WARNING: For the record, Creed is not quite right in the head. As such, I shouldn't have to tell you that asphyxiation (i.e. getting strangled) is not a safe practice, be it sexual or otherwise. Those with weak constitution should probably not be reading this.

Red and Gold



Disclaimer: I don't own Black Cat.


Red and gold always looks poignant on you, Train.

You're trying so hard to reach me, but you can't. Doctor's creations are slowing you down, but that doesn't stop you—you fire shot after shot, never-ending, a scene fit for a oil painting.

The blood on your body is not yours, thank God—it's Maro and Shiki's, I believe, not that I care—and it seems like war paint on your skin, flushed and so very raw. It makes my heart quicken to see you coming toward me, your eyes cold and beautiful.

I pass my brush over the canvas, pleased that I have just the right shade of red. Yes, it looks so very nice on your body, this red color…though I'm sure in the back of your mind you're rather disappointed in the condition of your clothes.

No matter. I have far more elegant clothes waiting for you in your room.

Did you know, Train, that I designed the room just for you? Entirely red and gold, of course, with shades of black here and there, from the walls to the elegant bed. I've made sure that everything is in perfect order—unmarred by anyone's hands save mine.

Your hands are growing covered in blood. How very sensual, the way it drips from your fingers, staining the carpet with the most flawless color.

Of course, blood only looks good on you. The guts spilling out onto the floor are coarse and disgusting, and I want to look away.

Instead, I focus on you.

I enjoy making your portrait, Train. Oh, if you could only see yourself—the way your body moves like a murderous dancer toward me, the sleek chocolate brown of your hair as it slowly turns red with another's blood—who is that, anyway? Doctor? Leon? Hmm.

No matter. All I see is you, my Heartnet.

And at last you've reached me. Your breaths are ragged, your eyes are on fire, and I'm here waiting as I always have, and always will be.

I'm sure you remember my lessons all those years ago. I taught you humiliation, restraint, and above all the fact that we need each other. It's that simple, Train.

Such a beautiful expression. Such rage. It's almost erotic in it's simplicity, and I feel myself drawn to you as always.

But I have to finish your portrait first. No pun intended, of course.

I continue my work, using the richest dark blue I can for your pants, then placing the vibrant crimson in exactly the right places. Your holster is covered in blood as well, Train, and I must say it's breathtaking.

Your eyes are still that fierce, molten gold, and I want them to stay that way.

And—oh. Oh.

Train, you are a devil.

Your hands are tight and fierce around my neck, and I smile at the feeling. The best thing about being God, you see, is the fact that even if you do choke me, it means nothing.

So instead of this being a moment of terror and repentance—for what I haven't the faintest idea—this simply becomes yet another moment of bliss in your company.

Your hands are trembling. Why, Train? You know what you came here for. You know what I'm here for. So go ahead, choke me. Shoot me. Break every bone in my body.

Just remember that I'll always be back.

You squeeze harder—it seems as though my expression has given you more resolve—and I invite you to try your best as I press myself closer to you.

I use my free hand to yank you down by the shoulder and press my lips to yours, knowing that suffocating isn't going to change matters. I'll come back soon enough to see the beautiful red and gold on your body.

You're shocked and try to pull away, but I can't have that. You're still trying to suffocate me, and God knows I love the burning touch of your hands on my flesh. It doesn't matter if you fail, because no matter what I'm yours, and I will always be by your side.

I break the kiss and stare up at you, the beautiful gold of your eyes filled with confusion and shock.

"Why?" you ask so hoarsely. Your hands are trembling again.

You could say I consider you my muse. You're the fire to my water, the sun to my moon, the saint to my devil; the air I breathe, the food I drink, the addiction I crave.

Your hands have fallen limply at your sides. I grasp them and pull you close.

Yes, Train, sometimes you are so very foolish.

I kiss the blood away from your fingers—there is more on my neck from your futile attempt—and smile at the way you tremble. You pull your hands away and kick the chair from under me.

I fall, my paints and brushes scattering everywhere.

Oh, yes, Train, you are very foolish.

I try to sit up, but you are on top of me before I can blink, trying once again to strangle me. You truly didn't think this through, did you? But then you don't know about my ascendance to Godhood yet, and I don't plan to tell you just yet.

I want it to be a surprise.

You squeeze tighter and tighter, and I let you—your eyes are a strange, wonderful mix of crimson and gold now, too, and I let myself drown in them.

And you know what, Train? In a sense I have that Witch to thank. The spell is almost broken, and now I can see you're coming back to your senses. Your hands aren't as gentle as you've made them out to be—no, now they are murderously sensual, the way I've always wanted.

I choke out a laugh as white spots dance before my eyes, and I'm swallowed by the darkness.

But don't fret, Train…I'll see you soon.