; - friends usually call me nyx for short but whatever floats your boat!
; - 20!
; - genderfluid (i think) with they/he prns!
; - interests consist of: assassin's creed // stray kids // bloodborne // outlast trials // cod // mortal kombat // gta v // rdr // csm // jjk // bsd // genshin impact // hsr // mouthwashing, but currently i'm focused on the first three â and tba
; - especially bangchan, haytham kenway, lord raiden and liliya bogomolova ^^
; - sfw mostly but there will be explicit content. minors don't interact just to be safe
; - i draw and write (mostly about my ocs), so be prepared
to see my art â search up "onyxkis art" on tags
disclaimer! i talk about my OCs a lot, and a huge oc x canon truther. if you don't like it, DNI
oc list (there's too many. so i'll shorten it to the people i mainly want to talk about):
elizabeth nachtnebel white // carol ilse nachtnebel // nathan white // father raynott // t. sullivan // m. rothechild // nurse herschel // odelia de vachon // signora giacoli // a. zaystev
[those highlighted in red are antagonists]
any questions, you all can ask me in my ask box on my bio!
â more info in my carrd below! (quiet abt the name idk what to name it):
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
; - friends usually call me nyx for short but whatever floats your boat!
; - 20!
; - genderfluid (i think) with they/he prns!
; - interests consist of: assassin's creed // stray kids // bloodborne // outlast trials // cod // mortal kombat // gta v // rdr // csm // jjk // bsd // genshin impact // hsr // mouthwashing, but currently i'm focused on the first three â and tba
; - especially bangchan, haytham kenway, lord raiden and liliya bogomolova ^^
; - sfw mostly but there will be explicit content. minors don't interact just to be safe
; - i draw and write (mostly about my ocs), so be prepared
to see my art â search up "onyxkis art" on tags
disclaimer! i talk about my OCs a lot, and a huge oc x canon truther. if you don't like it, DNI
oc list (there's too many. so i'll shorten it to the people i mainly want to talk about):
elizabeth nachtnebel white // carol ilse nachtnebel // nathan white // father raynott // t. sullivan // m. rothechild // nurse herschel // odelia de vachon // signora giacoli // a. zaystev
[those highlighted in red are antagonists]
any questions, you all can ask me in my ask box on my bio!
â more info in my carrd below! (quiet abt the name idk what to name it):
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
warning: mentions of blood, slight gore (the slightest), a little unnerving(?)
author's note: yet another drabble! it's shorter than the previous one (see: reunion for more details), but it highlights more of their dynamic (it's also written in his pov). one of these days i'll just go right ahead and post all of their lore but i'll do it in the form of drabbles. what better to introduce my oc x canon than to write their interactions and story? yes, i've drawn them too (see: the distance between two (i feel this art sort of works with this little drabble too. funny) and grief for art of them), but i've always wanted to write them too :] so i hope you guys enjoy!
side note: the other character mentioned here is one of my ocs :] and the title means "a corpse in the black forest".
February 1758.
They had just killed Lady Odelia de Vachon in cold blood for her corruption. For her greed that triumphs above her own humanity which cost hundreds of innocent, young lives. To fulfill her endless need for wealth, and for something more. (And of course, to fulfil a minute section of her vengeance, her need for blood.)
Of course, due to her influence within the Order, especially situated in Europe, those who witnessed her death were now on a manhunt for those responsible. The Grandmaster Haytham Kenway would have feigned ignoranceâbut the thing is, the one who sits near him⌠he knew for certain that they were looking for her. And he has willingly followed in her trail, even though everything about this strange reunion was foolish. For his sake.
The terror that threatens Europe as if she were the black death reincarnated. With her âpatientsâ, the fellow brethren of the Templars. The very âghostâ that Birch himself had warned in his letter back in the Americas, unsurprisingly keeping her true identity anonymous. Which begs the question; were his fears true, or were they simply a means to drive him away, from seeking answers to the questions that haunted him for two decades?
A shuddering breath from behind snapped him out of his thoughts, as he turned away from the bonfire to check. Against a tree bark was Beth, bandaged and draped with his cloak to shield her from the cold, never minding about his own warmth.
âDonât move,â he reminded her upon noticing the way she winced with the slightest bit of movement.
She merely scoffed in response, damn her and her lack of self-preservation. âIâve dealt with worse injuries. This is nothing.â
He furrowed his brows in exasperation, shifting his entire body to face her. âDe Vachon nearly gutted you,â he started, his tone laced with irritation. âItâs a miracle you even survived the journey here.â
One thing was for certain, though. There was this empty gaze that brought this feeling of uneasiness, even to him of all people. There was no light in her eyes. Not even her little quips could convince him she was anything but a husk of her former self.
It was unnerving. Even their little argument that recently transpired seemed dreadfully hollow on her end, as if he was speaking to nothing but a corpse that somehow regained the ability to retort. Something far worse than merely attempting to convince a brick wall.
This was wrong, he thought, when she finally relented and slumbered on her bedroll, leaving him to his thoughts. This isnât the Beth I know.
Of course. They spent two decades apart, thinking the other was dead. Taken by the fires that claimed their loved ones in more ways than in death. To not mature from childhood and its growing pains was against human nature, but he couldnât help but reminisce.
That silly pig-tailed girl he knew from next door. The first who came to him when he was a lonely child. It was all gone.
And, with the way things were looking, the way they exchanged words, he wondered if she remembered any of that at all.
He wondered if the terror of Europe had a heart, even if it was smaller than his.
author's note: this is my first ever drabble! this is some sort of introduction to beth and haytham's dynamic, i think? just to give you guys a headstart. i'll write more about them in the future, stay tuned :]
A few months.
It has been a few months since he had felt the touch of death brush against his face, plunging into a fever he was surprised he managed to brave through. Who could blame that child, really, he thought, a hand skimming over the now-bandaged wound on his side, wincing upon contact. He was wrongfully imprisoned.
Thankfully, though. The blade somehow managed to slip past his vital organs, guaranteeing him at least this sliver of survival. It did give him a damning pain in the side, though. Heâd have to learn to live through it, and for that, he grimaced.
The past few months he felt as if he was in a state of purgatory. Drifting in and out of consciousness, sweating, with laboured breaths, and absolutely burning up. When he managed to grasp onto a fleeting sentience, he found himself thrashing in sheets soaked with sweat and some of his blood. Only ever comforted by the presence of the man above him, replacing the cloth on his brow and tidying the linens below.
He managed to gain enough awareness to sit up on his bed, at least. He simply couldnât move as well as he wanted to. He couldnât even breathe properly, he realised, without the throbbing pain flaring once more.
Before he could do anything else, he heard the door swinging open and upon entry was Jenny, with a wide-eyed expression contorting her face. In her trail was a⌠man? Adorned in crimson, with a shade likened to blood as he wondered why his sister would bring in this brute strangerâ
âYou wouldnât believe who I found at the market earlier,â she managed, catching her breath from rushing back as she gestured behind, it seemedâshe was at the market?âand the poor, towering man looked just as confused as he was, tilting his headâ
âI wasââ Jenny inhaled, before regaining her composure (somewhat), âI was merely looking around, then I saw herâŚâ
Her?
His eyes darted towards the manâwomanâbehind, squinting as he attempted to make sense of this whole predicament. It was only then that she turned her head, returning his gaze with her unnaturally bright blue eyes (and, he swore on his life, there was something he couldnât shake, upon studying her gaze. That there was something unexplainably wrong with her. As if she was a walking corpse). She looked familiar, he thought. He simply couldnât put a finger on why she did.
That is, until she drew back a little in surprise. Was there something on my faceâ
â...Haytham?â
The voice that croaked out of her was filled with bewilderment, her tone tipping up at the end in uncertainty. Who was she, and how does she know his name? Jenny wasnât one to spill all about their lives, especially not after what they all had endured the months before. No, not unless she knew who he was, but he doesnât know any woman who looked any at all like the one before him, exceptâ
No. With the way she reacted⌠no, it couldnât be. It just wasnât possible.
No, if it was, thenâŚ
Reginald lied once more. This, he took to the grave with him. This lie, it passed over with him from the corporeal world to the next.
It wasnât just his Father that Reginald withheld the truth of that night, was it? How he placed a hand on his shoulder when he was a child, uttering apologies about how they couldnât save the poor girl and her widower Father from the fires that took his own, that put his Mother at a distance. That was all a lie, too?
How he could not even attend their funerals. How he was kept from doing so, how he was forced to internalise his own grief, and how he prayed, how he mourned in his heart, for years. How he couldnât even visit her grave, how he wasnât able to accept the gift she prepared for him the day before the incident, before his birthday.
It was all for nothing.
How long has it been?
Twenty-two years.
He should have been happy. Overjoyed, in fact, that she was still here after years of believing yet another one of Reginaldâs deceptions that shaped his entire life, yetâŚ
â...Beth?â
All he could ever feel was a pain thought long forgotten.
The pig-tailed girl waved a hand excitedly towards the approaching figure of a young boy, with his chest swelling in pride for his upcoming birthday which would mark the beginning of a journey from adolescence to adulthood.
A birthday that has been long anticipated. He couldnât stop blabbering about it whenever he and the girl played, with wooden sticks poking at each other, or at the rocks beneath their feet.
âBeth,â he returned her wave, grinning as he sat next to her on a bench that was a little too high for either of them. âYou look a little too happy. Am I to be worried?â
âOh, no, itâs nothing,â she shook her head. He knew it was a fib. Beth wasnât one to express her emotions quite well, unless it was to play a prank on either him or the poor neighbours that wanted nothing to do with either of themâthe outcasts of the upper middle class. All because of what their parents have shared about these two.
He furrowed his brows. âI donât like it when you get that glint in your eyes,â he pointed out. âItâs about my birthday, isnât it?â
âWhere on Earth did you get that idea?â
âI donât know. Perhaps, on my sixth birthday, you presented an earthworm to my face, dangling the poor little thing before shoving it in your mouthâŚâ
âI would never do such a thing now!â
â...On my last birthday, you woke me up by somehow getting the local corvid population to peck at my window.â
She laughed. âIt did wake you, though. They served their purpose with honour.â
The boy rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. âI just know whatever it is youâre planning for my tenth, it will be the worst one until I reach at least sixteen years.â
âOh, actuallyâŚâ her face faltered ever so slightly, replaced by a thoughtful expression. âItâs nothing tricky. I promise you.â
âOh, youâre making promises now?â
âYes I am!â
âI donât believe you one bit!â
The young girl could only huff in exasperation, yet she couldnât exactly blame him for his reluctance to accept her genuine gift. She did make him endure all her other âpresentsâ every other birthday. Yet, his tenth meant something deeply to him. She knew that. She had to, as he could not stop prattling about it for years.
So, with all the limited creativity a child such as her could muster, she fashioned him a little bracelet to surprise him on the morning of his most anticipated day.
i haven't been very active in the bocw/bo6 fandoms. i mostly keep to myself, my bell oc and my writings, and there's a reason for that. i want to address this.
one thing i've come to realise is that there's a lot of explicit material on adbell/adler in general (thirst posts, sexual headcanons, etc). as someone who also enjoys explicit material, the issue that arises, to me, is that some of these posts are not properly tagged or hidden under 'read more'.
[continued under!]
as i understand it, theres a popular dynamic people accept of adbell (especially for masc!bell), which is the toxic yaoi dynamic, where the common kinks/tropes seen are stuff like petplay, objectification (e.g. human ashtray, human furniture, being called a dog, etc), abuse of authority from adler's end, non-consensual or dubiously consensual sexual acts, etc. it's OKAY to indulge in kinks with fictional characters...but do it with proper tagging and spoilering/hiding.
my biggest qualm with this is that there are inevitably minors in the bocw/bo6 fandom. i feel very uncomfortable having these posts out in the open or for minors to actually openly posts these things. i'm not trying to sound like a puritan, but knowing that these are very hard kinks and these can be a bit problematic for a vulnerable, underdeveloped adolescent mind, it doesn't sit right me that anyone can just scroll the bocw/bo6/adbell tag and see these posts.
it's fun to engage in sexual content, especially between adults, regarding a character you find attractive. but it's an issue, even between adults, if you don't properly mark your work with content warnings for things especially like these 'hard' kinks and fetishising. not all of us want to see fantasies on bell being an ashtray or whatnot đđ
so, for the better enjoyment of all of us, i really would appreciate if the fandom could better label their posts! it's a bit saddening to see that some etiquettes are pushed aside because explicit content has become normalised.
â haunted dreams, of a should-be ghost, of bygone feelings
CONTENT WARNING:
SOME visceral description, implied unhealthy dynamic/dependency, mentions of death, adler being narratively haunted by bell, fem!bell, bell reader, adler suffering (yippee)
author's note: definitely not the proudest of this but i do love the idea of adler being haunted by bell, as an inversion of the fandom popular trope of bell being haunted by adler. because i think adler should rightfully suffer! as he should!!
âââ
A shuddering breath leaves him. Cold is the air that caresses his chapped lips, brushing tauntingly against the raw flesh that throbs and radiates with flashes of hot agony. SomewhereâŚsomewhereâŚ
If Death be a shadowâŚ
His finger twitches against the freezing metal trigger of his 1911. Its weight rests against his hand â clutching it tightly to ensure it wonât slip from his hands as warm blood does from his torn-opened flesh. His arms grow heavy with the weight of blood, or the lack thereof, and his vision grows dimmer. The dark silhouettes before him are but blurry masses of eigengrau that looms overhead. With his legs sprawled on the ground, and a wall behind him.
Urgency should be pulsing through his veins. Urgency should be seeping from every pore, every wound. Where is his urgency, but overridden by a sense of dull languidness his entire form is slowly submerging into.
In the shadows he lay, he rests on; leaning against it. And from the shadows behind slips a hand.
Cold. Clammy.
The hand covers his eyes. Gloved. The somewhat coarse nature of its fabric brushes against his brow. It cups, and presses against his face like a blindfold, but through the minute cracks of the fingers he sees light. Concrete-colored light. Seeping through like the trickling of light.
Warmth presses against his back. A body. One he leans against.
Soft caresses of her breath bates down his neck, brushing against the shell of his ear as she leans in.
âI will be your eyes.â
Her other hand traces down his arm, until their fingers touch. Covering his hand, she lifts the gun. Guiding the nuzzle to point at a direction he cannot see.
âYou shoot when I tell you to.â
He cannot see where.
All he can feel is her.
Oh the irony. He failed to be her death and yetâŚhere she is.
Death, as her constant, unwavering companion. Death, as the sole notion of sovereignty of her fate. Death, as the very shadow he had ripped from her.
As she will rip from him.
Dig her nails into his eye sockets.
Gouge out his eyes.
Heâd give her his sight and gun like a poor fool blinded with trust and faith (even if she were to shoot him dead and paint the walls with his flesh the next second).
A dead merlin. A dead doe. A dead body, a corpse-like figure lying limp in the cell. Her, her, herâ
âââ
He wakes with a jolt. A gasp torn from his lips.
No more is the warmth of her. JustâŚthe sticky, damp warmth of his sweat-soaked seeks and the nauseating sensation nestled deep in his throat enough to prickle his skin with dotted goosebumps, amidst the quickly cooling sheen of sweat on his arms and back.
No more is the concrete-colored light that trickles from the crevices between her fingers, but rather signs of dawn that paints his room in bluish hue.
He could still feel the touch of her fingertips, her lips that brushed against the shell of his ear, her icy yet emotionally detached voiceâ Oh-so vividly.
His hands tremble.
A year. A year of these nightmares haunting each of his nights. No more of Vietnam or other atrocities. Just her. And the familiar phantom touches of her cold and clammy hands (like a corpse, like a cadaverâ).
Night after night of him willingly giving her his sight and guns.
Taunted by the tragic reality where he could not, he cannot do so. For she has already rejected his offer.
At least in his dreams, she takes.
And takes.
And heâd let her.
âââ
fin. | do not plagarize, steal, modify or translate my works without explicit permission
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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morphing me
and forcing me to strive
crash dive; act ii. continuation
âââ
CONTENT WARNING:
mild violence/blood, drug usage, implied past psychological torture/brainwashing, toxic dynamic, cannibalism/visceral imagery, adler is a warning on his own, fem!bell described to have green eyes
author's note: i've always wanted to add onto the second act of crash dive. it marks a huge turning point in my version of bell x adler where he realises he's gotten himself into this downward spiral of sadism and violence unwittingly so. the revelation that he's found a kindred spirit and the sort of fearful anticipation that jitters in his nerves. man. i've added the act ii portion here as well, so you dont need to read the full crash dive piece in order to understand this. personally think it can be read as a reader insert as well. enjoy!
âââ
15:46
In the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the water-filled tub.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Her hands are shaking.
The tip of the syringe sinks closer to the crook of her elbow â poking, slipping, grazing.
Some sort of street mix. Whatever does the job, however; sheâs not a particularly picky type. Whatever quells this agitation clawing up her throat.
Cold sweats. Shivers. Migraines.
The fluorescent light seems too bright abovehead, reflected onto the tiles beneath and on the walls. Not even the clumped, wet hair of hers does anything to shield her frantic bloodshot eyes from the harsh glare (growing harsher by the second). The tiles are cold to touch against her burning palms and sweat-slick thighs. Strewn along the floor are vials and plastic and empty syringes. A first-aid kit lays abandoned by the complementary toilet rolls, the zipper torn with stray strands jutting out from over the brim of the bin. Things crawl underneath her skin, thingsâŚthings she needs to get out, she needs to scratch the vermins outâ
It slips in.
She shudders with the rush of fresh air.
Feeling the rush of calm and steadiness blanket her mind like the hazy fog of morning dew, she sways unsteady on the edge. Weak is her grasp. Weak are her legs.
There is a clatter of the metal on the tiles, as she falls into the water.
And it's so serene. SoâŚso serene.
The light above on the ceiling tints frosted from the bubbles floating past her head, as her head sinks to the bottom of the tub.
Her limbs, heavy. Useless as they lay by her side at the depths of the water. Contentedly useless, that is. Water seeps into her ear, brushing her eardrums. And the sounds are muffled and all she can hear is the distant gurgle of water splashing against the sides of the bathtub and onto the bathroom floor.
But once everything settles, itâs serene. Peaceful.
There's the increasing distant panic as she's vaguely aware she's drowning. The natural, bodily instinct to thrash and pull away. But it's just all so subdued. She can push down the rising panic, the kneejerk instinct to get up. Her vision is growing dark, her chest aching and she vaguely feels the twitching in her limps as her brain's quietening, muffled screams at her to get up as she feels the energy drift from her body, her vision darkening as she slips her eyes closeâ
A pair of rough hands yank her out of the water.
There's spluttering. There's a loud bark of a rumbling voice, panicked and angry, but she can hardly hear it over the roaring and rushing of water and blood in her ears, as she coughs out the water in her lungs. Painful. Like a stitch. She hardly even registers her own limbs, her legs instantly failing herâ
A pair of hands grabs her arms. Soon, she's tugged closer to the person, her head feeling like lead as she's forced to rest her weight against his arm, her head pressed against his as she heaves for air, blinking away tears of pain as her chest stricken with agony. Shudders rack her shoulders and limp form, her damp hair-plastered forehead pressed against a shoulder.
Itâs like a small puddle beneath them. With the occasional small prick of any lingering syringes that a hand is quick to shove aside. Her clothes and hair are drenched, pathetically so, and even the person before her is half wet as well. She's curling up into a ball, cold and body aching from the twitching, convulsing.
He's scolding her, something like:
"...Are you crazy? Are you just insane? Trying to kill yourself now?â
He shakes her. Grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her as if itâll do anything. All she can do is sit there, mind still swirling like the vortex swallowed by the drain.
âYouâre crazy,â he mutters, and she can just about make outâthrough the falling strands of her hairâthose judgement-filledâŚblue irises.
Blue like the ocean. Blue like the sky.
BlueâŚstricken.
Oh. What sort of Death is he? Never has she seen such vibrant color, such depths of life. Has he ripped her dear friend away from her? Replace the role of Death with a mere humanâŚhim? Can a person even be the judge of anotherâs life?
Does he dare?
âIâm not letting you die. Hell no. You think I can just let you die? Just when weâve started all this?â
His hands are so warm. Alive. Her flesh feels cold and clammy.
Ah. So he does.
âIâm not letting go.â
She canât tell if she can believe him.
âââ
16:15
The IV drips.
She lays on the bed, her shivering body crumpling the sheet beneath. Clumped, drenched hair seeps the water into the pillow under her head, and it further amplifies the cold air around her.
Noâ It shouldnât be cold. Itâs not cold. Only she is.
Even to her distant touch her own flesh feels like a taut, rough-ish layer of a cadaver. Clammy. Almost sickly so, from the sweat that covers her body in a sticky sheen. Yet underneath the frigid exterior, inside it feels as though her body is too large for her skin. Warmth bubbles and boils, almost to an unbearable degree. She claws at her clavicle, only to realise her grasp is far too weak now.
He sits on the armchair by the bed, hand gingerly checking the IV bag propped up on a stack of items she canât quite discern. Even now, with her state being that of his patient, he still smokes; his cigarette hangs from the corner of his lips, the gentle wisps escaping from between the parting.
Tired. SoâŚutterly tired.
Thereâs little she can do as her eyelids grow heavy, and body further leaden from the unmovable state it is in. She thinks she says something. Itâs difficult to tell. Only that he glances at her before her vision grows dark.
âââ
15:51
Pushing off of him, she slumps back against the tub.
She just stares.
After a moment, he huffs, like a scoff. Reaching forward, he tries to grab her chin; to force her to look at him, he needs to know what sort of drugs she took.
She remains docile. Until his hand brushes against her chin and itâs a full-body jerk. Before she can grab her face, she throws a punch. Instinctive.
The gurney. In the Berlin safehouse. After awakening from being forcibly drugged.
Instincts.
They both nearly chip the marble sink. And somewhere during the tussle, he ends up on his back, body now drenched from the water covering the floor, hair messed up, staring at her in disbelief. Blood drips from his nose, with his shades somewhere with the pile of used needles and packaging.
âHit me back.â Itâs a dareâher voice, quivering with thinly veiled rage. âWhy arenât you hitting me back?â
He stares at her, in mild disdain. Never once wavering, even as she grabs him by his jaw, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Verdant, he thinks, verdant like a forestâs dark blanket of grass splattered with blood.
Heâs never noticed her eyes before.
âI said, hit me.â Frustration.
God, what is she playing at? His breath leaves him in shorter, sharper sighs, and his fingers itch to coil around the sunken waist of hers, knowing heâd feel the last few rungs of her ribcage andâ the taut, lean muscle shifting under her clammy skinâ
Her eyes flit down to his lips.
He tastes copper. Metal. And the bitter saltiness of something inexplicably human, diluted with water, spreading and smearing onto the pale flesh and the yellowish tiles below.
Youâve gotten a taste for human flesh.
Belikov was terrified of a monster that coerced him into sucking his supplies dry like a little parasite. And rightfully so, he thinks as he stares at the frenzied speed of how her pupils blow wide. A black hole, engulfingâ
Havenât you?
âOh he knows heâs a terrible man. His hands are soaked in the blood; his body and soul, bathed and baptised in the everflowing, evergiving river of bloodthirst and apathy. He has forsaken acres of interpersonal connections and abandoned normalcy to walk this inexpungible path of unquenching thirst, unsatiated appetite.
A shudder runs down his spine. There is a realization.
Heâs not alone. Not anymore.
âââ
20:19
Sheâs been sleeping for the past 4 hours.
He hadnât exactly been keeping trackâ but itâs difficult not to notice the time passing on the bedside clock while he sits there, watching her unconscious state. The IV was to flush out the drugs from her system as quickly as possible, since he doesnât quite know what was in that syringe of street mix she injected in herself. He wonders how she even got a hold of such concoctions but dismisses the thought soon enough. It didnât matter now. Part of him had also wondered if he should have pulled the covers for her (it should be ridiculous that he is watching over her like some parent, yet here he was), but the last he tested her temperature, she had been burning upâ
Ah. HeâsâŚfucked.
As he sits there, all he can do is clutch onto his own hands. Fuck. No matter how much he tries to wring his damn hands, he just canât un-feel the sensation of holding onto her waist. It was amidst other things too. The goddamn punch she hurled at his face (and the remaining mild throbbing ache of his cheek) and the taste of copper in his mouth, the cooling water seeping and drenching his clothes as she straddled him, or the manic gaze in those deep green eyes that stared back into him as she grabbed his jaw.
Sheâs gaunt. Only a thin layer of lean muscle that separated her vital organs from the taut stretch of skin across her ribcage. He barely touched her, but he could feel the last few rungs of her ribs under his thumb as it subtly brushed against her torso. Like his fingers had crept under the epidermis, most intimately, running up her side to feel every sunken curve and hard protrusion of her ribs directly on the pads of his fingertips.
His mouth runs dry.
His hair is still wet from being forcibly shoved down onto the water-logged tile floor, and he hasnât bothered changing out of his soaked clothes.
He doesnât dare. Not when he needs to preserve that moment, thatâŚ
Was it a sick sense of thrill that ran through his body, down his spine when he saw a look he knew all too well in her eyes? It wasnât fear, noâ it was distinctly different from an adrenaline rush he so-knows and loves. He knows she wonât kill him in cold blood (sheâs already stated she wants nothing to do with him after all).
He dreads to think about it. The type to make a grown man hesitate to even consider.
Oh but he knows it. He knows what he saw. He knows the kindred spirit in her, one of rage and a thirst for blood and vindication, even if she would not acknowledge it. Her anger when he would not reciprocate her call for a brawl, her manic-delirious state driven by a need to consume.
Does he dare?
Were he a better man, Adler would be running for the hills. Packing this joint operation up and getting someone to tie up the loose ends properly this time. He knows better than to take unnecessary, incalculable risks, and yet he canât.
He watches her. As his cheekbone still aches from the hit, and her grasp of his jaw is seared into his skin, and all he can remember is feeling her weight on top of him as she straddled him for leverage, all he can wonder now is just how fucked he is. What is he dealing with here? What has he done? What has he gotten himself into?
For the first time, he feelsâŚweak. Like an unnerving sensation of dread settling in the pit of his stomach.
The sinews of his heart tugs with a chest-seizing ache.
Heâs fucked. So utterly fucked.
This is wrong, he thinks. So convoluted and wrong beyond morality and virtues. The very idea that he has the nerve to consider all this should be insanity butâ A part of him now knows thereâs little he can do. Not when his own feet will take him to her side now. Even now, he canât budge from the armchair next to her, despite knowing he should get changed.
All he can do now is wait for her to wake up.
He just wants to drown in her.
âââ
fin. | do not plagarize, steal, modify or translate my works without my explicit permission.