♱Keneki Silver♱

The air in the city was thick, humid, and far too loud for Blade’s liking at all. The constant chatter of the crowds and the glow of the neon lights felt like needles pressing against his temples. It's annoying. He's been trying to focus but his restlessness was a physical ache, a craving for something he didn't know. He needed a distraction, something to tether his drifting soul back to the present. As his mind searched through the haze of his irritation, there was only one presence that could offer the solace he craved.

You.

As if drawn by some invisible thread of fate, he realized you were nearby. Without a single word, Blade reached out, his hand encased in the dark, sleek fabric of his black glove. His fingers curled around your wrist with a suddenness that made your heart leap, his grip firm but lacking its usual lethality.

"Hm?" A soft sound escaped your lips as you felt the sudden pressure around your wrist. Startled by the unexpected contact, you turned around to face the stranger who had abruptly interrupted your thoughts, your eyes slightly widening in mild surprise as they landed on the unmistakable, brooding silhouette of Blade. Before you could even draw enough breath to form a single word or ask what he wanted, he moved. There was no hesitation in his actions, only a quiet, driving intent that seemed to bypass the need for conversation entirely.

You found yourself swept along in the silent wake of his presence, the vibrant world around you dissolving into a dizzying blur of neon streaks and muffled noise as he pulled you toward the edges of the light. His long, dark blue hair swayed as he moved, the crimson tips catching the dying glimmers of the city's glow like fading embers before he ducked your head down as he led you into the deep, swallowing shadows of a narrow, secluded alleyway.

Blade didn't speak. He moved closer, his tall frame looming over you. With a movement that was surprisingly fluid, he guided you backward. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle. He stepped forward and you stepped back. The momentum of his advance continued until the sudden, biting chill of the damp brick wall pressed firmly against your spine, the rough texture grounding you in the moment. He pinned you within the small sanctuary he had carved out of the darkness.

The alleyway was a suffocatingly tight space, a narrow vein of shadow carved between the towering buildings of the city. Caught completely off guard by the suddenness of his movement and the overwhelming presence of him, you found yourself looking up. "Blade?" You whispered, your voice sounding soft in the heavy quiet of the gloom. You tilted your head to the side, searching his face for a sign. "Is…something wrong?"

The question was tentative, laced with a gentle concern that seemed to pierce through his brooding exterior. He didn't reply immediately, instead he loomed over you and for a moment, he stared down at you with those piercing red eyes, looking restless. The usual cold indifference in his gaze was replaced by a quiet hunger, a craving for something that wasn't blood. When he finally leaned in, his movements were devoid of his usual nature. His lips met yours with softness. It was a slow, dragging kiss, tasting of desperation and a silent plea for grounding.

As his hands wandered, you expected his calloused, heavy touch, but he was unnervingly careful. His gloved hand slid up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with a delicacy that seemed at odds with the scars hidden beneath his sleeves. He touched you as if you were made of spun glass, as if he were terrified that his very existence, his curse, his immortality, the Mara swirling within him might somehow bruise or break you.

His gloved hand, which had been tracing your jawline with such reverence, slid down the column of your throat. His thumb pressed against the pulse point at the base of your neck, feeling the frantic, rhythmic thrum of your heart. He seemed to linger there, his gaze dropping to follow the movement of his own hand. He was watching the way you reacted to him, a silent observer of the vitality he so desperately lacked.

Then, his hand drifted lower. He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was shallow, and for a fleeting second, the brooding swordsman looked vulnerable. "Stay quiet," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated against your skin. His hand drifted down to your waist, pulling you a fraction closer, his touch still so light it was almost a question. The sensation of his lips returning to yours was enough to make your knees buckle.

One moment, his grip on your waist was firm, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your coat, grounding you so you wouldn't slide down the wall. The next, his touch became a searing caress, his palm sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, finding the warmth of your skin. His touch was hot feverish, almost as if he were trying to leech the warmth from your body to soothe the eternal chill of his own. He had to admit you looked ethereal even in the dark gloom of this alleyway.

As you leaned into him, your senses reeling from the sheer gentleness of it, you felt his hand shift. His bandaged fingers slid into the hair at the back of your head, tangling between your hair. He didn't grab or pull, instead, he cradled your skull, his palm cold and steady against your scalp. The way he held you as if you were a precious relic he had stumbled upon in a wasteland sent a shiver through your entire frame. It was a terrifying kind of intimacy. Blade let out a low, almost imperceptible hum against your mouth, a sound of relief.

The restlessness that had driven him to pull you into this alley seemed to settle, replaced by a heavy, melancholic heat. He tilted your head back slightly, deepening the kiss even more, his fingers remained tangled in your hair, keeping you close, keeping you there. In the cramped darkness, the only thing that existed was the scent of him something metallic and old, like rain on steel and the overwhelming, tender weight of his presence. He seemed to be searching for something in the taste of your lips. "Blade—"

The sound of your voice, a mere breath of a whisper, seemed to ripple through him like a stone dropped into a still pool. At the mention of his name, the rhythm of the kiss faltered for a heartbeat. Blade pulled back just enough to look at you, his face still inches from yours. In the dim, filtered light of the alley, his crimson eyes seemed to glow with a haunted intensity. There was a flicker of something pain, perhaps, or a deep seated longing that crossed his features before he could mask it with his usual stoicism. To hear his name spoken so softly, with such intimacy.

"…Hm," he grunted softly, a low vibration in his chest. It was his way of acknowledging you, a way of saying he heard you without having to find the words he often lacked. He didn't pull away, though. Instead, he leaned back in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm against your lips. The hand at the back of your head tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to ensure you couldn't drift away from him.

"Don't…" he started, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied it. He trailed off, unable to finish the thought at all. "Don't call me that so sweetly," he wanted to say. "Don't look at me that way."

Instead, he simply closed the distance again. This time, the kiss was deeper, more desperate. It was no longer just a gentle exploration; it was a silent, bruising confession. He pressed his body more firmly against yours, the hard lines of his muscular frame a stark contrast to your touch, as if he were trying to merge his fractured existence with your steady, living warmth.

Blade’s hands slid down to your waist, his grip was firm, the leather of his gloves cool against your skin. With a sudden, swift motion, he lifted you, pulling you upward until your thighs instinctively wrapped around his waist to maintain your balance. The sudden change in height brought you face to face, your breath mingling in the small gap between you. Blade didn't kiss you immediately. Instead, he held you there, his strong arms supporting your weight with ease, his gaze locked onto yours. His cheeks were stained with a visible flush, the heat radiating from his skin as he stared into your eyes with an intensity that was almost overwhelming.

He looked cute.

He looked as if he were seeing something he couldn't quite comprehend or perhaps something he feared to want or desire. The usual coldness of his crimson eyes had thawed into something raw and vulnerable. He seemed mesmerized, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm that told you exactly how much this moment was affecting him. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The way he held you tense yet tender, as if you were the most fragile thing in existence spoke volumes.

"You…" he began, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through your own chest. He stalled, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his expression. It was a rare sight, the immortal swordsman rendered momentarily speechless by the simple act of looking at you. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, a silent, desperate plea for you not to pull away. You gulped, unable to look away from those red eyes that were usually so sharp and piercing, so focused, were now so gentle.

Looking into his eyes felt like staring directly into the heart of a dying star. There was a gravitational pull to that crimson gaze. "Stay still," Blade murmured against your lips. As he leaned in again, the very nature of his touch shifted. It was still soft, still careful, but there was an underlying desperation to it now a silent, frantic demand. His lips moved against yours with a slow, dragging heat that made your head spin and your pulse hammer in your ears. Every time he pulled back just a millimeter, it was only to catch a frantic breath before diving back in, his kisses becoming more feverish.

The way he held you, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies crushed together in the dark made it clear that the gentleness was a thin, fraying veil, a delicate layer of restraint draped over a much more violent, carnal desire that simmered just beneath his skin. You could feel it in the way his chest heaved against yours, the heat radiating from his body like a furnace, and the way his fingers occasionally twitched against your skin, as if he were fighting the urge to grip you with a desperate intensity. He wanted to drown in the sensation of your body pressed against his.

His hips tilted upward, a slow, heavy movement that was a silent, devastating promise of what was to come. He began to grind against you, a rhythmic, agonizingly slow pressure that sought to erase every millimeter of air between your skin and his.

“Please…" The word was barely a breath, a broken, pathetic sound that escaped his throat, unbidden and raw. He didn't even seem to realize that he had said it. His forehead slumped against your shoulder, his breath coming in jagged, uneven hitches that felt like he was drowning.