De-anon'd fic for clampkink, part 9
Uh. Hi. Remember that fic I was working on ages ago and kinda got distracted from? Well, I finished it~! And not my report which I was supposed to be working on today, but hey. This is part nine, the penultimate chapter- I'll be posting up part ten, which is already written, some time later this week...
Title: Skinhunger
Part: 9 of 10 (yay nearly done now)
Rating: M; this chapter is most definitely NSFW
Warnings: angst? sex? excessive abuse of brackets?
Summary: Prompt is as follows: Kurogane/Fai post series - Kurogane and Fai were already in an established relationship, but one day in order to save Kurogane, who is mortally wounded, Fai pays the price by having his memory since meeting Kurogane for the first time erased. Kurogane recovers and has to pretty much starts over with Fai but he's up to the task.
Bonus if Fai always address Kurogane politely by his correct name this time around and Kurogane is both sad and annoyed for this turn of event.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
*
You know where you are as soon as you land (Nihon) and the realisation (his home) is a blow to your gut that chases the warmth from your belly. Kurogane drops to one knee within seconds of his arrival, head bowed before his princess (and the feeling that bites at your heart is not exactly jealously, not nearly so raw, but a little painful still) and as she looks up her eyes are terribly kind when they reach your face. Her hand falls to the dark hair of her warrior in gentle benediction, the silk of her sleeves draping his face; anxiety knots in your stomach as Tomoyo, priestess and princess both, turns your way (that smile; too gentle but no pity in violet and you are thankful for that small mercy) and you stagger, wooden planking shaking beneath your feet with the shock of interdimensional transit.
Your eyes rake the horizon, the purpling clouds that draw twilight about the steep stone walls of the castle, the moon just risen; the smell of summer grass and incense smoke floats thick on the breeze and catches in your mouth when you draw in a heavy, dragging breath- and (memories claw the inside of your skull) your legs buckle, knees shaking, a sick sudden vertigo rolling in your blood as acid twists thick in your gut and you slip on the soft pink petals that crowd the wooden pathway.
Syaoran is next to arrive even as you stumble; magic swirls about him in cloaking, foggy wisps that whip up clouds of petals and the smell of cherry blossoms (the courtyard, the tree, your princess, oh Sakura-) makes you want to vomit, but you can’t, you don’t, and the sound that trickles through your gritted teeth is that of a wounded animal caught in a trap (no trap just your past and that’s enough) and your eyes scrunch shut against the torrent of images pressing against your eyelids, crowding the darkness, and breathing (cherry blossoms taste like blood in your mouth) doesn’t help-
You fall, and Kurogane is moving before you can suck in another mouthful of too-sweet air, his left hand curling about your arm to drag you (out of the circle, the closing snare of your own magic) upwards and something in your chest catches at the gesture (his left arm his left arm his left arm oh gods) even as steely fingers dig into your flesh with a strength synthetic skin cannot belie.
Tomoyo calls your name as the wards about the courtyard pulse in time with the panicked flare of your own magic and only the bruising force of Kurogane’s hand holds you up as you sink low, cloak puddling on the ground around you in folds of snowy fabric (like your coat, the one you left behind in Ceres as he pulled you towards him) and Syaoran runs towards you as memory surges up, thick and visceral (like the slash, like the spray, like the blood that arced in steaming droplets and crashed in a splashing burst of scarlet onto the cracked stone) as an open wound, and the last thing you see is red-
(like his eyes)
-and then it is dark, and cool and how much later you don’t know, but when you open your eyes again, Tomoyo is kneeling by your beside (the way she did for him, when he lay bandaged and bleeding in this bed) and you jerk awake with a shuddering gasp.
“It would be cruel of me to welcome you,” her voice is soft, soothing, a gentle stroke of sound in the dim shadows and your skittering heart nearly drowns out her words, “but you are welcome here even so, and I am sorry if Nihon holds dark memories for you.” There is no light save that leaking from the hallway, a warm blur edging the doors, bleeding into the dim shadows that pool in the folds of the princess’s sleeves, soft falls of fabric that rustle against the futon and blankets when she lifts a gentle hand to lay it upon your forehead.
“I don’t know how much you remember of me, Fai-san, but know that while you are in our castle, inside our walls and wards, you are safe,” and when Tomoyo smiles, a glint of light catches on the sweet curve of her lips, “especially with Kurogane guarding your door from all and sundry.”
The thoughts clamouring for attention in the back of your mind (where you are, what this young woman is to you, what happened in the courtyard, why your chest hurts so-) still themselves at his name, fall silent in the darkness that flutters behind your eyes and threatens to pull you back into unconsciousness.
Kurogane.
You hear yourself ask for him, hear the rasp in your throat and feel the words stick in your mouth awkwardly (some silver-tongued charmer you are) but her soft hand resting on your forehead sends a pulse of cool and soothing energy through you as she speaks and the nervous magic twisting in your veins calms. “I sent him to dinner, Fai-san; he’s been by your side since you fell, growling at everyone who came past- Kurogane was never evenly tempered at the best of times, let alone when he was hungry,” and Tomoyo giggles, hiding her mouth with a draped sleeve, and a smile tugs at your lips in spite of yourself. “It will be a relief to him to hear that you are awake… and a relief to the castle guards also. Perhaps he will stop harassing the other ninja now that he knows you are well.”
Her laughter quiets in the next moment, her hand lifting from your forehead, fingertips brushing briefly through your hair and you blink away the last traces of dizziness as you raise yourself up. When you are reasonably settled, leaning back against heaped pillows, she fixes you with an assessing look. “I am not aware of all the details of your condition, Fai-san, whatever it may be -Kurogane was never one to speak of another behind their back- but I do know that the hot spring that feeds the baths of Shirasagi castle is renowned all throughout Nihon for its healing properties, and that a soak in the mineral waters will only do you good.”
She stands then, raising herself smoothly upright with a flutter of silken sleeves. The light edging through the seams of the doorway warms her eyes, and something understanding (and perhaps a bit more knowing than you are truly comfortable with) softens her delicate features. “I would not be surprised if you found him there, Fai-san; in all the years I have known him, Kurogane was always fond of a bath after dinner.”
It only takes a moment for the meaning of her words to sink in; when it does the haste in which you fling back the covers and tumble from the futon makes your knees creak in protest and a scattered thought that perhaps you should have checked to see if you were actually dressed first comes to mind as cool air rushes over your bare legs. The princess giggles as you struggle into the robe lying across the end of the futon, its loose folds wrapped haphazardly about your thin frame, but then you are dashing out the door with no mind for your dignity, calling out a farewell even as her laughter rings out behind you.
Your hurried footsteps patter across polished floorboards like rain, building to a torrent as urgency needles you; you have to see him, you have to see him now (as much as you needed to see him then) and maybe it will be easier to face up to what you are, what you have done (what you have done to him) if you can see the same acceptance in his eyes as you did that night-
(because it is one thing to know, and another to remember and what little Syaoran told you, he did not tell you this)
A woman with dark hair and sharp eyes (Souma) calls out to you as you pass her by, but you do not know her, or if you do, you do not remember, and right now, she is not important enough for you to stop; nothing is, not now, not with the weight of memory returned pressing heavy in your mind and you thank what little luck you have left that the halls are mostly empty, the folds of your kimono tangling your legs and making you stumble as you round the corner with some speed, your steps slowing as you finally catch sight of the bathing chamber and your breath leaves your chest in a whoosh of shocked air.
Your hands shake a little when you open the sliding door to the entry alcove, and something (anticipation?) that flutters in your stomach drops away when you find the bathhouse empty, the high-roofed chamber thick with steam and silence; no voice answers your own when you call out a tentative greeting, and the huge bath is still but for the slow seep of water onto slatted floorboards.
There was no guarantee that he would be here, but it is a disappointment all the same.
Tomoyo is right about the baths though (as she is right about so many things), and the scalding, mineral-rich waters chase the chill from your bones as you step gingerly into the pool, your breath steaming in white plumes as you slump against the wooden wall; there is no harm in taking a moment to compose yourself, and the slow seep of heat through your aching limbs soothes the static in your brain to little more than a hiss of white noise.
No use over-thinking it; if there is anything that this has taught you, it’s that the past is behind you and the future unknowable- better then to take things as they come.
(and maybe he would be pleased you’d finally accepted that lesson for the truth it was when he first spoke it)
When you leave the bath, squeezing the water from your hair and shaking loose limbs, you find your clothes gone from the crumpled pile you left them in, and a kimono folded and waiting upon a shelf in the dressing alcove when reaching for a towel; the notion that everyone in this castle is a ninja, even the servants flashes through your thoughts and brings a smile to your mouth even as you drape yourself in cool cloth, and if your hands are shaking as you wind the obi around your waist and cinch it tight, fingers clumsy on the knot at the small of your back, you don’t stop to consider it.
The way back to your room is unfamiliar, so you wander aimlessly, Shirasagi castle quiet this time of night and your footsteps echoing as you walk onwards. A draft stirs your hair as you pass an alcove, and on the swell of intuition it wakes in you you follow the breeze, the air sweet and tasting of cherry blossoms and night-blooming flowers; you travel over a wooden walkway by a still lake, and nostalgia stirs somewhere at the back of your thoughts as you come to a courtyard and push open the closed gates-
And it is instinct that moves your hand when a blur of white springs towards you with a cry of “Fai! Fai! You’re awake~! Mokona was worried, so worried!” and Mokona lands soft in your palm, tears beading on white fur, your heart squeezing in your chest as the small creature curls into the curve of your hand; you manage a smile even as you bring your other hand up to stroke soft ears, and if it is weak and not so bright, you don’t try to hide behind it.
Your reassurances are quiet and genuine, but even as you speak Mokona clings to your sleeve with tiny paws all the same, and it is some time before she settles and allows herself to be shuffled onto your shoulder as you walk; you are still trying to soothe the small, innocent creature you have grown to love over the years when you move further into the courtyard, enough to catch sight of the tree that reaches gracefully towards the sky-
(Sakura, the petals, the girl, the tree split down the middle as what you thought you knew was torn asunder as the two halves of one soul fought each other; tortured wood screams and flowers rain down in a torrent as inky magic wraps you in its coils, and through it all the sound of once-Syaoran, the clone, the boy with your eye, the sound of his heart breaking-)
You have to stop, and something that would’ve once been a sob catches in your throat.
The sacred tree is still split, still torn, the trunk forever split in twain- but where once the wound wept sap and dark, cloying magic now grows new life; woody offshoots strive upwards from scarred timber, blooming into a spray of branches and a profusion of flowers far above you, enough to layer the floorboards by its roots thick with petals, stirring like powdered snow in the breeze that whirls through the courtyard.
Syaoran is there, at the foot of the tree; one palm rests flat against ancient bark, and if he has wept there is no shame on his face. He turns as you draw closer, passing under the cool shadows of the canopy above you, and the nod he gives in greeting as his fingers trail away from the trunk stops whatever you could say before it leaves your mouth.
“I’m glad you’re awake. We were worried, all of us were.” His gaze flicks upwards, over your face and away. “Especially Kurogane-san.”
Silence falls after his words, that curious stillness that steeps this place spread out between you, and when he looks back your way again, his eyes are searching for something in your own and you have to wonder if he finds what he seeks in the moonlight that falls across the courtyard in pale, glowing drifts.
“I don’t know all of what passed between you here in Nihon,” says Syaoran eventually, his young face drawn and sombre. “I never asked. But I know it was enough to make you smile when you traded your magic for his arm, enough to make you happy in a way you hadn’t been in all the time we had known you.”
His eyes are serious and dark (your princess was not the only one your smiles wounded, all of them bled in some way from the lies you told and the secrets you kept) and you accept the guilt for what it is (breathe it in and let it go) as Mokona leaps from your shoulder and into Syaoran’s waiting arms, earring jangling as the small creature crawls into the folds of his robe to hide her face.
“It’s not my place to tell you what you were to each other, not really,” continues Syaoran, and shakes his head. “I said what I did before because you asked- and because I think you knew, somehow, even with your memories gone. Because even if the memory is gone, it doesn’t mean the feeling is,” and his voice turns soft and somehow knowing, warming his gaze where it rests on your face. “We know all about that after all.”
Your head hurts at the implications of that; the boy, his clone, his father and the tangled mess that was (the girl you loved like a daughter) Sakura all one sweetly jumbled confusion of feelings you can’t quite sort out even now- but you cared for them all, loved them all, every “Syaoran” you ever knew wise beyond his years, and you have no reason to doubt him now.
“Kurogane-san left to speak with the empress when last I saw him,” and Syaoran turns his face upwards towards the tree, the trees, the two trunks twining together from a single core. Petals, falling slow, brush his cheek, pool softly in his hair and fleck his kimono with droplets of pink. “That was a little while ago now. I think he’s looking for you as well, Fai-san.”
“Fai should go,” says Mokona sleepily, startling you both; her voice is muffled by folds of cloth but carries well enough in the still night air. “Go and find Kuro-pu. Mokona will stay here with Syaoran and count the blossoms. Things will be better in the morning. Mokona knows they will because Mokona knows everything…” her voice trails away into a sleepy mumble and Syaoran smiles, the expression fond, bringing up a hand to stroke silky ears.
“Go on,” he says. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Fai.”
You don’t argue, but squeeze his shoulder in passing, and the path you take towards the castle proper seems more familiar beneath your feet, your steps more confident as you pass rooms and halls by and come to a stop before the door you know belongs to the room you woke in; it opens easily, oiled wood gliding open at the merest touch, and you are distracted enough by your own thoughts that you don’t even realise who, exactly, is standing before you until you’ve taken three steps onto wooden floorboards. Your tabi rasp softly across the floor, the sound a distraction, and when you look up the light that spills through the open door cuts a swathe of brightness across the walls and draperies that fall from the ceiling to frame the futon- and Kurogane is there.
You open your mouth to say something, what you don’t know, but nothing comes out, and for a little while all you do is stare at each other, your breath coming fast even as his leaves him in something like a sigh. “I wouldn’t have left,” says Kurogane, and the weight of his words thrills you, “but Tomoyo insisted, and then the empress wanted to talk to me. You were gone when I came back. So I waited.”
He turns away from you a little to reach into his sleeve; the sound of a match striking is still quiet, nowhere near loud enough to drown the thudding of your heart, and a small spark of brightness catches your line of sight and draws your gaze up to red eyes darkened to near-black by the shadows that flow down the walls.
“This is my room,” he says then, quiet, pressing the lit match to the lantern-wick. “If you want, I could ask for another to be made up for you.” A warm glow blooms outwards from the paper screens of the small lantern cupped in those big hands, washing over his face and across those (once and again) familiar features as oil-soaked cotton catches alight with a gentle whoomph. He shakes out the match and sets the lantern down on the floor; his silhouette shifts and flows across the wall as he walks towards you, and something shivers down your spine when his gaze reaches your face. “Or you could sleep here tonight.”
There is nothing expectant in his voice, just patience- but there is a hunger, banked and hidden in that gaze, in the tense line of his shoulders, and you know that he would wait for however long you would ask for in the same moment you decide you’ve both waited long enough. Your skin feels tight, taut, stretched thin and sore with need; your breath catches in your throat and shudders between your teeth as a sigh works itself free from the empty ache in your chest, and between the dull roar that rings in your ears and the surge of his heartbeat you barely hear yourself whisper I want to stay here.
(because you do, you do, oh, you want so much)
He swallows, takes a few steps towards you, the edge of his sleeve brushing against your arm as he reaches out to slide the door closed; something hot and heavy comes to rest low in your belly, like a stone (edges worn smooth by time and desire and his constant presence) and the steady weight of it quickens your breath as he turns to back to you, the flickering light melting shadows across the dim room.
“Good,” says Kurogane, and fire twists beneath your skin at the sound of his voice. “Good.”
And he reaches out to curl his fingers under the sash that binds your waist, pulls you closer, draws you away from the door; the motion forces you to take tiny, stumbling steps across the polished floorboards as the kimono pulls tight about your legs, restricting and uncomfortable- but the heat of his hand bleeds through layers of cloth as a rough palm smoothes over your belly, catching on silk, and your chest heaves as that hand moves upwards, everything else forgotten as your skin burns beneath the tracery of his fingertips, his fingers slipping along the part of your robe and pulling it open.
You whisper his name, feel it melt on your tongue (dark and sweet and yours to speak) and Kurogane shudders; his mechanical arm (cool to the touch beneath synthetic skin but no less welcome) snakes about your waist to drag you close, to hold your body against his own, your skin tingling beneath cool silk at the searing contact. His hands are shaking, small tremors that you can barely feel as you sway forward into his warmth, and somehow you know (remember) that what makes him tense isn’t nerves but anticipation; the press of hard muscle and the heady scent of the blood pulsing beneath his skin makes you dizzy as you lay your lips against his throat (could just bite, could just taste, could just let that liquid red flood your mouth and drown your senses) and the need that flickers like flame in your belly makes it hard to only scrape the edge of your teeth against the tendons that strain in his neck (so easy to let them sink into salty skin and warm, yielding flesh) and nothing more.
But Kurogane has other ideas, and the hand that tugs your kimono loose about your shoulders (air cool on your back, goosebumps rippling down your spine) slides around and across your back to thread his fingers into your hair; his grip is insistent but not painful as he cups the base of your neck and guides you firmly forward. You stumble up on tiptoes to lessen the height difference, mouth parting against his throat in a wet, open kiss, even as he speaks and silk pools loosely about your waist.
“I want this,” he says, low voice vibrating against your lips, denying your protests before you make them, “and you need it.”
(he’s not just talking about the blood)
His fingers scrunch into your hair, scraping blunt fingernails against your scalp; his pulse throbs against your lips, a steady beat that rolls like hunger in your belly. An eager mewl escapes you before you can swallow it back at the urgency that edges his words (barely restrained and humming like the tension between the two of you) and you press your hands flat against his chest (his heart thudding beneath your palms, faster and faster with every passing moment) even as his other hand makes itself busy, falling to the knot at the small of your back; metal fingers tug on the silken obi that holds your clothes to your hips, pulling it loose with a soft, slow rasp of unravelling fabric that nearly makes your knees buckle.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, and the whispering sound of the sash slipping through his fingers to puddle on the floor in a heap of silk is nearly lost to the roaring in your ears.
And before you can answer him, he’s moving, pushing you back, steering you towards the bed and your kimono is slipping, slipping, falling from your hips as you stumble with each step- but you can’t feel awkward, not even a little, because oh, that’s his hand on your hip, scrunching into fabric and pulling it free, and those are his fingers cradling the back of your head, the last few inches of your clothing caught between you because he won’t give enough space for it to come loose and pool on the ground.
“No one is coming in to stop us,” and yes, that’s hunger in his voice now, rumbling and heavy in his chest (and your nerves stretch taut at the need in that sound), the edge of your heel brushing against the futon as you step backwards, the thick mattress spongy and soft beneath your foot, “and I told the white thing that if that damn earring glows, it’s to leave without us,” this a growl against your lips as he turns your head (an almost kiss) and in the dim light of the lantern his eyes are bloody and deep.
No more interruptions, you think, or maybe it was a murmur against his mouth, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because he grins (and you can almost taste the blood in it, almost taste that fierce, possessive joy) and quite suddenly you surge forward (almost isn’t enough), and the taste of copper and salt glitters on your tongue as you crush your mouth to his, catching his bottom lip between your teeth and making him bleed as the kiss turns deep and devouring.
(so good, not enough, more more more)
You don’t even notice your clothing slipping that final inch, but Kurogane does, hand sliding from your hair to stroke down your spine and his fingertips skitter lines of heat over bare skin; he groans and you swallow the sound, lick the blood from his mouth even as your kimono pools in soft folds about your feet, and his fingers dig bruises into your hips as your tongue slides flat and hot across the curve of his jaw and down to his jumping pulse, your hands scrunching into the dark fabric of his robe-
(prey, your prey and yours alone; hero, lover, savior, Kuro-sama-)
-and the sound he makes as your teeth split taut skin (red on your teeth, red on your tongue, iron and salt and red red red) hits you in the chest like a blow, like a fist sinking into your gut, dizzying and heavy and so damn good, and you are drunk on the sensation of his knees slowly buckling, body swaying forward into your grip to press against you in a long line of heat and muscle; fabric tears in your hands, the sound of ripping silk a whining rasp against your nerves, and one hand smoothes flat against his chest (so hot) as the other snags the sash about his waist with nails like knives and shreds cloth into ribbons.
His head drops heavily to your shoulder; you can feel his eyelashes moving against bare skin as he blinks slowly, in time with every swallow, but that’s not really important (not with his blood in your mouth) and you only realise he’s trying to speak when his breath fogs hot against the slope of your neck and makes you shiver. “Bed,” he groans thickly, and it is a plea and a demand all at once, “bed, now, just-” and that is the best suggestion you have ever heard (still the best, no matter how many times you hear it), so before he can catch his breath you turn, twist, and the both of you fall onto the futon with your mouth still pressed to the slick wound, his body pinned beneath you.
His breath explodes out of his chest as both of you hit the mattress, shocked into stillness by the sudden impact, but he isn’t still for long as you sink your teeth in again (you can never have enough of this) and sparks crackle down your nerves as he grinds his hips upwards (need and heat alike scorch you from the inside out), the folds of his torn kimono fanning out over the futon and bunching beneath him; a breathless kind of snarl tears from his throat and rumbles against your lips as you rock into the motion (the sweet, burning friction) and metal fingers curl about your hip for leverage when your hand slips free of his torn robes to thump heavily onto the futon.
Something that tastes like surprise (and desire and violent delight) fizzes into the blood that washes over your tongue, paints your teeth in glorious red; you moan (can’t help it), a trickle slips free from where your lips are sealed to his throat, and when you break away to lap it up (the rasp of your tongue over wet and bloodied skin curls tight and aching in your gut) he gasps a protest. “More,” he says, voice slurred about the edges, “you need more than that,” and those burning eyes smoulder low and dark as he struggles to raise himself up, torn clothing slipping down broad shoulders and pooling about his elbows. Blood slips down his neck in a slow, lazy trickle that makes hunger twist in your belly (you can never get enough) but it’s not just blood you want now, and your eyes catch on the play of lantern light across his collarbones, the planes of his chest; heat sinks into your bones, makes your arms shake, and when you reach for him, it’s not to bite.
You need to touch him, need it, more than breath, more than blood; your hand strokes flat and hot across the slope of his stomach, muscle rippling beneath your palm as the motion sweeps upwards. Your fingers splay over his chest, startlingly pale over tanned skin; he huffs a breath, tips his head back and wetness smears beneath your fingertips, staining them red as they trace up the line of his throat, and a shudder takes him as you shift to settle your frame between his legs, the heavy muscles of his thighs pressing hot on bare skin as he hooks a leg about your hip.
Kurogane hisses, your name a strangled slur between his teeth as you lower your head to bloody trickles; goosebumps wash over his skin beneath the lick of your tongue, the scrape of your teeth- and tension coils in his arms, the slope of his shoulders as he fists one hand into the futon, as though to keep it from clutching at your back. The other hand rises, fingertips trailing hot over your stomach and dragging across your chest; he chuckles when his thumb grazes your nipple, making you jump at the swift stab of sensation that curls in your gut.
“Hah… you always were a tease,” he says, and there is something breathless in the tone of his voice; you lift your head, lick your lips (blood, hot, good), and once you meet his gaze (red and black and burning in the shadows of lantern light) you cannot look away. His hand slides higher, fingers curling about your shoulder, pressing tight against your skin. “Let me up,” he says suddenly, shifting beneath you, “I need to- to get-”
And, oh, but you know what he’s after and before the thought can sink in your arm is already moving, reaching out behind you, fingers flicking; magic curls free of your fingertips and somewhere behind you there is the scrape of wood as drawers rattle, a brief rush of wind, and then cool glass smacks into your palm, liquid contents of the bottle sloshing about with an oily gloop.
“Ah,” says Kurogane. “I forgot you could do that.”
The bottle is smooth, rounded, fitting easily into the curve of your hand, but he takes it from you all the same, and there is nothing like hesitation in his eyes (he is no stranger to your body after all) as he loosens the stopper with his thumb and manages to free one arm from the tangled mess of his sleeve to spill its contents across his palm, and his hand is wet and rough as it glides down across your stomach, fingers hot beneath the cool slick of oil where they dip lower and-
Oh.
Your breath shudders out of you, back arching at the touch, the stroke (wicked fingers, wicked man, red eyes on your face and teeth bare as he grins) and you cannot stop the slow, sweet moan that he squeezes out of you with a deft twist of his wrist. Your pulse thunders in your veins, rumbles in your ears; your head drops to rest against the crook of his neck and the taste of his blood is thick on your tongue as any resistance you might have had melts away and leaves you wanting.
(him, his blood, the hot press of your bodies together- you want all of it)
There is an ache, low and fierce in your belly when he stops, draws his hand away with one final, dragging curl of his fingers; before you can think to ask why he takes your hand and threads oil-slick fingers through your own, smearing a gloss of heat and wet across your palm. “When you’re like this,” and his head tips to the side, exposing the blood that streaks his neck, “it’s better if you top.” Something dark and heady rises in his eyes, then; melts soft in the shadows of lantern light and warmth (affection and familiarity and possessiveness, all these things that you have missed in this self-inflicted separation) roughens his voice. “It’s been too long. I don’t want to play games tonight.”
And the only thing you have ever liked better than him above you was him beneath you, so when he lays back, the long line of his throat bare and vulnerable to your (lips, teeth, tongue) gaze, you follow him down, and it isn’t a game anymore (never was) when slippery fingers push into heat.
You should go slow, you should, but he is anything but passive and the weight of his hand trailing down your back makes it hard to breathe let alone think or act with any measure of control- and even if you have forgotten what it is to touch him like this (those memories a price paid just like the others) your hands have not, and it is not long at all before he snags your wrist with impatient fingers and fixes you with a look that is no less demanding for all that it is heavy-lidded. “Now, mage,” he growls and you brace yourself against the futon, knot the fingers of one hand in the softness of the sheets; his back arches as your other hand catches in the bend of his knee, and against your wet palm his skin is burning hot- but it is nothing to how he feels as you slide inside in a rush of heat.
A sound hooks in your throat, something thick and wanting, and though you hold it back as best you can it strains through your gritted teeth as your hips snap, forcing your bodies (closer closer need to be closer than this) together and making him groan; he curses, incoherent, barely audible, as you rock back and forward again, the next thrust seating you fully in tight, dragging heat. Need simmers in your blood, a dizzying kind of pressure in your chest, low in your belly; your toes curl into the sheets, desperate for purchase as you surge forward and the hand that smoothes down and across your back clutches at the back of your thigh.
“Harder,” says Kurogane, “you can’t break me,” and something like amusement (like heat like a promise) bleeds into his voice. His fingers cut bruises into your thighs, pull you closer (deeper) and on the next thrust his head tips back against the futon. “You’ve tried, before-“ his breath hitches, “-and you never could.” It’s a challenge, a dare, and something in you (the vampire) makes you dip your head to scrape your teeth over the curve of his shoulder to hear him gasp when they break the skin and you do not (cannot) hold back after that.
There is no rhythm to the roll of your hips now, just heat; you spear forward with all the strength you can bring to bear and he crushes a handful of torn silk from his ripped robes between metal fingers as you force him back across the futon, inch by inch, with every aching thrust. Sweat slicks your chest, your arms, drips down across your skin and onto his to make the space between you tight and slippery; he drags your hand up from his knee to slide across his stomach as you bite kisses across the line of his neck, and all that’s left of you is hunger as lantern light blurs like droplets of gold against the fringe of your eyelashes and your teeth sink into taut flesh in the same moment you curl your fingers about the hardness pressing into your belly.
You squeeze, stroke him slow and merciless; blood washes across your tongue (hotgoodmore) and paints your teeth with red. He bucks beneath you, moans desperately against the slope of your shoulder, and if you have ever felt more alive than this you cannot remember, and you do not think you want to- for now this (he) is enough.
Release catches you unawares in the next moment, speeds your heart and thunders through your blood; your eyes slam shut and your hips jerk a final, frantic thrust deeper (deep as you can) as pleasure rolls heavy in your belly and bleeds out in a surge of heat that leaves you breathless. Your teeth tighten on his throat, drawing one last mouthful from him as urgency gives way to gasping satisfaction; he groans as the pull of your hand quickens and follows you over the edge in a sudden slick of warmth across your fingers, his breath panting fast and hot against the sweat-damp skin of your neck as he turns his face into the crook of your shoulder.
(Oh, Kuro-sama…)
You have no strength to move, all your reserves spent; his hand slides up the curve of your spine to rest heavy between your shoulder-blades and something like a sigh stirs your hair as you lap at his bloodied throat, the slow swipe of your tongue chasing droplets of red from torn skin and if you feel guilt it is only fleeting as he shudders, your weight sinking down atop him, pressing him into the yielding mattress.
“You’re gonna have to get up,” he says, after a while; his voice is barely a drowsy murmur against your neck. Your back is cold but for the press of his hand and a line of heat where one leg is thrown over your hip, but it is so warm where your bodies are pressed together and you do not want to move so you make a noise of protest. “Mage,” he says, warningly, something like irritation warming his voice- but his hand strokes down your spine all the same.
When you finally slide free of him it is only to roll onto your back beside him, and for a few moments all you can do is blink as tiredness blurs the edge of your vision. He sits up, slow, and the motion catches your eye as lantern-light flows across his scarred back, and suddenly it isn’t tiredness anymore, something else entirely and your breath stutters in your throat as a memory unfolds before your eyes-
(you press your cheek against the slope of his good shoulder, your hands fluttering over his wounds -so many, so many, oh, Kuro-sama- and the rasp of cloth against bandages as your sleeves drape across his back makes you shiver as he draws you close with a gentle tug on your wrist; the folds of your furisode ride high across your trembling thighs as you sink down into his lap, your good eye falling closed with a sigh, heat washing through you as your bodies finally join; you both moan as your fingers clutch bruisingly tight at his hips for balance, pressing as close as you can, the only hand he has left a steadying pressure at the base of your spine that burns hot through layers of silk and Nihon’s air whistles cool and sweet down your throat as together the two of you sway and surge towards release, towards something like forgiveness-)
-and you barely hear him call your name as relief, sharp and poignant, tightens your chest (it’s not gone, it’s not gone, it’s still there, just barely out of reach) and when his hand cups your face, wonderfully rough against your cheek, you don’t even bother to hide the tears that well up as you press your mouth to the curve of his palm, his name a sigh against warm skin.
I remember, you say, and this is true; your lips catch against callus as you whisper the words you barely have the breath to speak, Kuro-sama, I remember you, and before you can say anything else his fingers curl about your chin and drag you close, and the slow, soft press of his mouth against your own (gentle, insistent and full of everything he cannot say) threatens to chase everything but the memory you’ve just regained into sweet nothingness.
*
Super awesome giant thanks go to everybody who helped me with this, especially peaceful_fury for letting me whinge about it to her in class and Faren for her godly editing skills and general awesomeness; that I got this finished at all is because of them, so go give them some love!
I hope you liked it everyone, and sorry for the wait- I'll see you soon in the final part!
Title: Skinhunger
Part: 9 of 10 (yay nearly done now)
Rating: M; this chapter is most definitely NSFW
Warnings: angst? sex? excessive abuse of brackets?
Summary: Prompt is as follows: Kurogane/Fai post series - Kurogane and Fai were already in an established relationship, but one day in order to save Kurogane, who is mortally wounded, Fai pays the price by having his memory since meeting Kurogane for the first time erased. Kurogane recovers and has to pretty much starts over with Fai but he's up to the task.
Bonus if Fai always address Kurogane politely by his correct name this time around and Kurogane is both sad and annoyed for this turn of event.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
*
You know where you are as soon as you land (Nihon) and the realisation (his home) is a blow to your gut that chases the warmth from your belly. Kurogane drops to one knee within seconds of his arrival, head bowed before his princess (and the feeling that bites at your heart is not exactly jealously, not nearly so raw, but a little painful still) and as she looks up her eyes are terribly kind when they reach your face. Her hand falls to the dark hair of her warrior in gentle benediction, the silk of her sleeves draping his face; anxiety knots in your stomach as Tomoyo, priestess and princess both, turns your way (that smile; too gentle but no pity in violet and you are thankful for that small mercy) and you stagger, wooden planking shaking beneath your feet with the shock of interdimensional transit.
Your eyes rake the horizon, the purpling clouds that draw twilight about the steep stone walls of the castle, the moon just risen; the smell of summer grass and incense smoke floats thick on the breeze and catches in your mouth when you draw in a heavy, dragging breath- and (memories claw the inside of your skull) your legs buckle, knees shaking, a sick sudden vertigo rolling in your blood as acid twists thick in your gut and you slip on the soft pink petals that crowd the wooden pathway.
Syaoran is next to arrive even as you stumble; magic swirls about him in cloaking, foggy wisps that whip up clouds of petals and the smell of cherry blossoms (the courtyard, the tree, your princess, oh Sakura-) makes you want to vomit, but you can’t, you don’t, and the sound that trickles through your gritted teeth is that of a wounded animal caught in a trap (no trap just your past and that’s enough) and your eyes scrunch shut against the torrent of images pressing against your eyelids, crowding the darkness, and breathing (cherry blossoms taste like blood in your mouth) doesn’t help-
You fall, and Kurogane is moving before you can suck in another mouthful of too-sweet air, his left hand curling about your arm to drag you (out of the circle, the closing snare of your own magic) upwards and something in your chest catches at the gesture (his left arm his left arm his left arm oh gods) even as steely fingers dig into your flesh with a strength synthetic skin cannot belie.
Tomoyo calls your name as the wards about the courtyard pulse in time with the panicked flare of your own magic and only the bruising force of Kurogane’s hand holds you up as you sink low, cloak puddling on the ground around you in folds of snowy fabric (like your coat, the one you left behind in Ceres as he pulled you towards him) and Syaoran runs towards you as memory surges up, thick and visceral (like the slash, like the spray, like the blood that arced in steaming droplets and crashed in a splashing burst of scarlet onto the cracked stone) as an open wound, and the last thing you see is red-
(like his eyes)
-and then it is dark, and cool and how much later you don’t know, but when you open your eyes again, Tomoyo is kneeling by your beside (the way she did for him, when he lay bandaged and bleeding in this bed) and you jerk awake with a shuddering gasp.
“It would be cruel of me to welcome you,” her voice is soft, soothing, a gentle stroke of sound in the dim shadows and your skittering heart nearly drowns out her words, “but you are welcome here even so, and I am sorry if Nihon holds dark memories for you.” There is no light save that leaking from the hallway, a warm blur edging the doors, bleeding into the dim shadows that pool in the folds of the princess’s sleeves, soft falls of fabric that rustle against the futon and blankets when she lifts a gentle hand to lay it upon your forehead.
“I don’t know how much you remember of me, Fai-san, but know that while you are in our castle, inside our walls and wards, you are safe,” and when Tomoyo smiles, a glint of light catches on the sweet curve of her lips, “especially with Kurogane guarding your door from all and sundry.”
The thoughts clamouring for attention in the back of your mind (where you are, what this young woman is to you, what happened in the courtyard, why your chest hurts so-) still themselves at his name, fall silent in the darkness that flutters behind your eyes and threatens to pull you back into unconsciousness.
Kurogane.
You hear yourself ask for him, hear the rasp in your throat and feel the words stick in your mouth awkwardly (some silver-tongued charmer you are) but her soft hand resting on your forehead sends a pulse of cool and soothing energy through you as she speaks and the nervous magic twisting in your veins calms. “I sent him to dinner, Fai-san; he’s been by your side since you fell, growling at everyone who came past- Kurogane was never evenly tempered at the best of times, let alone when he was hungry,” and Tomoyo giggles, hiding her mouth with a draped sleeve, and a smile tugs at your lips in spite of yourself. “It will be a relief to him to hear that you are awake… and a relief to the castle guards also. Perhaps he will stop harassing the other ninja now that he knows you are well.”
Her laughter quiets in the next moment, her hand lifting from your forehead, fingertips brushing briefly through your hair and you blink away the last traces of dizziness as you raise yourself up. When you are reasonably settled, leaning back against heaped pillows, she fixes you with an assessing look. “I am not aware of all the details of your condition, Fai-san, whatever it may be -Kurogane was never one to speak of another behind their back- but I do know that the hot spring that feeds the baths of Shirasagi castle is renowned all throughout Nihon for its healing properties, and that a soak in the mineral waters will only do you good.”
She stands then, raising herself smoothly upright with a flutter of silken sleeves. The light edging through the seams of the doorway warms her eyes, and something understanding (and perhaps a bit more knowing than you are truly comfortable with) softens her delicate features. “I would not be surprised if you found him there, Fai-san; in all the years I have known him, Kurogane was always fond of a bath after dinner.”
It only takes a moment for the meaning of her words to sink in; when it does the haste in which you fling back the covers and tumble from the futon makes your knees creak in protest and a scattered thought that perhaps you should have checked to see if you were actually dressed first comes to mind as cool air rushes over your bare legs. The princess giggles as you struggle into the robe lying across the end of the futon, its loose folds wrapped haphazardly about your thin frame, but then you are dashing out the door with no mind for your dignity, calling out a farewell even as her laughter rings out behind you.
Your hurried footsteps patter across polished floorboards like rain, building to a torrent as urgency needles you; you have to see him, you have to see him now (as much as you needed to see him then) and maybe it will be easier to face up to what you are, what you have done (what you have done to him) if you can see the same acceptance in his eyes as you did that night-
(because it is one thing to know, and another to remember and what little Syaoran told you, he did not tell you this)
A woman with dark hair and sharp eyes (Souma) calls out to you as you pass her by, but you do not know her, or if you do, you do not remember, and right now, she is not important enough for you to stop; nothing is, not now, not with the weight of memory returned pressing heavy in your mind and you thank what little luck you have left that the halls are mostly empty, the folds of your kimono tangling your legs and making you stumble as you round the corner with some speed, your steps slowing as you finally catch sight of the bathing chamber and your breath leaves your chest in a whoosh of shocked air.
Your hands shake a little when you open the sliding door to the entry alcove, and something (anticipation?) that flutters in your stomach drops away when you find the bathhouse empty, the high-roofed chamber thick with steam and silence; no voice answers your own when you call out a tentative greeting, and the huge bath is still but for the slow seep of water onto slatted floorboards.
There was no guarantee that he would be here, but it is a disappointment all the same.
Tomoyo is right about the baths though (as she is right about so many things), and the scalding, mineral-rich waters chase the chill from your bones as you step gingerly into the pool, your breath steaming in white plumes as you slump against the wooden wall; there is no harm in taking a moment to compose yourself, and the slow seep of heat through your aching limbs soothes the static in your brain to little more than a hiss of white noise.
No use over-thinking it; if there is anything that this has taught you, it’s that the past is behind you and the future unknowable- better then to take things as they come.
(and maybe he would be pleased you’d finally accepted that lesson for the truth it was when he first spoke it)
When you leave the bath, squeezing the water from your hair and shaking loose limbs, you find your clothes gone from the crumpled pile you left them in, and a kimono folded and waiting upon a shelf in the dressing alcove when reaching for a towel; the notion that everyone in this castle is a ninja, even the servants flashes through your thoughts and brings a smile to your mouth even as you drape yourself in cool cloth, and if your hands are shaking as you wind the obi around your waist and cinch it tight, fingers clumsy on the knot at the small of your back, you don’t stop to consider it.
The way back to your room is unfamiliar, so you wander aimlessly, Shirasagi castle quiet this time of night and your footsteps echoing as you walk onwards. A draft stirs your hair as you pass an alcove, and on the swell of intuition it wakes in you you follow the breeze, the air sweet and tasting of cherry blossoms and night-blooming flowers; you travel over a wooden walkway by a still lake, and nostalgia stirs somewhere at the back of your thoughts as you come to a courtyard and push open the closed gates-
And it is instinct that moves your hand when a blur of white springs towards you with a cry of “Fai! Fai! You’re awake~! Mokona was worried, so worried!” and Mokona lands soft in your palm, tears beading on white fur, your heart squeezing in your chest as the small creature curls into the curve of your hand; you manage a smile even as you bring your other hand up to stroke soft ears, and if it is weak and not so bright, you don’t try to hide behind it.
Your reassurances are quiet and genuine, but even as you speak Mokona clings to your sleeve with tiny paws all the same, and it is some time before she settles and allows herself to be shuffled onto your shoulder as you walk; you are still trying to soothe the small, innocent creature you have grown to love over the years when you move further into the courtyard, enough to catch sight of the tree that reaches gracefully towards the sky-
(Sakura, the petals, the girl, the tree split down the middle as what you thought you knew was torn asunder as the two halves of one soul fought each other; tortured wood screams and flowers rain down in a torrent as inky magic wraps you in its coils, and through it all the sound of once-Syaoran, the clone, the boy with your eye, the sound of his heart breaking-)
You have to stop, and something that would’ve once been a sob catches in your throat.
The sacred tree is still split, still torn, the trunk forever split in twain- but where once the wound wept sap and dark, cloying magic now grows new life; woody offshoots strive upwards from scarred timber, blooming into a spray of branches and a profusion of flowers far above you, enough to layer the floorboards by its roots thick with petals, stirring like powdered snow in the breeze that whirls through the courtyard.
Syaoran is there, at the foot of the tree; one palm rests flat against ancient bark, and if he has wept there is no shame on his face. He turns as you draw closer, passing under the cool shadows of the canopy above you, and the nod he gives in greeting as his fingers trail away from the trunk stops whatever you could say before it leaves your mouth.
“I’m glad you’re awake. We were worried, all of us were.” His gaze flicks upwards, over your face and away. “Especially Kurogane-san.”
Silence falls after his words, that curious stillness that steeps this place spread out between you, and when he looks back your way again, his eyes are searching for something in your own and you have to wonder if he finds what he seeks in the moonlight that falls across the courtyard in pale, glowing drifts.
“I don’t know all of what passed between you here in Nihon,” says Syaoran eventually, his young face drawn and sombre. “I never asked. But I know it was enough to make you smile when you traded your magic for his arm, enough to make you happy in a way you hadn’t been in all the time we had known you.”
His eyes are serious and dark (your princess was not the only one your smiles wounded, all of them bled in some way from the lies you told and the secrets you kept) and you accept the guilt for what it is (breathe it in and let it go) as Mokona leaps from your shoulder and into Syaoran’s waiting arms, earring jangling as the small creature crawls into the folds of his robe to hide her face.
“It’s not my place to tell you what you were to each other, not really,” continues Syaoran, and shakes his head. “I said what I did before because you asked- and because I think you knew, somehow, even with your memories gone. Because even if the memory is gone, it doesn’t mean the feeling is,” and his voice turns soft and somehow knowing, warming his gaze where it rests on your face. “We know all about that after all.”
Your head hurts at the implications of that; the boy, his clone, his father and the tangled mess that was (the girl you loved like a daughter) Sakura all one sweetly jumbled confusion of feelings you can’t quite sort out even now- but you cared for them all, loved them all, every “Syaoran” you ever knew wise beyond his years, and you have no reason to doubt him now.
“Kurogane-san left to speak with the empress when last I saw him,” and Syaoran turns his face upwards towards the tree, the trees, the two trunks twining together from a single core. Petals, falling slow, brush his cheek, pool softly in his hair and fleck his kimono with droplets of pink. “That was a little while ago now. I think he’s looking for you as well, Fai-san.”
“Fai should go,” says Mokona sleepily, startling you both; her voice is muffled by folds of cloth but carries well enough in the still night air. “Go and find Kuro-pu. Mokona will stay here with Syaoran and count the blossoms. Things will be better in the morning. Mokona knows they will because Mokona knows everything…” her voice trails away into a sleepy mumble and Syaoran smiles, the expression fond, bringing up a hand to stroke silky ears.
“Go on,” he says. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Fai.”
You don’t argue, but squeeze his shoulder in passing, and the path you take towards the castle proper seems more familiar beneath your feet, your steps more confident as you pass rooms and halls by and come to a stop before the door you know belongs to the room you woke in; it opens easily, oiled wood gliding open at the merest touch, and you are distracted enough by your own thoughts that you don’t even realise who, exactly, is standing before you until you’ve taken three steps onto wooden floorboards. Your tabi rasp softly across the floor, the sound a distraction, and when you look up the light that spills through the open door cuts a swathe of brightness across the walls and draperies that fall from the ceiling to frame the futon- and Kurogane is there.
You open your mouth to say something, what you don’t know, but nothing comes out, and for a little while all you do is stare at each other, your breath coming fast even as his leaves him in something like a sigh. “I wouldn’t have left,” says Kurogane, and the weight of his words thrills you, “but Tomoyo insisted, and then the empress wanted to talk to me. You were gone when I came back. So I waited.”
He turns away from you a little to reach into his sleeve; the sound of a match striking is still quiet, nowhere near loud enough to drown the thudding of your heart, and a small spark of brightness catches your line of sight and draws your gaze up to red eyes darkened to near-black by the shadows that flow down the walls.
“This is my room,” he says then, quiet, pressing the lit match to the lantern-wick. “If you want, I could ask for another to be made up for you.” A warm glow blooms outwards from the paper screens of the small lantern cupped in those big hands, washing over his face and across those (once and again) familiar features as oil-soaked cotton catches alight with a gentle whoomph. He shakes out the match and sets the lantern down on the floor; his silhouette shifts and flows across the wall as he walks towards you, and something shivers down your spine when his gaze reaches your face. “Or you could sleep here tonight.”
There is nothing expectant in his voice, just patience- but there is a hunger, banked and hidden in that gaze, in the tense line of his shoulders, and you know that he would wait for however long you would ask for in the same moment you decide you’ve both waited long enough. Your skin feels tight, taut, stretched thin and sore with need; your breath catches in your throat and shudders between your teeth as a sigh works itself free from the empty ache in your chest, and between the dull roar that rings in your ears and the surge of his heartbeat you barely hear yourself whisper I want to stay here.
(because you do, you do, oh, you want so much)
He swallows, takes a few steps towards you, the edge of his sleeve brushing against your arm as he reaches out to slide the door closed; something hot and heavy comes to rest low in your belly, like a stone (edges worn smooth by time and desire and his constant presence) and the steady weight of it quickens your breath as he turns to back to you, the flickering light melting shadows across the dim room.
“Good,” says Kurogane, and fire twists beneath your skin at the sound of his voice. “Good.”
And he reaches out to curl his fingers under the sash that binds your waist, pulls you closer, draws you away from the door; the motion forces you to take tiny, stumbling steps across the polished floorboards as the kimono pulls tight about your legs, restricting and uncomfortable- but the heat of his hand bleeds through layers of cloth as a rough palm smoothes over your belly, catching on silk, and your chest heaves as that hand moves upwards, everything else forgotten as your skin burns beneath the tracery of his fingertips, his fingers slipping along the part of your robe and pulling it open.
You whisper his name, feel it melt on your tongue (dark and sweet and yours to speak) and Kurogane shudders; his mechanical arm (cool to the touch beneath synthetic skin but no less welcome) snakes about your waist to drag you close, to hold your body against his own, your skin tingling beneath cool silk at the searing contact. His hands are shaking, small tremors that you can barely feel as you sway forward into his warmth, and somehow you know (remember) that what makes him tense isn’t nerves but anticipation; the press of hard muscle and the heady scent of the blood pulsing beneath his skin makes you dizzy as you lay your lips against his throat (could just bite, could just taste, could just let that liquid red flood your mouth and drown your senses) and the need that flickers like flame in your belly makes it hard to only scrape the edge of your teeth against the tendons that strain in his neck (so easy to let them sink into salty skin and warm, yielding flesh) and nothing more.
But Kurogane has other ideas, and the hand that tugs your kimono loose about your shoulders (air cool on your back, goosebumps rippling down your spine) slides around and across your back to thread his fingers into your hair; his grip is insistent but not painful as he cups the base of your neck and guides you firmly forward. You stumble up on tiptoes to lessen the height difference, mouth parting against his throat in a wet, open kiss, even as he speaks and silk pools loosely about your waist.
“I want this,” he says, low voice vibrating against your lips, denying your protests before you make them, “and you need it.”
(he’s not just talking about the blood)
His fingers scrunch into your hair, scraping blunt fingernails against your scalp; his pulse throbs against your lips, a steady beat that rolls like hunger in your belly. An eager mewl escapes you before you can swallow it back at the urgency that edges his words (barely restrained and humming like the tension between the two of you) and you press your hands flat against his chest (his heart thudding beneath your palms, faster and faster with every passing moment) even as his other hand makes itself busy, falling to the knot at the small of your back; metal fingers tug on the silken obi that holds your clothes to your hips, pulling it loose with a soft, slow rasp of unravelling fabric that nearly makes your knees buckle.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, and the whispering sound of the sash slipping through his fingers to puddle on the floor in a heap of silk is nearly lost to the roaring in your ears.
And before you can answer him, he’s moving, pushing you back, steering you towards the bed and your kimono is slipping, slipping, falling from your hips as you stumble with each step- but you can’t feel awkward, not even a little, because oh, that’s his hand on your hip, scrunching into fabric and pulling it free, and those are his fingers cradling the back of your head, the last few inches of your clothing caught between you because he won’t give enough space for it to come loose and pool on the ground.
“No one is coming in to stop us,” and yes, that’s hunger in his voice now, rumbling and heavy in his chest (and your nerves stretch taut at the need in that sound), the edge of your heel brushing against the futon as you step backwards, the thick mattress spongy and soft beneath your foot, “and I told the white thing that if that damn earring glows, it’s to leave without us,” this a growl against your lips as he turns your head (an almost kiss) and in the dim light of the lantern his eyes are bloody and deep.
No more interruptions, you think, or maybe it was a murmur against his mouth, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because he grins (and you can almost taste the blood in it, almost taste that fierce, possessive joy) and quite suddenly you surge forward (almost isn’t enough), and the taste of copper and salt glitters on your tongue as you crush your mouth to his, catching his bottom lip between your teeth and making him bleed as the kiss turns deep and devouring.
(so good, not enough, more more more)
You don’t even notice your clothing slipping that final inch, but Kurogane does, hand sliding from your hair to stroke down your spine and his fingertips skitter lines of heat over bare skin; he groans and you swallow the sound, lick the blood from his mouth even as your kimono pools in soft folds about your feet, and his fingers dig bruises into your hips as your tongue slides flat and hot across the curve of his jaw and down to his jumping pulse, your hands scrunching into the dark fabric of his robe-
(prey, your prey and yours alone; hero, lover, savior, Kuro-sama-)
-and the sound he makes as your teeth split taut skin (red on your teeth, red on your tongue, iron and salt and red red red) hits you in the chest like a blow, like a fist sinking into your gut, dizzying and heavy and so damn good, and you are drunk on the sensation of his knees slowly buckling, body swaying forward into your grip to press against you in a long line of heat and muscle; fabric tears in your hands, the sound of ripping silk a whining rasp against your nerves, and one hand smoothes flat against his chest (so hot) as the other snags the sash about his waist with nails like knives and shreds cloth into ribbons.
His head drops heavily to your shoulder; you can feel his eyelashes moving against bare skin as he blinks slowly, in time with every swallow, but that’s not really important (not with his blood in your mouth) and you only realise he’s trying to speak when his breath fogs hot against the slope of your neck and makes you shiver. “Bed,” he groans thickly, and it is a plea and a demand all at once, “bed, now, just-” and that is the best suggestion you have ever heard (still the best, no matter how many times you hear it), so before he can catch his breath you turn, twist, and the both of you fall onto the futon with your mouth still pressed to the slick wound, his body pinned beneath you.
His breath explodes out of his chest as both of you hit the mattress, shocked into stillness by the sudden impact, but he isn’t still for long as you sink your teeth in again (you can never have enough of this) and sparks crackle down your nerves as he grinds his hips upwards (need and heat alike scorch you from the inside out), the folds of his torn kimono fanning out over the futon and bunching beneath him; a breathless kind of snarl tears from his throat and rumbles against your lips as you rock into the motion (the sweet, burning friction) and metal fingers curl about your hip for leverage when your hand slips free of his torn robes to thump heavily onto the futon.
Something that tastes like surprise (and desire and violent delight) fizzes into the blood that washes over your tongue, paints your teeth in glorious red; you moan (can’t help it), a trickle slips free from where your lips are sealed to his throat, and when you break away to lap it up (the rasp of your tongue over wet and bloodied skin curls tight and aching in your gut) he gasps a protest. “More,” he says, voice slurred about the edges, “you need more than that,” and those burning eyes smoulder low and dark as he struggles to raise himself up, torn clothing slipping down broad shoulders and pooling about his elbows. Blood slips down his neck in a slow, lazy trickle that makes hunger twist in your belly (you can never get enough) but it’s not just blood you want now, and your eyes catch on the play of lantern light across his collarbones, the planes of his chest; heat sinks into your bones, makes your arms shake, and when you reach for him, it’s not to bite.
You need to touch him, need it, more than breath, more than blood; your hand strokes flat and hot across the slope of his stomach, muscle rippling beneath your palm as the motion sweeps upwards. Your fingers splay over his chest, startlingly pale over tanned skin; he huffs a breath, tips his head back and wetness smears beneath your fingertips, staining them red as they trace up the line of his throat, and a shudder takes him as you shift to settle your frame between his legs, the heavy muscles of his thighs pressing hot on bare skin as he hooks a leg about your hip.
Kurogane hisses, your name a strangled slur between his teeth as you lower your head to bloody trickles; goosebumps wash over his skin beneath the lick of your tongue, the scrape of your teeth- and tension coils in his arms, the slope of his shoulders as he fists one hand into the futon, as though to keep it from clutching at your back. The other hand rises, fingertips trailing hot over your stomach and dragging across your chest; he chuckles when his thumb grazes your nipple, making you jump at the swift stab of sensation that curls in your gut.
“Hah… you always were a tease,” he says, and there is something breathless in the tone of his voice; you lift your head, lick your lips (blood, hot, good), and once you meet his gaze (red and black and burning in the shadows of lantern light) you cannot look away. His hand slides higher, fingers curling about your shoulder, pressing tight against your skin. “Let me up,” he says suddenly, shifting beneath you, “I need to- to get-”
And, oh, but you know what he’s after and before the thought can sink in your arm is already moving, reaching out behind you, fingers flicking; magic curls free of your fingertips and somewhere behind you there is the scrape of wood as drawers rattle, a brief rush of wind, and then cool glass smacks into your palm, liquid contents of the bottle sloshing about with an oily gloop.
“Ah,” says Kurogane. “I forgot you could do that.”
The bottle is smooth, rounded, fitting easily into the curve of your hand, but he takes it from you all the same, and there is nothing like hesitation in his eyes (he is no stranger to your body after all) as he loosens the stopper with his thumb and manages to free one arm from the tangled mess of his sleeve to spill its contents across his palm, and his hand is wet and rough as it glides down across your stomach, fingers hot beneath the cool slick of oil where they dip lower and-
Oh.
Your breath shudders out of you, back arching at the touch, the stroke (wicked fingers, wicked man, red eyes on your face and teeth bare as he grins) and you cannot stop the slow, sweet moan that he squeezes out of you with a deft twist of his wrist. Your pulse thunders in your veins, rumbles in your ears; your head drops to rest against the crook of his neck and the taste of his blood is thick on your tongue as any resistance you might have had melts away and leaves you wanting.
(him, his blood, the hot press of your bodies together- you want all of it)
There is an ache, low and fierce in your belly when he stops, draws his hand away with one final, dragging curl of his fingers; before you can think to ask why he takes your hand and threads oil-slick fingers through your own, smearing a gloss of heat and wet across your palm. “When you’re like this,” and his head tips to the side, exposing the blood that streaks his neck, “it’s better if you top.” Something dark and heady rises in his eyes, then; melts soft in the shadows of lantern light and warmth (affection and familiarity and possessiveness, all these things that you have missed in this self-inflicted separation) roughens his voice. “It’s been too long. I don’t want to play games tonight.”
And the only thing you have ever liked better than him above you was him beneath you, so when he lays back, the long line of his throat bare and vulnerable to your (lips, teeth, tongue) gaze, you follow him down, and it isn’t a game anymore (never was) when slippery fingers push into heat.
You should go slow, you should, but he is anything but passive and the weight of his hand trailing down your back makes it hard to breathe let alone think or act with any measure of control- and even if you have forgotten what it is to touch him like this (those memories a price paid just like the others) your hands have not, and it is not long at all before he snags your wrist with impatient fingers and fixes you with a look that is no less demanding for all that it is heavy-lidded. “Now, mage,” he growls and you brace yourself against the futon, knot the fingers of one hand in the softness of the sheets; his back arches as your other hand catches in the bend of his knee, and against your wet palm his skin is burning hot- but it is nothing to how he feels as you slide inside in a rush of heat.
A sound hooks in your throat, something thick and wanting, and though you hold it back as best you can it strains through your gritted teeth as your hips snap, forcing your bodies (closer closer need to be closer than this) together and making him groan; he curses, incoherent, barely audible, as you rock back and forward again, the next thrust seating you fully in tight, dragging heat. Need simmers in your blood, a dizzying kind of pressure in your chest, low in your belly; your toes curl into the sheets, desperate for purchase as you surge forward and the hand that smoothes down and across your back clutches at the back of your thigh.
“Harder,” says Kurogane, “you can’t break me,” and something like amusement (like heat like a promise) bleeds into his voice. His fingers cut bruises into your thighs, pull you closer (deeper) and on the next thrust his head tips back against the futon. “You’ve tried, before-“ his breath hitches, “-and you never could.” It’s a challenge, a dare, and something in you (the vampire) makes you dip your head to scrape your teeth over the curve of his shoulder to hear him gasp when they break the skin and you do not (cannot) hold back after that.
There is no rhythm to the roll of your hips now, just heat; you spear forward with all the strength you can bring to bear and he crushes a handful of torn silk from his ripped robes between metal fingers as you force him back across the futon, inch by inch, with every aching thrust. Sweat slicks your chest, your arms, drips down across your skin and onto his to make the space between you tight and slippery; he drags your hand up from his knee to slide across his stomach as you bite kisses across the line of his neck, and all that’s left of you is hunger as lantern light blurs like droplets of gold against the fringe of your eyelashes and your teeth sink into taut flesh in the same moment you curl your fingers about the hardness pressing into your belly.
You squeeze, stroke him slow and merciless; blood washes across your tongue (hotgoodmore) and paints your teeth with red. He bucks beneath you, moans desperately against the slope of your shoulder, and if you have ever felt more alive than this you cannot remember, and you do not think you want to- for now this (he) is enough.
Release catches you unawares in the next moment, speeds your heart and thunders through your blood; your eyes slam shut and your hips jerk a final, frantic thrust deeper (deep as you can) as pleasure rolls heavy in your belly and bleeds out in a surge of heat that leaves you breathless. Your teeth tighten on his throat, drawing one last mouthful from him as urgency gives way to gasping satisfaction; he groans as the pull of your hand quickens and follows you over the edge in a sudden slick of warmth across your fingers, his breath panting fast and hot against the sweat-damp skin of your neck as he turns his face into the crook of your shoulder.
(Oh, Kuro-sama…)
You have no strength to move, all your reserves spent; his hand slides up the curve of your spine to rest heavy between your shoulder-blades and something like a sigh stirs your hair as you lap at his bloodied throat, the slow swipe of your tongue chasing droplets of red from torn skin and if you feel guilt it is only fleeting as he shudders, your weight sinking down atop him, pressing him into the yielding mattress.
“You’re gonna have to get up,” he says, after a while; his voice is barely a drowsy murmur against your neck. Your back is cold but for the press of his hand and a line of heat where one leg is thrown over your hip, but it is so warm where your bodies are pressed together and you do not want to move so you make a noise of protest. “Mage,” he says, warningly, something like irritation warming his voice- but his hand strokes down your spine all the same.
When you finally slide free of him it is only to roll onto your back beside him, and for a few moments all you can do is blink as tiredness blurs the edge of your vision. He sits up, slow, and the motion catches your eye as lantern-light flows across his scarred back, and suddenly it isn’t tiredness anymore, something else entirely and your breath stutters in your throat as a memory unfolds before your eyes-
(you press your cheek against the slope of his good shoulder, your hands fluttering over his wounds -so many, so many, oh, Kuro-sama- and the rasp of cloth against bandages as your sleeves drape across his back makes you shiver as he draws you close with a gentle tug on your wrist; the folds of your furisode ride high across your trembling thighs as you sink down into his lap, your good eye falling closed with a sigh, heat washing through you as your bodies finally join; you both moan as your fingers clutch bruisingly tight at his hips for balance, pressing as close as you can, the only hand he has left a steadying pressure at the base of your spine that burns hot through layers of silk and Nihon’s air whistles cool and sweet down your throat as together the two of you sway and surge towards release, towards something like forgiveness-)
-and you barely hear him call your name as relief, sharp and poignant, tightens your chest (it’s not gone, it’s not gone, it’s still there, just barely out of reach) and when his hand cups your face, wonderfully rough against your cheek, you don’t even bother to hide the tears that well up as you press your mouth to the curve of his palm, his name a sigh against warm skin.
I remember, you say, and this is true; your lips catch against callus as you whisper the words you barely have the breath to speak, Kuro-sama, I remember you, and before you can say anything else his fingers curl about your chin and drag you close, and the slow, soft press of his mouth against your own (gentle, insistent and full of everything he cannot say) threatens to chase everything but the memory you’ve just regained into sweet nothingness.
*
Super awesome giant thanks go to everybody who helped me with this, especially peaceful_fury for letting me whinge about it to her in class and Faren for her godly editing skills and general awesomeness; that I got this finished at all is because of them, so go give them some love!
I hope you liked it everyone, and sorry for the wait- I'll see you soon in the final part!