[week 30, day 7] dream
He’s on his knees before you, the cowl pushed back, his icy eyes looking up at you. There’s blood streaking down one cheek, brow, and it’s livid against pale skin, and that’s your work, your mark on him, a scar you’ll leave forever, something he’ll never forget, something he won’t be able to. You won’t be tossed aside this time because some dark haired pretty replacement with a fuckable mouth wouldn’t be able to do this to him, and that makes you special.
The muzzle of your gun caresses the underside of his jaw, and he’s forced to tip his head back, and you stare down at his throat, watching his pulse thudding under thin skin, and you can hear it, smell it, and know that it’s fucking racing, that you’d got him nervous, that you’ve shattered that fucking layer of ice that surrounds him, that you’re the one to do it, and you feel your own breath quicken until it’s matching his, your chest rising and falling in time.
The muzzle drags up then, along that strong jaw, then to those bruised, split lips, and you stare for moment, the blood invisible against the dark metal, and he just looks up at you, blue eyes no longer icy flaring with heat instead, with fire and suddenly you’re the one shivering, shuddering as his slowly parts his lips, and you just push forward, the sights scraping over the soft palate of his mouth, but you don’t care and he doesn’t care, because he reaches for your wrist his long fingers wrapping around tight, jerking you closer. He just stares up at you, blue eyes blazing, burning deep into you, and you’re shaking even harder now, and suddenly you know that you’re not the one who’s in control of this situation.
The gun starts to rattle in your grip, but his hands reach up, strong and steady as they always are, and wrap around yours, and guide your forefinger, so careful, pushing it past the trigger guard, letting it rest lightly against the trigger. The challenge burns out from his eyes, and you just stare, mouth dry because he knows, he’s called your fucking bluff. He knows that you could never do it, that you need him more than he could ever need you. And he’s laid you open with that one move, torn you wide fucking open.
He smiles around the muzzle and his hand squeezes around yours, and you feel the recoil of the weapon, the roar of it, and no, no no, that’s not what you meant, that’s not what you want-
[Jason jerks awake, gasping, sweating. His hands spread out on the sheets before him, and even though they’re pressed flat, they’re shaking so hard he can’t turn off the hitomi.]