally.

“How did you know I’d even speak to you in the first place?” You ask as the man shifts under you, lightly lifting your black and blue thighs as you begin to whine quietly; he shushes you with a calm presence. Delicately pulling out, he lets his spent cock exit your red and swollen hole as more combined fluid falls from you to run over his hips and pool below. Resettling you, he brings a hand to the back of your head and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“The radio. You kept it.” You grin shakily, feeling him run his fingertips down your spine, finding more milky scars and caressing them with callused hands.

You’d have to tell him all of your stories later, and in turn, he’ll tell you his. There was a lot to learn, but this certainly wasn’t a bad spot to start. Nuzzling farther into his neck, you sigh dreamily as his pulse sings you to sleep like a lullaby. Before you drift off you whisper out a reply that leaves John shivering.

“...I guess I did, didn’t I?”

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