Too Late to Turn Back Now

He snickers every now and then. But I pay it no mind.

Besides the odd attempt to weakly struggle away, he doesn't seem bothered by me holding him. In fact, I'm not even sure if he knows he's being held or if he's noticed the kiss I've placed on his cheek. I don't even know if he's aware that my mouth lingers longer than it should have afterwards, or the fact that it's daringly close to the corner of his own mouth.

Though I don't know why I'm doing what I'm doing, and I don't know why I want to move my hand lower while I struggle against the urge. I just know that I shouldn't.

He stares straight ahead like I'm not even here, and it's making me want his attention even more for some reason. He doesn't even react when I take the risk to move closer, pressing my body against his while inhaling the scents he puts care into—fresh and clean, and tempting.

He's not beautiful. Nor is he pretty. His features are handsome in a common way, and almost hard. Though I admire the contrasts of his colouring and the thick and full lashes that outline his dark eyes, almost perfectly.

But when I think about it, there's really nothing nice about him—not in appearance nor in personality. His look is too rough and he's far too judgemental and insulting. And I hope it's enough to convince myself that there's nothing to find magnetic about him.

He's a Turk, and I shouldn't be doing this.

I shouldn't be admiring him against all of my better senses or turning him over so I can peer down as he looks back up at me with confused and glazed eyes, and I shouldn't be admiring his features or the shape of his mouth.

His lips are almost too thin—too masculine for my taste. There's no reason for me to want to touch them or see what they would feel like against my own, and there's no reason for me to be removing my gloves so I can trace their chiselled outline—too hard and too tense.

There are too many reasons for me to not climb over him the way that I am, and there's too many reasons not to be placing my leg between his so that his is between mine. And the fact that he's not fully aware of the situation is making it even worse because I don't know if he'd let me touch him like this if he had full control of himself or was fully aware of what was going on.

But I can't stop myself. I've tasted too much from him and I want more. He's turning into the taste of blood that never fully leaves your system and a growing temptation that I shouldn't be giving into.

He's still quiet though. His breathing is steady and he stares with a questioning in his eyes, like he's not sure if he should react to me or not. I'm not even sure if he really knows I'm here or even who I am. But he moves when I move against him, through clothes that are becoming constricting.

And when he turns his head away as if he's hit by a moment of lucidity, I turn his attention back to me, eyes deep into his own. My fingers press against his jaw while I keep my thumb against his chin, and I tilt his head and lower my own—despite his subtle protest that's voiced by being tense.

Even though he tries to turn away again and I stop him by holding his head still, his mouth still opens to my initial persuasion, almost hungered while he tries to weakly push me back. But his attempts are feeble and he's too inviting and passive as our tongues glide against each other's with a subtle metallic taste and he suckles lightly on mine, urging it farther into his mouth with his own—even when I press his wrists to the mattress by his head.

He wants to fight me off. But he contradicts himself by pulling me in and beckoning me to go further as his breathing deepens and his mouth becomes more accepting. And when his arms start to relax, I let go of him, freeing myself to explore before he starts to do the same with smoothing palms and massaging fingers.

His hands travel in separate directions as they feel and explore, and he lets out a soft and arousing moan when my fingers travel over his chest. One of his hands presses on my backside with strong fingers and he pushes me more toward him as he moves toward me and raises his other leg. His other hand makes its way to the nape of my neck where strong fingers crawl through the mass of uncombed and tangled hair until his palm is resting passively, yet firm against the base of my skull and his fingers begin to lightly massage.

He's drawing me in and breathing deep while his heart beats steady against me. Our tongues glide in an almost begging motion as the movement of our bodies and our breathing becomes more feverish. Feeling bolder, I take my chances and wander my hands more curiously over his torso, studying him and his reactions while I trace hardened muscles under taught skin. He's built and maintained like a machine, and I find myself wanting to find a way to fit inside of him.

All the while, I'm wanting to stop—yet so wanting…

There's a command to his movements and a command from his kiss that is neither too soft nor too firm, and there's a burning inside of me that's overpowering my better senses. But it's too late to stop now, and I wouldn't stop even if I could because I don't want to.

There's so much about him that makes me need and want. Though I don't know why, and there's something inside of him that I need to reach, touch, and feel. And I'm convinced that he needs it too while his hands move toward my buckles, undoing them like he's used to undoing such things. His fingers are nimble and adept, making my own efforts to undo his belt appear clumsy and fumbling.

His breathing quickens and he pulsates when I touch and caress his delicate skin—smooth and tender—and I find my own breathing matching his when he does the same. I can feel the initial fluid run through my vein when he runs his thumb over it, and I start to mirror what he's doing to me—touching, feeling, and stroking. But unlike him, my hand starts to explore farther, more needing and downward until he stops me by quickly grabbing onto my wrist and pulling my hand away.

Then he breaks the kiss and rolls his eyes back like he's trying to wake himself up and he mutters in a low and gruff voice, almost equal to my own, though airy, "I'm not a masochist, Vincent…"

"Vince," I correct, utterly mindless about what I'm arguing with as I let him pull my hand away and watch him bring it to his mouth where he runs his tongue over and around my fingers like he's not a stranger to what he's doing. He does it with a rousing skill and pulls them deep into his mouth—suggestive of other temptations I can only guess he might not be a stranger to.

And I merely watch him, enthralled and burning, and needing more.

But I wait as I hover over him, mesmerized and watching as our bodies continue to unconsciously move with a growing need before he releases my hand from the moist warmth of his mouth and slowly guides it downward.

"Go slow," he mutters while he turns his head and I lightly nudge his jaw with my nose, "It's been a long time…"

He talks like he's half-asleep—dreaming, and I nod while trying to mind his request. But inexperience in this case, causes him to have to guide me.

He hisses when I move too eagerly and make an error in judgement. Then he mutters, "I'm not a woman," to remind me of what I'm doing wrong before he tells me, "It hurts'n I'll bleed if you're not careful."

He slurs slightly, and sounds confused. Though I mind his words and nod while I try to restrain myself better.

"I don't like pain…"

I nod again before I kick both our pants off and remove his shirt entirely. Then I turn him onto his side and adjust myself behind him where his black hair streams over his shoulders like a slick ocean. His strong strands almost disappear into the shadows, making him seem almost wraithlike and otherworldly while I brush it to the side so I can monitor his pale profile.

Then I place a soft kiss under his jaw and place my hands on his hips so I can adjust us both.

But before I get to do anything, he places an opposing hand near my pelvis to stop me as if he's suddenly nervous and having second thoughts.

"Be gentle," he reminds me, making me realize that he doesn't trust me, even in the state that he's in. Then he slowly eases up, letting me know exactly how far he'll let me go before he'll let me in all the way and I catch myself moaning from a feeling I haven't felt in over thirty years once the heat of his body fully accepts me.

I'd almost forgotten, if not entirely, how basically needful the primitive sensations were. And my breath turns desperate as a long-lost warmth starts to course through a part of me that I can't identify while Tseng's suppressed moans keep me focussed and concerned.

His breath has turned ragged and his mouth has run dry, and he keeps his eyes closed while his fingers grip into the mattress. There's a rasp carried on his breath that I can't discern.

I can't tell if it's from discomfort or from something good.

I don't know what he's feeling and he's not saying a word to let me know, and I'm too afraid to ask him.

I begin to wonder if I should be doing something else for him or if this is enough. But he answers my unspoken question when he grabs my hand and places it over the place I'd been neglecting.

He wraps my fingers around him and starts my hand moving, making me wonder if I should have been doing that from the start. Then I press my lips between his shoulders to silently apologize before the movement of my hand becomes natural and in rhythm with myself.

His breath changes from ragged to hitched, and his fingers return to the mattress to dig in harder than they did before as his mouth opens from silenced cries while his eyes remain closed. Slight sounds are carried on his breath that become louder and more desirable with each thrust, and I suddenly want to make this last forever.

But I get carried away in my desire to make him feel just as good as I'm feeling, and he orgasms violently, causing his entire body to shudder like he's been deprived for too long. An unfinished and hitched scream almost breaks from his need to control himself, and I find myself admiring the fact that even when he's in the uncontrollable throws of the merciless, he still needs to maintain his stubborn side by not allowing himself to fully break loose.

But I'm not finished yet, and my hand returns to his hip with a grip full of an unrelenting need when he makes it clear that he can't take any more of me touching him. And If he wanted to pull away or stop at this point, I'm afraid there's no way I'd be willing to let him.

I'm too close now, and too far gone to consider the consequences of what I've started, and I'm too far-gone to care about anything until I've finished.

It's a selfish need, and I can't deny that I've allowed it to take precedence.

He doesn't complain about the time it takes me though. Instead, he mutters the words "Cum in me," under his breath, almost like he's begging even though it feels like he's trying to stop himself from pulling away. I'm even less sure of how to interpret his whitening knuckles as his fingers find their way to the edge of the bed with a cramping grip.

"Leviathan, cum inside…"

It doesn't last too much longer though, and I release somewhere inside of him, relentlessly. And for a moment, I'm suddenly conscious about what kind of chemicals I've expelled into him while the sound of relief is carried with his heavy panting. Then he swallows to moisten his mouth and I suddenly wonder if the only reason he was urging me was to encourage me to finish sooner so it would end.

Despite my concerns though, I don't let him pull away when it's over, even though he doesn't bother to try. I don't want to be separated from him just yet and I want to stay connected to him for as long as I can. Sensing my need, he adjusts himself so his back is resting against my chest. But he doesn't attempt to turn or look at me and I'm not sure if it's because he's still confused or if it's because I've done something unforgivably wrong.

Though I don't doubt the latter either way.

It's too late to take any of it back though, and all I want to do is trace my hands over his broken body and keep him close while hoping I didn't hurt him or do any more damage than there already was.

And out of sheer cowardice, I find myself afraid to ask him if he's okay. So Instead, I softly graze his scarred shoulder with my lips and place a tender kiss over a deep scar before I rest my chin near the crook of his neck and regretfully watch him turn his head away from me.

"Get some sleep," I tell him with a hoarse voice and a sinking feeling of shame, and he nods with his eyes closed while my hands smooth over his hips and sides and I contemplate the sudden feeling that this wasn't something new for him and that I wasn't exactly welcome to find out.

I get my answers in the morning as far as those questions go when his head isn't completely cleared but clear enough to know what's going on and about what happened the night before by what he wakes up to. He jumps up with a quick breath as if he overslept an important meeting and not even a second later, I'm tossed violently onto the floor while he falls to the other side and the sheet quickly follows him after it flows through the dead air of the room.

He conceals himself quickly, wrapping the sheet protectively around him and he fumbles along the floor for his clothes.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he says, like he thinks he's the one at fault while he wipes at his upper lip with the back of his wrist, "I don't know what I did or said. But I didn't mean…"

His eyes are quickly averted when I come around to his side and he sees my naked form. Then he continues to search for his clothes on the dusty wooden floor as if he wants to get out as quickly as he can. And when he spots his pants near the foot of the bed, he crawls across the creaking floorboards and grabs them.

"This isn't what I wanted. I wasn't trying to—"

He pauses like he knows he doesn't really know what he's apologizing for and he shakes his head to stop himself from saying something he might not want to say, "This isn't what I was after when I—"


When I try to come clean and save him from the embarrassment, he lifts his hand in the air to let me know that he doesn't want to hear me speak. He keeps his back to me and refuses to turn around as he quickly puts his pants on while struggling to keep himself concealed as much as he can by the sheet.

"Tseng," I say again, and I chance a barefooted step toward him while he finds his shirt and blazer near each other and holds them up like he's surprised by the state they're in, "It wasn't you."

I don't think he hears me though, or doesn't understand. He seems more focused on the garments in his hands and looks down at the bandages on his stomach while muttering out, "Turks," as if he's slowly starting to remember what happened.

Then he quickly throws his shirt on and gets frustrated when he finds no buttons and torn buttonholes.

"I need to get back to the base."

When he turns around, I'm still standing there, and I haven't done anything to cover myself up yet. He tenses up at the sight and quickly averts his eyes while he grabs his weapons and starts to arm himself from habit.

"I don't normally do this, Vince," he says with his back to me.

I don't bother to correct him this time, and I simply watch him throw his tie around his neck and then quickly put his blazer on and zip up what's left of it while I lower my head. I decide I should grab my own pants to put them on—more for his sake than mine—and I do.

He's a mess right now. About the only thing sitting right on him is his hair, strong and not prone to being messed or tangled.

It hangs like it always does, neatly.

But his pants are crooked, his tie is undone, and one of his shirt's sleeves is hanging out farther than the other. It's unlike him and it makes me want to reach out.

But all I do is buckle my pants after doing them up, figuring it's best to leave him be. I can't undo the damage and he's too busy walking through the steps of what happened the night before while he tries to get his conclusions straight.

Then he suddenly backhands me, more focussed and stinging than the feeble attempts from the night before, and I lose my balance while automatically rubbing at the side of my face. I don't fall over though, but I feel it. He hits like hard steel, sharp, and I can only guess one thing while I try to rub the throbbing away.

He remembers.

His eyes are burning when I slowly raise my attention to him through my bangs, unable to wash away the strong feeling of regret even though I know my look remains expressionless. Though his isn't. He's enraged and his lips are pursed. But he keeps his tone controlled, even though his teeth are clenched when he speaks.

"When I said I wanted to thank you, sex was not an option."

"I'm sorry," I say, hoping it doesn't sound as lifeless and dull as I think it does while I lower my head and stare at the floor. I can't help but feel like I'm repeating myself too often with those words and I'm beginning to wonder if they mean anything at all while he stares at me for a moment and then shakes his head.

"I don't sleep with straight men," he mutters as if it's a weak attempt at an apology. Then he starts to walk out, answering all of my silent questions about the strange things he does and says, and I'm getting the feeling that he's humiliated and feeling like I took advantage of him because he thought I'd figured it out. As much as I'd like to believe he's the one at fault, I'm reminded of how it was me that took advantage of him.

But when he starts to open the door, whatever spell he has me under takes over again, and before I even know what I'm doing, I'm right behind him and slamming it shut in his face. My arm is around the front of his waist to hold him back, and I'm telling him that, "I can't let you leave like this."

I tell myself it's because he's too dizzy, an after-effect of the loco weed, and the sedatives I gave to him probably aren't helping much either. That's the only reason I'm stopping him. I can tell by his slight shakiness and unsteady movements that he shouldn't be travelling on his own. But I don't elaborate on any of it. I just give him the order, and whether it's a lie I tell myself to make myself feel better about why I'm stopping him is unimportant.

He snickers for a moment, disbelieving and short, as if he's shocked and can't believe someone has the nerve to tell him what he can or can't do, and he asks "Pardon?" before he frees himself from me with quick and unexpected movements.

Then the base of his palm smashes the bottom of my jaw when he rapidly turns, and I stumble back after biting my tongue and shrinking inward from the sharp pain. It heals instantaneously though. But the ache and the bitter and unwelcome taste of chemicals and a tainted Lifestream linger, and I'm quick to rub at my jaw while staring down the barrel of his gun and unintentionally sneering.

"You are not my vindicator Mr. Valentine."

He's back to the formalities, and back to the stone exterior. The charcoal eyes return and he's calculating, fighting whatever shakiness or uncertainty he hides behind his mask. I take no offence though. He's only doing what he's trained to do, and I'd be a fool to expect him to react or do anything else.

Whether he'll shoot me or not, I don't know. But I'm taking a chance by not arming myself and remaining still while he reaches behind him and fumbles for the latch to open the door, never taking his eyes off me, and never taking the aim of his gun from me.

When he's halfway through, he exaggerates his aim as if he's pointing to get his message across, and he orders "Stay," Like he doesn't trust me not to follow him. And I think he's beginning to suspect that he's found himself a stray that he doesn't know how to deal with.

He doesn't elaborate beyond the order though, and I'm sure he feels he shouldn't have to. He's the type of person who'll say something once and expect you to remember it, without having to explain it. He bares the typical traits of a leader. Though, one with high expectations.

A little too high, in fact, because if he really wanted me to listen, he should have shot me and made sure I was dead before he left, considering that the moment the door closes, and I hear him hurriedly walking down the hall, I'm quickly moving to finish dressing and arming myself.

I'm afraid I don't care about how capable he is or thinks he is, and I can't seem to care about what he wants or doesn't want. He's stubborn beyond reason and wounded, whether he wants to admit to it or not, and he's not as clear-headed as he'd like to think he is. And if he's right about having ex-Turks as a possible enemy, then he's in a hell of a lot more trouble than he's willing to admit to.

At least, that's what I tell myself, even though I have no clue as to why I'm concerning myself with him while I'm angrily throwing my cloak on and checking the bullets in my gun. And I try to convince myself that he doesn't deserve my help, nor does he need or want it, and the last thing I need to do is get involved in the middle of a Turk war.

But I ignore all the reasons and find myself crawling on rooftops like a deranged creature, hunting for him under the first lights of dawn and blending with the heavy shadows cast by irregularities and worn out chimneys and vents. I'm unable to stop myself from being driven by something I can't explain.

And I crouch down, low, like a wild zenene, barely visible to the streets, and watch him hail down a taxiway that he'll probably take to Edge, before he finds a more concealing way to travel back to the farm. Even in the state that he's in, with eyes still slightly glazed and an unkempt suit, he looks dignified and proper, and he respectfully bows to the driver before he gets in.

But he doesn't get in right away. He stops with his hand on the roof of the vehicle, and takes one last look at his surroundings, scouting, to ensure he isn't being watched. He has more to be concerned about now, and he looks suspiciously at all the rooftops like a part of him knows he didn't get through to me.

His attention even stops near me, like he's getting to know me and anticipate where I might be, and his eyes darken treacherously like he's angered by my disobedient nature.

I tell myself it's for his protection though. But at this point, I'm beginning to doubt that's the real reason, if not the only reason.

And I can't help but think that he's beginning to suffer from the same madness that's overtaking me, since I'm fully aware that he does nothing to try to stop me even though he could have tried to kill me several times over by now.

There is a second installment to this for those that are interested. It's called: Void I.