#sentryagent au

A Few Hours Later 

As expected, the quest was a success. John decided for himself that he wouldn’t participate on land and would rather stay on the ship. 

Late at night the prince is tied to the main mast with iron chains, the crew and the captain celebrating on the lower deck.

John, being the first mate and having a room on the upper level on the ship, can see the prince from the small window of his room. 

The prisoner has brown hair with loose locks at the ends, delicate stature– a typical fairytale prince. And those eyes. Blue, like the dark rough ocean John has been in love with since he was a little boy.

Impulsively, without so much as a second thought, John grabs his oil lamp and makes his way down to the prince. He’s curious, wanting to take a closer look at the new prisoner.

Normally royal people taken hostage by pirates were terrified, crying, screaming for help, but this prince looks…bored. He stares far off into the distance over the railing of the ship, only noticing John when he comes to a stop right in front of him. 

"Did they give you something to eat? Water?"

The brunet looks up at John, not giving him an answer, only staring at him nodding his head a little to the side. That's when John notices the bruise; a bright purple one, right above Prince Robert’s collarbone. A frown cuts its way across John's face.

"Those a gift from my men?" 

The prince lets out a soft chuckle, his own eyes wandering to his wrists. Angry red marks circle both of them, but they look a few days old.

John, not in the mood for a mystery, decides to call it quits for tonight, turning on his heel back to his room. 

With his back to his prisoner, John's ears prick up suddenly when a whisper slips through the air. 

"They won’t come for me." 

John raises an eyebrow. A few seconds pass, and the sentiment lands in the quiet: the prince really thinks his father will not come to his rescue. 

John lets out a small laugh. "Sooner or later they all come to save their loved ones, Your Highness," he smirks, turning back only to send the young prince a sly wink, and then returns to his quarters for the night. 

-------------

On the next day they were heading to Deathland Bay. In four weeks they should reach the destination for the trade.

The sun was particularly harsh that day, which gave some members of the crew the nasty idea to cool the prince down with water directly from the sea. 

After the first bucket Prince Robert already starts to hiss in pain, red spots beginning to bloom harshly on his body. The crewmembers are amused. John, however, is not having it. 

"Enough is enough, gentleman," he barks, his authoritative voice causing them to stand at attention. "I think it has slipped your mind that even pirates have moral codes. He is our prisoner, not our plaything."

"But he makes the cutest noises!" one of the crew members shouts out with a laugh, gleefully mocking him, and the rest of the crew joins in. 

John makes his way to the main mast, taking off the chains. He grabs the prince rough by his neck, evoking another hiss from the tormented Prince Robert.

"He will spend the rest of the day in my room. Nobody will go near him," John orders, no room for argument in his tone.

-------------

Robert is beginning to panic. The last thing he wants is to be locked in a room completely at the mercy of a man– no, not again. But it was this or being on display for the whole crew, so he doesn’t even put up a fight.

The remaining pirates exchange glances while First Mate John drags Prince Robert across the ship and into his cabin. 

Inside, John puts his thump under Prince Robert's chin making him look directly into John's eyes. The prince flinches because of the rough skin of John's finger and his already aching face. 

"Listen Prince, you can sleep on that bed, you can read some of the books or navigation cards but you are not leaving this room, understood?" While speaking, John glances over Bob's face. The skin looks bad enough pinkish, some crust forming around the edges. 

Prince Robert only nods not wanting to encourage the first mate's rage. 

John goes back to his crew and leaves behind an overwhelmed prince. Never in his life showed someone this much care towards him… He looks around the small room, saving the exploration for later. He takes the blanket from the bed and lays down on the small rug right in front, falling asleep within seconds. 

Meanwhile John has to deal with the captain of the ship. 

"You took away their entertainment. Are you getting soft on your old days Johnny?"

He took it as an offense. Not the getting soft thing, the age part. Yes he was the oldest pirate on this ship but he was not that old. 

"He is not entertainment, he is our leverage, nobles only pay for family members who are still alive" He practically spat right at the captain who in response only raised an eyebrow in amusement. "He will stay in my room, nobody else gets to touch him." 

"Well then I hope you put your prince to good use since you're the only one who is allowed to lay a finger on him" The additional smirk on the captain's face made John go feral, but he quickly decided to let it show on the outside.

When the sun set behind the horizon John returned to his room to find a sleeping prince, right in front of his bed? It was a strange sight, the slender prince with his soft, round face laying on the hard floor like a domestic animal. Carefully he walks over to him and places the Prince into the more comfortable bed. Tucking him under the warm covers. John's eyes linger a little too long. His thoughts wandering off, the prince just looked so innocent.

John sits down at his desk and starts to write. After some time he hears a small, confused whimper. 

"Seems like the prince of sleep is finally awake, you missed the whole day, it's already dark outside."

Robert only stared at him, right into John's eyes practically stealing the air out of his lunges. 

"Prince Robert, why did you sleep on the ground? I offered you my bed, is it so disgusting to you that you would rather choose the cold hard floor." He couldn't resist mocking him a little. 

Prince Robert seemed startled. John was sure he could see the faint sight of a pout beginning to form at the corner of the prince’s mouth. 

John rises from his chair approaching the prince in a reserved manner. After the first few two steps Robert already flinches back. 

"I didn't want to invade your personal space. Aside from that, to you I am Bob or you can address me with the former titles. You will not call me Robert." At the last part his voice hardens. 

That answer left John surprised. ,,And why is that, my Prince?"

"Robert means I am in trouble." John holds his breath while the prince stares on the ground. With good intention he still comes closer to the prince holding out his hand palm open, an invitation.  

"Well then, Bob, show me your face" 

Hesitant Bob faces him, his eyes still fixated onto the floor not daring to meet the pirates gaze. John turns on his heel and pulls a jar from one of his shelves. A greenish gel reflected by one of the candles. 

He puts some of it on his fingers and brings it towards the prince's face. Bob winces in response, his eyes fixed on John's fingers. 

"I promise it will stop the pain and will make your skin heal faster, it will not hurt." John's voice soft as if he is trying to sooth a wounded animal.

The prince closes his eyes giving the pirate silent permission. The gel makes the pain go away in an instant, a small moan escapes Roberts mouth. The pirate smiled a little at the prince's reaction. After a few minutes John comes to a halt since he is finished with Bob's face.

"I thought it would heal itself throughout the day. Seems like you're a little sensitive."

Bob grabbed the pirate at his wrist with something close to urgency. 

"I need it on my chest too, please." His voice is barely a whisper. Slowly Bob opens up the buttons of his white shirt. John tried to keep his composure, while adding the gel onto the Prince's marred skin.

Bob's body went limb, faltering under the tender movement.

John got himself up from the bed. He got rid of the remaining gel of his fingers then put the jar back on the shelf. He was a little hesitant, but he didn't want to sleep in his sweat through clothes, so the first layer landed on the ground. John just went to lay down on the carpet, where the Pprince slept earlier when Bob reaches his hand out he stops.

"Please"? his voice sounds so tired as if the sleep from the day did nothing to him. For a short second John thinks about staying in his spot. He should say no, should talk some sense into the prince but how could he? Anything close to intimacy was rare on sea and John was never the type to get a quick fix at some of the brothels on land so, how was he supposed to say no to such an offer?

He carefully moves Bob to the side of the bed with the small window facing outside. Just laying next to him, his arms straight at his sides. After a few minutes he feels Bob's soft hand on his. John's mind was racing. Was the prince already asleep? Is John supposed to do something? But before he can spiral any further Bob takes the pirates hand and lays his whole arm over himself, feeling John's rough skin, his warm breath and rapidly increasing heartbeat. 

It left John confused. Maybe the prince is in a state of delusion, not aware of what situation he is currently in. 

What he couldn't know was that this was Bob's way of getting something out of this situation for himself. Every time someone might take advantage of him, Bob would cling to something, a hug, a pat on the back of his head, a praise, with John it was the pirates warm embrace. Bob clung to it so he wouldn't lose his mind.

The next morning, John did leave earlier than usual. Making Bob sob a little when he woke up and realized that the pirate is no longer with him. The prince starts to stroll around the room. Looking at the Navigation charts spread on the desk, his eyes wandered to a leatherbound notebook. Bob picks it up, browsing through the pages, smiling at the small but detailed drawings which appear on every other page. Suddenly the door swings open, John storming in, placing a big Jug of water and a plate with bread, fruits and even a little cheese and meat on the desk. 

"I haven't seen you drink anything since your arrival here, so drink up" It was the roughness in his voice that made it sound like a command. With the first drop of water on Bob's lips he becomes aware of how thirsty he actually is, emptying the jug within seconds. 

"Why don't you read something nice?" He throws a disgusted look at the notebook Bob had dropped on the desk in exchange for the jug. John strolls over to his small shelf, targeting a specific book. 

"Here this one’s from your kingdom, it's about creatures who hide in the rivers made of grass." 

Bob's heart began to race. Melting at the kind gesture he took the book out of John's hand, and focused on the title, not realizing that he was holding the book upside down. 

"Oh my- you can not read? What type of prince does not know how to read?" It sounded more concerned than scolding, nonetheless Bob started to sweat and a tint of red appeared at the tip of his ears.

"My father said there is no need  for me to learn it." Bob's chest begins to tighten. 

"But you are a future king! How will you rule over a kingdom when you're not able to read contracts, pamphlets or war declarations?" 

"I told you they will not come after me." Bob's voice only being a whisper again his tone without a trace of strength, staring down at his own hands. 

"You are their only child, the only right heir to the throne, who else would your father-" John's voice came to a stop. He didn't recognise it at first but now the sun is flooding the room with daylight,  he sees them. The bruises, the cuts, the scars. The ribcage showing through the skin.

"To this day i still dont know what i did wrong. My father does not have a single bit of love for me. We never played together when I was a child, we never laughed together in the way it should go. There was only shouting and screaming. After I reached my 5th birth celebration he would beat me for my existence alone. And my Mother, how could any woman love a child that was forced upon her?" Bob's words hung heavy in the air.

John moved unconsciously, close to the prince who was staring at the floor again. The pirate carefully places his hand on the cheek of the Prince. Small tears leaving Bob's eyes while trying to look at John. Inside John there was a storm brewing, how could someone hurt his own son, how can anyone be so cruel to a Prince, to this Prince?

John started to gently stroke Bob's cheek. Wiping away his tears. 

"I can teach you a little, you can not learn it completely in the time we remain together, but maybe we can start with the letters." 

"I would like that." Bob felt a little sting in his heart but for the very first time in his life, it came from joy. "But how do you know how to-"

A loud knock on the door made the both of them jump, away from each other. 

"They need me back, see you later" John heels out of his room, out of Bob's sight, he would have liked to just stay there with him and teach him everything he knew, but he had duties. 

Bob stayed right where John left him, mind a thick and impervious fog. Letting his own hand glide over the spots where John did before. He was so kind to him without any reason it seemed. Bob was used to people trying to charm him in hopes of getting favors from the prince or even the king himself but on this ship Bob had nothing to offer, he is a prisoner.

There is nothing John could gain from him, with one exception. Bob didn't mind the thought, deciding that he will give John what he wants when he comes back later.  

Later At Night The Same Day

John was  exhausted, the thoughts about Bob's father haunted him and then the crew has been completely incompetent at handling a semi heavy storm. His limbs were sore, breath heavy, his clothes completely soaked from the rain. 

All of the unpleasantries disappeared the second he opened the door seeing Bob sitting on his bed. Barefoot, his pants rolled up right up to his knees, his shirt undone to the point where his bellybutton is. John has seen a lot but it was the first time in a very long time that his face started to redden. 

"What is going on here?" 

The prince rose up from the bed, walking right up the Pirate. Bob's hands went right to the other man's chest, slowly taking off the soaked coat. Then slowly Bob's Hand wanders to the pirates shirt, he leans in to whisper in John's ear while fiddling with the first Button. "I want to express my sincere gratitude for saving me from these savages out there and for your kindness."

For a sweet second John thinks about it, he thinks about the prince having his way with him, about all the things John would love to do to the blue eyed prince, but no. Before Bob's hands could wander to the second button John took his wrists a little too rough maybe.

"No, I don't want this, not this way." 

Bob's eye widened to an unnatural amount. John being the first man to reject such an offer from him. Now he braced himself for something else entirely, the consequences of his reckless behaviour but nothing like it would come. 

"Now, sit down at the desk, I will teach you everything I know." Bob looked hurt, he was so sure he was doing the thing he was expected to do, but as usual he was wrong. With unsteady legs Bob makes his way over to the desk. John followed right behind him. 

"I guess since you don't know how to read, you don't know how to write either?" 

The prince shook his head from left to right. Shame crawling into his face. John tries to remember how he learned it, what practice was the most useful.

"Well then we start with the individual letters." He pulls out a quill and some parchment, writing a big A on the empty parchment.

"This is an A as in Apple or Anchor. Write it out, 20 times." John hands Bob the quill. Bob tries to imitate the writing but it ends up looking like a knotted rope. After a few minutes Bob starts to become nervous, his hand trembling. That's when John pulls Bob into his lap. Taking the hand which is leading the quill.

"Easy, start a little to the left, half circle, up down and horizontal bow. Good." After a few tries together, Bob can finally do it alone. His chest bloomed with pride for once. Bob turns his face around meeting the pirates eyes already lurking on him. And for a few seconds their faces are close, their noses short before brushing.

"You're doing great Bob, we should start with the next one." Johns presses out under his breath, suddenly realizing in which situation he put himself in. Bob only gave him a small, almost hypnotized nod.

That's how it went for the next couple of days. At day Bob would practise everything John taught him the previous night. John was always checking up on him, bringing the prince water, food and also new clothes. The crew was talking about the unlikely pair behind John's back, saying they actually felt pity for the prince.

John had a reputation of being anything but gentle in many ways. Some of them were even worried the prince wouldn't be alive at the time they arrived at Deathland bay. But that's it. There were nothing more than rumors. John's longing for the sea was a gift and a curse he was born with. He could swim before he could walk. Everyone wanted to learn how to ride a horse, John wanted to know how to sail a ship. The royal navy wasn't to his liking, to many pointless and hypocritical rules , so he became a Pirate. Building a reputation of being rough and brutal but in the background he always made sure nobody got hurt beyond an extent of no repair. Secretly e was tired of it, of this two faced life.

-------------

Lost in the motion of Bob's hands he didn't hear the question at first so he tilted his head hoping for Bob to repeat his question. 

"You still haven't told me who taught you all that. We both know this goes beyond everything a pirate needs to know."

"Okay I am telling you but only if you promise to not look at me differently after."

"I promise."

"I was not born a pirate, the opposite actually. I come from a wealthy family, not a lord by any means and still wealthy." John takes a deep breath preparing himself to go on. "Shortly after I turned eleven our house burned down to its grounds, my brother, my sister, my mother and my father, they all died in the flames."

Again a deep breath is the only sound filling the room. "I only survived that day because my father sent me to sleep outside, in an empty barn nearby, when the stale smoke reached my nose, the flames were already too high."

Now he turned his gaze away from Bob all the way to the porthole. 

"Some of our neighbors prepared the funeral. I knew if I attended, someone would grab me and send me to the next orphanage. So instead I went down to the docks and stole myself on a ship that was short before sailing. Nobody minded the free labour of course. That was a long time ago, I am not even sure if I can fully remember what they looked like."

Bob said nothing, just pulled him into his arms and even though John Walker would never admit it Bob was certainly sure that his shirt started to wet. 

-------------

It happened one night that John was heavily asleep while Bob was restless. Tossing and turning in his spot. He didn't want to disobey John's commands but the cabin felt too small, suffocating, like a trap. So when the moon was nearly completely hidden he snug out. Out from John's arms, out the door of the cabin. He was cautious, looking left and right many times before closing the door behind him. He went all the way back to the stern of the ship, he told himself it was just a need for fresh air but soon enough he would find himself mindlessly grabbing the railing taking a few steps up.

Under him the ocean clashed in unforgiving waves, the salt present as ever, only the stars and a single lamp a few feet away spending some light in this unruly night. This could be Bob's chance, an opportunity to make one final decision for himself, made only by himself. God knows what they will do to him in a few days when they finally realize that Bob's Father has as much interest in him as a farmer in a dead horse. 

Still Bob can’t do it, his fingers, which are currently the only barrier between him and the sea, don't give in. Maybe he can allow himself a little more time since this is the first time in a long time- no the first time ever that even given this circumstances Bob felt safe. Not only that he feels seen and understood and who can blame him that he wants to relish in this for a little longer. 

So he takes a deep lunge filling breath, and jumps down the impact letting him stumble a couple of steps back right into the arms of one of the crew members. His first instinct is to scream but one of them makes sure he can’t. 

"You know I’m not the jealous type but it is custom that every prey is shared on this ship so John Walker is breaking a rule by keeping you all locked up."

Bob is sure it is the same man as the last time. Bob's instincts take over once again he is not even trying to defend himself he knows fully well he doesn't have a chance so his body lets loose, his eyes falling close hoping that whatever this will be, ends fast.

A hand tugs at his pants, another at the hem of his shirt while one stays pressed on his mouth. One of the men clears his throat in an attempt to say something but the only noise becoming present is a shot followed by the thud of a body falling to the ground. 

"You two, in the ocean with him."

"You're coming with me."

It all happens too suddenly, Bob can not proceed what is happening fast enough so the next thing he feels is how John throws him over his shoulder as if he weighs nothing. Back in the dim candlelight of John’s quarters, Bob starts to shake the second the door falls into its frame. The words he wants to say get stuck in the back of his throat forming a thick lump. 

When John steps closer Bob flinches backwards, his back hitting the desk. Again he braces himself for the worst and again he feels hands tearing at the hem of his shirt but this time they don't get stopped. The warm air of the room hits Bob pleasantly; he still doesn't dare to open his eyes. Only when he feels something warm and slightly wet on his forehead he dares to open them and is greeted with eternal worry. 

"Why did you go outside?" Bob swallows hard, guilt sitting heavy in his heart he wouldn't have guessed that he could course John in such much distress.

"I needed air, fresh air. For once."

"Then why not just take a few steps away from the door. Why did you go all the way back?"

"You're going to declare me insane when I confess something called for me?"

John has to chuckle at that. It is a story as old as time that man felt called while being on a ship, by the sea, by sirens, the wind itself.

"I would never." In silence John continued to clean Bob off from the blood that is not his. When Bob sees the thick scarlet stains in the white handkerchief he begins to tremble again tears slowly building up behind his eyelids. 

"You took that man’s life, without warning." 

"Oh he has been warned more times than one, now he paid the price."

"I am uncertain if I am worthy of such a high price."

"Dont, don’t do that. He was a bad man who couldn't follow the rules. He knew the consequences. I am sure no one on this ship will touch you again."

"No one?"

A Few Days Later

The prince and the pirate were laying in bed, Bob's head resting on John's chest. The pirates hand carefully stroking the brown soft locks of the prince.

"How certain are you that your father will not come to rescue you." Bob holds his breath for a second and faces John. 

"He will not come." Not a trace of doubt in his words. 

"Bob I- I am sorry for you." 

"Please don't, being on this ship is the first good thing that ever happened to me. When the crew came into my chambers I wasn't scared, I just hoped it would go quickly. I honestly didn't expect to be kidnapped, I thought everyone in this world knew my father hates me." A small laugh escapes his mouth. 

"You are telling me all this and still, you laugh, unbelievably." 

"John, what will happen when they realize my father is not coming." The captain will be feral is the first thing that comes to John's mind, the crew will also go wild because of the disappointment. 

"Nobody will do you any harm, my prince, I promise." His strokes wander from Bob's hair to his face. Bob's eyes watering at the pirates words. For once John's eyes were not fixed on the ocean eyes of the prince but rather his fine, pink lips. Bob tries to close the distance between them, John stops him, the heart of the prince breaking a little.

"My prince, I am not worthy of yours." John tried to convince the both of them. 

"That, is not for you to decide anymore."

"So your ordering me?" 

"I take the burden of decision away from you, yes." For the very first time Bobs voice is strong and certain. When a prince demands your attention you're obliged to give it to him and with this realization all rational thinking left the room. 

John placed his hand at the back of Bob's head. To John these are the softest most divine lips he ever tasted. Bob on the other hand was surprised, John's lips were dry like the rest of his skin but the kiss was incredibly gentle. 

"I am not sure if I can stop myself if we continue, my prince." 

"Then don't stop yourself, please" The plea made John shiver. Awakening something inside of him. He wants to hear more of those sweet words of the prince, he wants to ruin him.

With one swift motion Bob is under him. John placed kisses along the prince's neck, while opening the buttons of his shirt. The shirt landed somewhere next to the bed. John kisses continue down Bob's chest to his belly, stopping right at the hem of his trousers. 

"John, please I've been patient, I did everything you wanted me to do, so please no teasing." He was aware he sounded pathetic, almost like a whore, but he didn't care. 

"That is true my prince you've been a perfect student, always doing as you're told. So be a little more patient and you will get everything you want." Bob whines out shamelessly, while John can only smirk at the cute noises the prince makes for him. He places his hand at the hem of Bob's trousers and pulls them down, slowly. So agonizingly slow that Bob starts to wiggle his hips. 

"Please John, please." The whines grew louder, till the pants were all the way down, Bob's cock freed from the fabric. John gave himself a few seconds to admire the view fully. He looked like a painting, one of those that hung in churches and castles. John's mouth starts to fill up with salvia.

"John is something w- oh god."  Before the insecurities could go to Bob's head, John had Bob's length in his mouth. Not all the way at first, giving the prince and himself time to adjust. Slowly going up and down using his tongue.

"Oh my god John I don't think- I don't think I can do this, it's too much."

"First you are begging me and now you're saying it's too much? Not a lot going on inside this pretty head of yours, my prince." John's mocking could have made him come right on the spot. Bob whines out and thrust his hips a little. 

Moments pass, Bob’s hair sticks to his forehead. The Pirate messes with him, taking up speed then when Bob nearly reaches his high he slows down. Driving Bob dangerously close to the edges of sanity

"John I swear, if you continue your stupid game with me." The Prince spatted through gritted teeth. 

"Then what? Are you going to punish me? My devotion to you is the biggest punishment the gods had to offer and I wouldn't want it any other way." Bob's eyes went wide, that was the last bit. With all his strength he holds the fairly larger pirate in place, trusting his own hips up. The noises leaving the both men were filthy and raw.

"I am going to come and you will take it, everything of it." It wasn't a question, it was a command which sent a shock of pleasure through John, moaning with his mouth closed on the prince's cock. With one final thrust Bob releases himself, down Johns throat, the moan sealing this affair making sure that every crew member knows what is going on in John's room.  

Bob was shaking in completely bliss. His body relaxing for the first time in forever. Both men were trying to catch their breaths, John getting back into his spot next to Bob. 

"I am so sorry, I lost control, did I- did i hurt you? Are you hurt? What can I do?" Bob was overwhelmed he was not used to this, to have to have the upper hand, to be in control. He looked at John, worried sick but John just started to laugh.  

"Everything is fine, I feel great. Besides," He looked down on himself, a bright white spot on his pants, "You made me come in my pants like a little boy." 

"I apologize. I didn't mean to- I can still return the favour, just tell me when you're ready."

"Bob, everything is fine, why are you concerned? You're a prince, everyone has to bow to your orders, and I mean that in a good way."

"Well there are some men at my fathers court who would beg to differ." 

The following silence in the room was unbearable for John.

John settled his hand on Bob's cheek. "What, what did they do to you?" 

"Well, since they knew that they had no consequences to fear they used me like they pleased. Most of them were older, stronger, bigger than me. They made sure it always hurt."  

Tears unintentionally came down Bob's face. John pulled him into his embrace in an attempt to comfort him, loud sobs escaping Bob's lips.

"I will kill them all. One after the other. I will save your father last so he chokes on his own fear and blood."

-------------

The next few days nothing out of the ordinary happened. Until one cloudy evening the navigator of the ship approaches John in a reserved manner. "We will reach deathland bay in 3 days." 

It didn't matter to John. If Bob's father against all odds would demand his son back, John would sooner or later return to the Kingdom by himself. When the crew realizes that the king will not come, things will get messy but John already has a plan, if you can call it that when it solemnly relies on the captains pride and greed.

Bob wasn't fond of the news, John could read it in his face.  

"Don't you want to leave this ship, this cabin, feeling solid ground under your feet?" 

"I don't want to leave you, I can't bear the thought of being away from you." 

"You will not leave me, nothing on this ship holds me here."

"I thought about something. Maybe if my father hates me enough, he will send someone to get me only to lock me away at his court, I would never be allowed to leave the castle again. John please, don't let them take me."

"Nobody is ever going to harm you again, my Prince." The night was long, Bob and John savouring each other's embrace. 

Yet it was the night before their arrival that the energy started to change. Bob seemed more tense, more absent minded. John on the other hand never felt so sure in his life. 

Both laying in John's bed together. Bob's anxiety gets out of hand and to ease his mind, he starts to kiss John with a deep, uncontrollable hunger. His hands roaming over John's body without shame or hesitation.  

"John please, I want to feel you, all of you." 

In John's head prayers were forming and he wasn't a religious man by any means. "god forgive me for I am about to sin". His mind goes crazy under Bob's delicate and soft fingers.  Like a man possessed John started kissing, licking and even softly biting every inch of skin his mouth could find, ravishing the prince as if he was his last supper.

"That is not how it is supposed to go." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I am a prince I am supposed to be atop of you." 

"Oh, really? That's how it goes? I think we both know that's not going to happen."

"Bastard." 

With their mouths colliding, formalities and the rest of the world were fast forgotten. There was no time to waste a fact the both of them were aware of. John's hands made quick work of Bob's remaining clothes brushing him on every inch of skin possible. Bob squirmed under it, under John's calloused fingers, under the firm yet tender grip. 

Soon sweat would keep them company while the air around them is getting thicker by the minute. John's tongue left Bob's mouth and gave him the short chance to breathe again while John worked it down his neck sucking at all the right spots, leaving bruises for sure but none of them cared. 

Bob tugs at John's pants who ultimately takes them off, at the sight Bob nearly chokes on his own spit. John notices his reaction bringing his lips close to Bob's ear. 

"Don‘t worry I take care of you. It will not hurt. I promise."

He doesn't know why exactly but Bob felt the need to shake his head to confirm what John just said. There was no room for indecision anyway as John continued his work on Bob. Making his way to the protuberant collarbone down to his belly coming to halt there. 

"Give me a second." He doesn't have a chance to protest, with a wink John is up making his way to the shelf in the corner of the room. Bob pledges to himself that someday he will get this ass painted if John wants it or not. 

When he comes back Bob is confused to say the least, in John's hand rested a small bottle which contains a lipide that seemed to be of the same consistency John used on Bob for his burns yet this one is see-through. 

"John, what is that?"

"It makes sure you don't feel any pain." 

The fact that Bob does not know about it nearly lets John break the bottle. His answer seemingly did nothing to take away Bob's confusion. 

"Lay back and let me show you. I never break my promises." Without a second thought Bob falls back into the pillows trusting John with every fiber of his heart. Bob hears how he pops the cork, then John's now cold fingers brushing at his entrance the small buck of Bob's hips lets John chuckle under his breath.

"It works even better when you let go." Bob focuses his eyes on the ceiling along with a deep exhale John carefully pushes his index finger inside and with that Bob is gone. His mouth falls open, his hands fisting the sheets under him, back arching slightly off the bed. With every finger added everything started to feel lighter, sweeter. When John is pleased with his work the sight underneath him nearly frightens him, Bob is completely and utterly delirious. 

"Maybe we should save the rest for another-" Before John can finish his sentence Bob has cupped his face in his small hands with an intense pressure. 

"If you stop now I will never let you touch me again."

"Is that so, my prince?" Bob falls back onto the bed, stars forming behind his eyes. Sweet little whines slipping through his lips. 

With the rest of the liquid prepares himself and before pushing in he stops again. Patting Bob's cheek just slightly. "Are you really sure?" 

With the little bit of strength left Bob presses his heels into John's back and every ounce of restraint leaves John at once. He planned on pushing slowly instead it is a long motion which Bob takes without trouble still his back leaves the bed completly now.

"Gods I- Bob you're so tight I- I don’t think I will last long." 

"Doesn’t matter just move, please." 

Oh and John does for the first thirty seconds he even manages to be gentle then his hips fall into an barbaric rhythm if you can call it a rhythm at all and Bob? He moves his hips with John, it drives him insane so much that he has to press Bob's hips down so John doesn't come on the spot. The firm grip pulls a frantic moan out of Bob's throat. 

Bob digs his nails in John's skin, his back, his waist, his shoulders even his teeth make their way into his skin. John tries his very best but it is no use, his high is building up way too fast, he pulls Bob legs on his shoulders and bends them till his knees are at the same height as his chin. The angle sends butterflies to Bob's stomach while John nearly combust. 

"Do you want me to pull-"

"For heaven's sake John, don’t." And with one deep thrust John spills himself inside Bob, relief washed over him because Bob nails dug in deeper than before a rigged moan escaping him while Bob comes between them, nearly at the same time.

When John pulls out Bob sobs at the loss but is grateful for the chance to breathe properly again. John next has his sweet time cleaning Bob. Taking in every hiss and every crunch of his nose. 

Careful John rests himself next to Bob pulling the blanket over both of them. Bob's arm is around John's chest in the blink of an eye. 

"Thank you." 

"You don't have to thank me, really."

"Yes I do. You might not be the first to touch me yet you are the first who showed me that it doesn't have to be painful." A single tear steals its way down Bob's cheek and John is fast to stroke it away with his thumb. His own chest blooming with pride and sorrow at the same time.

"I hope it was not only not painful but also pleasurable."

"It was indeed." Bob's hand wanders dangerously far down John's torso.

"In fact I might wish for you to do it again." 

Before Bob can reach too low John catches his hand in his placing a gentle kiss on the back of it. 

"How can I say no to a prince?"

-------------

The navigator was right. When the sun was high in the sky they arrived at their destination. Bob put on the clothes in which he arrived. John made his way to the lower deck, Bob didn't know why. John suggested it was better for the prince to know as little to nothing. The door to the cabin swung open, Bob turning to the door. 

"John you're back?" 

"No Prince Robert, Johnny remains somewhere else."

Bob froze in his movement. His smile dropped to the bottom of the ocean. He goes into a defensive posture without realizing it.

"Oh don't worry prince, I am not going to hurt you, you're way too precious for that. But I decided that John's mind is not clear enough for the handover, I got the impression that he may not let you go when it matters." 

The captain came close, too close for Bob's liking. "Prince, we can do this the hard way or you do as you're told, one way or the other your time on this ship is over." It sounded cruel but for once Bob decided to not give in without a fight.

He gives the captain a kick in the knee attempting to run to the door but the captain was fast to catch Bob. The kick was just not efficient enough. In seconds Bob's mouth was gagged with a handkerchief, his hands and arms tied, the end of the rope in the hands of the captain. 

The prince was dragged outside, the sun stung his eyes. John was just coming up from the lower deck seeing Bob in the hands of the captain. 

"Johnny I thought you wouldn't mind. I decided you will not be with us for trade since you always prefer staying on the ship anyway?" The captain was laughing thinking it would get a reaction out of John but he was as cold as a stone. 

"As always captain, you are right I dont mind." That was it, John retreats to his quarters without looking at Bob. He couldn't stop himself, he was sure that this was a part of John's plan but tears were running down his face nonetheless.

"Oh come on pretty prince you will soon be reunited with your family, isn't that worth a smile?" 

The captain drags Bob onward, off the ship heading to the coordinates for the trade. The rest of the crew followed them, leaving John behind. 

After a short walk they positioned themselves waiting for the king or maybe the king's guards. Hours pass, nobody is coming, the sun slowly starts to settle. The crewmembers start to fidget in their spots. At some point a muffed hysterical laughter was echoing through the palms, it was the prince. 

The captain finally loses his patience, grabbing Bob by his neck, yanking him to his knees. The prince kept on laughing. 

"Yeah keep laughing, stupid little prince." The draw of the trigger getting pulled back was heard. The captain's pistol pointed at Bob's head. 

Then the same sound was heard again a little more distant.

"Don't." At the sound of John's voice Bob felt relief. Still in a dangerous situation, but knowing that at least once in his life someone would come to rescue him made him feel whole. 

John pointed his pistol directly at the captain who then slowly turned around to face John. 

"Here is the deal, you and the rest of the crew go back to the ship and leave, I left everything back in my cabin including the gold and the jewelry from our last raid. Let him go." 

The captain looked between John and Bob and then to his crewmembers. What John had to offer was nothing compared to what they had demanded from the king yet givin the situation it was better than nothing. The captain lowers his gun making his way over to John, never breaking eye contact, whispering in his ear. 

"If this is a trap I will hunt you and your pretty prince down. I will let him bleed out like a pig and you will watch. You just disowned yourself, stained everything being a  pirate stands for with shame." 

He spat at John's feet and then whistled loudly, a clear signal for the crew to leave. John waited a few moments making sure they were really gone, then he ran to Bob.  He pulled a knife from his holster and freed Bob from the handkerchief. 

"John, you're here." 

"Told you I had a plan." John got rid of the unpleasant and amateurishly tied rope. 

"So your plan was to hope that the captain just retreats?"

"I said I had a plan. Never said it’s a good one."

Bob was on John in an instant, enjoying each other in a tight hug. 

"Bob come on, we don't have a lot of time, you don't want to be out here when it's dark." 

Helping the prince get up on his feet. At sunset they reached a rusty tavern. John going inside, Bob waiting right next to the entrance. After a few minutes John comes back. "Follow me." John grabbed Bob's hand carrying an unknown bag over his shoulder. 

With a key he opens the door to a room rented out. It smells as bad as the tavern looked. John lit up a few candles trying to make the most of it. Fortunately for the men the room contained only one bed.

Bob closes the door behind him.

"What's in the bag?" He was already tugging at the cord. Plenty of apples and pieces of bread are on display covering up some fabric, which is not the bag itself. Bob curiously pulls it out. 

"What? You can not walk around here in your cute little prince attire, they will eat you alive." 

Bob tossed the clothes to the side walking straight up to John pulling him down for a deep, longing kiss. Still high on the moment, they got rid of the other one's clothes and the remaining adrenaline. A night spent in total bliss. 

It was the next morning, John was still fast asleep, a quiet snoring escaping his mouth. Bob opened the window and looked outside. The small salty breeze dancing around his nose. The noise of the drunk guests from the tavern making their ways back home echoed through the wind. It hit him then with full force, for the very first time Bob was free. He could do whatever, however, whenever he wanted, yet all he wanted was to stay with John. But there was something else, something buried deep in his heart. It took him a few days to figure it out. 

As usual both men were laying in bed, comfortable silence filling the room while Bob tried to gather all his courage.

"John? What are your plans?" 

"We can do whatever you want. We can stay here, we can sail a ship to find another place to live. As long as you're by my side every place will feel right."

Bob took a deep breath. 

"I want to go back to my kingdom. It's not only me, my father mistreats. The people also suffer from his reign. My father rejects cooperation with the surrounding kingdoms, so every Winter many people starve to death, while the court dines on the best food. They deserve someone who cares about them." 

John's heart swells hearing Bob talking so eager about wanting a better life for his folk, pulling him closer. 

"You know, it will take time. We cannot just go over to your kingdom and behead your father, we must make sure there will be no remembrance of reign left. We need a ship and more importantly, allies." 

Bob nods, seeing in John's eyes his plan already unfolding in his mind. 

Five years, it took them five whole years. Finally being only one sunrise away from their destination. For five years they traveled the world with the small but steady "Thunder". They recruited some old friends of John. Thieves and crooks, but just like John they had their hearts at the right spot. More than willing to help hearing Bob being so certain talking about being a better king to his folk. 

The night before the battle, the men were tangled into each other. But Bob was absent, his mind racing through every possible outcome that tomorrow could bring. John saw it in his eyes fixed on the door instead of him. He was giving Bob all he had to offer, placing small kisses on his neck, his chest, his lower belly, nothing seemed to work. 

"You know this will not be our last night together, my prince." Finally Bob snaps awake in his trance. Positioning himself on top of John straddling his lap. 

"Indeed it is not. Tell me, is it true? I heard before a great battle it is custom for the wives of soldiers to give in to their husbands demands fully to take away the stress and raise moral?" This was enough to excite John completely; his attention now focuses solely on the prince. The filthy suggestion makes him hard on the spot and Bob can already feel it. 

"Well, my prince, from what I heard it is custom. But since I am not your wife I can only tell you what I heard from others." It was a challenge Bob took willingly. 

"You are right you are not my wife or rather my husband, for now. A bit aside from that, tomorrow at the same time I will be your king and even the toughest pirates obey to what the king demands, right?" Bob's hand made its way around John's throat putting on pressure not enough to cut the air from his lungs but enough to show John who is in charge.

"Yes my King." It was a revelation and a plea at the same time. John taking a glance at the future king the confidence and pride looked so good on him. The candles at the desk made Bob shine in a golden light. 

"Take me as an offering, from the gods to another." That was all Bob needed to hear. Placing kisses everywhere on John, not a single part of skin left untouched. Bob got rid of John's undergarments continuing his kisses down to his sensitive parts. 

"You tell me when it gets too much right?" Bob's voice is soft in concern. 

"With you my love there is no such thing as too much." 

A laugh leaves Bob's mouth prepping a line of kisses from John's chin all the way down to his bellybutton. 

"Enough, you will tell me right ?" 

"Yes, my King" It sounded so teasing and as a result Bob saw the back of his own head, making it his mission to get the smug expression off of John's face. 

The sensation felt different to anything Bob ever felt before. It were John's hands gripping him as if his life depended on it, his pleas of Bob going just a little faster, a request he gladly fulfills. 

With John's moans filling the room, which Bob is the reason of, something washes over him. When he looks at John's strains of so deliciously berry blond hair, at his unkempt beard, at the many battlescares which adorn his body, a need overcomes Bob.  A desire to crawl under John's skin and make himself home there. 

"I will change the laws." His nails dig deep into John's skin leaving new scares to admire later. 

"I will bend them to my liking. You will rule tight next to me, never leaving my side." Every normal person in this world would be scared by now or at least worried meanwhile John's eyes soften, getting lost in Bob's words. 

Bob picks up on John's behaviour thrusting his hips like some kind of a wild beast. His hands and teeth matching the pattern with bites and one hand ending up again on John's throat.

"Say it. I want to hear it again. Say you won’t leave me."

"The day I leave you is the day I die Bob." With a last unforgiving thrust Bob claims John in the same way John did him so many times before while John spends himself over the two of them. With the rush gone the tightening in Bob's chest releases itself without warning. The tears come involutory, John is quick in placing Bob into a more comfortable position. 

"Pardon me, I should't have- does your neck hurt? Your chest... I think I bit too hard." With force John cups Bob's entire face in his large hands placing a single tender kiss on the tip of Bob's nose. 

"Did it feel right? Did you enjoy it?" Bob thinks for a second and then nods as good as he can in this grip.

"So did I. I love you Bob and if you want things to go this way more often then-"

"I don't think that is going to happen again any time soon." John laughs first and since his laugh is contagious Bob can not hold himself back and laughs too. 

"I meant what I said tough."

"I know, there is nothing your stubborn head won't do, my King."

-------------

To John's demise but not surprise, Bob was not very great with the sword nor the pistol. For the last five years John tried. First introducing Bob to the sword, he brought him one with a small handle and a thin blade, but nothing could compensate for his lack of balance. And the pistol? Well aiming at your target with your eyes closed being afraid of the loud bang and recoil guarantees a 99 percent chance of missing.

Some men are just not made for wars, John thought to himself while looking at Bob who was still shaking from nearly 30 attempts to hit his target. The clay jar was completely unharmed. 

That didn't matter now, it couldn’t. Right before a battle there is no room for regrets or doubts.

"Bob, are you ready? Ready for the rest of your life to begin?" John gently stroked Bob's face with the outside of his hand tugging a strain of hair behind his ear.

"Yes- Yes I am ready." John placed a kiss on Bob's forehead, heeling to leave, Bob grabbing his hand. 

"John please promise me. Promise me you will not leave me." 

"Again, this will not be our last shared moment. I promise you we will spend so many more days together that you will eventually become sick of me."

Shortly before they arrived at Bob's future Kingdom, John thought about his decision to no longer insist on Bob learning how to fight properly again but there was no turning back now. At the very least Bob put on some weight so that he didn't look like a straw in a field anymore.

The small army of men trying to make a difference against the wild pirate-crew was poorly trained. And John was right. The king, Bob's father was in fact a lousy regent, his defense weak. 

Only three days later at dawn they conquered the capital and made their way towards to the king's castle.  

The others go right around and check for defense. A few king guards were taken down. John didn't trust the situation. He wouldn't believe the king had so few men to protect the castle and John was right. 

Someone let the gate down and there they were. Over hundred men standing shoulder to shoulder reading to fight the intruders. Disgust running through John, so many men to protect the castle and the King so little to protect the town. He didn't have a lot of time to think about it because the guards were already coming at them. 

John grabbed Bob by his collar, doing his best to shield him.

"Sword in both hands Bob, I fear you will need it this time." 

Adrenalin rushed through both men. John standing tall before Bob. 

Swords were clicking, blood was spilled. People got taken down. Mostly kingsguards but also some of their crew. John never loses his focus on Bob, to his own disadvantage. 

The blade from the kingsguard in front of him made its way across his torso. The scream he let out changed something in Bob. 

Unconsciously Bob pushed John to the side and shot the guard directly into his chest. The body landed on the ground with a thud.  

From this point on Bob was no longer scared. Next to John he slaughtered the men who had an impact on making his life hell. He was messy and from time to time John had to take over to make sure the target was completely down and not only wounded. 

The last guard knelt on the blood soaked ground. Bob pointed his sword directly at his throat. 

"Where are they?"

"Prince Robert I beg you, I have my wife and children at home please spare me." The eyes of the men before him were filled with tears, his whole body shaking. 

"You will be spared, now speak, where are they?"

"There hiding in the dungeons my Prin-"

The man's throat was covered in his own blood mid-sentence.  Bob felt John's intense glare on him without looking back at him.

"He didn't care about his family when I told him to stop the night I turned eighteen." 

There was no time for sentiments now. They were still at war but John wished he could pull Bob into his arms right now, giving him all the comfort he deserves.  

While Bob and John made their way into the great hall the other crew members started looking for the king and queen and remaining guards. 

They were staring at the pompous throne at the end of the hall. 

"I will let them build a second one for you."

Because of the adrenaline going through his veins Bob didn't noticed that the sword put more damage on John than he would admit. John fell to his knees, his upper body doubled over in pain. 

"No no no no no, John just a little longer we’re nearly done. We are nearly where we dreamed to be. You and me, together."

"Bob I will be fine, just do what you have to do."

Bob wanted to say something but the remaining crew came back from the dungeons with the king and queen, in chains.

With a deep breath bob pulled himself together, for them. In long, dragging steps he made his way over to his parents. His heavy footsteps echoing through the great hall. He stopped right in front of them. 

His gaze was serious, eyebrows folded deep. This was the moment he fantasized about. For the last few years he dreamed about this nearly every night. He thought about what he would say and do. Finally getting his revenge. His head turned right, to his mother. She looked tired, her eyes as empty as Bob’s used to be.

"Nothing in my life will change if you're here or at the end of the world. You will never set a foot in this kingdom ever again. I promise you safe conduct till the border of the kingdom. From then on, you will be on your own."

He is not sure if his mother is even listening but before he can repeat his words, she is dragged out by the two crew members holding her. 

Bob's gaze lands his father, kneeling before him. Slowly he squats down, his whole body tense from the fight. The silence is deafening, unbearable until his father dears to speak.

"My son. My only child.  You came back to-"

The first punch did hurt after a few repeats; his fist went numb. So did his mind. The next thing he registers is someone talking to him. He can't see straight everything is blurry.

"It's done Bob, it's done. You need to calm down. We brought John into a chamber, the healer will take care of him. You come with me." He feels that he is getting dragged somewhere, his body bumps into something soft, then complete darkness. 

When he shoots awake he has no sense of direction. He stumbles and feels some fabric and pulls it to the side. The curtain reveals the dark night as the moon floods the room with its light. 

When he walks through the corridors of the castle he is still in the clothes he wore in battle. A scream told him where to run. The wooden doors opened, hitting the wall behind them. 

John was spread on a table, blood and sweat covering his body. The tears on his face falling like waterfalls. But before he can take a step closer someone pushes him right outside the door. 

"Just wait, we take care of him, we-"

Bob fisted the collar of the shirt from the person in front of him.

"I will stay." His words didn't left any room for arguments. Making his way back into the room. He thought he saw everything by now, that nothing could hurt him anymore, but this was something else. John, losing blood in so many places and so much of it, so many deep purple bruises. The room filled with nothing but his screams and heavy breathing.

And Bob stood there, horrified, guilt in every bone, but this wasn't about him. This time he needed to soak in a deep breath and stay calm. This one time he had to be the stronger person. So he choked it all down, his fears and the tears. Gently taking John's hand in his, breathing in a steady rhythm. 

"You will be fine my dare, everything will be fine." And for a second John believed him, then all he could see was how Bob turned into black allconsuming void. All he could feel was a slight tap on his cheek and the last thing he heard was a scream that wasn't his, ragged and bloodchilling, "You promised you won’t leave me!"

Six Months Later 

The golden sunlight fills the room. Through the thin windows the townsfolk can be heard, chattering, arguing, laughing. The smells of freshly baked sweets slip through the cracks of the stoned walls. 

The bedsheets slowly begin to ruffle. A deep jawn escapes Bob; he keeps his eyes closed at first, his hand wandering off to his side but it was cold and empty. Before he would fall back to sleep he decided it would be best to just leave the bed. 

Before he could even open the curtains fully, his servant storms in.

"My king, you're finally awake, we need to get you ready!" The servant made a fuss around Bob, placing the king's breakfast on the table. He then starts to warm up some water in the tub, while waiting for the water to heat up he starts picking out the clothes, his eyes again landing on the king who didn't move a finger. 

"My king? You don't like your breakfast? Should I get you something else? Or is your majesty not feeling well?"

Bobs seemed dazed off from the outside but the truth was he just wasn't sure how he felt. The fact that Bob didn't give an answer was enough for the servant a clear hint to not ask any further.

After the bath and Bob being tucked into his attire he and the servant left the chamber together. In the halls people were running around. The bakers carried cakes and tarts from one of the many tables to another. The ladies in waiting draped flowers over every wall, table and chair they could find. His servant was pulled by the side and Bob took it as his opportunity to escape this chaos. 

He made his way down the great hall, all the way to the exact opposite of the castle. His hand rose to knock on the door in front of him. 

"You can come in, when your name is not Bob."

"Are you trying to kill me? Why are you denying me access on this most beautiful of days."

John stepped closer seeing Bob's shadow peeking through the thick door. John rests his forehead against the old wood.

"You know. It's bad luck seeing each other before the ceremony right?"

Bob inches closer to the door, his forehead also resting against the wood now. 

"I can not believe that after everything we have been through, what we have seen, you still believe in superstitions."

They both started to laugh and tried to take in the others' presence as long as possible. 

"Bob, you have to go back, they need you."

"You know, we can still leave. We can sail away to unknown jungles or deserts. We can taste foreign fruits in our mouths and have the rough wind strike through our hair. For you I would-"

"I know, I know but think about them. Think about the people who suffered so much under the reign of your father. Don't they deserve someone who takes care of them, someone who is gentle and caring and fair?"

Bob understood, yes John was right but it still didn't sit well with Bob that it felt like an obligation. Hey would find a way to make everyone satisfied but right now he tried to only look a few hours ahead. 

"My Love, I will see you later. I can’t wait."

John stood there a little longer, Bob already gone. Smiling to himself like a fool. Yes he misses the sea deeply, but he would give every single drop of the ocean to spend a minute with Bob and that was all that counts. 

The sun was high in the sky. The halls were flooded with people from every corner of the kingdom and beyond. The ringing of the bells could be heard throughout the whole country. The ceremony was short as intended but the celebration afterwards was far from it.

Together they danced and sang until the sun already started to come out again. They sneaked away through the drunken and happy crowd back to their shared chambers both falling back first into the mattress. Their mouths find each other in an instant. 

"If I am being honest with you, I think I am way too tired for a first night." Bob, who was at least a little tipsy, couldn't hold back his laughter. To John it seemed it was the loudest and most purest one he ever heard from him so far.

"We had so many first nights and we will have so many in the future, I think we can skip this one."

They got rid of their festive robes and fell asleep tangled into each other just like they always did now from now on the two golden rings would keep them company.

Two Years Later 

"Where are you going?"

"I will visit the blacksmith and his family. They need help to patch up the roof of their house after the heavy storm yesterday."

Bob gave John an approving nod and turned back to writing. Bob knew that John was lying but it was okay. It was okay that he would visit the blacksmith for a short period of time and then he would head off to the kingdom's harbour. Watching for hours as the ships came and left, admiring every single one of them. 

At first Bob was a little hurt that John didn't tell him. On the other hand Bob sent someone after John to observe him. Not because Bob actually thought John would have something with someone else. He was worried about John. After he heard that John would occasionally go to the harbour, Bob started to pick up on his plans.

On one peculiar night John stole himself back into their shared chambers. He didn't expect for his husband to still be awake at such an ungodly hour. 

"My King, I apologize if I kept you awake with my absence." 

"Shut it John. Might tell me where you've been in the secureness of the dark?" 

"I told you I would help the baker fix his-" 

"Oh I know you did. The baker sent his acknowledgements, he also told me that you finished the oven shortly before the sun started to settle. So I am asking you again, where were you?"

"I was down at the docks." 

"Having some fun at the taverns? So you're fooling around while I drown under my duties?" 

The late hours are partly to blame for what John does now. He drops to his knees, his hands buried in Bob's robe.

"I would never do such thing. You will not find a drop of alcohol on me I just-" 

Guilt stings in Bob's chest, this was supposed to be a light tease not a proper accusation. 

"Get up from your knees John, I am just messing with you. I already know, for quite some time to be honest." 

"Why didn't you say something I don't want to anger you." 

"You could never. It is my pride you struck. Don't you trust me?" 

"This isn't about trust. I don't want to be another burden on your shoulders, another thought haunting the corners of your mind." 

"But I don't want you to suffer, John, quite the opposite." 

"What have you come up with now?"

-------------

"Bob, I am not sure if that is a good idea." John makes a pause ringing with himself not sure how well Bob will receive the following words.

"All of it. I mean letting the townsfolk choose your successor is one thing but with you, with us leaving, the kingdom would be unprotected and vulnerable." 

"We will come back." 

"And still you would be gone for a year." 

"John this conversation is purely for you to be informed I already made the decision." 

John opens his mouth and closes it again keeping his thoughts to himself. "As stubborn as a god damn mule."

The town is covered in pamphlets the next day. -Every woman and man shall think wisely in proposing a worthy successor. They will take on the burden and rule the kingdom in the absence of the King and beyond. They shall be of age and a reflection of what the people need and want.-

Bob was worried at first that this venture would confuse the people or even worse would lead to an outrageous revolt but quite the opposite happened. Two weeks after the announcement in the middle of the marketplace stood a young woman with raven hair and blue eyes nervously tugging at the hem of her dress. There wasn't even a need for a tournament, The clear majority voted for her, Kate. 

For the next months Bob did everything he could to teach her the things that are important to rule a kingdom and sooner that anticipated John and Bob could set sail. 

They were just making the final preparations when Bob could see it in John's eyes, the same look he gave him years ago in the cabin every time he spoke about his past, the same look short before they conquered the kingdom. 

"John, I beg you, please trust me."

"This is about everything but trust. So many things can happen. We could drown in a heavy storm, we could get attacked, robbed and shot."

"I have to wonder why you now seem to care about all those things after all those years on sea before."

John takes a deep breath and with every following word he exhales the air. 

"It didn't matter before. It was just me. Now, I am worried about you."

"As long as I am with you I am not scared, whether of obstacles, dangers or death." 

Bob reaches his hand out, John takes it without a second thought and so they enter the wild unruly sea together. 

------------------------------------------

Do you like happy endings? Great, then stop reading because now it gets angsty. 

You've been warned.

------------------------------------------

Twenty years seems like a long time right? Well, when our time comes to an end, we will almost ever wish for more. These were King Bob's thoughts while laying next to his beloved. John's years on sea were catching up to him. His back and limps hurt, tying him to the bed. His heart beats in uneven patterns. The physicians said there is no such thing as a cure. The healers said they should cherish their remaining days together. They were giving him two more years. It wasn't easy for Bob to watch John suffer, two years of almost never leaving the bed. Two years always being on the edge that their current moment could be their last, together. At the end John made it to three and a half. 

"Bob?" John's voice was thick and raspy, and still the sweetest of sounds in Bob's ears. 

"This is the night I will break my promise." Bob knew this day would come but still nothing could prepare him for the sting in his heart and the emptiness in his lungs. He tried to be strong for both of them. Taking his lover's hand without saying a single word, there was nothing more left to say, the only sound in the room was John's heavy breathing until it wasn't and loud silence filled the room. 

Hours passed Bob not leaving John's side. Not letting go of his hand. Bob didn't remember who pulled him out of the bed. It didn't matter, nothing did anymore. 

Usually royals were buried in a family grave, but not John. John was a man of the sea and so his body was placed on a boat. It was Bob who set it alight so his Love could leave this life as he lived it. With the deep ocean under his feet. 

Bob tried so hard. Talking to his friends, well it was more them talking to him while his mind wandered off. He went to the library a lot but couldn't bring himself to read a single book, only strolling through the endless rows of shelves. He ate but never enough. His face faltered, his bones poking beneath his skin something that didn't happen anymore since he met John.

John's death anniversary came fast. Bob was alone at the shore staring at the open sea when he made his final decision.

For the following year Bob had a lot of meet ups with Kate making sure the role as queen wouldn't become too much on her. He attended festivities, he sang, danced and wrote. He wrote everything down from his first encounter with John to every adventure they lived through.  A week before John's second death anniversary Bob was finished. It was the middle of the night, everyone except the King was fast asleep. The King made his own bed and left a sealed letter on his bedside table. He greeted the few people he met while walking around the castle with a polite nod. Then he went down to the coast, the breeze warm and salty welcoming him like an old friend. He already left his crown in his chambers. He took off his sand-filled shoes and let his robe fall from his body in a single motion. 

When the water reaches his toes a small but genuine smile forms on his lips. While taking one step after another his eyes never lose focus on the open sea in front of him until it vanishes and he is met with the same glacier blue eyes he fell in love with all those years ago. 

But that was supposedly just another one of the symptoms. Shellshocked, the upper brass declared, although not until after he had continued to fight to see the German surrender. Cracked in the head, his sergeant father asserted when he returned home with nothing but a sneer on his face at the slightest mention of the glory of war. Only his mother hadn’t diagnosed him or frankly said anything at all, at least not to his face. Her look of abject grief, as though she was sharing her dining table with a ghost, hurt more than his father’s disapproving, if barely hidden, pride that he hadn’t managed to outrank him even in wartime. 

His eyes widen, his pulse rises till he hears his own heartbeat in his ear, he lives alone he shouldn't hear a voice here, in the kitchen, in the middle of the night. Now he stood there with the bottle in hand, not able to move.

"I said, do it!" Instead of the cabin the bottle shattered on the tiles, glass and liquid spreading in every direction but that will be a problem for tomorrow.

He sprinted back to his bedroom, locking the door from within. If it was an intruder they could just take what they want and leave, but the chances were much higher that it was Robert's own mind playing games with him.

Instead of tugging himself under his sheets, he kneels, his hands neatly folded on the mattress praying for the voices to stop.

The next morning he cleans the kitchen floor and is grateful that none of the tiles were broken. The visit to the doctor was quite useless, just as he thought.

Diagnosis, withdrawal symptoms and the sleep deprivation just plays right into it. Given his background the doctor couldn't prescribe Robert sleeping pills, instead the doctor handed him a box of lavender tea.

Robert spends the rest of his day in the community garden to distract himself. In the early afternoon Ms Mitchell pays him a visit.

"Father Reynolds, it's good to see you outside of this old church." Ms Mitchell was properly one of the oldest people in this town, never shy to speak her mind.

"Ms Mitchell just when I thought this day couldn't get any better you come around."

He rises from the ground he just knelt on and offers her a simple, short bow. Now she could see him fully, the sleepless nights showing on his face especially under his eyes.

"You're such a charmer. Is everything well dear?”"

For a second he thinks about telling her the truth, the look she gives him holds the promise of zero judgment but he doesn't want to bother her.

"Everything’s been good so far. I think this town took a liking in me, or at least I hope so."

"Oh don’t worry dear, everybody here loves you." A sign of relief forms on his lips. "Thank you for your service father. I need to leave now and have a good sleep later. It looks like you need it."

He just laughs politely and watches her leave. Ms Mitchell silently prays that Father Reynolds will not disappear like the ones that came before him.

He drank one, then half an hour later a second cup, when he reached the bottom of his third he had mentally given up. Convinced that not even anesthesia could put him to sleep. He made himself comfortable under the sheets and then to his own surprise, drifted into a welcomed darkness.

When he opened his eyes he was not in his bedroom anymore, he was in his childhood bedroom. Without being able to do anything about it he goes down the stairs.

That's when he hears it, the loop of his dads belt landing right on Robert's back. He was ten and failing miserably in school and in his fathers eyes, a beating was the right way to get some sense into his son.

Everything inside Robert wants to walk away, to scream. Instead his feet carry him closer to the scene. He passes his mother who covers her ears with both hands.

Then he sees himself, his way too thin body, the familiar fear in his eyes.

Robert lets his gaze wander over the scene and spots something, a creature which doesn't belong in this picture. Before he can say or do anything his Dad lets go of his younger version and turns to his present self.

"What is it Bobby? Still scared of a little discipline?"

Robert jumps backwards protecting his face with his hands as if it's still second nature, the scene slowly vanishes and everything turns to a suffocating darkness.

"Why are you doing this to me!" He shouts, at who? He doesn't know but he repeats it until he shoots awake, real this time.

His brown locks cling to his forehead, his grey shirt is covered in dark spots. The worst part, it's still not even midnight.

The warm water washes away his sweat and eases his mind a little. He rests his forehead on the cold tiles, looking down at himself then slowly closing his eyes, thinking about a way to clear his mind and relax his body for some time. The voice made itself present again.

"Poor Robert, too ashamed to get himself a little relief." The voice was mocking him but this time Robert will speak up even if it was with his eyes closed.

"Are you the one haunting my dreams?"

"Oh what a bright spark you are. Tell me Robert, since you're afraid to touch yourself should I help you out?"

Now this was different, Robert actually felt something. He felt a cold hand on his lower back. At first it felt like the palm of a hand until it turned into something sharp.

In a rush of panic Bob turns around screaming at the top of his lunges. "Whatever you are, stay away from me! You are banned from this room, this house, these grounds!"

Robert peeks one eye open and to his horror he sees no one. Nothing but a chuckle echoes through the room and everything is quiet again. Looking down on himself, Robert now had a new problem.

He stayed longer under the shower than intended and went back to bed. He was not sure if he was actually sleeping but how else would he explain what just saw.

It was an old memory, one Robert hoped the drugs and alcohol took with them.

When he was a teenager he was desperate more often than not. Never able to find a stable supplier. So one night a man promised to get him some for an exchange.

It was always an exchange. Bob can remember how cold he was from kneeling in this dark alleyway, how long it took since the man clearly had some problems with keeping his dick up.

He remembers how dirty he felt when the stranger came down his throat. The fix he got afterwards let him forget it in no time.

Without being able to do anything else he steps a little closer. That's when he realized this was not the man from his memories. No the man had black hair, was not as tall and definitely more chubby than the man Robert saw now.

The man who now stood in front of his younger self was taller than Robert, muscular with broad shoulders and instead of ramming his dick inside Robert's mouth he gently stroked over his cheeks keeping a slow almost sensual rhythm.

Robert could feel his pants tighten. His hand mindlessly wanders to his own dick applying pressure. This was wrong, this whole scene shouldn't turn him on, he shouldn't touch himself while watching himself.

At the same time he thought that this was all just a dream, nothing of this was real, so he let go.

His hand in his pants, covering his mouth with the other. When he feels himself coming close, the scene vanishes again.

When he blinks his eyes open his hand is covered in his cum. His chest rapidly falls up and down. His throat is as dry as the desert.

The next day he makes himself busy putting up more crosses around the house and for the next few days nothing out of the ordinary happens, until Sunday.

One of his duties as a priest was to sit in the confessional booth and forgive the confessed sins. It were always the same people. Some who had thoughts about someone outside of their marriage, some alcoholics and on occasion, someone who viewed not washing your hands before dinner as a sin.

Everything went on as usual, Robert was right at leaving the booth thinking that was it for the day until the door of the other side opened and closed.

All of a sudden the air felt different, heavy and cold.

Robert tries to identify who just sat down. All he sees is a glimpse of strawberry blond hair and a shirt that didn't seem to be from this century.

Robert clears his throat gesturing for the other man to start his confession.

"Forgive me Father, I have sinned."

The voice scratches something in Robert's brain but he can't quite place it.

"Tell me your sins and you may be forgiven, son."

"I have layed with a man, Father. And now I have improper thoughts about another." There was not a single bit of remorse in the confession and Robert was sure that the man was smiling but it didn't matter.

"It is stated by the bible that a man shall not lay with another man but it is also stated that the lord loves all of his creations equally. Now Son, you are forgiven."

"But Father, I can not stop these thoughts."

Robert soaked in a deep breath "Tell me about these thoughts sometimes if we share our sins they lessen. God loves all his creations equally."

He heard a small huff from the man.

"Well father, I think about my hand roaming around his body, coming to a stop on his neck. I think about my hand taking his clothes off till nothing is left except his bare, naked body under mine. I think about my lips leaving marks on his sweet and soft neck."

It was safe to say that Robert was now completely caught in those thoughts too.

"I think about kissing his soft lips while I enter myself inside him. I think about the way he would moan out my name, his locks clinging to his forehead, his fingernails digging into my back."

Robert was a mess, single streaks of sweat appeared on his forehead with his mouth slightly open.

"The worst part is that I think about spending myself inside of him, my hand covering his cute little cross tattoo right over his hip."

Unconsciously Robert's hand wanders down to his own hip until he remembers that he in fact has a tattoo of a cross, right there. Roberts' gut is twisting like hell. He never told everyone in his life that he has a tattoo to begin with.

"What is it Father? Don’t like what you just heard?"

When Robert came back to his senses he pulled away the metallic divider, again there was no one, the other side of the booth was empty.

He ran into his small office. Pulling a cigarette from one of the drawers of his desk with shaking hands. He lits the cigarette with the same matches he uses for the candles in the church.

He stopped right in front of his mouth but again the voice urged him, tempted him.

"Do it Robert. Nobody is watching, nobody will know."

And he does, the drag is long and his lunges fill with smoke. After he exhales, the consequences of his actions appear. He vomits right into the empty bucket standing in the corner, hearing a distant laugh. This has to come to an end, one way or another.

It never occurred to him to question it but now he was curious and a little paranoid. He wanted to know what this church actually was, when it was built, what happened on its grounds.

He finds himself at the local library. He asks for every book in relation to the church, there are two to be exact.

The first one is filled with dates and building information. The second one was a book about the town in general. The church building was built around the late 18th century but before that around 1630 a single witch tribunal had been held on the ground it now stood on.

-Jonathan F. Walker was probably in his late twenties to early thirties when he was accused of adultery and the act of laying with another man. Since he refused to speak on his behalf he was found guilty on the same day of his testimony. He was burned alive the day after.-

Robert turns the page, it's a hand drawn caricature of the ritual. A man with wild hair, his upper body bound to a flock, surrounded by logs with bursting flames.

It physically hurt Rober to look at it and he could swear that the man was staring right back at him.

A shrill voice shakes him out of his thoughts.

"Father, the library closes in ten."

Robert nods, burrows the book and takes it home.

Sitting on his kitchen chair he reads over the same paragraphs again and again.

He then gets completely lost in the caricature, his finger trailing over the black lines. A wave of sadness floods him, this man didn't deserve to die for what he did, especially not this way.

Maybe this Jonathan Walker was the voice tempting him, plaguing his dreams, as revenge. Now what was Robert supposed to do about it?

The candles were lit, a pentagram drawn on the floor with white chalk. His bible in one hand, a thick wooden cross in the other, his rosary around his neck.

-------------

This was probably the stupidest idea anyone ever had, summoning the demon that already haunts you, but it was the best idea he could come up with and that speaks for itself.

"In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit I summon you to show yourself Jonathan Walker!"

At first nothing happened, then a strong wind blew out the candles, the windows and doors were all closed. After what felt like an eternity the candles lit up again without Robert doing anything.

There he stood, his hair falling a little in his face, his sapphire blue eyes piercing right through Robert. The man wore a smug grin on his face.

All what Jonathan Walker could see was a Priest, shaking from head to toe holding onto his holy relics as if they could protect him.

"Congratulations Father Reynolds you caught me, what now?." He didn't mean anything he said sincerely, he made it sound like a sick game of hide and seek.

Robert just stood there still in shock but determined to carry on with his plan.

"I want to know- I want to know why you're doing all of this to me?"

"What exactly do you mean Father?" Oh John knew exactly what he meant but why not have a little fun before devouring his dinner.

"I mean the dreams and the-the temptations." The freshest winter snow would look dark next to Robert's face, pale as if he has seen a ghost. Technically he is seeing one so his reaction is justified.

John just pouts his lips and shrugs his shoulders, which confuses Robert even more.

"Well I summoned you to help you to let go of your past and to finally step over, finding the peace you deserve."

John starts to laugh with his whole heart, if there still is one.

"Why are you laughing? I am granting you your final rest. Confess your sins and you will be granted eternal peace and rest."

"Sure Father I confess. My wife and I loved each other for a long time until we didn’t. We both found someone new but I was not careful enough, times were different. So I was burned at the stakes for being in love."

Robert had to swallow hard. This was an honest confession even though John seemed to find it amusing. To Bob, this man never did anything wrong, nothing he would need forgiveness for. John becomes impatient at the silence.

"Father Robert, I am here because I want to. You know, they send the Priests here they want to get rid of. Wife beaters, pedophiles, drug addicts and normally I do them the favour. But you're different, you're not a bad person, you're just not what they expect from you."

"Then why not leave me alone?"

"Oh because you're way too pretty. I want to have my fun with you. You look even prettier when you're scared, the way your mouth opens and your eyes widen, I could watch this every fucking day."

John steps out of the circle which was supposed to trap him. With every word closing the distance between him and Robert. Now their mouths were just millimeters away from each other.

John licks devilish over his own lips while Bob comes to terms with his life hoping his death will be quick.

"Oh god."

"I don’t think he can't help you now Bobby."

John pushes Bob onto the table behind him. Pining his upper body down with one hand while getting rid of Bob's pants with the other.

"Oh it seems someone is already sinning."

John lets his index finger drag over Bob’s still covered bulge and then tears the remaining shorts down.

Poor Bob didn’t stand a chance. John must have been blessed with incredible strength in his past life.

John drags his sharp nails over Bob's tights, which makes him whimper in a mix of pain and pleasure.

"Something to remember tomorrow."

Bob decides it's best for him to fix his gaze on the ceiling, maybe he fell asleep at some point. Then he feels John tongue on his cock and it hits him. This is definitely not a dream.

John wastes no time and takes Bob length in completely, the overwhelming sensation makes Bob jolt in pleasure, which earns him a hard push, back on the table.

"Oh god–"

"Not god Bobby, John"

"John I can’t please this is-" John's long, thick fingers find their way into Bob's mouth and without giving it a second thought Bob sucks on them as if his life depends on it.

John never falters from his relentless pace, no wonder that Bob approaches his high earlier than John anticipated.

"I can feel that you're close Bobby, let go for me." Bob shakes his head in a frantic no and lets John's fingers fall from his mouth.

Bob nearly chokes on his own words, his fingernails digging into the wooden table. "Forgive me father for I am about to sin! Oh-Oh god-"

John just rolls his eyes at Bob's words while Bob shamelessly spends himself down his throat.

The moan that escapes Bob's mouth indicates that his high is kind of painful is. John places small kisses on Bob's abdomen as a reparation, especially on that cute tattoo over his hip, still Bob doesn't open his eyes, he didn't dare to.

The next thing that Robert registers is the tickle of sunlight on his nose. A short gaze to his alarm clock, 8 am. For the first time in a long time he slept kinda good.

He sits up and a sharp pain runs over his right leg. He flips away the blanket, long and deep, red scratches are revealed to him.

Something to remember the next morning.

Panicked he made his way downstairs seeing the pentagram, the fallen candles. As his eyes wander across the room he realizes that all the crucifixes and crosses are upside down.

Without thinking he finds himself under the shower, the boiling hot water making his skin go red.

-------------

For the next few days John didn't show up. Bob started to question his sanity, maybe he hallucinated and harmed himself in the process.

Then Sunday mass came, Robert stood on the pulpit preaching the words of the lord to those who would listen and between them sat John smirking up at him.

Good thing that Robert's robe was at least one size too big.

Afterwards he sat in the confession booth but he couldn't listen properly. Too scared or maybe too excited that John would pay him a visit and of course he did.

Bob was already a mess when John stepped inside the part of the where he sat.

John gently pats his head seeing that tears were already forming in Bob's eyes.

"If I didn't know any better, it seemed like you were waiting for me."

He wanted to protest, he really did but John was so fast. Already pinning Bob's hands over his head, against the wall of the booth. Opening his own pants and pulling his dick out then forcing Bobs mouth open with his fingers.

"Come on Bobby, don’t go prude on me now. What was it you said? God loves all his creations equally? He will also have some love left for my favourite whore."

While fighting for air Bob opens his mouth just the tiniest bit but it's enough for John to push all the way in.

"Oh wow Bobby, you feel great. It makes me really wonder what your ass will feel like."

John doesn't let Bob do anything, he just uses his mouth as he pleases. Making sure that Bob would not go unconscious, that would ruin all the fun. John can’t help but admire the view beneath him.

"Has someone ever told you that you're a really pretty cryer, Bobby?" Now sobs came into the mix, it was almost heartbreaking but John knew that Bob wanted this, if not he wouldn't even be able to touch him in the first place.

John reduces his speed a little giving Bob a chance to get some air into his lunges. Unintentionally John's free hand wanders to Bob's rosy cheek, placing tender strocks till Bob leans into the touch.

"Take all of it Father, it's just for you."

Bob nods a little too eager, pressing his eyes closed as he waits for John to finish. John's growl echo filthy through the booth back into Bobs ears, as John comes. As the ever eager the please person Bob was, he swallowed every drop John gave him.

"Open." Without thinking Bob obeys, sticking out his tongue. John inspected his mouth, pleased with the resault.

The last thing Bob feels before passing out from the overwhelm is a slight pat on his cheek.

This time it's still dark outside when Robert wakes up from coughing. His throat hurts like hell, he drowns the water in mere seconds. He can not remember putting it on the nightstand in the first place.

-------------

You are disgusting! A pig! A faggot! A disgrace!

The words his father used to say to him hammer through his head. Robert feels dirty, sinful, like a disgrace. To help the feelings go away he does what he always does.

Robert buries himself in prayers and punishes himself with restrictive eating. Just as his parents showed him when he was a kid.

Soon it doesn't feel like enough. He has a wooden ruler in the drawer of his desk and he uses it, mostly on the backside of his hands and fingers. Much to the dislike of John, still he did not intervene at first.

The days dragged on and Robert fell into a deep hole of making himself as miserable as possible. Now John stopped plaguing his dreams but Bob starved himself of sleep on purpose now.

One day Robert sat in his office actively cutting his skin with the letter opener. That was the last straw for John, didn't even knew that they could be this sharp. It was a strange sight, Bob hurled over, whispering verses while his blood dropped to the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think I am doing?" John aggressively pulled the opener out of Bob's hand.

"This needs to stop, you're killing yourself."

"Why do you care?"

"When you're so desperate for a punishment I will do it."

John grabs Bob by his hair and yanks him over the desk.

"How many do you think you deserve?"

"Thirty?"

"I’ll make it sixty then and read out loud, if you stutter I will start all over again."

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ."

"For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight."

"Please John tell me we are already halfway through."

"Oh Bobby, we are at fifteen." John's voice covered in faux-sympathy.

Bob swallows, takes a deep breath and then continues.

"In love he predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves."

"In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace."

"Good Bobby, now repeat it until I am finished with you."

After forty Bob was a babbling mess, the sentences cut short but that was okay as long as he internalized the words.

"Bobby, we're done now, you can stop." But that was easier said than done. Bob repeated the words like a broken record. John squeezes his face and forces Bob to look at him, that gets him to stop.

"You did well Bobby but there is life after the punishment."

Bob just nods in agreement and John places a soft, almost tender kiss on Bob’s temple.

John pulls Bob's clothes back into place and sits him down on his chair, seeing that a white spot has formed on the lower half of his robe. John just shakes his head in amusement.

"No more self-punishment, understood?"

By the way his ass was hurting. What else could Bob do than to agree?

After John left, Robert sat there for a while watching the leaves from the big oak blowing in the wind.

He ate a little more than necessary that evening. The water from the showerhead is not too warm, not too cold, it's just right. His sleep is filled with sweet dreams.

-------------

"Father Reynolds, is everything prepared for the ceremony tomorrow? Is there something you need from us?" Tom Westborough tears Robert out of his daydream.

"Sure thing Tom, everything is ready for tomorrow, you can leave." The younger man head on his heal and leaves the church with the brightes smile on his face and Robert couldn't help but smile too.

"He is pretty, don’t you think?"

"He is getting married tomorrow."

"I didn't hear a no, Father."

"Watch your mouth John, you are still in a church."

"Oh come on why are you so tense? You know that envy is a sin too?"

"I don’t envy them, I worry about them, for them."

"Why? They are not the first two men getting married under the hand of the church."

"I know, but there are crazy people out there, I just don't want anything to happen to them."

Every word carried a deep note of sincereness, John could hear it. How can one have so much compassion for others but none for himself?

John did not attend the wedding, something Robert was grateful for. Everything went smooth and after the ceremony ended, Robert retreated to his home.

Long social events always demand a lot of him. At least he got a reason to wear his festive robe instead of the plain black one.

A bright, clean white with golden hand stitched applications. He looked at himself a little too long in the mirror, also taking note of the grey strains becoming more and more present. Just when he was about to take the robe off, a hand stopped his.

"No, keep it on, you look beautiful."

He left no room for argument, his mouth already attacking Bob's neck. John spreads Bob's legs with his own which causes Bob's upper body to fall over.

His hands now positioned left and right on the mirror, his back arching giving John a perfect angle of his ass.

Bob just wanted to look behind himself but John pushed his head forward.

"Look at yourself while I take care of you."

Bob feels his robe being pushed up to his back, his legs already started to shake.

"John, I don't know if I can do this."

"I know you can, Bobby. Just stay focused on keeping your pretty hands on the mirror." Were John's last words before his mouth got to work on Bob's ass.

First John bites and pulls on his cheeks leaving a good amount of marks but patience has never been John's strongest suit. His tongue wandered to Bob's hole.

The moans falling out of Bob's mouth like a waterfall were deep, sinful and music to John's ears.

At some point John can feel that Bob's muscles start to give in while at the same time his breath starts to hitch.

John let go of Bob's right tight he clung on for support and stroked Bob's leaking cock instead. A cracked whine escapes Bob's lips; he looks down seeing what John does to him.

"John please I can't, it's too much."

"Eyes on the mirror Bobby, you don’t want me to stop right?"

Bob's head moves too fast, making him dizzy, John couldn't help it and let out a snort.

The thick white ropes of Bobs cum land directly on the lower part of the mirror. Bob nearly falls down to the ground but John catches him.

He gets Bob out of the robe and right into bed. To John, Bob looked like an angel while sleeping, with his curls smoothly laying over his forehead, his face soft and blushed, his lips slightly agape.

The next morning Bob reaches over to the other side of the bed and is greeted with more cold sheets. It was stupid to even think about it.

Bob stayed longer in bed than usual, not wanting to see the evidence of last night. The mirror. When he finally got up, a shy smile formed on his face, someone had already cleaned it up.

-------------

The next weeks were cruel. Robert pathetically waited for John to come back to him. He even catched himself getting hard just by the thought of John, of his hands, his fingers, and his mouth.

One night he had enough this stupid game and tried to provoke it. He brought a bottle of wine from the church over to his house and even put on his festive robe.

He just wanted it to be over. He wanted the constant feeling of being on the edge to go away, that's what Robert told himself.

He fills a wine glass halfway full and slowly moves it to his mouth but before he can take a sip he feels a presence behind him.

"Are you this desperate Bobby? You would really break your five year streak just to get my attention?"

The cold breath sent a shiver down Bob's spine. He sat the glass down on the table and turned around to John, landing on his knees.

"Please, I can’t do this any longer. Make it go away, please. This feeling, I can’t bear it anymore."

Oh the smug grind on John's face goes from one ear to the other. He had Bob right where he wanted him, on his knees, begging for him, praying for him, for John.

John gently moves the back of his hands over Bob's cheek, who then leans into the touch as if John was his only chance of salvation.

"I gave you time because I thought you weren't ready."

"I am- I am ready John, please."

John pulls Bob up and carries him to his bedroom, Bob's gaze never leaves John's face.

John's soft side was gone as fast as it came. He practically throws Bob into the bed positioning himself over him, trapping him between his legs.

His hands smoothly glided into Bob's hair, their lips crashing into each other. John's tongue doesn’t need permission to enter Bob’s mouth, he willingly lets him in. While John gives Bob time to breathe his mouth wanders down to Bob's neck. Leaving bruises as purple as a pure amethyst.

"I can not believe that you made yourself all pretty just for me." The whisper makes Bob shudder.

"I thought I should make it special since it’s my first-."

John's eyebrow rises, his smile drops.

"You are not going to tell me that you're a virgin, right?"

The red on Bob's cheeks turned from a soft pink to a full on red.

"I thought you knew. I had a not so pleasant night with a girl back in school. It was painful for me to keep him up, I came with my eyes closed, thinking about Henry from biology."

"And while-"

"I never took it beyond oral."

John sat back staring down at Bob, for the first time in a long time a conflict started to form in his mind. The silence thick between them until Bob gives his chest a slight push.

"Damn it John, I am a grown ass man. I think I can take it."

John's eyes darkened, the blue replaced with pitch black he bares his teeth and for a sweet second Bob regrets his last sentence. The fact that, with his words, he basically offered himself.

John's hands find their way under Bob's robe placing gentle circles around his nipples, Bob could have come from the stimulation alone but John had other plans. With one hand he pulls the robe over Bob's head and his mouth replaces his fingers.

"Can you- can you take your shirt off too?" Bob's voice is quiet and shaky but John gives in to his request.

Bob blinked several times in a row, maybe this demon of a man will be the death of him but it will be definitely worth it.

John's hands quickly get rid of Bob's boxers. His mouth landed back on his hole while his fingers found their way into Bob's mouth.

Way too early to Bob’s liking, John pulls his fingers out of his mouth only to press them where his tongue currently is. Slowly he pushes his index finger inside.

"Oh god, John"

Bob was already falling apart on one finger and John devoured every second of it.

After sometime, with three fingers, John had to check in if Bob was still present grabbing his face roughly with his free hand.

"You're still with me? We can save the rest for the next time."

"For heaven's sake John, don’t fucking stop."

John chuckles at that and pulls his fingers out, the loss making Bob whimper.

"Don’t worry Father, I will make you see heaven tonight."

Bob was pretty sure that John would break him in half. His fingers weren't enough, nothing could have prepared him for this.

His back arched way off the bed, his screams choked halfway in his throat, his grip on the bedsheets made his knuckles go white and still he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

"Shit Bobby, I knew that you would feel so good around me." John's voice is deep, otherworldly and hides a little of desperation.

When John was all the way buried inside he gave Bob time to adjust but it became too much quickly.

"John I swear to god, start moving." It was more a plea than an actual command both of them knew that.

"Aw a pretty Priest praying for my cock to spit him open. What did I do to deserve this?" On the last word he pulls out and pushes all the way in again hitting Bob's sweet spot. Bob's hands fly to John's back, his nails digging into his skin an attempt to anchor himself.

After a few repeats John finds a steady, merciless rhythm. The wall behind Bob's bed will need some fixing tomorrow that is for sure.

Maybe it's been minutes or maybe hours, both of them are too far gone to know. At some point John takes Bob's legs and presses them further up to Bob's torso.

With the new angle John hit even deeper, the last bit of air escaped Bob's lungs. Tears falling down his cheeks mixing with John’s and his own sweat.

"There he is, my pretty cryer you’ve been so good the whole time I think you deserve a reward."

Bob just sobs as a response and bats his eyes at John who then takes up speed. Bob's knees were nearly at the same height as his ears when John made sure that Bob came all over his stomach while John spent himself deep inside Bob.

John lowers Bob's body back into place still buried deep inside him, he leans forward carefully licking Bob's tears from his face.

When John pulls out a huge amount of his cum drops out of Bob which makes him whimper even more.

Bob doesn't dare to open his eyes, too scared that he will be alone when he opens them. This and the fact that his body was completely worn out made him fall asleep in an instant.

To his surprise, when he wakes up he feels a familiar breath from behind on his neck but he doesn't turn around.

"You’re still here?"

"I may be a demon but I am not a monster."

Bob looks down on his own body seeing the scratches and bitemarks.

"Are you sure about that? Wait, what time is it?"

"It's only nine, relax."

Bob just shifted closer into John's embrace when a rush of panic flooded through him.

"It’s fucking sunday, mass starts at ten."

Bob doesn't even make it halfway up till he falls back into the bed. His bottom is giving him a hard time.

"Stop, cut that fucking grin John. That is not funny."

"Well to me it is, let me help you."

In a heartbeat John stands in front of Bob lifting him up by his armpits.

"Great, now I feel like a wounded animal."

"If it helps, you also look like one."

While holding his mass today he couldn't count the time he corrected his collar, scared that someone would see John's bitemarks. Of course John sat in the corner and watched him the whole time, mocking him.

----------------

To John, a lot of things were funny such as Bob's fear of getting caught while doing something he shouldn't do. John could disappear at any time and that freaked Bob out, not that John would ever let Bob allow to get into such a situation.

On a cold February Sunday after mass and after his time in the confession booth Robert stood with his back to the altar, hovering over the lectern.

A firm hand gets a hold on his waist.

"John, leave. The church is still open, someone could come in and see us."

The hand wanders down lower, without looking, Bob grabs it.

"I said no John."

"Come on Bobby I know you want it too."

John's voice had a tendency to let Bob’s thoughts melt but not this time, this time Bob would stand his ground.

"John, I don't want this, not here."

John's hand already found the evidence that Bob was not telling the truth.

"Tsk tsk tsk, Father lying is a sin, you should know that." With that John pushes Bob's head on the lectern.

"Were you practicing some verses? Don’t mind me, go on."

At first Bob said nothing then John grabbed a fist full off his hair, yanking him back.

"I said go on." John spat the words right into Bob's ears.

And Bob did go on while John pushes his boxers down and lifts his robe up. Making sure that nobody except John could see Bob's holy skin.

With a trembling voice Bob repeats his new favourite verse while John slowly stretches him open from behind, his hands grabbing tight on Bob's waist.

"Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sin."

John stops for a second letting the words sink in, this stupid grin forming on his face again.

"Such sweet words only for me Father?"

"Fuck you."

"Oh wow now we are swearing in church? Not a lot of this god-fearing man left I see?"

In honesty Bob gave up on the thought of ever being granted to something even close to heaven. He already did after their first encounter.

Maybe he was doomed to spend his days like this but he was sure to enjoy every moment of it. He would never give John the satisfaction of telling him this though.

"Stop being so full of yourself and hurry before someone sees us."

John just snorts at his comment.

"You know what since you decided to be such a brat today, your wish is granted."

John's fingers leave Bob faster than he can think.

"No wait! I didn't mean it."

But John was already gone and Bob cursed himself internally. Now he stood in the middle of the church all flustered arching for John's touch.

-------------

The trick with the wine didn't work this time. Robert sat at the kitchen table swinging the liquid inside the glass for nearly an hour but John didn't come.

Defeated, Robert carries himself to his bedroom. There was one last thing he wanted to try.

Kneeling on the bed, his shirt discharged on the floor, his own hand slowly wanders over his neck, then over the length of his torso and finally he reaches between his legs.

With every touch, Bob made sure to let John’s name slip from his wet lips. When his hand slowly starts to stroke his cock his head falls back.

Bob titles his head a little. Has there always been a hook in the ceiling? With a creack of the wooden floor the thought is already gone.

John stands behind the bed, hands clenched into fists, eyes wide, filled with anger.

Bob doesn’t turn around to face John, instead his straight back, folds in.

"I-I am sorry for earlier. I shouldn’t have said that."

"And you think touching what doesn't belong to you is a good way to apologize? Look at you, even a kicked puppy has more dignity than you."

Bob feels the mattress dip behind him. His instinct screams at him to flee but he stays right where he is.

Now John's chest was pressed into his bare back, John's mouth with zero proximity to his ear.

"Hands over your head Bobby."

John took his sweet time, nothing rushed, no haste and it made Bob go insane.

Now Bob’s hands were bound over his head with the help from the hook John just put into the ceiling when Bob was still at the church. Bob was a little surprised that John chose a silk band instead of actual rope.

All Bob could do now was to sit back on his tights helplessly, waiting in anticipation. John placed the rosary around Bob's neck.

"Look at you Bobby, I could watch you like this forever. Maybe that's what I should do, leave you like this just watching you from a far."

"John please I am sorry, please."

"What are you sorry for? Robert?"

"For, for…"

"You don’t know, right?"

Bob feels how John slowly drags his index finger over his spine then screams out in pleasurable pain. There is no way that those were regular fingernails. The cut was so deep that it made a drop of blood bleed out of Bob's flesh and John eagerly licked it off.

"Every bit of you tastes so good, Bobby."

Panic rushes through Bob and he instinctively pulls at the silk band. John lets his hands wander over Bob's sides in an attempt to call him down.

"Don’t worry I will not eat you. No, I will take my sweet sweet time with you and maybe I will be generous and let you stay with me after you take your last breath."

John's hand finds his way under Bob’s chin pulling him back by the front of neck making Bob look directly into John's eyes.

"Don’t worry your pretty head about that. It will still take a long time till we reach that point."

Bob's head bounces forward. John places one final kiss on Bob's shoulder before he rips his boxers off completely.

John stands again, next to the bed. He could take the clothes off with a flick of his thump instead he takes his sweet time. The shirt opens slowly bottom by bottom, he doesn't takes it off. His finger fiddle with the band of his pants, he drags them down and steps out of them. He didn't even bother to put some underwear on.

"John please, touch me."

"Yeah I guess that's what you want."

John positioned himself under Bob, between his already trembling thighs. John loosened the silk band a little, now Bob was brushing his cock. The friction made Bob whimper already, biting down hard at his own lip to prevent the pathetic moans from leaving his mouth.

And John? John has his arm folded behind his back, his own tights comfortably spread, a wolfish grin on his face, as always.

"You said you were sorry. Show me how sorry you are. I know you can do it."

John cups Bob's face with force and places a comparatively soft kiss on the tip of his nose. Then goes back into his comfortable position.

"Take as much time as you need. We have the whole night."

But Bob was an impatient man. He didn't care about the pain anymore. He goes straight to work, circling John's cock with his entrance, pushing down in short but fast movements.

John was entertained for sure by the time Bob sank down fully on John's length, John had to laugh.

"Always so eager."

"John please, touch me."

"Oh no, not after you've been acting like a brat earlier, thinking I would not take proper care of you. You know that really hurt my feelings."

At first Bob wanted to accuse John of lying but then he saw something in his eyes, something that told Bob that John said the truth.

With a few pats to his cheek John brings Bob back into the here and now and Bob starts to roll his hips slow at first but again Bob has never been a patient man.

After a few minutes he was moving up and down at a speed that surprised John. Spilling out small pleas with every move.

"John, I am sorry. I am sorry."

"Again Bobby, for what?"

"For not listening, I am sorry for not listening to you, for not trusting you."

To Bob's luck he found the words John wanted to hear. Pleased, John sits up, his cock going deeper than before, the sudden movement makes Bob jump.

"I knew you had it in you, now let me take care of you, you did so well Bob."

At the praise Bob's eyes roll back into his head. He keeps them closed but John is not having it, the pats were harsh this time.

"No, you will keep your eyes open this time. I want to see you fall apart, that every part of you fully belongs to me."

"I already belong to you John, since you first put your hands on me." There were no moans, no sobs, just pure certainty and that made John blush for the first time.

"If I wasn't already dead I am sure you would kill me."

John grips hard on Bob’s hips and starts trusting up into him. John really tries to go slow this time, to be gentle until Bob's voice pulls him out of it.

"John, I don't need soft, I need you."

The sounds that followed after were downright unholy. Skin clapping on skin, breathy kisses, low screams, high sobs.

"I can feel that you're close Bob." John gives Bob's ass a little squeeze.

"Please, don’t stop John."

"Never."

John strokes Bob's hair back out of his face holding his face with both hands, their tongues collide. With a gut wrenching groan Bob's cum spurts over John's belly and chest while John covers Bob's hole in thick white ropes, the animalic growl sending aftershocks through Bob.

Before Bob can calm down John frees him from the band, Bob goes limp immediately collapsing on top of John.

John gives time to recover and at some point Bob opens his eyes, the stickiness reminds him of where and who he was. When he looks up and is met with John's sex drunk eyes the redness makes it's way back to his cheeks.

"Your okay? What to clean up?"

Bob tightens his grip on John giving him a sigh of disapproval but John doesn't care. He lifts Bob off the bed as if he weighs nothing and carries him all the way into the shower.

"You're not joining me?"

John hesitates but then steps under the properly warm water. Bob collected every bit of strength he had left and faced John.

"Did you actually meant that?"

"Every word. You will never get rid of me." John carefully cleans Bob with the help of the shampoo, then dries him with the towel and carries him back into bed.

Bob doesn't have to say anything. John lays down next to him pulling Bob to his side who then places his head on John's broad chest.

Maybe this all wasn't so bad was the last thought Bob could form before he drifted into the sweet abyss of sleep.

Thank you for reading all the way through ❤️. You want to read more?

Sentryagent Vampire AU: Porn with little plot

Sentryagent Late Night Calls: Mostly Fluff

11:40 am.

Lewis Ford, formerly Corporal Lewis Ford, now shift supervisor Lewis Ford, would, at some point today, get up off the sofa. Maybe even some point soon… But he doubted it. The ratty, cramped sofa was no place for a man whose back had suffered falling hundreds of feet from a plane, being thrown into reinforced concrete, and being blown to kingdom come. Nor, for that matter, the harsh realities of growing older. 

He shouldn’t have done that. Lewis Ford had spent the war diligently planning for every eventuality, but not that one. 

He wasn’t supposed to come back from France. He should be dead. And as the TV flashed before his eyes, like the final deathbed montage of some asshole’s life that the gods created just to torture and amuse them, he certainly felt like he was. 

But that was supposedly just another symptom. Shell-shocked, the upper brass declared, although not until after he had fought on to see the German surrender. Cracked in the head, his sergeant father concluded when he returned home with nothing but a sneer on his face at the slightest mention of the glory of war. Only his mother hadn’t diagnosed him, or said anything at all- at least to his face. Her look of abject grief, as though she was sharing her dining table with a ghost, hurt more than his father’s disapproving, if barely hidden, pride that he hadn’t managed to outrank him, even in wartime. 

However, Lewis understood. In fact, he wholeheartedly (if begrudgingly) agreed with everyone’s assessment, because what other explanation was there for being completely and utterly certain that in a small province of France, he had, in fact, been saved by an angel? 

Not just once. But twice.

5th June 1944.

If the only sighting of the angel was as their plane blew up over what would soon become the turning point of the war, then maybe Lewis Ford could have convinced himself it had all been in his head.

No matter how hard he tried to square it all up in his mind, every image and thought shifted through his fingers like sand, never falling in the same place, bending to unseen forces. There were, however, some constants. Ones he’d never forget, and the ones he wished he could. 

It was a routine, if vital, mission to a radio-jamming tower behind enemy lines. If the Allies' charge into Europe was to succeed, their tiny squadron had to be exemplary. Knowing what he did about these kids, he would have to be nothing short of perfect.

The plane ride over had been too boisterous to concentrate. He never thought he’d miss the deathly, unending silences he’d endured in Italy, but at least there, fighting for their homeland, people knew what was at stake. Or so he thought. Now, he wondered if those boys had been all too aware.

Rosenfeld certainly was. The way he hollered and screamed at the slightest provocation from the moment they took off, whipping the others into a frenzy, until Sergeant Rensin stepped forward and suddenly, Rosenfeld just… stopped. And one at a time, so did the others. The man Ford instantly clocked as the team’s wise ass, Private Lyle Tibbett, gave Private Edward Boyce his charm back, despite how clearly they disliked each other, allowing Ford a modicum of peace while the rest of the squad sarcastically jeered and called the Sergeant a miracle worker. Ford just rolled his eyes and deemed it basic respect for a CO. Still, he couldn’t worry about them. Experience had taught him better than that. There was work to be done. 

So Cpl. Ford studied. Planned. And every time his mind tried to distract him with thoughts of home, he stubbornly pushed them aside as he always did. Yet they returned, again and again, far more rapidly and with a vividness they lacked at any other point in the war. Maybe even his life. He could practically smell his mother’s delicious cooking, hear his sister jovially tease him as only she could, and ‌feel‌ his former lieutenant’s clammy, hot skin. Quivering and moaning under his hands as he took him apart with the same single-minded determination he showed every task. However, each time those thoughts threatened to draw him away, he bit the inside of his cheek to ground himself and returned to his orders: he carried on. 

Ford couldn’t explain it, but amid all the horrors on that trip, the one image his mind could always conjure was of Private Dawson. He didn’t know a fact about the man; he still didn't. Yet there, with his brown leather-bound book, he sat reciting poetry, extolling the virtues of Robert Frost to anyone who would listen. When he had no converts, he read quietly to himself, as though he was simply passing the time on the commute to work before the bullets started. At the time, Ford thought nothing of him. Now, it was all he could think about.

Ford hoped his death had been quick. What should have been his own certainly wasn’t.

If he thought his memories on the plane were vivid, it was nothing compared to the lingering heat that burned his face whenever he relived the moment the fire consumed the cabin. Everything became a blur once the obliterated breach brutally sucked the first man through, and then the next, and the next. Private- no, it was Corporal now- Boyce had to remind him that it had been Ford who stayed behind to see the few survivors off the plane. Funny, he thought, he’d forgotten that. Because all he could remember was how much of a stupid, fucking asshole he was, when at the last second, he leapt from the inferno and pulled at the rip cord once, twice, three hopeless, desperate times - and… nothing.

For the first time since he suited up, Ford had allowed himself to get distracted after all. He hadn’t checked his parachute.

And yet he survived a 400ft freefall without a scratch on him. Despite how much Ford detested that word, what else could it have been but a bona fide, goddamn miracle?

Later, once his feet were firmly planted on French soil, Private Chase tried to tell him about the shooting star he caught on camera, that shone with a brilliant silver and blinding whites, straight through the carnage and bloodshed that landed… God knows where. With a shrug, Ford told him it didn’t matter. With a hefty hurl of his camera, he showed him how little childish, unimportant stuff like that mattered. But Ford knew, deep down, far below his shivering skin and in his thunderous, still beating heart- he knew where it fell, because it must have been him.

If he could lie on his sofa, half-asleep and hungover as fuck, and still picture a stupid book of poetry, then why, after nearly ten long years, couldn’t he grasp what happened between plane and ground?

Blindly he fumbled on the table before him, smacking his half-empty box of smokes on his path to the three Polaroids he'd been staring at the night before. Just a couple of months ago, Boyce and Rosenfeld stopped by the shop, having hunted him down for an impromptu, if long overdue, reunion. Not that he was hiding; that was just how things were after the war. You fought together, saw the talking corpse of your friend together, and killed a mutant Nazi- well, no, as far as his squad mates were concerned, he did that bit alone.

Despite his gruff, nonsyllabic greeting and beleaguered roll of the head when he welcomed them into their home, he had been happy to see them. Not annoyed, anyway. “Just a drink” turned into two, then three. An offer of snacks turned into Chinese take-out, and a catch-up slowly divested itself of all pretence until the three men sat around the deceased Private Chase’s recently rediscovered camera. There had been a few happy, if strained, photos from before they left the runway, and more than a few friendly jabs at Ford’s sullen face hidden in each one, becoming the group's favourite Easter egg hunt. But once the table vanished under empty beer glasses, they’d hesitated at the last ones. Clearly they’d been building up towards them, but ever tactful, Rosenfield blurted it out. “Chase wasn’t fuckin’ with us. He really did see a UFO.”

The pair looked so excited and hopeful that their CO could shed some light on their discovery. What happened at the base stayed buried under all that rubble, but this? This they could safely talk about. 

Through gritted teeth, Ford took the first photograph. Really studied it, and then gave it back. “Looks like a busted Spitfire engine - that unnatural white? It’s hard to tell for sure, but it looks like how magnesium burns. My bet, some sucker combusted like we did.”

Boyce looked him over carefully. The good cop in an irritatingly effective good cop-good cop routine that Ford hadn’t seen coming until he was well and truly trapped in it. “Magnesium leave a trail like this?”

He pushed a second picture across the table, as though he’d studied the detective shows that lulled Ford to sleep when the contracting wheeze of the old house sounded too close to a death rattle. Judging by the movement of planes and the rising smoke, Ford reckoned the Polaroid had captured the moment at least 5 or, even 10 seconds later than the first, and sure enough that… thing… was still there. While whole planes and lives had been brutally destroyed in that tiny, lost snapshot between pictures, down through the sky, a searing white blade of light remained. Cleaving the horizon and the picture in half. Ford thought it looked as though God himself had witnessed the horror they endured and taken a knife to the heavens in a futile attempt to rip it from creation rather than raise a finger to help.

Definitely not magnesium then.

“Could have been magnesium,” Ford said with a sigh. “Shit, Boyce. I fix cars now. Barely know jack shit about planes.”

Or the supernatural…

Looking at those photos now, he heard Boyce’s response as clearly as if he was still sitting opposite him, deflating into the cushions. “Sure, Ford. Whatever you think.”

Ford had just smirked; he rather liked the new Boyce who could snark at him now they were both civvies. But they both knew it wasn’t magnesium. Because as he fell, with bullets whizzing past his head and his vision closing in, he’d seen a man plummet straight into him. No military garb. Just golden, auburn locks, the likes of which not even Dawson could put into words, and eyes that contained entire galaxies of stars reflected in a vast ocean blue. Yet he didn’t remember feeling them collide. Likely it was just his mind trying to comfort him again with a final pretty face to see him off, because in an instant he was gone. Replaced by a hyperawareness of his deployment bag’s straps around his chest, making it difficult to breathe. It felt like two arms hugging him tight, but it must have been whatever survival instinct he had left, urging him to try the parachute again, because while he didn’t remember pulling the cord, he felt the telltale gust of air behind his back. His descent slowing down. And everything going white.

That’s what he thought happened.

But what he knew happened? Was that he saw pristine, snow-white wings surrounding him.

He’d blacked out long before he hit the ground. The wet, foul-smelling mud greeted him as he made to roll but was stopped instantly by a body lying behind him and a hand clamped over his mouth. Shushing him, the stranger didn’t speak. Still dazed, Ford quickly snapped out of it when a stampede of boots passed them by through the undergrowth. Nazis.

Refusing to let fear close his eyes, he tracked every foot, mentally counting them all in case they were spotted. 10… 11… 12…

The Germans got nearer with each man, but just as his fingers inched to his holster, the heavy slosh of footsteps died down. It was only as the hand crept away from his face that Ford realised he’d stopped breathing. 

“I’m gonna distract ‘em”, came the hushed voice from behind. It was too low to make out any features, but it made him shiver. “Wait five seconds, and then run straight on into that there clearin’. Your men are waitin’ for you there.” 

The entire operation depended on them. Ford didn’t have the luxury of questioning how he knew, let alone refusing his saviour's bravery. He didn’t even trust a quick ‘thank you’ in case someone heard them. Before he knew it, the stranger shifted, and true to his word, he rose quietly to his feet. “Godspeed, Cpl Ford”. 

He ran after the Nazi squadron without Lewis ever seeing his face. And on the count of five, Ford did as commanded and ran the other way, never looking back as he ignored the barrage of gunfire that erupted behind him.

The ringing of MP40s never bothered Ford as much as the doorbell on a Saturday morning. He tried to ignore it in the hope that it would go away, but the postman was nothing if not persistent. So were the Mormon missionaries and Jehovah's Witnesses - but Ford figured if seeing an actual angel wasn't enough to get him to step foot in a church again after what went down at the Radio Tower, then two pimple-faced 18-year-olds didn’t stand a chance.

With a hard sigh and an even harder push-up off the sofa, he put down the photos and finally rose. Now one bum leg older, he was half as elegant as he had been in that muddy field before D-Day, and yet he moved with something approaching purpose. His heart skipped a beat, like the first time he wore his insignia, or when he raced to meet the rival high school's QB to hook up in the back of his truck.

He felt… anticipation. Excitement. 

All for the fucking mailman. 

It was just one of those things. A sudden, incongruent emotion. A comforting thought, far too sappy to originate from him. Too naive, free… hopeful to ever be Lewis Ford at any age. That was the weirdest symptom, even if it was the one he rather looked forward to.

But sometimes, just sometimes, it sounded like a voice. The same one that first reverberated in his ears back in that dusty attic where Private Chase had died twice.

“He’s scared, Ford. It's his time.”

Yeah, no fucking kidding.

2 bullets to the chest would do that to you. 

Of course he should have sent an extra person to bring that slimy Nazi bastard down. It would be so easy to blame him instead, but it didn’t matter the how or the why, just that Cpl Ford had fucked up. And because of him, Private Chase Dawson now lay on the floor, begging for the last few seconds of his life.

Whatever could he say to that?

“You don’t have to say anythin’. You’re helpin’, even if it feels like nothin’, it’s not nothin’.”

God, there was that voice again. Ford had never been one to talk to himself, and it definitely wasn’t his voice he could hear. The stress must be getting to him, yet he heard it as clear as day. A soft southern twang, a boyish lilt spread out over a deep burr that made aging it near impossible. It felt as though if he just turned around, someone would be right there with a gentle, calming smile on his face and a soft hand on his back. But of course there was no one else, just all his men losing their heads while one of their own lay dying. 

“Don’t let me die, Ed”, Chase wheezed, his eyes scanning the room for anyone who could help. As calmly as possible, Boyce placed his camera in his hands and squeezed. From behind them, Ford could hear their prisoner shouting, fighting - their only ace in very real, and very mortal peril. 

Good. Fuck him.

Let them gut him like a pig for all he cared, because for some reason, Chase was looking right at him, of all people.

Ford didn’t hide from his gaze, and Chase didn’t look like he blamed him. He was just… scared. “Look at me, Chase, look at me.”

Ford didn’t tell him it would be alright. He tried. That’s what you were supposed to say, right? But the words caught in his throat, behind the rage, bile, and shame that coated his tongue, weighing it down like lead. Yet Chase, for once, did as he was told, and kept his eyes fixed on him, not on the bullet holes that pierced his chest or the alien house in the middle of nowhere. Almost imperceptibly, he relaxed. Just a bit. Slowly, his breathing slowed, scraping through his lungs with every ounce of strength left, until eventually there was nothing left to give. He passed, clutching his camera to his chest and Ford’s bloodied pant leg.

It couldn’t have been for more than a second that the entire room turned silent. A shiver overtook them all as the realisation set in. He should move. They were wasting time. No way all the Nazis stationed outside didn’t hear the gunfire, but his body wouldn’t even twitch. The only sound was ‌SS Wafner’s barely stifled laugh, and Tibbet’s harsh, punched-out, furious growl as he swung at him again.

“You did all you could, Ford. Now your men need you, they hurtin’ too.”

Right… Right, of course. That’s what he was good at. Taking control and getting them focused. After all, distracted soldiers were as good as Chase, and hurting soldiers did stupid shit, like-

Ford’s body responded to his command and turned, just before the nozzle of Tibbet’s gun met Wafner’s skull. “No! No, we still need him.”

The gutting could come later. Because that was the moment everything changed. Boyce, in an act of desperation, injected the serum into Chase’s chest and he rose again, seemingly unharmed... Before his veins darkened and popped along his skin, his neck turned violently back, and his bones cracked and mutated under his flesh. The screaming - God, fuck that screaming. 

Not even an entire machine-gun clip was enough to stop him. It fell to Boyce, who Ford had thought far too soft for his own good, to bludgeon him again and again until there was nothing left of his skull. Somehow, Lewis got them all back on track before the entire town swarmed them, taking Boyce’s trembling body by the shoulder and hauling him to move ass.

That time, Ford did look back. Just once, at Chase’s body.

Even the voice was silent at the sight. The next time he heard it was when they prepared for their attack on the base. It screamed so loudly that he couldn’t hear the gunfire. And as Ford pried open the sewer cover to make their way to blow up the bunker and tower, he swore he heard praying. 

Ever since, he had heard what he thought were echoes of that voice; however, after the D-Day landings, it didn’t speak to him directly again. He caught snippets, normally when he was tired, in bed, or in the flow at work, keeping his hands busy and his mind quiet.

“‘Bless her, she was nice. ‘Tryin’ her best to be, anyway.”

“Hey, psstpsstpstt. Hi. You’re a sweet ‘lil mouse, ain't ya? Y’hungry?”

“Well, heck, ain't that just about the best coffee this week. Let me see if I got enough for another tip.”

Despite the strange reassurance of hearing his one constant since the war, he had to admit it annoyed him sometimes. Who the fuck still said, ‘heck’?

The answer was an easy one. Probably the same… person or thing he saw in that godforsaken bunker. Who screamed and flailed, and yet never cursed. Not even at the scumbags who just hurt him more. Only at Ford to please, please leave. 

Didn’t he?

He remembered hearing him, loud and clear, but then again… He also remembered the other person’s mouth being taped shut.

But Lewis didn’t think about things like that anymore. It was better that way; it made it easier to keep it a secret. Unsure why he was wasting his day off dredging up the past, the postman provided a welcome break from his thoughts. Ford thumbed through his latest haul.

Bills - keep (unfortunately).

Adverts - trash.

New take-out menu - definitely keep.

A letter from his sister, and judging from the heft of the envelope, some photos of his niece starting school. He’d drive out to see her before Thanksgiving. He never let the war take away watching her grow up. 

Finally, there was a postcard from Lyle Tibbet. On the back was a picture of the Eiffel Tower, where he wrote, ‘Wish you were here, ya stuck up asshole’. He promised to join the next reunion/jerk off session/whatever they got up to when he was stateside again. 

After the war, Tibbet had stayed in France to help with the restoration. Settled down, got married, had a family, the whole shebang. Good for him, Ford thought. It must have helped that he hadn’t seen what was in that bunker. Shamefully, when the nightmares were at their worst, Lewis begrudged him for it- even hated him. If nothing else, it would have been nice to have someone who saw what he did. Someone who could confirm, once and for all, that he was just crazy.  

Wouldn’t that be nice. But what in Ford’s life was ever easy?

The siege of the underground bunker, turned secret laboratory, turned literal hellscape, wasn’t Ford’s best plan. It was, however, the only one now that severed talking heads, mangled mutant corpses, and soulless husks of meat and superhuman muscle were hunting them down.

There wasn’t time to gawk or feel sorry for them. Each unspeakable horror was another bomb stuck to the wall as the explosives expert made sure that his final act would be his magnum opus.

Ford had fallen into the speciality thanks to his meticulous commitment to detail - he prided himself on a perfect record of no accidents or allied deaths by his charges. Now, all that mattered was that everything, and everyone involved, burned to ash. Guided by what little Boyce could remember of the layout, he moved from room to room, facing those Nazis not currently raining hellfire on the town and the rest of his squad. Having seen firsthand what they were capable of, it was easy to pull the trigger. Even easier was knowing where to go next, because as he got closer to the centre of the base, that voice from the attic returned. 

“Please, keep going- now left- there. That’s the archive. You have to destroy everything they wrote about the serum.”

It didn’t need to tell Ford twice. He figured the voice must be some poor bastard that they’d injected who could now… what, talk telepathically? Fucked if Ford knew. It didn’t matter how the serum worked or where it came from, just how to destroy it. 

So long as the information was good, he cautiously let the voice lead him, but something felt off. It sounded tired. With each step, it lost its strength, getting quieter and quieter until Ford had to strain to hear at all. It took longer for it to recognise which room Ford was in so that he could tell him where to go next. Meanwhile, Lewis plowed on, setting the charges throughout yet another everyday, mundane office that just happened to be filled with wall to wall pictures of inhuman experiments. As he was about to reach the large reinforced door at the end of the room to smash it open, the voice abruptly changed its tune.

“No! Not through there. There’s too many of… them. You won’t make it. There’s another way back through the halls-”

There was a panic in its voice that wasn’t there before. Ford couldn’t abide not knowing what was behind a closed door, especially when someone dared to tell him otherwise. Putting his ear to the wall, he listened. There was a low hum of energy, the creaking of metal, but that was it. Silence. That is, until the voice screamed at him when he jiggled the lock.

“No! No, Ford, you have to listen- please. Please, I’m beggin’-”

Holding his gaze steady, Lewis looked straight at the door, as though he could see through steel. “Is that where you are?”

The voice was quiet, but a foreign feeling of fear ran through his veins, telling him all he needed to know. He.. It was there, and for it to be locked away when literal monsters were allowed to roam around? There was no way he could walk away.

“Just what are you? Why are you in my head?” 

“It don’t matter. You thought it yourself; all that matters is this godforsaken place bein’ gone. Please, Ford, they’re comin’. We don’t have time to fight-”

A cruel smile twisted his lips. “A fight? Call this a fight?” he chewed out. “You better talk right now - or I'll come in there and show you a fight.”

An inhuman, agonised scream came from the opposite direction, getting closer, but Ford refused to budge.

When no response came, Ford huffed, “Fine then”. Without hesitating, he grabbed his gun and rammed it against the lock, causing it to groan under his brute strength. “Come on, you son of a bitch. Why me?” Another hit. “Who are you!?”

The voice went dead again, almost as if he had hung up the phone, which was just fine with Ford. His interest piqued, the mission now amended, he didn’t let up, smashing into it even harder. The whole door wheezed as though in pain, and while the lock was stubborn, he was worse.

Just before the handle broke off, the voice came roaring back in one desperate plea. “Miles! My… My name is… M-Miles.” 

Ford stopped, his gun suspended above the lock. He was about as convinced that was really its name as the quivering voice sounded. “Well, Miles, you’re going to have to do better than that. What do you want?”

“I ain't lyin’.” It sounded indignant at the idea, to which Ford just laughed. Altar boy. “This place is evil. E-Everythin’ it touches is evil. It ain’t right. A good person like you shouldn’t be here...” 

When Ford just laughed, the voice softened. A thought meant just for itself sobbed through their connection. “I only wanted to help…” 

Pitiful was normally anathema to the corporal, but there, just under his eyelids, his skin pricked, his throat ached, and his lower lip had to be sucked between his teeth to keep still. He had all the telltale sensations of crying, but his eyes were completely dry. Whatever he was communicating with, it was growing stronger. Closer. Until Ford wasn’t sure what thoughts were his own, but its ability to transfer physical feeling, not just the emotional, only served to make Ford more suspicious. If he had no idea what this… thing was capable of, then he had to treat it as though it were capable of anything - even faking its emotions onto him. Little did it know, it chose the wrong target if it wanted to try for sympathy.

Whatever it was, it must have sensed his realisation because, to Ford’s surprise, he felt it just… give up. Testing it, Ford hit the lock again. A wince, and then something else. Another emotion, one which very much felt like his own, but magnified now that it was faced with its own reflection. The voice resigning itself to its fate. 

As soon as Boyce first spoke of it, Ford knew his grave lay at the bottom ring of this hell. The detonator weighing heavily in his pocket, he asked steadily, “Am I taking you out with it?” 

To his surprise, the response was instant. “Yes. But it’s better this way.”

Having just tried to inundate him with a cheap trick, Ford now sensed nothing. Perhaps it was changing tactics, recalculating, planning out its next manoeuvre. At least when it was screaming, Ford thought he had the measure of it; now he had no idea what it was doing, but the pause made the base quiet enough to hear a thud. And then another. 

Footsteps, right beyond the door.

Teeth bared like a cornered wolf, Ford grinned at the sound. The voice’s intentions or allegiance didn’t matter. So long as it had a body, that meant he could blow it up. 

The voice piped up, but Ford’s plan didn’t seem to worry it. “... I’m sorry. For earlier”

“For what?” Ford snapped. Short, as sharp as the crack of the door as he hit it again with renewed strength. He tried to block Miles out, but he was nearly there now.

“That you had to hear that.”

The corporal ignored its games, but the voice didn’t need Ford to talk to feel his confusion. 

“The s-screamin’. I’m sorry, I tried to keep quiet, I did- but I’m not brave like you. I didn’t mean for you to have to hear that-”

“Miles.”

“No, no- it wasn’t fair of me. I - they tried to make me do awful things. And I couldn’t-”

The voice was spiralling. Ford could feel his heart drum against his ribs, sweat lacing its way down his back- and then his whole body seized - pain shot up his arms like they were being torn from their socket, his stomach flashed liquid fire straight at his core, and his head… god, his head. A dozen fresh, hot, stabbing pains like razor blades exploded along the expanse of the left side of his face- That fucking bastard-!

“I’m sorry! It was an accident- Oh God, God, I’m so sorry, Corporal-!”

Ford’s vision blurred; he thought he was going to be sick. And then, as quickly as it came, it stopped. Recoiling, Ford threw his back against the wall for support, struggling to catch his breath, but all the pain left his body as if it had never so much as ghosted over a nerve. Except, that is, for the old scar across his cheek. 

Much to his annoyance, it had been one of the most valuable sweepstakes amongst the squad: just how had o’l stick-up-the-ass Cpl. Ford gained that scar? Every guess, from a fight over a girl to Ford’s supposed ‘shadowy criminal past’ in a robbery gone wrong, raised the stakes. And, in a cruel twist of fate, which was becoming too commonplace these days, the man who won it all lay dead in a field a few miles west: Sergeant Rensin. He’d taken one look at his new second-in-command, sat alone as he scoured weather reports, and as the guys traded wild theories in the mess hall, he dropped a crisp $10 bill into the pot. “Guy like that didn’t squeal.”

Damn right he hadn’t. Suspended by his wrists in a derelict farmhouse, after a rat gave away his old squad’s ambush, he took whatever the Nazis dished out in stoic silence, right until the end. Spite was a hell of an anesthetic. It was worth every agonizing second, if only to play dead long enough to draw their leader close- and spit blood right into his eye. He earned his scar for that, and a few more hidden under his clothes. While he didn’t talk, the fact that he gave them the satisfaction of hearing him scream pissed him off for months; however, rolling up his sleeves and paying it forward to the sadistic SS Officer Wafner, helped. When he knocked the bastard out, he didn't care that his own grin grew wider than his tormentor's ever had.

Quietly, Ford lowered his weapon. God, this was reckless. He didn’t have time, but after years of dogged commitment to the war, if this was it, then he wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, that nagging doubt beneath his suspicion was right. The soft-hearted Boyce must have rubbed off on him after all. 

Lewis closed his eyes and did everything he could to relax. Not a lot, but just enough for him to let Miles see what he remembered. A cold draft wafting through the broken rafters, the Nazi’s raucous, shrill laugh as he delighted in making the American pig squeal, and the impartial look on his men’s faces as they watched on, as though the blood running down his face was as interesting as watching spilt paint dry. But amongst them, just for a second, he saw a new man’s face in the crowd. Same honeyed curls, same soft features. Looking mortified. Heartbroken.

“Is that what they did to you, too?” Ford asked.

The voice didn’t respond, but a soft, phantom hand pressed to his shoulder felt like an affirmative.

“... Not something to apologise for then.” 

A gentle kind of joy bubbled up inside. It felt… nice. However, he really was out of time now. Cpl Ford had only allowed himself to get distracted once since the war; this was the second. He needed to see Miles face to face before he made any hasty decisions, so he raised his gun and-

Bang.

The lock trembled. He’d grown so accustomed to the sound that it took him a moment to realise: it wasn’t him hitting it. For the first time in years, he was sure it was his own fear he felt.

Bang! bang! bang!

“I’m so sorry, Ford. This is all my fault.”

Heavy, stampeding footsteps returned from the other side, picking up the pace like a steam train, not stopping until whoever was on the other side rammed itself into the door. The resulting crash boomed across what felt like the entire base. And as the last echo rang in Ford’s ears, the lock fell off. 

Then the whole door went with it.

With a screeching, ear-piercing wail, it was ripped from its hinges and thrown against the wall, missing Ford by the hair of his beard. Two meaty hands grabbed him by the throat and waist, tendons and bone straining under their grasp, and flung him through what remained of the bent door frame and straight onto the hard floor. The detonator fell from his pocket, but he barely noticed as pain seared along the back of his skull, everything going black until quick blinks dragged the image before him back to life. The room was a giant dome, like the top of an abandoned, derelict cathedral. A strong smell struck him second: burnt flesh and rotting meat, and then blood filled his mouth, making him gag. He rolled onto his side to spit and then he was confronted with, it. 

No, him.

One piercing blue eye, as serenely radiant and torrential as the storm-bound heavens themselves, stared back at him from on high. Ford ignored the growling laugh stalking closer, because there he was. An angel.

Or the twisted, inhuman version of one.

No sweet praise escaped his lips- not with a mouthguard jammed between his teeth and black tape slapped tight over his mouth. The cherub curls, identical to the figures which littered the blown-out church windows Ford found ransacked in Italy, were now matted with blood and sweat across his brow. These gave way to a dense plethora of buckshot wounds that formed the same chaotic pattern of shrapnel that had nearly brought Ford to his knees. One pelt must have caught his eye as the swelling forced it shut. To Ford, it looked like his sister had taken some of his home-cooked strawberry jam and lathered it all over the left side of his face. The absurdity of it should have made him laugh, but he was struck dumb like the prophet Zachariah before the angel Gabriel for not heeding his warnings.

Or perhaps, Miles just didn’t want him to see him like this. 

Coming from the prisoner’s shoulders and stringing his arms out was a tangled weave of wires, IV lines, and metal chains that kept him suspended over a pit in the centre of the room. They rose towards the sky and opened up along the high ceiling beams. Greys, blacks, and rusted browns mottled a monstrous, industrial mockery of wings. But the dark trails didn’t end there. Across his veins, which bulged like unhealed scar tissue, the inky black tar of the serum pulsed through them with each fluttering heartbeat, speeding up while Ford could do nothing but stare in horror. If one jab of that shit turned Chase into that… thing. Then how did he still look human attached to all those IVs?

Trying to process what he was seeing over the ringing in his ears, Ford knew. It was him- wasn’t it? Maybe he was just a soldier Ford had seen at the base, that his subconscious had pulled from the deepest corner of his memory, but sure as shit, he was the person Ford recognised from the fall. The one that now muffled a futile cry from behind the mouthguard.

Ford heard it loud and clear.

“Run!”

But it was too late. Something dragged Lewis off the floor and into the air, tearing his 'angel' from view. Before him truly was a monster - Wafner, his face now half caved in, teeth, sinew, and spit-soaked muscle all on show, gargled a laugh that howled like a storm through the hole in his cheek. “He’s marvellous, isn’t he? Even the gods are on our side. And what chance does a mortal like you have against fate?” 

He lashed out at the SS officer who didn’t do so much as flinch. The panic he felt from Miles drove him to kick harder. The slimy grin, obscenely pulling Wafner’s taut flesh, made him punch quicker. As he was moved around the circular room, he vanished from Miles' sight, and with a turn of his head, he saw Wafner’s plan. He held his breath, desperately trying to brace himself, but there was no escaping the brutal agony as he was hauled upward as though he weighed nothing at all, only to be impaled, slammed down directly onto a meat hook. 

The pain consumed him. Barely holding himself up by the chain, Ford couldn’t register where it had pierced him - only that it hurt everywhere, overwhelming every nerve in his body until they all fired at once. His grip faltered, his hands twitching as it all became too much. He couldn’t even feel Wafner’s hot, wet breath on his face as he delighted in Ford writhing like a worm, waiting to be put out of its misery. 

Ford refused to give another Nazi the pleasure of his screams, but his stubbornness just made Wafner more determined. 

Ever so slowly- drawing out the moment just to savor the realization dawning on Ford’s face- Wafner stroked his thumbs over the sharp angles of the man's cheekbones. He framed his face as it twitched with every fevered breath. Then, with a soft, cooing shush, the officer trailed his thumbs up and brought them dangerously close to his eyes. “Pigs like you don’t deserve to see the glory of our new empire-”

A shot. Followed by a dozen more sent Wafner careening backwards. It was Private Boyce, drawing his attention away- the idiot. The fucking idiot. Ford had to get him the detonator. 

With what little he could see through the pain, Ford could just about make out vials of the serum a few feet away. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, Lewis kept telling himself. The war mattered. So with sweating hands he tried to pry himself off the hook, but he couldn’t do it. His mind was everywhere - old flashbacks to that farmhouse in Italy flooded his vision. Ford didn’t panic, but feeling his life slip through his fingers as surely as the chain, his body did. 

“Stay with me, Ford. Breathe. In… Out… In…”

Without thinking, the soldier did as he was ordered.

“That’s it. Good. I think I can get you out, but you have to trust me. Can you do that?”

What other option did he have? It felt like someone knocking on the door in his mind. Not forcing itself in, just waiting for him to open it. And when he did, a feeling of total serenity breezed through him, making its home inside ‌the space between his cells. Filling that emptiness with his parents' log-fireplace at Christmas, and a beer while watching the game with the boys back home. It felt like someone was right behind him, lifting him up off the hook even as he did it all himself with one swing and a giant heave. He gritted his teeth, and thought of his sister.

The floor was much colder than the energy that took over his body. Through sheer grit, Ford crawled to the table and grabbed at the serum. He could hear the bullet shells clanging against the ground as Boyce reloaded in the distance. Ford had to be quick. Unable to talk over the blood rising in his throat he thought, “You not about to lecture me on this, boy scout?”

In response, Miles returned simply, “There’s no other way, is there?” They both knew the answer to that, so solemnly he promised, “Then I’ll help as best I can, sir. I’ll be right with you to the end. ‘Promise.”

Ford jammed the serum right into his chest. 

Even years later, he could feel the needle pierce his sternum.

After that, Ford had no idea what was real. He’d tried marijuana in high school like most kids he knew, got drunk a bit more than was strictly healthy, but nothing came close to the feeling of that toxic shit fighting him tooth and nail for control of his mind and flesh. Thankfully, he had a helping hand.

Wafner had Boyce cornered; he remembered that much. Anger wasn’t a stranger to Ford, but this was something else. It made him feel euphoric, addicted, even as he felt his very DNA rearrange itself. He saw red as Wafner flung anything and everything at the private, but before he could recklessly charge in, there were those arms around his chest again, not holding him back. Just… There. Ford had flashes of throwing Wafner aside, shouting at Boyce to finish planting the charges as he kept him distracted. It was so disorienting, having the serum tear him up from the inside out, but Miles was true to his word. 

When the burning, white-hot primal rage threatened to take over, the ghost of a hug kept his insides together. When all he saw was meat and flesh, begging to be torn apart, the vision of his coach, urging him to ‘step the fuck up, boy’ urged him on. Blood and decay filled his nostrils, replaced by the scent of his first crush's overbearing deodorant and the oil of the car he repaired with his own two hands. And when the voice, doing everything it could to stay calm, urged him back towards his line of sight, Miles guided him through it. “Left. Now get behind that console. Ford he’s coming up behind you, take cover- now!”  

And Ford dodged and fought while Boyce worked. But Ford had figured he had been too good. Knowing there was no way Ford should still be standing, Wafner changed course. Looking at the man hanging above the pit of tar, he saw his one remaining eye dart around the room, scanning for every advantage.

He slammed a trolley of oxygen tanks into Ford, pinning him to the wall just long enough to bolt for the console. Ford realised his mistake before he could even stumble to his feet. Across the walkway, the officer’s fist raised over the button; they held each other’s feral gaze in a standoff, but there was nothing he could do. Miles closed his eye and breathed in.

“It was an honour, Lewis. Thank you.”    

Wafner slammed the button, and an alarm instantly blared. Hunks of metal and wiring wheezed into life, the beams keeping Miles aloft lowered down, and with a final press, every piece of suspension just… fell away.

Miles plunged.

Ford didn’t hear the moment he hit the tar. If these sick cunts wanted to hear him scream, let them. Snarling like a wild animal, Ford charged. Nothing was holding him together now. Fuck his humanity; what was that worth when faced with something so inhuman? Distantly, he heard Boyce fix the last of the charges and men- monsters, rising from the pit where Miles fell. Crawling like spiders up the walls while others tore at the doors, trying to get in. 

Let them. Let them drag Ford from Wafner’s corpse, Boyce would see the job done. Taking Wafner by the lapels of his shirt, he couldn’t feel his hands slap across his chest anymore as he crushed him against the wall and took a swing straight to his jaw. Then another.

It was the face of the Nazi who strung him up all those months ago.

He swung again.

Now the faces of the bastards who killed Rensin. Chase. The Lieutenant he once dared to believe he could settle down with. 

He was losing it. The only thought left in his head was revenge for what they did to Miles. 

Miles, Miles, Miles.

He slammed his fist against Wafner’s skull. Miles, Miles, Miles. Again and again, until there was barely a face left at all. Yet still- still that bastard laughed, his tongue flailing against the open air.

“How does it feel to have the blood of eternity flowing through your veins?”

Barring that one name, words had little meaning now, but he gritted out whichever ones he could find. It was his voice, but it wasn’t his thoughts. “Don’t you dare speak of eternity when you’ll never see it.”

Miles?

With a final burst of energy, he took what remained of Wafner and buried him under the concrete and debris, throwing him straight into a generator. The steel caved in under his weight, making it leak oil like a pool of sickly, black blood. It wouldn’t stop him for long, but it was enough. Boyce finished placing the explosives and grabbed the detonator. They did it. They were actually going to do it.

Even under all the haze, the cracks of his bones starting to transform, and the corruption of his very mind, Ford felt proud of them. God, but Wafner had a point. This serum? It made him feel incredible. Powerful. As Boyce made it out of the door, back towards the exit, Ford slammed the gate shut behind him. It was the only way. 

“I was never getting back - it all has to stay buried with me. Blow this whole fucking place up.” Boyce probably tried to convince him otherwise, but he couldn’t hear him. “The tower, private, Boyce”.

And to his unending relief and gratitude, Boyce did as he was ordered, but not before throwing his lighter back at him as a parting gift. Ford was never going to have a peaceful death- he had long ago come to terms with that, but seeing SS Officer Wafner come back for one more round? If going down meant wiping that bastard off the face of the earth, then Ford accepted his fate gladly. In fact, he felt… hopeful. Determined.

What?

That moment of doubt was silenced in an instant as the serum bombarded his mind again. But Lewis didn’t need to see memories of home to keep him present. Not when he got to see that Nazi bastard scream for once.

He flung the lighter at the patch of oil at Wafner’s feet, and it detonated on the spot. And in quick succession, so did all the TNT, starting in this godforsaken hell and expanding out across the entire base, one bang at a time. There was no better serenade to see Ford off, and no more glorious a sight than Wafner, as the fire climbed up his pants and consumed him whole. He flailed and screamed, cursing perhaps, but it was impossible to tell when his skin peeled away from his protruding jawbone before the final explosion silenced him for good.

Ford closed his eyes and let the flames take him before he lost himself completely. However, nothing happened. Unless that is, one tiny snapshot that was only reachable in the thin line between wakefulness and sleep, was real. Falling to his knees, waiting for everything to stop, Ford opened his eyes long enough to see those wings one last time. They were heavy and sticky, clumping together like the feathers of that dove he’d saved from an oil barrel as a kid. Yet it soared, suspended over that tar pit once again, far above the monsters below. Broken and battered, but not beaten. Whether real or not, Ford spent weeks in waiting anticipation for the nights he saw that majestic image again.

He wondered over the years if he hadn’t conflated the image with that of Miles, hanging by the machines. However, that would also mean the feeling of being scooped up into his arms was wrong. The grounding sensation of a chin resting in his hair, begging him to let him heal him. A soft “that’s an order, corporal” that made him relax, that brushed past his ears and not his mind. And the sound of hundreds of pounds of TNT going off all around him. Echoed. Softened by whatever was protecting him, which wrapped around his body like a cocoon, allowing nothing but a couple of droplets to fall on his head. If it were real, Ford wished he’d opened his eyes for just a second- if only to spare himself long years of uncertainty. But he knew why he didn’t. It felt too nice to be held like that.

They found him a mile south of the tower, with no memory of how he ever got out. His mind was clear, his body aching, but most importantly, it was still his. And surrounded by a lush patch of grass and wildflowers, the earth cradled him gently, lulling him back to reality to the tune of a skylark. Lying there, he watched the clouds roll past. Planes on their way to the distant frontline, and a flock of birds making their way home through the smoke. It was peaceful. He was at peace. Searching his mind for any remnant of Miles, he found it was just him now. Maybe it always was. Either way, he allowed himself a minute to enjoy the beautiful view. 

When he heard Boyce shout his name triumphantly, Ford struggled to his feet and picked a large grey and white feather from his hair.

The doorbell rang again.

Shit, Ford was just about to make something of his day and get some gardening done to clear his head. It had been one of his favourite things to do after the war - it was a simple space, not overly designed or expensive like some of the neighbours'. Instead, Ford encouraged and cherished the grasses and wildflowers, like those he had learnt to appreciate in France after that fateful night. Here he whittled away the hours surrounded by the insects and birds it attracted, and the feeling of nature on his skin that brought him back to that moment of peace.

The mailman must have forgotten to drop off his boss’s package of tools he needed for the motorcycle that he was rebuilding in his spare time. Ford put the post onto the table, next to the photos from Boyce and Rosenfeld. The two that had sparked his memories lay face down now, but there was still the third one they had brought. He ran his finger over the figure in the corner, the one that had tormented him for years. 

There it was, all of a sudden. That alien feeling again. Anticipation this time and… fear? Anxiety?

Huh. The postman never waited this long for Ford to come to the door; he would have pressed it five more times by now. 

The emotions gained traction. He couldn’t make out who was on the other side, only that with each step, more and more feelings and sensations tingled across his body, words ricocheting around his skull. Previously, the voice he had heard since the war had been faint enough that he could sometimes convince himself it wasn’t the one from the bunker. But now it rang between his ears, loud and clear. Ford ran.

“Um, hi, Lewis. I don’t know if you remember me- no, no. That won’t work…. Cpl Ford, sir… Too formal, what if he hates that? Lord help me, he’s gonna think I’m dumb. Goodness, what if he hates me? No, no, can’t think like that. Try again. Mr Ford it’s-”

“-it’s you.”

“It’s you.”

Standing right before the visitor was the soldier he remembered. Just as tall, defiant. Just as… him. Weathered, yes. But there was that sly, knowing twinkle that hadn’t quite faded from those steely blue eyes he remembered. He held himself like a soldier still, his hair cut as though an inspection were due any minute, even if his clothes were hardly up to regulation standard. Seeing him now, compared to the Ford he got only glimpses of back then… He was speechless. 

“Miles?” Ford breathed.

He nodded like a timid rabbit, his foot making holes in the garden path as he twisted the toe of his shoe into the gravel. “It’s good to see you again, Cpl. Ford.”

With a tug of the arm, Miles flew through the door, which was slammed shut behind him before anyone saw. The veteran held him by the arms, pinning them to his sides as he feverishly examined him up and down, searching for any signs that this was a trick. Wordlessly, Miles stood there, letting him do what he needed but drinking him in the whole time. The shift of his expression - excitement, suspicion, doubt, and anger- all passing through like a coin-operated motion picture camera, cycled through too slowly to smooth the image together. Miles had loved those when he discovered them, although they didn’t always work very well with just his one eye. But Ford seemed amused by his homemade eyepatch, from a kind family he met in his travels who had lovingly felted him his tiny collection. Today was the big day, so he wore his favourite one with a dove drawn on it.

It helped to conceal some of the wound Ford now traced. Though still discoloured and rigid, the scar tissue had healed with time. Healthier skin now softened the once inky-black network of veins into something like a sun-burnt, faded tattoo. It had taken ages for Miles to accept how he looked, but judging from how Ford reverently and carefully touched them, it took him only a matter of seconds.

Fingers digging a bit too hard for comfort, Ford tried and failed to keep himself under control. “Are… Am I insane?”

Miles shook his head and cupped Ford’s cheek. “Ask me again.”

Confused, and just a bit irritated, Ford opened his mouth. “No”, Miles interrupted. “Ask me.”

He took a deep breath. Miles could see him internally weighing it up, and then he felt it, without Ford needing to move his mouth.

“Are you really an angel?”

The flutter of Miles’ heart echoed across their connection and reverberated back to him. He couldn’t keep his face still, trying to keep cool and neutral, while a small smile kept escaping, making his face twitch. Ford assumed he looked like an idiot right now; Miles just couldn’t believe he was really here. That Ford knew, deep down, and wasn’t afraid or disgusted.

Quietly, he stepped out from under Ford’s trembling hands and took off his burnt-orange cardigan and folded it onto the table, next to the photos. There were the men of the squad, all together in a stick on that plane into France. Chase had taken it not long after take-off, the men chatting away while Ford sat by himself in the corner, planning out the mission. And there, right next to him, was a ghostly outline. A man. Same height, same build as the man before Ford now, with his head seemingly resting on his shoulder. And a pair of wings.

However, Miles didn’t notice it. Not when Ford’s eyes burned into him. Stretching his neck, he wriggled his shoulders from side to side, and then, there they were. Peeking out over the sharp line of his clavicle, just as shy as their owner. Ashen grey, not the white ones of Ford’s first memories, but a darker hue than even the feather he found after the bunker. They unfurled slowly, mindful not to knock anything over in his host’s modest abode, but eventually they spread out before him, wider than an eagle. 

Bashfully, Miles brushed a loose curl away from his eyes and buried his face into their soft hiding place. If it wasn’t for their connection, Miles would have thought they horrified Lewis. But his heart sped up, and a warmth splashed his cheeks. To his surprise, and his joy, Ford didn’t question him anymore. The fact that he was an angel was suddenly secondary to the true, great miracle. Ford simply muttered, “You’re alive. You… Miles, you survived.”

His teeth were whiter than any angel’s wings as Miles beamed. 

“It really is good to make your acquaintance, Cpl. Ford.”