Archive of Our Own

It's really a horrible fucking idea. It's reckless, irresponsible, selfish. And Kaz - perceptive, detail-oriented Kaz, who could assess the number of exits and procurable weapons in a room in the time it took to blink, who had the analysis of every strategic advantage on the battlefield down to a fucking science - drawn to you like a moth to flame, every nerve in his body finely attuned to your presence almost since the day you met - could very possibly identify you simply by the way you move, the distinct aroma of your cigar smoke, hell, he could probably single out the particular blue of your eye among dozens if he'd been put to the test. It would take a lot more than a balaclava to hide your presence from him, there's really no way you'd be able to set one foot on Mother Base without him immediately sniffing you out.

You can't see him now. The risk is too great.

But waking up after nine years with the echoes of explosions still flashing fresh behind your eyelids, the first thought in your mind being "Where is Kaz?" and feeling an indescribable emptiness so profound that it feels like a goddamn hole has been punched through your chest, you finally come to the subconscious realization that the intense emotion you're feeling is longing. As someone conditioned since adolescence to be driven by only the basest of human instincts, the feeling is so unfamiliar that it's downright uncomfortable. Your mind hasn't the capabilities to parse it properly at first, it's such an alien concept. It's an emptiness that can't be fulfilled by eating or drinking or killing, and it confuses you to the point of anger. You can't take this distance, this estrangement, the absence of his voice in your ear. It feels akin to drowning, really - there are times you wake up and literally feel like you're suffocating, and sometimes you swear you can feel Kaz's familiar weight next to you in bed, feel the rhythmic puff of breath on the back of your neck, only to roll over and feel your heart sink as you lay your palm on empty space, leaving you disoriented and gasping for air all over again.

You finally match up the emotions to the same way you felt shortly after she died, and it enrages you even further. Because then you finally have to admit to yourself that you've gone and made the same mistake twice.

Well, fuck it.

It's a little disheartening to find out how easy it is to infiltrate the new Mother Base. It's too easy to objectively see all the weak spots as though you're looking through the eyes of the enemy, which only leads to mental images of C4 on the struts and the old Mother Base sinking into the ocean, so you put it out of your mind. Instead, you try your best to imitate the slightly bored slouch the soldiers adopt when on watch with nothing to particularly watch. You adopt a ridiculous accent in an attempt to disguise your voice on the rare occasion someone speaks to you. Try to make a conscious effort to make your footsteps as conspicuous as possible, which is easier said than done. It's too easy to fall into the effortless habit of stepping silently, molding to the shadows and rendering yourself virtually invisible is your nature, and a couple of times you even accidentally sneak up on another soldier, startling him so badly that he actually drops his gun.

This will not end well. You consider abandoning the idea entirely, even though you're already here and have come this far. Perhaps it isn't worth the risk.

But then there he is. Just like that, even though he's completely oblivious to your presence, he demands your attention just as surely as he did all those years ago. There's that unmistakable golden radiance that captivates you even from this distance, and after nearly a decade, that glowing light that always seemed to emanate from somewhere within Kaz hasn't ebbed in the slightest. You stop breathing entirely, the mere sight of him all the air you need. You decide it's worth the risk.

He's accompanied by Ocelot and the phantom, his posture just as majestic and immaculate as ever, but something's off - he's leaning on something...a crutch? His gait has changed considerably. He's limping. This isn't some temporary injury. You can tell by his swift, painful stride, as though he's gotten accustomed to the cumbersome nature of it, that this is permanent. The way his pant leg bunches awkwardly where his calf should be tells you everything you need to know. And when he turns just slightly on his right heel, leveraging himself on his crutch to face the phantom, who is following closely behind, the wind picks up the empty sleeve of Kaz's trench coat and you're actually sick.

You barely yank the balaclava off in time as your stomach attempts to crawl up your esophagus, and you regurgitate bile onto the pavement in the protective shadow of a materials container, thankful that the waves and the wind drown out any sound you might make. You're suddenly trembling violently and drenched in a cold sweat, your legs unreliable as they threaten to give out beneath you. You brace a shaking arm against the corrugated steel, then finally sag your shoulder against it as another lurch claims your stomach. They took half his limbs. They took half his goddamn limbs and all while he was protecting you. That no one had the decency to relay this information to you at any point makes it that much worse.

You're waiting for Ocelot in the shadowed corner of his quarters by the time he returns, and you greet him with a swift punch to the nose before he even sees you. He reels and doubles over with his hands cupped over his nose and mouth, but you catch him by the throat and slam him against the wall, holding him there so that you have his undivided attention.

"Boss - " he gasps, sputtering blood as it runs freely from his nose. "Is it really a good idea for you to be here?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You don't yell. Your voice is deathly calm, with just the slightest undercurrent of a warning, and this causes Ocelot to stiffen and regard you with extreme caution. He knows this is when you're at your most dangerous. His body is tense, but he doesn't struggle - he knows better.

"Tell you what?" he says thickly, his voice constricted from your hand around his throat.

"Don't be fatuous," you snap, your fingers tightening around his trachea so that his breath comes out in labored rasps. "About Kazuhira. The phantom found him like that?"

Ocelot presses his lips tightly together, an awkward expression flashing across his face. He'd always be catlike to the very end, and no cat could ever express apology without looking haughty and superior, so it comes off as looking flippant and annoyed instead. He huffs twice, grates in a raspy breath as his hand feebly wraps around your wrist, a gentle plea for release. You loosen your grip slightly but don't let go, allowing him to draw just enough breath to speak and no more.

"There's been a lot to digest lately, Boss. I never had the chance to tell you. Contacting you would be too much of a risk anyway, and it's not like it was consequential enough to be worth blowing - "

"That isn't for you to decide," you say through clenched teeth, giving him a firm yank so that his head slams against the wall again.

He flinches and gives a small grunt but says nothing, only blinks at you neutrally as he tries to look as dignified as possible while gasping for air. You have half a mind to wring the last breath out of him and leave him unconscious just for good measure, but it will accomplish absolutely nothing, and for some reason, it's just not as gratifying as it used to be. The faint press of his erection against your hip only adds to your increasing impatience, and you unceremoniously release him.

He stutters out a couple of dry coughs and uses the pretense of adjusting his scarf to gingerly massage his bruised throat, ever too proud to show any sign of vulnerability in your presence. He presses his gloved knuckles to his nose to dab away at the blood, sniffing haughtily as he flinches, then lifts his gaze back to you. 

"Boss...?" he challenges, keeping wary eyes on you. 

No doubt you look positively murderous right now, and he seems to be considering the legitimate threat of you actually killing him within the next couple of minutes.

"How could you let things get so out of control? That...that wasn't supposed to happen."

This time Ocelot's expression of distant annoyance hardens into frustration, commingled with a very faint sense of condescension. He's losing his patience. "What could I have conceivably done, Boss? Miller makes his own decisions. What happened to him was just the unfortunate but inevitable result of protecting you."

It's not intended as an accusation, but it feels like one, nonetheless.

"What if he'd been killed?" you seethe.

Ocelot remains calm, very slightly raising one eyebrow. "He did what he felt was necessary to keep you safe. He knew the risks. ...He would have died for you, if he had to."

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you already knew that but had always been too afraid, too ashamed, too guilty to consider it. Too guilty to consider whether or not you'd do the same for him. To consider why a man you initially extorted and forced into submission now serves his devotion up to you on a silver fucking platter and practically thanks you for the honor. Christ.

You realize this is just Ocelot's warped version of trying to console you, but he's only making things worse. You squeeze your eye shut and turn away. "Is he in a lot of pain?" you ask quietly.

He doesn't answer right away, and you impatiently glance back at him. Hesitant doesn't do justice to the look he's giving you now. There's also a glimmer of guilt there as well, and it's all the answer you need.

Protectiveness, spite, vitriol - these are all new urges for you, so unfamiliar that you can't really put a name to them at first, and they cause such an ugly, chaotic sensation in your chest that your first instinct is to respond with anger and violence in an attempt to numb the feeling. You want to blame Ocelot because it means you won't have to blame yourself.

The responsible thing to do now would be to disappear. At least Kazuhira is alive, which is a lot more than you could have hoped for, all things considered. But it isn't quite enough. You're no closer to emotional peace than you were before, you need to see him up close, to touch him, you need to hear his voice again so much that it physically hurts. You need some reassurance that he's at least marginally okay. And you know it's reckless, it's downright suicidal, but you test your luck by seeing how close to him you can get. It takes every bit of your resolve, but you even lay off the cigars for a week just to ensure your scent doesn't give you away.

It's with a sinking heart that you slowly begin to realize just how much he's changed. Where he used to be playful and buoyant, he's now solemn and short-tempered. There's a permanent crease that's worked its way into the center of his brow, and he's developed a perpetual scowl - the telltale mask of a man in constant physical pain. Just watching the slow, arduous process of him hoisting himself out of a chair or up a flight of stairs makes you feel every bit of creaking pain in your own bones. It's with a small ray of bittersweet hope that you notice he's somehow managed to turn his limp into a proud swagger that still commands respect. Even in his vulnerability, he still manages to hold on to every last bit of his dignity. You don't even try to ignore the distinct warmth that spreads through your chest at the memory of how you met, how that was the very thing about him that captivated you from the beginning. He'll always ever be a fighter, stubborn at heart, persevering out of spite alone, and you find comfort in the fact that at least that hasn't changed about him.

Other than that, he's almost a completely different person than the man you knew almost a decade ago. He's wound too tight. He's too guarded, too...premeditated. No more casual rolled-up sleeves and silly excuses to drop his pants - now he makes it a point of wearing too many clothes, refusing to reveal anything more than his face and a small portion of his throat. You find something remarkably frustrating about his upturned collar and gloved hand, the perfect half-windsor of his tie, the impeccable arrangement of his belt and holster. Everything about him is too perfectly in place, and it takes a full day of grinding your teeth and glaring at him to figure out exactly why it's so goddamn unnerving to you, but then it occurs to you that these are all things that would be profoundly difficult for a man with one arm to achieve on his own. Not impossible, but difficult. It isn't inconceivable that he has help getting dressed everyday. (And undressed.) You can think of only one person he might allow to get close enough to assist him in such an intimate manner, and the very thought of it causes a monstrous, dark feeling to lurch within you.

It's an irrational thought, possessive nonsense brought on by - what is that, jealousy?

But then you see them together, him and that goddamned phantom with their heads bent together as they speak in low voices, and though you can't quite make out the words, you notice that the gruff nature of Kaz's voice has softened back into that old youthful cadence he had way back when. By this point, you've heard him speak to Ocelot, to clients on the phone, to other recruits - this is a tone of voice he saves exclusively for the phantom. There's a tenderness there that suggests your assumptions about them are correct. And when the low rumble of their voices stop, and the phantom curls his hand around the back of Kaz's neck as they lean toward each other and press their foreheads together for just an instant, you think you might be sick again.

You know it's fucking petty and childish and stupid, but you've lurked around long enough to do a substantial amount of recon so you know the precise patterns of Kaz's movements throughout the day, and when he emerges from his office, you've timed your assumed patrol to where you're conveniently rounding the corner at the exact moment he's coming in the opposite direction. The impact staggers him, and you think he's had a lot of practice falling down because he does it with such prepared grace. You're already stooping down to help him up before he's hit the ground, but there's a sharp pain in your wrist as he impatiently swats you with the end of his crutch, accompanied by some choice insults that would otherwise be unremarkable if not for the acidic nastiness with which he spits them out at you. And then the phantom is there - where the fuck did he even come from? - almost materializing out of thin air to bend down and effortlessly hoist Kaz to his feet with a delicate touch you'd never be able to achieve even if you tried. Your eyes linger on the bionic arm wrapped gently around Kaz's middle, you focus too obsessively on how Kaz instinctively leans into that touch, you actually see him visibly relax a little, and this sight alone nearly unravels you completely.

It shouldn't have come to this.

Confronting Ocelot about it is unhelpful. What the hell did you expect, Boss? Of course it would be only natural that Kaz and the phantom would pick up where you'd left off while they both still thought the phantom was you. You were prepared for that. But now that the truth is out, there's no reason for this intimacy between them. It suggests that the connection is entirely organic, that they've developed something uniquely their own, and it has nothing to do with you. You convince yourself it's just the result of the necessity for comfort and familiarity, but Ocelot suggests they may have had something going on even back in the MSF days, back when the phantom's mind and personality were still his own. It's only speculation at this point, but Kaz put it 'round back then and it isn't too implausible that he and the esteemed medic might have been fooling around under your very nose.

Not that you ever had any claim on him, as much as you acted like you did - you should actually be proud that Kaz may have, for once in his life, practiced some semblance of discretion - but not with him. Anyone but him. It's easy to assume Ocelot's just stirring up shit. You're not oblivious to his infatuation, as much as you pretend to be for courtesy's sake.

But your hazy memories recall that night on the helicopter, the last clear memory you have before things went dark for nine years -

"Give it back! This isn't right, that was ours!"

You're numb and shell shocked and you barely register your enraged deputy commander shaking you. And when he unleashes on Paz, the medic doesn't even resist as Kaz roughly shoves him out of the way. You've never seen Kaz like this. As much as you chastised him for being a womanizer, you'd never heard him use any disrespectful slur toward the women, not even anything as relatively tame as 'bitch.' It actually startles you when he hurls it at Paz now, it sounds so alien falling from his lips. He's feral and caustic and rabid, irrationally angry to a point that almost frightens even you, and when Paz scampers away and he lunges after her, the medic wraps a gentle, protective arm around Kaz's middle and hauls him back. What's notable is that Kaz doesn't struggle against him - this is just a medic, a soldier, Kaz is his superior but something about this man's touch has instantly subdued him -

You didn't think much of it then, you didn't really have time - in the next instant, that medic was putting himself between you and the blast that took down your chopper.

But Jesus Christ, you should have seen it. And you have no right to your jealousy, your indignation, you aren't entitled to Kaz or his loyalty but goddamn it if it doesn't sting. And isn't that just the icing on the cake? All that time he struggled for your undivided attention - hell, the very reason he fucked his way through half the population on Mother Base was probably to fill some void only you could have satisfied, and only now that he's definitively not yours anymore can you be motivated to give a fuck. You can't help but wonder what this phantom, this goddamn carbon copy, could have offered Kaz that you couldn't.

(Devotion, freedom, passion.)

You could win him back. Couldn't you? You could give him all those things. You just need time. Give him time, he'll come around. He did before, didn't he?

(But only when you'd put a gun to his head.)

It may have been a foiled attempt at putting your arms around him again, but at least it wasn't a complete waste - you've managed to lift his keycard in the fumble, and with your proficiency in on-site procurement, you've got a duplicate made and the original safely tucked back into Kaz's trench coat before he even notices it's missing.

He keeps infernal hours. You wonder if the man ever fucking sleeps. But eventually you spy him scowling at a concerned Ocelot, who offers to take over radio support while the phantom is out on a mission, urging Kaz to get some rest. After some resistance, he finally acquiesces and retires for the night, shooting Ocelot another sharp scowl and mumbling something that sounds a lot like Don't get him killed.

The added exertion of Kaz's missing limbs conveniently leaves him so exhausted that he isn't awakened by the sound of you slipping into his quarters, and for a long moment, you just watch him. He looks significantly younger when he sleeps - not that he's aged all that much in the past nine years - but that perpetual scowl is gone, that little crease in the center of his brow is smoothed out. He looks so endearingly peaceful - hell, he looks downright angelic, the way his golden hair cascades around his face and on the pillow, lips slightly parted to show just a sliver of white teeth. God, he still does it to you. He still has this irrevocable power over you, and here you were supposed to be the fucking legend.

You gingerly reach a shaking hand out to him and press two fingers to those parted lips, and they're just as soft and warm as you remember. Using the lightest touch you can manage, you take the opportunity to appreciate all the little details about him that you never did before, tracing the fine bones of his face with your fingertips. You touch his cheekbone, trace the line of his brow, the soft shells of his eyelids. You gently take a lock of hair that's fallen over his eye and tuck it away from his face, fighting against the overwhelming urge to sift your fingers through that hair like you did so often back then, delighting in its cornsilk softness until you fell asleep with your nose in it. He stirs just slightly when you graze your fingers along his jawline, instinctively tilting his head back as your fingers drag down the line of his throat. You freeze, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears as you feel his pulse thrumming steadily beneath your fingertips, holding your breath as you pray he doesn't wake up.

The sound of his soft, even breathing is reassuring, the steady rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic, and after an extended moment, you continue to drag your fingers along the line of his collarbone. You trace along the curve of his shoulder and down to the cruel scarring on the stump where his arm should be, and the little sound he makes in the back of his throat - something between an agonized moan and a whimper - causes you to clamp your hand over your mouth to stifle the wounded sound that escapes you. Your throat constricts and you choke down a dry swallow, abruptly withdrawing your fingers from him as though you've been burned. Floundering helplessly, fingers twitching in a silent panic, you finally rest your hand in the center of his chest, keeping time with his breathing and savoring the slow thud of his heart against your palm.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," you whisper, so silent that you're really just mouthing the words. You want to say his name, need to feel it on your tongue again, but you can't risk rousing him.

You risk smoothing another lock of hair back from his forehead, and when the heel of your hand brushes against his cheekbone, he turns his face into your palm as a low hum sounds in the back of his throat, carried on a sigh.

God, god - he responds so eagerly to your touch, even after all these years - is he thinking about you or the phantom? - you'd give anything to just lean down and kiss those parted lips but goddamn it, you recognize the faint but unmistakable sound of helicopter blades approaching in the distance, and clearly this is a sound to which Kaz has been conditioned to respond on instinct, because he stirs immediately and his eyelids flutter as his hand idly begins reaching toward the nightstand where his sunglasses are neatly folded.

It isn't difficult to make a quick escape before he fully wakes, but it doesn't change the fact that it was a bold, foolish thing to do.

Certainly not something you should do again.

You should be laying low, you absolutely cannot keep sneaking onto the base like this. Naturally, you continue to follow him like a distant shadow, always maintaining that you're at least on the complete opposite end of the platform from him, and in time you've even come to root out the exact moments he'll be alone, unaccompanied even by the phantom. You crave these moments where you can see him let his walls down. Sometimes he'll stand on the outer grating of the landing pad, too uncomfortably close to the edge as he gazes wistfully out at the water, and your heart gives a panicked lurch every time because it looks too much like he's contemplating throwing himself into the crashing waves below. You calculate how long it would take for you to cross the platform to get to him, the likelihood of survival were you to throw yourself in after him.

The relief is so great that you nearly collapse every time he steps back and retreats to a comfortable distance from the edge. Sometimes you catch him slipping his fingers underneath his sunglasses to rub at his eyes, and you can't help but wonder if he's wiping away tears. You take to lifting your rifle under the pretense of casually inspecting the horizon through the scope, but really you're just trying to get a closer look at him when he slips his sunglasses off his face, desperate to see his eyes again. Something's...happened to them, but you take comfort in the fact that he doesn't seem to have been blinded. You actually groan when he lifts his hand to his mouth, loosens each finger of his glove one by one with his teeth - it's like he does these things to you on purpose - and slips it off his hand so he can wearily rub at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

The next conversation with Ocelot is...awkward. A part of you thinks he'll be able to give you answers that will offer some peace of mind, but this is Ocelot, after all. The man pulls no punches, and like all Russians, he speaks the language of bluntness. He never intentionally tries to be cutting - he just finds it more efficient to simplify everything at the cost of tact.

"You're not doing yourself any favors, Boss," he drawls one evening, staring out the window at the hazy sunset. He turns slowly on his heel, absently pulls his gun from its holster and twirls it a couple of times before returning it to his hip. "Don't think I haven't noticed you slinking around the base."

Fuck.

"Don't worry, Miller's too preoccupied to notice - yet," he says, waving his hand toward you with that trademark flick of his wrist. "But I'd rather not keep taking that risk. He's bound to catch on sooner or later. Your very presence endangers not only you, but everything we've built here. ...You were supposed to be gone by now."

"I was. I came back. I needed to - "

See him again.

"...I needed to tie up some loose ends."

By the weary scowl Ocelot's giving you now, it's clear he sees right through your evasiveness.

"Is he..." Still upset, would be the end of that sentence, but you can't bring yourself to say it because it sounds too desperate. Perhaps even a little insensitive, because of all people, you're not really allowed to ask that. "How's he coping?" you ask instead.

Ocelot exhales sharply through his nose, shooting you a sideways glance. "What do you want me to say, Boss?"

You take note of the fact that he refuses to look you directly in the eye.

"It's not like I had a choice." You're defensive now, almost to the point of aggression. "I didn't leave him. Not...not permanently, at least."

The corners of his mouth tighten and he tilts his head down, rubbing his forehead in his palm. "Tell you the truth, Boss, I'm not entirely sure that's the reason he's so upset," he says cryptically.

Oh, of course. Of course it's not about you, it was never fucking about you, it's about the goddamn phantom, about what you did to him, about how you allowed the saintly doctor to be re-purposed into a vessel, a tool, a puppet wearing your face. Kaz took it personally, like you'd intentionally taken his beloved medic away from him out of spite when you didn't even know. As if that was your idea, as if you could have done anything to stop it while your consciousness was on hiatus for a goddamn fucking decade -

You slam your fist back against the wall in frustration. "Can't you - "

" - talk to him?" Ocelot finishes the sentence for you, followed by a derisive snort. "Because he's always been so mindful of my input," he adds sarcastically. "Miller barely tolerates me as it is. We're not friends."

This time he finally does look at you, and you actually take an abrupt step back because his face has settled into...is that - sympathy? And it's so uncharacteristic on him that it's like a goddamn sniper shot to the chest. It's the first time you've ever seen him with an expression that isn't haughty or mildly condescending, and it almost makes him look like an entirely different person. And then you realize, it's not sympathy...he's wounded.

"Adam," you say softly, and he actually flinches at the tenderness your voice has adopted. You take a step closer, begin to reach out to him, but decide against it. You really never wanted to address this. It was always so much easier to play dumb. "You were always my most - "

"Don't," he snorts, rolling his eyes. "Don't patronize me. I know the end of that sentence would just be a disappointing consolation anyway. I don't need your platitudes." His fingers twitch at his hip, you can tell he's fighting the urge to twirl his gun again, a habit that's become something of a nervous tick when he's feeling particularly vulnerable. He doesn't want to give you that victory in this moment, so instead he just rests his hand on his holster. Out of respect, you concede to silence and just press your lips together, giving a curt nod.

"Boss," he says tentatively as you turn to leave, "...don't get sloppy."

It's a half-hearted warning, but a concession more than anything else. No amount of reasoning or risk could ever keep you from getting what you want.

It isn't unlike an addiction. The jitters, the insatiable...whatever feeling this is, the disquiet in your chest that feels like a hummingbird is attempting to escape through your ribcage - only Kaz can pacify these things. He's a bad habit even a nine-year-long coma couldn't break. Somewhere in the back of your mind, where some small vestige of reason still resides, you know that continuing to steal moments with him while he's unaware is the most reckless thing you could possibly do right now. At this point, it's not even clear if you're driven more by guilt or by longing, but some small part of you knows that you owe him something. Perhaps you're convinced he'll at least subconsciously pick up on your presence, and it will somehow be enough to pay off even a fraction of that debt. Or perhaps you really are the selfish son of a bitch they say you are and you're just that willing to risk everyone's lives and security for your bullshit attempt at closure.

But you can't leave now. Not yet.

He's in the throes of a nightmare the next time you risk another visit. 

Which isn't all that surprising in itself. You'd expect anyone who went through as much trauma as he did to be frequently plagued with restless sleep. But actually seeing it - the tense spasms of his muscles, the way his body goes rigid as he tosses his head to the side, cringing against the ghosts of his tormentors - it's painful for you to watch. Jaw clenched, brow creased, the heart-wrenching whimper that dies in his throat is like a knife through your chest. You cautiously approach him and lay a gentle hand on his head, smoothing the damp tendrils of hair back from his forehead, then delicately press your thumb to that little crease in the center of his brow. You can see his pulse pounding frantically in his throat, but when you cup his face in your hand, your thumb lethargically grazing along his cheekbone, he immediately relaxes, turning his face into your palm and muttering something in Japanese.

When he begins to wake out of it, you've already got your contingency plan hidden in your palm. He gives a muted grunt of confusion as you sink the needle into his arm, but the tranquilizer takes effect immediately, giving him barely enough time to glimpse you through heavy-lidded eyes before the fog sets over him.

"Snake...?" He tries to raise up on his elbow, but you gently push him back down.

"Shhh...don't fight it," you whisper, lightly caressing the puncture mark in his arm with your thumb.

It really is one hell of a sedative. He doesn't even struggle, it's taken all the fight out of him. But he's still somewhat conscious, and his eyes go vacant as he serenely stares at you. Expectant. Trusting. Docile. It's so uncharacteristic that you find some delight in the novelty.

"I could do anything to you right now, and you'd let me," you whisper, thumbing his cheekbone again. He lethargically blinks at the touch, a silent acceptance of his situation, and there's a pronounced tightening in your groin that's almost painful.

Does he know what's happening right now? Does he know where and when he is? Or does he think you're the phantom? Best not to think about it. It's too easy, really, it's almost disappointing. Almost. He's so pliable under your touch, so insistent as he tugs weakly at your clothes in a silent request for you to take them off, and when you slide in next to him, he melts into you as readily as he always did. You wrap your arms around him for the first time in nearly a decade, and you don't even try to stifle your moan. God, it feels good. Obscenely, impossibly good. He feels good.

You're not really sure what you're doing here, honestly, you hadn't really planned this whole thing out - presumably you were going to...what? Fuck his brains out and remind him how much he needs you? Put another goddamn gun to his head and make him choose between you or death? Maybe. But now you don't want to do either of those things. In your head, they actually seem a little monstrous. What you do instead is wrap your arms tightly around him, tuck him against your chest and bury your nose in his hair - Christ, he even still smells the same, after all these years. He smells good. He smells like home. All you can do is nuzzle him and inhale, you're just now appreciating how much this addiction has a hold on you, you swallow thickly because he actually makes your goddamn mouth water -

"Boss...?" He tries to raise up again and look at you, but he's having a hard time keeping his eyes open. You can sense his reluctance, his vague awareness that something isn't quite right, and he's trying his best to figure it out but the sedative has too strong of a hold on him.

"Kaz, you're sleepy. Lie back and get some rest," you whisper, your hand cradling his neck as you guide him back against the pillow.

He lethargically complies and turns back into your chest, nuzzling at the hollow below your throat. "What took you so long?" he mumbles as his fingers sift through the hair on your chest.

You know what he wants. "Kept you waiting, huh?" you whisper.

A gratified hum sounds in the back of his throat as he presses closer to you, and you grunt when you feel the faint nudge of his cock against yours. Fuck. He's so irresistible in his defenselessness, the way he yields to you so eagerly. It feels just like the old days. It actually feels a lot like that first time, the pivotal moment where that boundary you'd both been dancing around for weeks came crumbling down not long after you'd met on that battlefield. Of course you'd noticed his infatuation, it really was nothing new with the soldiers and mercenaries you'd emotionally extorted into your thrall. You'd always responded with carefully feigned ignorance to avoid awkwardness, but what threw you with Kaz was that unlike the others, he never responded to you with counterfeit indifference in an attempt to mask his fascination - rather, he owned it. You'd catch him staring at you over the rims of his sunglasses, his eyes lingering too long on your lips or the muscles in your arms, and where you'd expect him to quickly glance away or stammer out some trivial nonsense under the guise of urgency like all the others did, he'd only continue to stare, stonewalling you with perhaps the slightest bit of a smirk at being caught like the cocky bastard he is.

You'd wondered why he was so unapologetic, so shameless, when admittedly, yeah, it did make you a little uncomfortable, and not even because it was flirtatious attention from another man, you never cared about that - but because for once, it took all of the power out of your hands. It gave him the control. You'd not often been the vulnerable one, and it was a perplexing feeling that you weren't entirely sure you enjoyed. After weeks of this, you slowly came to realize that his intentions were all very carefully planned with one ultimate purpose - he was seducing you. Pushing you until you reacted.

And one night, during a rain shower under the protective canopy of the Panamanian jungle, you did.

It was a scouting mission. The area's strategic location on a commercial front combined with the capricious nature of its government made it potentially advantageous to the expansion of your business. Colombia had proven lucrative enough, but the ports and the canal were conveniently close, in desperate need of "private security," and Kaz had been keeping a shrewd eye on potential contracts. It was a dangerous if arguably unrewarding game you were playing, scoping the locks from your safe vantage point in the surrounding hills as you looked for vulnerabilities, the comings and goings of freighters with valuable (or illegal) cargo, prospective recruits for the MSF - all of which you might use to coax business out of the Port Authority.

You were both exhausted and sore, but the adrenaline from the day's exertions was still running high in your body, and though you wouldn't have admitted it, it was making you a little horny. Not that it was anything new. You'd been around enough soldiers in your life to know that the thrill of the hunt made the body react in all sorts of puzzling ways, but with Kaz and his infuriating talent in knowing exactly how to push all your buttons, it was more than a little inconvenient. Best to hide it from him, since he'd pick up on it immediately and run with it. 

You made camp for the night, and he was uncharacteristically quiet, the only sound being the rain slapping the banana trees and the occasional soft caw of a caracara. It was oddly peaceful, until you began to notice how Kaz was surreptitiously moving closer and closer to you, trying to mask it with idle shifting, but when you finally felt his ass nudge against your groin, you inhaled sharply through your teeth and instinctively clamped a hand around his hip. Even you weren't sure if it was a restraining gesture or one of welcome, but he turned over to face you all the same. He'd actually taken those goddamn sunglasses off for once, and you found something inexplicably raw and intimate about seeing his eyes unguarded, the ability to see all the emotion therein. The last time you'd seen him without them was when you were hauling his beaten body off of that battlefield, and somehow it made it seem even more intimate than if he'd been completely naked.

"Kaz - "

"Boss." His tone was so assertive it almost sounded like a dare.

Any other time, you'd think he was mocking you, just trying to get a reaction out of you, but the sincerity with which he stared at you, the conviction in his face, you knew this was as real as it got. And feeling the press of his cock nudging against your thigh, the sensation dampened by your clothes but his erection just as sure as yours, you suddenly couldn't be embarrassed or dismissive anymore. And by that point, he at least knew you well enough to know you wouldn't make the first move, so when he nudged his hips forward, grinding into you a little harder, your hand clamped tighter around his hip and you nudged back. And then the tentative nudging turned into steady, directed grinding, your bodies pressed firmly together as you tried to quiet at least a small portion of the insistent ache that only seemed to be growing worse with each muted thrust. Soon you were both reduced to wanton, unabashed writhing, your heart jumping erratically at the demanding thickness of his cock rubbing against your thigh. 

This was fine. It was relatively safe. Just a frenzied moment of you trying to get some relief without the added chore of waiting until your comrade fell asleep to hastily jerk one out. You were a little discouraged about the inevitable inconvenience of having to come in your pants, but fuck it, you just really needed to come. As long as you didn't look him in the eye, as long as you squeezed yours shut and refused to acknowledge that blue gaze staring right through you, it was fine. It's just a little rubbing, that's all - but then his hand worked its way down between you, and without even a courteous hesitation for some cue of permission, he was palming your cock through your pants and then working your fly open. Your shocked protest only made its way halfway up your throat and died with a choked groan when he rooted his hand down your pants, fingers brushing delightfully over sensitive flesh, then wrapping around your length as he began working you with deliberate, careful precision.

You could feel him staring at you the whole time, and he must have sensed your uncertainty, because he said in a strikingly soothing voice, "Don't think, Boss. Just let it happen."

At that, your eye snapped open and you stared back at him, and your mind went blank - your hand developed a mind of its own, working itself down his pants as well, and you began stroking him with the same teasing rhythm his hand worked on you - long, firm strokes followed by a gentle twist of the palm at the tip. You were so focused on the need for release that you didn't care when he affectionately pressed his forehead against yours, nudging his nose so subtly into yours that it could have been an accident. You felt the tendrils of impending relief pooling in your belly as your hands on each other began to gradually pick up speed, finally culminating in a frantic, fumbling moment of strained grunts and disjointed panting as you climaxed.

He came slightly before you, but feeling his hot seed spilling over your hand, seeing his eyes roll back in his head, his brows puckered and his mouth slightly open, his expression almost one of pain - it was so raw and...dangerous to see his walls come crumbling down that it sent you reeling over the edge immediately thereafter. When the afterglow subsided and your breathing returned to normal, he withdrew his hand from your pants and very delicately zipped you back up and refastened your fly. There was something remarkably affectionate about the gesture, and you were at a loss for what to do (do the same for him and feel really stupid and disingenuous, or do nothing and look like a massive prick?) but he saved you in the last moment, guiding your hand away by the wrist and nonchalantly zipping himself up as well.

The next morning, he was just as casual and light-hearted as ever, way too practiced at pretending nothing had happened. There wasn't even a shred of awkwardness about him, he still looked you in the eye just as confidently as always, without even a hint of suggestiveness at what had happened. The best you could do was match his candor and not say anything. Not that you cared. Of course you didn't care, it wasn't a big deal, you were just two men doing each other a favor, nothing more. It meant nothing.

A week later, you were in what you thought was a private moment alone and jerking off to the memory of it when Kaz walked in unannounced, coming in to retrieve some topographic maps or other. Flustered and impatient, you abruptly yanked your hand out of your pants with the petulance of a teenager being caught by a parent, and just as you were about to set in on him with a berating diatribe about the courtesy of knocking, he responded with that infuriating nonchalance that was so characteristic of him --

"By all means, don't stop on account of me," he'd said absently as he hurried past with the industrious stride he always adopted when he was too distracted with business to even notice if the world was detonating around him. "I'll only be a second," he assured, without even so much as a glance in your direction.

Now that got you. The absolute nerve of the guy, dancing around you with all the subtlety of a nuclear missile and not even trying to hide the fact that he'd been seducing you, all that unrequited nonsense spontaneously coming to fruition and now here you are, a man who has built a reputation on being ambiguously asexual with your cock out for the taking and he had the gall to ignore you. Not that you were into him that way, not that you cared whether or not he paid attention to you, of course you didn't care - but it was the purpose of the thing. The arrogant bastard thought he had the upper hand, and that really did not sit well with you.

In all his intuition, his seemingly preternatural understanding of your every thought and emotion, he'd stiffened then, turning very slowly to face you. He could probably feel the heat radiating off of you from where he stood, you were so aggravated. He'd hesitated for maybe a heartbeat, like he was deliberating on a decision, then boldly approached you and eased himself onto the bed next to you. You briefly panicked, wondering whether you should zip yourself up or stand your ground and stare him down, perhaps continue with the scathing chastisement that still lingered on your tongue. But when he very deliberately brought his hand up to his face and removed his sunglasses, keeping a steady gaze on you as he neatly folded them and slid them into his breast pocket, you knew there was no resisting him.

"Please. Continue," he said cordially, but with all the conviction of a command.

Oh, and it was a fucking challenge. You couldn't back down then. Show any sign of hesitation and he'd parse it as modesty, as shyness, and then you'd really be the loser in that ridiculous game he always played with you. And you never did like losing. You weren't about to break your winning streak in contests with him now. For good measure, you kept your eye on his as you continued to slowly stroke yourself, coaxing yourself back to a full erection under his close scrutiny. You drew it out, put on a show for him, flexed the muscles of your forearm a little unnecessarily. 

He scoffed at that. "Uh-uh. None of that. Show me how you like it." His voice was low and husky as he said it, painfully erotic, and you actually choked a little. 

You weren't even allowed to go porn-star chic and make it look pretty, he wouldn't even give you that. And of course he wouldn't, because again he'd rooted out the subtlest ways to make you vulnerable. But you couldn't show hesitation. He couldn't win this. 

"It's alright, Boss," he whispered. "Just let go." By that point he was leaning so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your ear. 

And so you closed your eye, tilted your head back and let your mouth go slack as you stroked yourself while he watched. You almost yelped when you suddenly felt the heat of his mouth closing on your neck, but it felt so goddamn good that you choked back the sound. His mouth made a tantalizing journey along your throat, accompanied by the occasional, brief pinch of teeth, and you wanted so badly to moan, but you absolutely would not give him that satisfaction. But then he had to reach down and still your hand, replacing it with his, and he picked up your own rhythm with such stunning accuracy that the groan escaped you before you even knew you'd made a sound. 

And when his free hand came up to cup your jaw and authoritatively turn your head so he could assault the other side of your neck, you lost your mind a little. With fumbling fingers, you tried to loosen the knot in his scarf, cursing at how goddamn difficult the damn thing was, and you were met with a soft chuckle against your throat as he reached up and pulled it loose with one effortless tug, his hand on your cock never interrupting its perfect rhythm. 

"Stop," you ordered, and surprisingly, he did. He could probably tell you were getting close, and of course he wouldn't have allowed you to come so soon, even if you'd wanted to. 

You opened your eye and risked looking at his face, afraid of some condescending smirk or judgmental glare, but all you saw was open patience. Perhaps even generosity. Though his hand down there had stilled, he still gripped you lightly in his palm to keep you erect, awaiting instruction. Then his idle fingers began to wander, ghosting over your stomach and the inner line of your hipbone so that you stiffened to avoid rewarding him with an aroused shudder.

"Tell me what you want, Boss," he breathed.

He was giving this one to you, allowing you some illusion of control like it was some charity. You found it a little condescending, but with your dick this hard and your head this clouded, it was in your best interest to take advantage of his immediacy. Your need for relief vastly outweighed your need for dignity. You responded by working open the front of his uniform, and, following your cue, he unbuckled his belt and holster, leaning back a little to allow you to begin unfastening his pants. You refused to allow your hands to shake. Show even the slightest sign of weakness and he'd hold it over your head indefinitely. 

Or worse - respond with compassion.

Which is exactly what he seemed to be doing then, keeping a polite silence about how obviously flustered you were. When you hesitated, he seamlessly picked up where you left off without so much as a smirk, coaxing you out of your clothes with effortless finesse. You felt your confidence slowly creeping back, and finally you managed to look at him and appreciate the fine features of his unobscured face - the alluring, feline nature of his eyes, the enticing flush to those high cheekbones, the pleasing set of his brow. He really is a beautiful man, you'd thought, and driven by a sudden surge of desire, you did a half-CQC move on him, pulling him against you so you could claim his mouth with your own. He humored you for a moment, played along and tried to match the chaotic nature of how you kissed in those days, until his hand tightened around the back of your neck and forced you back.

"C'mon, ease up a little," he said gently, then firmly cupped your jaw and tilted your head back. "Open your mouth," he ordered.

You'd become unaccustomed to being under someone else's command, and being directed by Kaz's deliberate instruction was...admittedly, a little exciting. You surprised yourself by how much you liked it. And when you obediently parted your lips for him, he ducked forward and caught your bottom lip in his mouth, sucking softly while his hand massaged the back of your neck. Coquettish to a fault, that man, but he'd teased you enough by that point that you soon found yourself gripping his shoulder, attempting to shove him down onto his stomach so you could finally get some relief.

"Whoa, take it easy, Boss," he said, resisting you with genuine force this time. "Have you ever even done this before?"

"Of course I have," you said, a little too defensively.

He cast you a doubtful look and frowned. "I mean with a man," he said flatly. Your silence was all the answer he needed, and he flashed an encouraging smile and absently rubbed a reassuring hand over your shoulder. "It's different than it is with a woman. Come on, at least let me show you how to do it."

That made you panic a little. You'd never even considered being penetrated that way, and the thought of it was a little intimidating. But you wouldn't show it, not in front of Kaz. It was a shame that he could undoubtedly see the vibration of your heart pounding violently in your chest anyway, you were so nervous. And somewhere in the back of your mind, some small part of you that wasn't distracted with how frantic you felt was wondering, How many men has he even been with? Aside from his apparent infatuation with you, you'd taken him for the type that was strictly into skirts.

"Lie back, Boss." There was still that commanding assertiveness, but there was an encouraging tenderness behind it that made you immediately comply. "It's okay. Just relax," he soothed. "Part your thighs for me."

He guided you with a firm hand on your knee while idly reaching for his jacket, where he pulled something out of one of the pockets. You immediately recognized it as lube, accompanied by a condom. You would have laughed had you not been so jittery, and that was the defining moment where you really began to speculate into how much your deputy got around, that he always ensured he was this prepared. You tried to avoid looking at his cock, tried not to think about how thick it felt in your hand that night in the jungle. If you thought about that and where he was about to put it, you'd psych yourself out of it. So what if it hurt a bit? Pain wasn't anything new to you, you could handle anything -

"It helps if you breathe," he instructed, popping the cap on the tube and working a generous amount onto his fingers.

You realized you'd been holding your breath, and you choked back a jagged, unsatisfying gasp that did nothing but make you dizzy. He dropped the tube beside you on the bed and placed a warm, comforting hand on your stomach, his fingertips gently stroking the tender flesh around your navel as he pressed his finger against your hole. You instinctively clenched up against the expected intrusion, but all he did was stroke your puckered flesh and gradually apply pressure, his hand on your stomach holding you in place. 

"Snake. Breathe," he chided as his finger began working lazy circles against your opening. "Slow, deep breaths...good. You're doing great, Boss."

There was something almost condescending about the way he coached you as though you were some child, but then his finger back there was gradually going from feeling odd to nice, and you found yourself subconsciously tilting your hips upward to meet him. If that didn't give you away, surely your cock would, swollen and cruelly ignored as it rested just below Kaz's hand on your stomach where it continued its gentle caresses to keep you relaxed. As though on cue, you felt yourself begin to naturally open up for his finger, which slowly eased its way inside you to the first knuckle. 

"Oh," you gasped, immediately clamping your mouth shut as soon as you realized you'd made a sound.

His eyes flitted up to your face and he flashed a warm smile. "How's that feel, Boss?" he whispered.

You screwed your eye shut to give yourself at least some illusion of privacy. Making eye contact with him made you feel too helpless, too exposed. "Feels good," you admitted softly, and you brought your forearm over your face to hide the blush that heated your cheeks. 

Not a second passed before he was clicking his tongue at you, his hand momentarily leaving your stomach so he could grip your forearm and force it away from your face, firmly maneuvering it back to your side. "Don't do that. I want to see your face. It's important that I see your reaction so I know if I need to stop." It was then that you noticed he'd inched his finger a little further inside you while you were distracted, and was gently stroking your insides so that you squirmed your hips in response. "Tell me if it hurts," he instructed, and you felt his finger sink all the way inside you, causing you to hiss through your teeth and groan. 

Your hand instinctively went to your engorged cock, just to rub your palm against it to provide some small ounce of relief, but he quickly slapped your hand away. 

"Not yet," he said through clenched teeth. "I don't need you finishing too soon. Just relax, I've got you."

He slowly drew his finger out and sunk it back in, and you arched your hips to meet him, groaning petulantly at your discomfort. Of course he'd find some way to turn foreplay into torture. After an extended moment of him lazily pumping you with one finger, you heard the cap on the lube snap again as he withdrew his finger, then you felt the cool, slick press of two fingers nudging at your entrance, coaxing you open a little further. 

"Take another deep breath, Boss," he instructed, and as soon as you began to exhale, those two fingers were pushing inside you. You winced, but it didn't really hurt, you just felt stretched a little.

His hand came back to your stomach and continued its teasing caresses, with just the slightest bit of force to hold you in place. You'd started bucking so much that you threatened to writhe off the bed. 

"How we doing?" he asked, dragging his fingers back out of you with agonizing slowness.

You winced again. "Great," you growled. "Can you just hurry it up a little?"

He made a sound between a short laugh and a huff of exasperation. "Patience," he scolded. "I won't hurt you. I'm not going to have your first experience be an unpleasant one."

You scoffed and snapped your eye open so you could briefly glare at him. You didn't like the way he treated you like some blushing virgin. Which, technically, you were, but he didn't have to act like it was something you couldn't handle. He had such an unwavering nurturing quality about him that made the whole situation even more unbearable. You wish he would have just bent you over and pounded you until you screamed. That, you could have handled. You could do savagery. Tenderness wasn't exactly familiar to you, and it made you uncomfortable because you didn't know how to respond to it. 

But the way his fingers were moving inside you, stroking your insides and opening you with such deliberate care was easily the most intense pleasure you'd ever felt. You had no idea that stimulation back there could feel so good, and after a few slow strokes of his fingers, you'd completely forgotten your attempt to keep silent. Your muted grunts turned into short, guttural growls as your eye rolled back in your head and you attempted to push yourself further onto his fingers.

"You can make noise if you need to," he encouraged. "Show me how much you like it, Boss."

You let out a long, low moan, then jerked in surprise as you were rewarded with the soft press of his lips against your cock. You risked opening your eye again and glanced down at him, but the visual of his mouth on you as he gazed up at you nearly sent you over the edge, so you just slammed your head back against the pillow and focused on the ceiling, your breath hitching as he left a trail of feathery kisses along the length of your shaft. When his lips parted and you felt the moist heat of his mouth on you, you actually whimpered. Maybe he was right to assume you couldn't handle it. With his fingers in your ass and his mouth on your cock, you felt like you might actually have a heart attack. You were light-headed and giddy and quite possibly on the verge of passing out. You actually felt a little high.

"Stay with me, Boss," he mumbled, the vibration of his voice reverberating against you and earning him another pained moan. He reached up and pinched your nipple, twisting it with just enough force to shock you back into lucidity as he pressed another kiss to your shaft. Then his fingers did something amazing, sinking into you and beckoning inside you so that they brushed against that sweet spot, causing your cock to twitch under his mouth and your hips to buck relentlessly.

"Do you know what this is?" he whispered, and you could hear the smile in his voice as he beckoned again, sending a shockwave through your body so intense, you were afraid you might lose control and come too soon. "This right here is everything."

"Kaz," you panted, your voice almost a whine. "Please...please." You didn't even try to even out the tremor in your voice.

His fingers abruptly came to a stop, halting their agonizing torture of your prostate, and you could no longer feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against your cock, as he had stopped entirely. You could feel his eyes on you, and though you avoided looking down at him, you could sense that predatory alertness he engendered any time something particularly enticing was dangled in front of his face. 

"Oh," he gasped softly. "Oh, that's lovely."

Was that...reverence...in his voice?

"Any other time...any other time we would demonstrate how well you can beg. ...But not today." He gently withdrew his fingers, and you were suddenly stricken with the overwhelming sensation of emptiness. "I think this will be much easier for you if you're on your stomach. Turn over, Boss."

When you hesitated, he nudged firmly at your hip and coaxed you over as you tried to keep your breathing under control, your anxiety returning at how much more defenseless you felt in the new position. You really didn't have a choice in being able to see what he was doing to you, and after a moment of trying to strain your neck to look over your shoulder at him, you conceded with a sigh and rested your cheek on your forearms. He really was one to toy with your comfort zone, and you surprised yourself with how compliant you were to his whims. Even if you'd already been in the habit of sleeping around with men, you didn't see yourself as the type to roll over for just anyone. Only Kaz could have brought this out in you, and it really made you reevaluate what he meant to you.

"Part your thighs a little more," he instructed gently, his hand pushing against your leg to help you along. "That's it, just relax. Arch your back for me." 

Your breath came out in a sharp huff of impatience, and you snapped a glare at him over your shoulder. It really seemed like he was doing everything he possibly could to rob you of any agency or dignity, plying you into position like you were some child's doll for his perverted pleasure, but when your eye found his face, there was nothing malicious or perverted about his expression, only that same gentle patience he exhibited earlier. 

He leaned forward and rested his palm on the small of your back, rubbing warm, soothing circles into your skin. "Hey, do you trust me?" 

The sincerity with which he said it made you instantly glance away and lay your head back down on your arms, mumbling something noncommittal into the pillow so you didn't have to vocalize the embarrassing answer:  Yes. A thousand times, yes.

"It's alright, I know it seems kind of humiliating now, but I promise, the angle will make it easier. I know what I'm doing, just trust me, okay? If you want, I can put some pillows under your hips so it's more comfortable." 

You made a muted sound of disdain in the back of your throat. You didn't know how much more of his doting tenderness you could take. It made you feel less in control than if he'd just held you down and fucked you silly. "No, it's fine like this," you grumbled.

You reluctantly did as he asked, arching your back but keeping your chest flush with the mattress, his hand guiding your hips upward so that you felt more exposed than ever. You hid your flushed face in the pillow, hating how much your cock was betraying you, rigid and painfully engorged with no way of hiding from him how much you were clearly enjoying it. His hand rubbed a few more rhythmic circles into your back before slipping under your hip to reward your cock with a couple of slow, teasing tugs, causing you to gasp and whine under his practiced touch. You groaned when he drew his hand away, but then he was dragging his palm down your spine and over your ass, kneading and caressing tender flesh before delicately parting your cheeks.

"You look unbelievably enticing this way," he whispered, and you were about to respond with something cutting when you felt his fingers pushing inside you again, probing you back open so that your body responded despite you and you arched your back for him even more.

He massaged you for a moment, then withdrew his fingers and wiped his hand on the sheet as you heard the rip of the condom wrapper, the sound nearly startling you in the heat of the moment.

"You're really going to use that?" you asked, your tone tinged with disappointment.

He smirked at you as you glanced over your shoulder at him. "Why, are you allergic to latex?" he asked. "You'd better tell me now if you are, otherwise you're in for a world of discomfort for the next few days."

"Just figured it would dull the experience."

He idly rolled the condom on with nimble fingers, causing your heart to sink a little. "Not much," he said with a nonchalant shrug, then positioned himself between your legs and lined the head of his cock up with your opening. "It's much easier this way for your first time, since the condom is lubricated and most first-timers aren't particularly thrilled with the sensation of semen inside them. It can be a little uncomfortable if you've never experienced it before."

You didn't want to confess it to him, but that was exactly what you wanted. You wanted him to come deep inside you and feel it leaking out of you for the rest of the day. Fuck. What the hell had he done to you?

"Besides," he said, dropping his voice and leaning forward so that his lips brushed over your ear, "I want to keep you safe." 

For some reason, this made your heart dance against your ribcage, your chest constricting at that delicate, nurturing demeanor of his. It didn't matter that you knew by some miracle, he'd never tested positive for anything as of yet - you'd seen his health screens yourself - but it was the purpose of the thing. Only one other person had ever openly expressed protectiveness toward you, and you wondered why it made you feel so anxious yet content at the same time.

"Deep breaths, Boss," he said quietly.

You did as instructed, your heart jumping wildly at the press of his cock in the cleft of your ass, and when you began to slowly exhale, you felt him push into you and stop the moment his tip breached the tight ring of muscle. It hurt a little, but it wasn't so bad. It was one of those gratifying pains, like sore muscles after a thorough workout.

"How we doing?" he asked gently, his palm tenderly rubbing over your hip. 

"Great," you gasped. You squirmed under him, arching your back more in an attempt to push back onto him, but he held you in place with a firm hand on your hip. 

"Take it easy," he soothed, running his hand up your side, his fingers tickling your ribcage. "We're gonna start off slow." You felt him nudge a little farther inside you, and that's when you really began to feel his girth, a sharp pain slicing through your lower half so that your breath hitched in your throat.

"Just keep breathing," he encouraged. "Tell me if it hurts too much."

He placed a light hand on your head and tousled your hair, raking his fingers through it and massaging your scalp as his lips found your neck. It was a pleasant distraction, and once your breathing slowed, he pushed deeper into you. You made a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper, fighting the urge to tense up against him.

"You're doing great. Almost there, just a little more to go." You could hear the tremor in his voice as he struggled to maintain control, his muscles tense and trembling against your back. You could only imagine how it must feel for him, and it made you that much more eager to one day get the opportunity to bury yourself inside him.

He pressed his lips to your shoulder, leaving a light trail of kisses along your upper back, and you wished you could press your hips flat so you could grind your cock into the mattress, you were so painfully on edge. You felt impossibly stretched, but he was allowing you to get used to the sensation, pausing so that your body had time to adjust, and after the discomfort started to ebb, you found yourself only wanting more. You petulantly tilted your hips and pushed back onto him, easing yourself onto his cock as he let out a few disjointed gasps, but this time he didn't stop you. 

"Fuck...Boss," he panted, burying the lower half of his face in the junction of your neck and shoulder. You could feel his heated breath heavy and slow against your skin, and the small grunt that sounded in the back of his throat vibrated through your very bones. "You've taken all of me," he mumbled, his voice muffled into your flesh.

You both laid still for a moment, his hips flush against your ass as you savored the sensation of him filling you, tilting your head to the side so his lips could continue to idly press kisses to your neck. You could feel his heart pounding violently against your back, could feel your own heartbeat throbbing in the place where the two of you were connected, and you wondered if he could feel it too, pulsating around his cock and possibly sending him very close to the edge.

"Ready to move a little?" he panted, nuzzling at the space behind your ear.

"For Christ's sake, just fuck me, Kaz," you growled, flexing your hips beneath him.

You could tell by his devious chuckle that your reaction is exactly what he wanted, why he'd spent so much time building you up and torturing you with anticipation, only to give little by little until you were ready to leap out of your skin, too worked up and desperate to feel ashamed for begging for it.

"Feel free to touch yourself now if you need to. I'm not going to last long," he said, dragging his lips over your upturned cheekbone.

"Me neither," you gasped, your hand flying to your neglected cock as he tested out a small, experimental roll of his hips against you.

You felt him draw out of you a little and push back in, a tentative movement that was meant to test your boundaries, but all it did was make you want more. You never thought being stuffed full of your deputy's cock could feel so goddamn good, and you quickly grew impatient with his teasing, opting to chase down your orgasm via self-impalement.

"Hold still," you barked, and he froze at the aggression in your voice. "Just let me do it." 

You flexed your hips beneath him and roughly reared back, causing him to draw out of you nearly all the way and plunge back in as a gratifying, dull pain built up inside you. You arched your back, impossibly contorting your spine in an attempt to take him in deeper, and your cock twitched at the impassioned gasps he was making as you rhythmically fucked yourself beneath him. You found the perfect angle so that he hit that sweet spot inside you every time you bucked your hips, and after a few feverish thrusts, you were drooling into the pillow with your eyes rolling back into your head, your hand frantically working your own erection as the tension of impending relief began pooling in your belly.

"Ah fuck, Boss - " Kaz panted, his breaths coming out in short, labored gasps as he steadied himself with a hand on your hip. "Fuck, I'm - "

You bucked against him again and slammed your hips back almost violently, causing him to make a sound somewhere between a yelp and a whimper. You were vaguely aware of your damp cheek being lifted away from the pillow as he slid his forearm beneath your torso, hoisting you up so that your back was flush against his chest, then began to thrust into you again, matching your rhythm. When his fingers grazed over your Adam's apple and gingerly wrapped around your throat, your cock twitched in anticipation.

"You have no idea how filthy you look right now," he growled against your ear, his fingers tightening around your throat. "Arching your back for me like a cat in heat, your body begs me for it."

"Just fucking do it," you said through clenched teeth, tilting your chin back as his thumb stroked your jugular.

The pressure of his hand on your trachea gradually increased until your breathing came out in short, quick pants, then constricted so tightly that your gag reflex replaced the ability to draw another breath. Hand pumping frantically at your cock, your pulse throbbing heavily against his palm, your mind went white just as the stars began to creep into the edges of your vision, your throat convulsing in his grip as your inaudible moans attempted to free themselves from his grasp. You sagged in his grip as the floating sensation of impending unconsciousness claimed you, the heat of your seed spilling over your hand and staining the sheets beneath you. Kaz's hand immediately released your throat, moving back down to your nipple to give it another rough twist to snap you back to alertness, your lungs painfully expanding with the reflex of pain response.

"Don't you dare check out on me yet," he seethed, and you felt the sharp pain of teeth as he mercilessly clamped his mouth down on your shoulder.

The waves of your orgasm still had your insides clenching spasmodically around his cock, and he rode out his own climax in a couple of swift thrusts, his teeth sinking cruelly deeper into your flesh as he bit down against his moans. You both collapsed into the bed, his heart thumping wildly against your back, almost in tune with the rhythm of his cock pulsing inside you with the aftershocks of his release. His teeth left your shoulder and you felt the warmth of blood seeping from the cuts left in your skin, followed by the moist heat of his tongue licking it away, then the press of his lips as he placed a tender kiss there.

"Don't...move," you gasped, your throat burning and your chest aching as you tried to swallow down unsatisfying lungfuls of air. You wanted to breathe, but you also wanted to savor the feeling of his softening cock inside you.

His fingers smoothed your hair back from your temple, his warm lips pressing kisses to your cheekbone and jaw. "You okay?" he whispered.

All you could do was close your eyes and nod. Sleep would come soon. You couldn't even find the energy to open your eyes, and you didn't care if you passed out with him still inside you. The pillow and sheets were still uncomfortably damp beneath you, but you were too sated and spent to care. The last thing you remembered before finally dropping off was the distant sound of his voice and the warmth of his breath against your ear:  "Glad to be with you, Boss."

Looking back on it now, you can really appreciate how cathartic the experience was for you. It was almost like a mind-altering drug to relinquish all control of a situation, which wasn't something you'd done a whole lot up to that point. Putting your body in the hands of someone you trusted offered more pleasure than you were willing to admit at the time, and it certainly turned out to be the first time of many. You gained a new appreciation of intimacy, and not just in the physical sense - the experience opened up conversations with Kaz that you might never have had with him otherwise, and he was endearingly receptive to your prying.

A week after the encounter, while you both sat in silence as you pored over expenses, your head snapped up with the sudden realization of what it was about him that you'd subconsciously found incongruous by nature and had been nagging at you ever since. "Why are you circumcised?" you asked, the question coming without preamble and earning you a perplexed but amused expression from him.

He huffed out a small laugh and went back to scribbling notes in the margins of his spreadsheets. "Precautionary circumstances," he'd said with a shrug. "Considering my...mother's vocation, it was assumed I would be less likely to transmit anything to potential partners in the unfortunate event that I contracted something in the womb. ...Among other reasons."

"That's why you're so careful..." you responded thoughtfully, more to yourself than to him, eliciting an amused laugh from him. You'd taken note of how he compulsively had his bedding sent out for laundering daily, always kept a surplus of condoms on hand, and maintained impeccable hygiene.

"My mother was a professional. Even after she...retired, she was still meticulous about cleanliness. She was respected because of it. I wanted to command that same respect, so I guess I just picked up her habits," he said with a shrug.

That he spoke of it so casually but always referred to her with utmost respect made your admiration for him grow even more, though your pride and awkwardness in those days ensured you didn't outwardly show it. You found something remarkably endearing and noble about how he'd boldly accepted his situation in the face of cultural stigma and made the most of it, always remaining so dashingly unapologetic about his origins and daring anyone to challenge him.

"What 'other reasons?'" you asked at length, your tone hesitant for fear of crossing some boundary.

He took it in stride like he did everything else, answering with glib nonchalance as though it were the most casual conversation in the world. "The children of comfort girls back then were likely to choose the same career path," he answered, not even looking up from his paperwork. "It was a Western occupation and the Americans preferred their men cut. It was a practical business decision."

Practical business decision.

"Jesus," you'd gasped, but he didn't seem bothered by the concept in the least. "Did you ever consider doing it? Going into the same profession, that is."

He nodded. "Briefly. Decided life behind a gun would be more exciting."

"Was there a market for male prostitutes among the American soldiers?" you asked incredulously.

He nodded again. "More than you'd think. I lost my virginity to an American soldier."

This came as a shock, and you wanted him to expound upon it but you hesitated for the sake of tact. You knew, out of some warped sense of obligation he felt toward you, that he'd answer anything if you asked him directly, but you also knew that if there was anything he really wanted you to know, he'd offer it up in time, when he was ready. For some reason you couldn't explain, you wanted to respect that boundary.

As if sensing your curiosity, he took a breath and continued softly, "I was fifteen at the time...so enamored with the American dream and the distant promise of maybe one day visiting the States that I danced around the men in the hope that I could seduce money or information out of them. Don't get me wrong, I always had a thing for the ladies, but I learned very early on that you could use sex to easily exploit what you wanted from Western men and they always fell for it." He paused to give a reminiscent chuckle, a distant, pensive expression settling on his face. "I was something of a twink back then, so I was...sufficiently admired. Next thing I knew I was on my back in a seedy hotel room with my legs draped over some sergeant's shoulders and praying he'd go easy on me for my first time."

"And did he?"

Kaz finally put his pen down and sat back, pulling his sunglasses off and flashing a coy smile. "Easy enough." He kept a steady gaze on you for a moment, allowing the silence to extend just long enough to be uncomfortable, then, dropping his voice to a low purr, he concluded, "Why don't you come over here and remind me how a real American soldier fucks."

It never did take that much effort on his part to completely break your resolve, and you'd had him bent over his desk with his pants around his ankles in less than a minute. It had been quick, messy, and a little awkward on your part, but you'd remembered every bit of Kaz's prior instruction, and though you'd felt self-conscious about your chaotic, nervous fumbling, he seemed to legitimately enjoy it, writhing beneath you and moaning your name. Eventually you'd worked up the charisma to convince him to even start forgoing the condoms, and you knew that was a luxury he saved exclusively for you and no one else, as much as he put it 'round in those days. It made you feel like you alone held some intimate part of him that no one else was allowed, and though you never admitted it aloud to him, you cherished that privilege.

It's with a heavy heart that you realize he's likely extended that privilege to the phantom. But for the moment, Kaz is entirely yours again. Or at least until the sedative wears off.

His nose nuzzles at your pulse spot, his face instinctively turning upward so he can languidly drag his lips across your throat, and you feel your resolve waning just as easily as it did all those years ago. When he shifts his knee and presses his thigh into your groin, mumbling something about the beach, you clench your teeth and curse your weakness for him. You never could resist a sleepy Kazuhira Miller. Teasing you with just the right amount of coy innocence, he was always the perfect mix of vulnerable and insistent so that you could never say no to him, regardless of how tired you were or close to unconsciousness he was.

You bring your hand up to cradle the back of his head, sifting your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer as you drive his mouth harder against your throat. You feel the fleeting sharpness of his teeth and he begins to suck at your pulse, his thigh nudging further between your legs as he lethargically rubs against your erection, and some small part of you considers just letting him continue so you can ride out your climax by aimlessly grinding against him. It's been nearly ten years. Not like this. He's wound his arm around you and his fingers are dancing down your back, tickling your spine in that perfect way that always made you lose your mind, but you reach back and wrap your hand around his wrist just as he begins to explore the cleft of your ass.

He whines but sleepily complies as you tip him onto his back and press his wrist to the bed, meekly lifting his hips for you the moment your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. Christ, he's still so pliable. His body is so receptive to your every whim, and when you release his wrist, intentionally letting your palm graze over his nipple as your hand travels down his body, his back arches off of the bed and a whimper dies in his throat. You carefully slide the briefs down his uneven legs, and he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat when you tentatively clasp your hand around the stump of his leg. 

"Is this okay?" you whisper, and he's peering up at you through half-closed eyes, his brows knitting together before giving a hesitant nod. You gently trace your thumb over the scarring, wincing at how unnatural the bones feel beneath your palm, swallowing thickly at how tangible his sacrifice for you has just become. "Does it hurt?" you gasp, your voice betraying you as you suddenly don't have the strength to draw breath enough to speak.

He cringes at your touch, but reluctantly shakes his head. By the way he squints his eyes shut and seems to be attempting to shrink into the mattress, you ascertain that his apprehension is from shame rather than pain. He thinks he's undesirable.

Tucking a single knuckle under his chin, you nudge his face back toward you, causing him to slowly open his eyes again. His eyelids are still heavy with the haze of the sedative, but he focuses his clouded eyes on you, breath hitching as you gently grip his mangled leg and lift it up to your shoulder, tracing his scars with your lips. His pained whimper gives way to a moan, and you massage the blunted end of his stump with your thumb, kissing your way up the inside of his knee and gently guiding his legs apart with a soft hand on the inside of his thigh.

"Still beautiful," you whisper, rubbing little circular caresses into the end of his stump, causing a smattering of pink to tinge his cheeks.

And he is. It's not a platitude. He blushes because the conviction in your tone tells him you mean it. Despite his broken body, he's far from mutilated - he makes it look goddamn regal. He could have been lovingly crafted by one of those Greek sculptors and laid before you as a reminder that there's still beauty in the world, your very own broken Adonis. You press another kiss to his leg, memorizing the contours of his blunted bones with your lips, stopping only to massage the cruel seams in his flesh where the prosthetic has constricted him too tightly. After earning a few muffled moans from him, you gently ease his leg back down and lean forward, your fingers tentatively finding the scarring where his arm had been amputated so you can give it the same treatment. He cringes at your initial touch, his left hand instinctively flying up in defense, but when you begin massaging the blunted remains of his shoulder, his arm falls helplessly back down to his side. He shivers when your lips brush over the scarring, and you press reverent kisses to every inch of what's left of his arm until you hear the short, muted gasp of suppressed tears.

You see his lips move, hear him say something under his breath, and you just make out the words that come out as little more than a breathless wheeze: "Kiss me."

In the old days you'd tease him, make him work for it. Any time he'd lean in close to steal a quick brush of your lips against his, you'd knock him back, restrain him, see how desperate he could get for this small reward of intimacy. But now, you don't even hesitate, and you cup his jaw in your palm just the way he did with you that very first time. "Open your mouth, Kaz," you whisper.

He obediently complies, and you swallow your moan when your mouth crashes into his. It's been too long since you've done this, and his lips are still so supple and inviting and impossibly soft. You've missed this. You've missed his coquettish, exploratory kisses, the way his mouth always moved deliberately against yours as though he were savoring the taste, and his idle teasing is only enhanced by his lethargy. He moans into your mouth when your tongue slides alongside his, and you're suddenly aware of his cock nudging insistently against your stomach, abandoning all subtlety as he raises his hips to press against you, seeking the slightest bit of friction to ease the ache.

You push back, rubbing against him until he's panting, and you finally have to break the kiss so he can catch his breath. His hand feebly grasps at you, but you take his wrist and pin it to the bed again, placing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and continuing along the line of his jaw. He's not as meticulous about shaving as he was in the old days - perhaps it's more daunting now without his dominant hand - but you find something strangely gratifying about the light dusting of stubble that scratches your lips. Where this small lapse in personal maintenance might have made any other man look haggard and unkempt, Kaz makes it look distinguished and downright dashing. And hell, the man still doesn't look his age.

He continues to drowsily grind his hips against yours, your cock painfully rigid as it rubs against his, and he tilts his head back to offer up his throat to your relentless kisses. His eyes are closed and he's writhing against you in a half-sleep as his head falls heavily to the side, and you massage rhythmic circles around his nipple to get his attention.

"Stay with me, Kaz," you whisper.

A sleepy groan sounds in the back of his throat, but you see a sliver of cloudy blue as his eyes crack open just enough to peer up at you. He's struggling weakly against you, the tendons in his wrist flexing beneath your firm grip. You get the impression that he wants desperately to touch you, and you tentatively release him as you open the bedside drawer, hoping he's kept up old habits. You freeze when his fingers begin tracing the scar on your chest, his touch cautious but deliberate, as though he's trying to determine whether or not you're real.

The phantom doesn't have this scar. You see the doubt on Kaz's face as he struggles with why this is out of place - so distantly familiar, yet it doesn't belong here. The sedative is a strong one, but you expect him to snap out of it any moment, afraid that the slightest inconsistency between you and the phantom will trigger the sudden realization that you shouldn't be here and earn you a swift bullet to the head. His unholstered gun is just within his reach on the bedside table, and you wonder if he'd do it if he were in complete control of his mind right now.

Instead he blinks heavily and idly grazes his fingers along the curves of your scar, his breathing slow and even, as though the mere touch of your flesh beneath his fingertips is enough to lull him to sleep. You briefly go back to rummaging through the drawer and immediately find what you're looking for - his relationship with the phantom is an intimate one, much to your dismay - and he gives a satisfied hum as you unfasten the cap on the bottle and coax his legs farther apart with a gentle hand on the inside of his thigh.

He tenses slightly at the initial cold touch of your lubricated fingers against his opening, but immediately relaxes as you begin to massage him open, your touch warming at the contact. You live for the sounds he makes, the contented hums that come in time with his breathing as he flexes his hips upward in invitation. You mimic his careful instruction from that first time all those years ago, prepping him gently as though he were a cringing virgin, teasing the tight ring of muscle with delicate, probing circles. Of course he's easily taken you with little prep countless times before, but this night is different. Even Kaz needs a night of tenderness every once in a while, and you'll be damned if you're showed up by the phantom in that regard. 

His body bows when your fingers sink into him, his hand clutching the sheet as he rocks his hips beneath you, and soon his moans are coming in time with the steady rhythm of your fingers pumping in and out of him. When his hand starts inching toward his cock, you delicately guide it away and wrap your own hand around his length. You indulge him with a few teasing tugs but abruptly stop, delighting in the agonized moan it earns you, which you quickly silence by possessively claiming his mouth with your own. He bites down on your bottom lip just hard enough to coax a strangled grunt out of you as you jerk back, and you don't miss the feverish manner with which he squirms against you, desperate for relief. He was always feisty and impertinent when he started to get impatient, and you chastise him by briefly swirling your tongue around his nipple before abruptly pulling away, causing him to arch his back off of the bed in search of your mouth again.

"Please," he mumbles breathlessly, and his fingers wrap tightly around your bicep, squeezing so hard that you're certain you'll end up with a tattoo of bruises.

You press your hand against his stomach to force him flat against the bed, his muscles tensing against you as he struggles for contact. "Let me hear how desperate you are," you whisper, leaning in to give his nipple another teasing flick of your tongue. "Say it like you mean it." You beckon your fingers inside him for good measure, bumping over his prostate so that he groans through clenched teeth.

"Ah - please, Boss - please..." he keens, and his hand comes to rest on top of yours where it holds him in place. 

He stills for just a moment then, his fingers idly caressing the back of your hand as he tries to figure out what's wrong with this scene. There shouldn't be flesh here. This should be the cold metal of a bionic hand. You distract him by beckoning inside him again and closing your mouth over his nipple, sucking gently before indulging it with broad, sweeping strokes of your tongue so that he's back to writhing and begging for relief. His moan almost sounds like a sob the next time your fingers tease his prostate, and you brace yourself on your elbow above him so that you can press soothing kisses to his brow as you gently tousle his hair.

"Wanna turn over?" you whisper.

"Mmhmm," he hums and nods his head, which seems to have expended all of the energy he'd been using to simply remain conscious, because he breathes a heavy sigh and his head falls to the side again.

"Hey - Kaz, come on now, stay with me," you chide, and you duck down to give his other nipple a sharp bite.

His chest swells as he sucks a startled breath through his teeth, and you withdraw your fingers from him to the tune of a faint whimper. He doesn't resist when you carefully guide him over onto his stomach, and the way he instinctively tilts his hips upward in invitation causes your heart to jolt erratically into your throat. You tease him, running your palm in soft caresses over his ass before rubbing the head of your cock along the cleft between his cheeks, and you hear his faint moan muffled into the pillow. His back arches as your fingers trace a tantalizing line up his spine then sift over his scalp before clenching a fistful of his hair, gently tugging his head to the side so that his face isn't concealed in the pillow.

"None of that," you growl as you press the head of your cock against his opening. "I want to see your face. I want to hear you."

"Please - " he huffs, and he clutches at the sheet as you gently massage your fingertips over his scalp, causing a light shudder to undulate down his back.

He squirms as you gently push into him, and you close your eye as your head falls back, swallowing a groan behind clenched teeth at how warm and inviting he feels. Christ, you missed this. A part of you is tempted to abandon all restraint and slam into him the way you used to, fuck him roughly until he's reduced to those fretful moan-whimpers he always used to make when his mind was too far gone to distinguish between pleasure and pain. You always used to push his limits out of some sadistic urge to see if he'd break, though he never did. The kid always gave as good as he could take, and that in itself was always some unspoken competition between you. You'd both focused so much energy into edging each other's boundaries that there was rarely ever an opportunity for tenderness.

He lifts his hips again and you collapse against his back as you sink into him, your hand falling on top of his in an attempt to brace yourself. Instead of drawing it away, you idly weave your fingers between his. You're long past pretending you're not sentimental, and when he twitches his thumb to hook it with yours, you bury your face in his neck and moan. You sift your nose through his hair and brush your lips along the top of his shoulder, savoring the feeling of him as he sighs another sleepy moan, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a blissful smile.

"Still with me?" you breathe, nudging his ear with the tip of your nose.

"Mmhm," he sighs with a lethargic nod, then slowly stretches out beneath you, his back arching as he grinds against you.

Giving another tentative roll of your hips, you drag your fingers down his side and slide your hand beneath him, splaying your fingers across his belly and giving him a playful caress as you guide his hips farther back. He gives a delighted hum and nestles his cheek into the pillow while your fingers trace tender circles around his navel, and once you've teased an agonized groan out of him, you slide your hand down and wrap your fingers around his cock, causing him to buck desperately against you. You let him briefly fuck himself in your hand while he impales himself on you, then firmly tighten your arm around his middle to hold him still, drawing a strangled growl out of him that ends in a whine as he petulantly struggles against you.

"Don't be such a brat," you command, giving his neck a rough bite that draws another groan out of him.

"Please...just let me come," he mumbles, his muscles tensing beneath you as he attempts to buck against you again.

"Soon," you promise.

His back heaves against you in time with his slow, heavy breathing, a small moan carried on each sigh, and you give another experimental roll of your hips, hissing between your teeth at the way his insides twitch erratically around you. He's still so hot and tight inside, he still makes those noises that never failed to make you lose your damn mind, and you begin to pump a slow, steady rhythm into him just to coax those gasping mewls out of him. He writhes beneath you, matching your slow, careful thrusts and rocking his hips back every time you sink into him, his breaths coming out in disjointed, shuddering gasps. You tenderly brush your lips across his cheekbone, and he responds with a dreamy smile. He rasps hoarsely every time you bump against his prostate, and when his brows come together in that deliciously helpless little puckered frown that always prefaced his climax, his soft, pink lips parted as he begins to drool into the pillow, you tighten your fist around his cock and pump him mercilessly until his moans turn into sobs of ecstasy. 

You feel the warmth of his semen spilling over your fingers, his insides convulsing around you, and you feel that familiar tension in your navel as the sounds he makes begin to unravel you. You feel your release coming soon so you pick up the pace just slightly, continuing to rock into him as his body goes limp beneath you. The moist friction is goddamn divine and - 

Fuck, you forgot a condom, you can't leave any evidence in him - 

You choke out a panicked gasp as you frantically yank out of him, spilling your release onto his back with a fretful moan. You give your cock a couple of final tugs to coax the last of your seed out of you, sagging behind him on your knees while you take a moment to catch your breath. Your discarded undershirt is still within reach, and you retrieve it so you can gently wipe the evidence away, then ease back down beside him so you can turn him onto his side and pull him back against your chest. He's completely out now, his climax having robbed him of what little vestiges of consciousness he had left. You nestle your nose back in his hair and delight in the gentle, rhythmic sound of his breathing as your fingers idly smooth his hair back from his temple, and for just an instant, you can pretend that nothing's changed. You could still be on that beach watching the sunset as he dozed off in your arms. 

There's a distantly familiar burning sensation in your sinuses, a hot prickling that stings your eye, and you clench it shut as you tighten your arm around him and press your face into his shoulder. Fuck. You will not do this now. You're shaking, your throat feels constricted and you know you're on borrowed time.

Your duty to your unit, or your personal feelings? You don't know the truth yet. But sooner or later you'll have to choose.

Drawing a shaky breath, you nervously stroke his side, drawing comfort from the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips as your lips find his ear. "She said - " you begin, but your throat constricts, and you swallow thickly before trying again. "She said...having personal feelings about your comrades is one of the worst sins you can commit. I didn't...I was too naive then to understand. But I understand now. ...Kaz I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

You're almost sobbing now, but it doesn't matter. There's no one here to hear it. He's still breathing softly, blissfully curled against you as he sleeps.

"You...you wanted me to be your kaishaku. I promised. But I don't...Kaz, I can't do it. If it ever came to that, I wouldn't be able to do it. I'm sorry. I failed you. I can't give you the honor you deserve. I can't bear the thought of us being enemies, even though I know it's probably inevitable. It's why I had to leave. I'd rather you spend the rest of your life hating me if it meant you got to live."

Your voice is trembling so much now that you can't say any more, so you just squeeze your eye shut and hold him close, memorizing the tempo of his heartbeat against you. Soon you hear the staccato of rotors whipping the wind in the distance, and you know your time's up. He's the phantom's now. And when Kaz wakes up, he'll remember nothing. 

"Love you."

It's not even a whisper. He'll never hear it.

You always were the one to show me how
Back then I couldn't do the things that I can do now
This thing is slowly taking me apart
Grey would be the color if I had a heart