Chapter Text
The pale yellow light of early morning crept over the plains, spilling across the roan’s dark, speckled hide as it slowly warmed from the bitter cold of the night. Frost loosened its grip on the grass, dew flashing briefly like scattered glass before melting away.
Boars squealed in the distance, voices rough and restless as they greeted the returning day. Field mice emerged from their burrows, whiskers twitching as they warmed, calming now that the looming threat of owls had passed—no longer needing to obscure their presence beneath the cover of darkness.
The land exhaled.
Another day had begun, indifferent to blood, gunfire, and promises whispered under stars.
“What did he say?” Ging asked the young teen, tightening a strap as the dry creak of leather and the clatter of gear drowned out most of the morning’s natural sounds. Buckles were pulled snug, bedrolls tied down, the camp already half-gone as if it had never been there at all.
“Eh, nothing much,” Kite said, shoving the last of the provisions into his saddlebags and cinching them shut. “Pretty sure he was just an unlucky passerby. Wrong place, worse timing.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so trigger-happy, Ging,” Pariston quipped, lounging far too comfortably against his golden horse, hands clean, tone light—as if the night hadn’t happened at all.
“Shut up, Pariston,” Kite and Ging said in unison.
They paused, both glancing at each other for half a second before turning away again, irritation shared and unspoken.
Pariston, of course, noticed—and laughed, bright and delighted, like that small, accidental harmony had made the entire ordeal worthwhile.
the camp was packed the horses saddled and mounted short chater caryed bettween the three hunters
“Paris,” Ging snapped, finally hitting his limit, “if you learned how to ride properly, your horse wouldn’t be so fucking cracked out of its mind.”
The golden horse tossed its head hard, white rolling in its eyes as foam dripped from its gaping mouth. Teeth clattered around the silver bit, metal flashing in the sun and throwing off blinding shades of gold with every sharp movement.
Light-colored hooves beat against the ground in an uneven, frantic rhythm, stomping and striking like the horse was determined to announce itself to the entire plains. Dust kicked up around its legs, hanging in the air far longer than necessary.
Pariston, of course, looked delighted. One hand rested loose on the reins, posture relaxed, utterly unconcerned with the barely contained disaster beneath him.
Ging’s roan, by contrast, stood steady and quiet beside him—ears flicking once toward the golden mess, then back, unimpressed.
“That,” Ging added flatly, eyeing the foam-slick bit, “is not enthusiasm. That’s malpractice.”
“If you think you can control this nag,” Pariston beamed, patting the golden horse’s neck as it danced beneath him, “you’re more than welcome to try.”
“Fine,” Ging said with a long-suffering groan. “You can ride Hinto—but if you pull on his mouth like you do yours, I will cut off your dick.”
He shot Pariston a flat glare that promised follow-through.
Pariston only laughed, delighted, and swung down from his prancing mount with far too much grace. Ging, meanwhile, mounted up just as easily, settling into the saddle like he’d been born there.
Hinto flicked an ear, steady and unimpressed as Pariston took the reins. For once, the horse didn’t move—just stood, solid as stone, waiting to see what kind of fool had climbed onto his back.
Pariston blinked, surprised.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
“I figured Hinto wouldn’t like you,” Ging said, his mouth betraying him with the barest hint of a smile.
“Hondo?” Pariston asked, grin spreading, clearly enjoying himself. He knew exactly how to make Ging’s eye twitch.
“H-i-n-t-o,” Ging spat out slowly, each letter sharp and deliberate, the twitch in his eyebrow giving away just how much he hated that little joke.
Pariston chuckled, leaning back slightly, utterly pleased with the damage he’d caused.
Hinto shifted, as if sighing in solidarity.
Golden muscles flexed beneath Ging, the saddle almost too small for him. A small measure of relief had already settled over the nag, but it still pranced, teeth chattering. Its sides were sensitive from Pariston’s jabbing, every poke and nudge making it shift and flick, restless and unpredictable.
Even under Ging, steady and practiced, the golden horse radiated energy—like lightning coiled, waiting for someone to make a mistake.
Hinto walked with his head low, every step measured, as Pariston sat atop him. For once, he let the reins dangle loosely, not forcing the nag to obey beyond what was necessary.
His black tail flicked in the sun, sharp and impatient—irritation clear in every movement. Hinto had no intention of working with Pariston, only allowing him to sit there and look… well, pretty.
Ging, meanwhile, ignored the display entirely, focused on fixing his own saddle, calm and precise, as if the golden horse and its chaos didn’t even exist.
The sun beat down hard on the three hunters, unyielding and unforgiving.
The golden horse’s hide was slick with sweat now, foam pouring out from under the shiny tack that adorned the nag. Its prancing had slowed, neck a little more relaxed, teeth no longer chattering frantically—still restless, still bright-eyed, but tempered by heat and exertion.
The dust of the plains rose in waves around them, warm and dry, carrying the smell of sweat, leather, and sun-baked earth. Even in the relentless light, the horse retained its pride, every muscle flexing with controlled energy as Pariston rode, trying—just barely—to keep pace with the nag’s stubborn spirit.
Kite’s gray strode steadily along the sandy earth, calm and accustomed to long rides. Long legs carried him easily ahead of Ging and Pariston, giving Kite a small measure of relief from the constant bickering behind him.
The nag’s movements were fluid, each stride measured and sure, kicking up only the occasional puff of dust. For once, the world felt simple: sun, sand, and the steady beat of hooves, uninterrupted by Pariston’s teasing or Ging’s sharp commands.
Even the wind seemed to ease, brushing lightly against Kite’s face, carrying only the faint scent of sweat and leather, letting him ride without thought, without interruption—for a few precious minutes.
“Hey! I see the town from here,” Kite called, slowing to fall back toward the others.
Ging shot him a look over the golden horse’s neck, tail flicking in irritation. “You see it? Good for you. Don’t get any ideas about racing us there.”
Pariston grinned, nudging the horse just enough to make it prance. “Racing? Please. I’d like to see you try keeping up on that beast, Ging.”
Without a word, Ging squeezed at the nag’s sides. Golden muscles rippled beneath him, and the horse stretched into a controlled gallop, dust rising in clouds from every pounding hoof.
Pariston, not to be outdone, gouged his spurs into Hinto’s flanks, rolling across his ribs and sending a sharp jolt of pain through the roan. Hinto responded immediately, breaking fully into a controlled gallop, long legs stretching smoothly across the sand.
Pariston clutched the reins tightly, careful not to rely too much—last thing he wanted was Ging remembering his earlier threat.
The three of them thundered across the plains, sun beating down, dust in their faces, and the sound of hooves pounding like war drums behind the distant horizon.
Kite climbed forward, long legs stretching with each stride as he neared the front, wind tossing his long white hair around like a banner behind him.
Ging let the golden horse take its own stride, letting the nag stretch fully and release all that pent-up energy. The reins hung loose across the rippling golden hide, each movement controlled but alive, a contained storm under him.
Pariston, meanwhile, was in last, spurring as hard as he could to keep up. He knew this horse’s max was nowhere near being tapped—riding harder only slowed the roan—but for the first time in his life, he let the animal work at its own pace. Slowly, deliberately, he eased up, matching Ging’s stride, feeling the raw power restrained beneath the man on the golden horse.
Ging’s calm control contrasted perfectly with the chaos Pariston had expected, holding back the “golden lightning bolt” beneath him, each powerful step measured and precise, dust rising in waves behind them.
As they neared the town, the pace held steady. Kite officially took the lead, Ging followed in second, and Pariston—predictably—lagged behind in last.
“Told you,” Ging teased over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Pariston waved him off lazily, brushing dust from his sleeve as he rode in. “Yeah, yeah, you got lucky. Don’t let it get to your head.”
The three of them entered the town together, hooves clattering against the hard-packed streets, dust rising in thin clouds behind them. Kite rode ahead calmly, Ging kept his golden horse under precise control, and Pariston—well, Pariston still looked far too pleased with himself despite being last.
“I’m going to head off,” Kite called over his shoulder, striding away from Pariston and Ging. “Got a few jobs I need to take care of—try not to kill each other while I’m gone, alright?”
Pariston smirked, already plotting something. Ging just shook his head, muttering under his breath as Kite disappeared down the sun-baked street, leaving the two of them alone with their horses… and their unresolved tension.
With their horses settled in the stable, the pair made their way to a small general store.
The bell over the door tolled, and a cheerful voice rang out.
“Welcome to the general store! We’ve got provisions on se—”
The shopkeep froze.
“…Ging?”
They leaned over the counter, squinting like they weren’t sure they were seeing right.
“What brings you this far east?”
“Some work went astray,” Ging said flatly, shooting a glare at Pariston. “But I did get this back though.”
He pulled the tattered map from inside his coat and set it on the counter.
The shopkeep’s eyes went wide.
“You got it back?”
“Most of it,” Ging replied. “It was missing when I left town.”
The shopkeep let out a low whistle.
“Didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to steal that from you.”
Pariston leaned his elbows on the counter, smiling.
“See? I keep telling him his reputation precedes him.”
The shopkeep glanced at Pariston, then back to Ging.
“And this one’s the reason the job went wrong?”
“Yes,” Ging said without hesitation.
“No,” Pariston said at the same time. “I’m the reason it went interesting.”
The shopkeep snorted despite themself.
“Well, I won’t ask how many bodies you left behind. You looking to trade, stock up, or just scare my customers?”
“Some supplies,” Ging said slowly, then added with a sideways glance, “and some ‘provisions.’”
The shopkeep’s mouth twitched.
“Gotcha. How much?”
Ging looked over at Pariston.
“Two. I’ll need ’em.”
Pariston cocked his head, lips curling into a knowing, infuriating smile.
“Oh? Planning ahead, are we?”
Ging ignored him.
The shopkeep didn’t even comment—just reached under the counter and rang up two brown paper bags, suspiciously bottle-shaped and clinking softly as they were set down.
“That’ll do it,” they said, sliding the bags across. “See you around, Ging.”
“Hopefully not soon,” Ging replied, already turning, waving a hand behind his back as they headed for the door.
Pariston scooped up the bags with a grin.
“See? You are sentimental.”
Ging didn’t dignify that with an answer.
A ding rang out as the two men stepped back into the street, the door swinging shut behind them.
“There’s a cottage on the edge of town we can stay at,” Ging said flatly, already heading in that direction.
Pariston fell into step beside him, peering down with interest.
“Right. And I suppose there isn’t a pub in this charming little dust pit?”
Ging didn’t look at him. He just adjusted his grip on the bags.
“Why do you think I bought those?”
Pariston blinked once—then laughed softly.
“Oh, Ging. Planning to drink with me alone?”
Ging’s steps didn’t slow, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Don’t read into it,” he said, tone flat. “You just talk less when you’re drunk.”
Pariston hummed, leaning a little closer as they walked.
“How generous of you. Inviting me somewhere quiet, buying me drinks… next you’ll tell me this cottage only has one bed.”
Ging finally glanced up at him, eyes sharp but amused despite himself.
“Keep pushing,” he muttered, “and I’ll make you sleep in the stable.”
Pariston’s smile only widened.
Turns out they’d picked the worst possible time to drift into the small, dusty town.
The inn was packed—voices spilling out the door, boots tracking dirt across the floorboards, laughter and shouting bouncing off the low ceiling. A hand-painted sign hung crookedly behind the counter: NO VACANCY—except someone had scratched a shaky almost beneath it.
The innkeeper eyed them both, then sighed.
“One room left,” he said. “One bed.”
Ging didn’t react. He just stared at the man for a long second, like he was deciding whether this was fate or a personal insult.
Pariston, on the other hand, lit up.
“Well,” he said brightly, “isn’t that convenient.”
Ging’s jaw tightened. “We’ll take it.”
Pariston turned to him, eyebrows raised. “No arguing? No threatening bodily harm? I’m disappointed.”
“Say one more word,” Ging replied calmly, “and I’ll make you sleep on the floor.”
Pariston smiled, delighted.
“Ah. So I do get the bed.”
Ging paid, grabbed the key, and stalked toward the stairs. Pariston followed, hands clasped behind his back, practically humming.
“This town really is charming,” Pariston mused. “So welcoming. So… intimate.”
Ging didn’t look back.
“If you touch me in my sleep,” he said flatly, “you won’t wake up.”
Pariston laughed softly.
“Promises, promises.”
As soon as the door was open enough for Ging to slip through, he collapsed onto the bed with a low grunt. Boots still on. Hat tipped down over his eyes. Every muscle in his back protested at once—the hours of wrestling the golden hide, the tension of keeping control, the constant bracing.
“Don’t,” Ging muttered without looking up. “Say it.”
Pariston paused just inside the doorway, taking in the sight like it was a painting commissioned just for him.
“I was only going to say,” he replied lightly, “that you look very domestic sprawled out like that.”
Ging shifted, face pressed into the thin pillow. “If you don’t shut the door, I swear—”
The door clicked closed. Pariston leaned against it instead of moving farther in.
“So,” he said, pleasantly. “One bed. You’ve claimed it already. Very hunter behavior.”
“My back’s shot,” Ging said flatly. “You want to complain, take it up with the horse.”
Pariston laughed under his breath and finally crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed—careful not to touch, but close enough to be irritating.
“You know,” he added, “most people would offer to share. Out of politeness.”
Ging rolled just enough to crack one eye open.
“Most people aren’t you.”
“Tragic,” Pariston sighed. “Guess I’ll have to endure it anyway.”
Ging snorted despite himself and shut his eyes again.
“Don’t get ideas.”
Pariston’s smile softened, just a fraction.
“Oh, Ging,” he said quietly. “I always have ideas.”
A sharp glare cut out from beneath the brim of the dark hat—and met nothing but a sharper one.
Pariston moved first, quick and deliberate, snatching Ging’s hat and tossing it onto the dresser with a flourish.
“Hey! Careful with that!” Ging barked, lunging forward just enough to snatch it back. His eyes were blazing, black eyebrows drawn low, and his voice had that unmistakable edge.
Pariston only laughed, stepping closer, hands raised in mock surrender.
“Oh, Ging… I’m so sorry. Was that your favorite hat?”
Ging grabbed it tightly, muttering through gritted teeth.
“Favorite? It’s all I have that keeps the sun out of my eyes while I’m not glaring at you.”
Pariston leaned in, grinning, just close enough to be irritating.
“Good. I like it when you glare.”
Ging froze, hat clutched in his hands, eyes narrowing.
“You—don’t. Say. That.”
Pariston smirked wider.
“Too late.”
Ging let out a low sigh, finally loosening his shoulders. He grabbed one of the bottles, sliding the cork free with the edge of his knife, and tipped it back in one long swig—rich bourbon burning down his throat, enough to take the edge off the tension coiling in his chest.
Pariston raised an eyebrow, leaning against the dresser.
“Ahh, so that’s how you relax,” he said, voice teasing.
Ging didn’t reply, just set the bottle down with a soft thud, wiping a trace of foam from his lips. His eyes flicked toward Pariston, sharp but calmer now.
“Don’t make a habit of standing over me while I do it,” he muttered.
Pariston grinned wider.
“Why would I stop now? Watching you actually unwind is… entertaining.”
Ging shook his head, rolling his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched just enough to show he wasn’t entirely annoyed.
Pariston grabbed the bottle, turning it over in his hands and inspecting the label.
“Buffalo Trace?” he said, curiosity sharpening his tone.
“You never heard of it?” Ging asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nope,” Pariston replied, plopping down on the edge of the bed. His blond hair caught the light of the setting sun, turning strands into liquid gold as he leaned back lazily.
“I’m not really a bourbon guy,” he added with a shrug.
“Figures,” Ging said, taking a slow sip from his own bottle. “I think you might like it though. Smooth.” He tapped the bottle lightly against his palm. “And expensive as all hell.”
Pariston smirked, swirling the bottle idly.
“Expensive, smooth… hmm. Sounds like my kind of trouble.”
Shut up and drink, dumbass,” Ging barked, shooing him away like an annoying fly.
Pariston grinned, tilting the bottle and taking a careful sip. The brown liquid sloshed against the glass, catching the last rays of sunlight and turning into molten topaz in the light.
He paused, swirling it thoughtfully, then took another swig.
“You know what… not bad,” he admitted, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Actually—yeah. I like this.”
Ging snorted, leaning back against the headboard, eyes narrowing under his hat.
“Glad you finally found something worth liking.”
Pariston held the bottle up in a mock toast.
“Here’s to your excellent taste… and your generosity.”
Ging muttered something under his breath, but didn’t stop him. The small room was quiet except for the soft clink of glass and the faint rustle of the fading day outside.
“Ging, you once said ‘I always mean what I say,’ right?” Pariston looked over at him, expression softer than usual, voice stripped of its usual teasing lilt.
“Yeah,” Ging said, then added, rougher, “unless I said something really stupid… or I was drunk.” He took another pull from the bottle, bourbon warming his chest, loosening something he usually kept locked down.
Pariston’s fingers tightened around the glass.
“So you meant what you said on the rock?”
Ging didn’t answer right away.
He swallowed, set the bottle down harder than necessary, and finally turned to face him. No glare this time. Just tired eyes and honesty he didn’t bother dressing up.
“I don’t say shit like that unless I mean it,” he said. “I don’t flirt. I don’t joke about it. And I don’t touch people I don’t want.”
Silence stretched—thick, charged.
Pariston’s smile didn’t come back right away. When it did, it was smaller, real.
“…Good,” he murmured.
Ging exhaled, slow. “Don’t make me spell it out for you.”
Pariston shifted closer, knee brushing Ging’s thigh—testing, asking without words.
“So,” he said softly, eyes dark, “does that mean I’m allowed to touch you now?”
Ging’s jaw tightened. His hand came up, gripping Pariston’s collar and yanking him forward before he could overthink it.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Their mouths crashed together—no teasing this time. Heat and teeth and the taste of bourbon between them. Ging kissed like he fought: direct, unapologetic, hands firm where they landed. Pariston made a surprised sound into the kiss, then melted into it, fingers digging into Ging’s shoulders like he’d been waiting for permission all along.
Ging pulled back just long enough to breathe against his mouth.
“You still wanna play games,” he muttered, “or you gonna take this seriously?”
Pariston smiled—breathless, eyes blown wide.
“Oh,” he said quietly, “I’m very serious right now.”
And Ging kissed him again, harder.
Long, slender hands slipped through black hair, fingers threading tight, pulling Ging in harder—no hesitation, no teasing now.
Calloused hands fisted fabric in return, clutching it like a desert flower found by accident and refused to be let go. Ging breathed out against Pariston’s mouth, low and rough, the sound half warning, half want.
Pariston made a quiet noise at that, pleased and breathless, pressing closer until there was no space left to argue with. His grip tightened, grounding, possessive in a way that felt chosen rather than claimed.
“Careful,” Ging murmured, forehead resting against his, breath warm. “You pull like that, I won’t stop.”
Pariston smiled, eyes dark, fingers still tangled in Ging’s hair.
“Who said I want you to.”
“Then take that stupid-ass jacket off,” Ging muttered, voice rough, a hand sliding to Pariston’s waist and giving a pointed shove. “It looks like shit.”
Pariston laughed softly and shifted, straddling Ging’s lap with deliberate slowness. He shrugged out of the pinstriped jacket, letting it slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor, the fabric catching the faint sunlight and glittering as it went.
“Blasphemy,” Pariston said lightly, leaning in again, close enough that their noses brushed. “This jacket has seen things.”
“Yeah,” Ging replied, hands settling firm at Pariston’s hips, thumbs digging in just enough to make his point. “And none of them were good.”
Pariston hummed as he leaned back, eyes slow and intent as he took in Ging’s still-clothed form.
“This won’t do,” he murmured.
His fingers hooked into Ging’s satin wildrag, tugging, digging until the knot loosened and the fabric slipped free from his throat. The cloth fell away, revealing a thin scar running clean along Ging’s neck—old, pale against darker skin.
Pariston’s touch stilled.
“Oh,” he said softly, thumb hovering just shy of it, reverent instead of teasing for once. “I bet this has stories.”
Ging’s jaw tightened, not pulling away, but not inviting either.
“Most of ’em aren’t fun.”
Pariston flicked the wildrag aside anyway, letting it land forgotten on the floor. His gaze stayed on the scar, something thoughtful crossing his face.
“Funny,” he said quietly. “You wear danger like it’s nothing.”
Ging snorted under his breath. “And you poke at it like you won’t get bit.”
“Worth it in the end,” Pariston murmured, voice low as his hands moved to Ging’s shirt.
The fabric was worn but well-made—gray threads woven into diamonds and thunderbirds, each button undone with deliberate care. Every one revealed more skin, more warmth, coarse hair catching the light. Pariston took his time, like he was cataloging Ging piece by piece, memorizing what was usually hidden.
Lower he went, and the shirt parted to expose the scars scattered along the path of skin it gave way to—old marks, pale and uneven, stories etched into flesh. His fingers slowed, brushing close without quite touching, reverent in a way Ging didn’t expect.
“Looks like you’ve lived hard,” Pariston said quietly.
Ging huffed a breath, one hand coming up to rest at Pariston’s wrist—not stopping him, just grounding him there.
“Comes with the territory.”
A low grunt pulled from Ging as he sat up to meet him, shoulders rolling as he shrugged his own shirt free and let it drop somewhere forgotten. hands already moving, confident and rough as he went to work on Pariston’s.
The cream fabric peeled back inch by inch, just thin enough to hint at what lay beneath, shadows and lines shifting with every breath Pariston took. Ging’s fingers dragged along seams and buttons, knuckles brushing skin, testing reactions more than the cloth itself.
“You know,” Pariston said, eyes drifting over tan skin, pausing at a stray scar or mole, “I never guessed you were into men.”
Ging froze for a heartbeat, then smirked, one corner of his mouth twitching.
“Guess you’ve been paying attention to the wrong things, Paris,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I do what I want. Don’t assume you get to categorize me.”
“Ok, ok,” Pariston said, leaning back just enough to take in the full view of what he was working with. “Shit… you’re muscular. Your clothes hide it well.”
A slender hand trailed down Ging’s chest, fingers brushing through coarse hair, following the subtle path that led lower.
Ging’s hand shot out, gripping Pariston’s wrist before it could go any further.
“Not yet,” he growled, voice low and sharp. “I want to hear you beg first.”
Pariston froze, eyes wide but glittering with mischief, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Ging’s grip tightened.
“You—” Pariston swallowed, the words catching in his throat, “you’re… cruel.”
Ging leaned in just slightly, voice a low rumble. “And you like it. Don’t lie.”
Pariston’s lips curved, teasing despite himself. “Maybe I do.”
Ging’s eyes narrowed, sharp and gleaming, hand still anchored. “Then say it.”
Pariston’s breath hitched. His gaze dropped, voice losing its edge as it softened into something raw.
“…I need you,” he said quietly. “I need all of you.”
He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed Ging’s ear as he whispered it again, slower this time, like he wanted it to sink in.
Ging felt it—an involuntary shiver running through him despite himself. His jaw tightened, grip on Pariston’s wrist faltering just a fraction before he caught it again. He hated how easily that did it. Hated how honest it sounded.
“Careful,” Ging murmured, voice rough, low in Pariston’s ear now. “That’s not something you say unless you’re ready to mean it.”
Pariston smiled against his skin, soft and dangerous all at once.
“I always mean what I say,” he replied, turning Ging’s own words back on him.
“Huh,” Ging chuckled, pushing Pariston back just enough to catch a good look at him. His eyes gleamed under the brim of his sharp brows.
“Don’t make me regret this, Paris.”
A slow, sharp smile slid across Ging’s face, playful and predatory all at once.
Pariston’s chest rose and fell, a breathless laugh slipping past him.
“Regret? Me?” he said, tilting his head, eyes dark and mischievous. “Oh, Ging… I don’t think I even know the meaning of that word around you.”
Ging just rolled his eyes, annoyance washing over his face even as the moment clung to him. Moonlight spilled through the window, silver and thin, turning his usual tan a shade darker and catching in his hair—bone-white streaks glinting as he shifted, sharp against the black.
A slender hand found the iron belt buckle, tracing its sharp edges as moonlight flashed across it—a boar’s head carved deep into rich, dark iron. Too bad it would end up tossed to the floor, forgotten in the warmed room, lost beneath the heat of bodies.
Pariston could feel Ging’s golden gaze settle on him, steady and intent, following every small movement as he fiddled with the buckle. The attention was heavy—measured, possessive—enough to make Pariston’s breath hitch despite himself. He took his time undoing it, fingers slow, deliberate, aware of being watched the whole while, until the metal finally came free with a soft clink that sounded far louder in the quiet room.
Ging grabbed Pariston and flipped him onto the bed, face down, blond hair shimmering in the low light. The motion knocked the breath from him, sheets rustling as he landed. Ging moved quickly after, shrugging off the rest of his uncomfortable clothes and kicking his pants aside, the fabric hitting the floor with a dull thud.
He pressed close—heat, weight, presence—enough to make Pariston very aware of how little space there was between them now.
“I do love banter and foreplay, Pariston,” Ging murmured, leaning in close to his ear, voice low and rough, “but I fear this has gone on long enough.”
Pariston’s hair fluttered against his cheek as Ging spoke, the words half-whispered, half-command.
“Mngh,” Pariston breathed, a strained sound pulled from him before he could stop it. “I hate how much this works for me.”
He pushed back slightly, instinctive, chasing contact even as he complained. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and dust, something sharper beneath it that made his head swim. Ging’s presence was overwhelming—heat at his back, breath close, the faint scratch of coarse chest hair ghosting across Pariston’s skin and sending an unwanted shiver through him.
Slow trails of kisses mapped their way across Pariston’s back—soft at first, exploratory. Then deeper. Hungrier. Each press of Ging’s mouth lingered longer than the last, like he was memorizing the shape and heat of him.
The more he tasted salt and skin, the less restraint he seemed to have. His breath grew heavier, movements less measured.
A rough hand traced along Pariston’s side, fingers dragging deliberately over warm skin, dipping lower—only to stop at the irritating barrier of fabric still in the way. The pattern there, neat and orderly, felt almost insulting compared to the heat building beneath it.
Ging exhaled sharply against his spine.
“You wear too many layers,” he muttered, voice low and edged with impatience.
Pariston let out a shaky laugh, half breathless, half teasing.
“And you’re the one who said you wanted to take your time.”
Ging’s grip tightened slightly at his hip.
“I changed my mind.”
Undoing the garish belt and flamboyant trousers felt almost ceremonial. Each buckle and button gave way under Ging’s hands, breath growing deeper, heavier with every inch of skin revealed. Every touch pulled a new sound from Pariston—soft gasps, sharp inhales—music that brushed against Ging’s ears and drew a low, satisfied laugh from his chest.
“You’re louder than I expected,” Ging murmured.
A rush of cool air swept over Pariston as the fabric finally slipped down, pooling uselessly around his knees. The chill barely registered before warmth returned—close, deliberate, overwhelming. A slow touch traced along the curve of his hip instead, maddeningly restrained.
“Shit—” Pariston gasped, fingers twisting into the bedsheets.
Then the heat vanished from his back.
The absence was immediate. Noticeable.
“Oh?” Pariston managed, breath uneven but teasing all the same. “So you’re not going to comfort me now?”
Ging hummed somewhere behind him, unhurried.
“I thought you liked when I wasn’t predictable.”
Before Pariston could make another smart remark, a slow, methodical rhythm began—fingers slipped in and out. Almost lazily. Like Ging had all the time in the world.
Pariston’s breath stuttered despite himself.
“I really should make you do this,” Ging muttered, voice low and edged with amusement. “It’d be more fun to watch.”
The words barely seemed to register. Whatever retort Pariston might’ve had dissolved into a strained exhale, fingers tightening in the sheets as the steady pace continued—measured, intentional, impossible to ignore.
Ging leaned closer, voice brushing warm against his ear.
“What happened to all that talking?”
Pariston tried to laugh. It came out broken.
Their breathing thickened, filling the small room, the sharp tension from earlier dissolving into something heavier—hotter. What had once been barbed words and loaded glances melted into the heat Pariston had been chasing since the moment he found the son of a bitch again.
Ging had always run warm. Always carried that quiet, simmering heat under his skin—dangerous, restrained, waiting. Tonight, Pariston wasn’t content to circle it. He wanted it shared. Wanted it pressed into him, surrounding him, leaving no space untouched.
Warmth radiated off Ging in steady waves, grounding and consuming all at once. Pariston leaned back into it without hesitation, breath uneven but satisfied, chasing that closeness like it was something he’d been starving for.
A fleeting emptiness flickered through Pariston—barely there, just long enough to make him restless—before warmth pressed close again, deeper this time, more deliberate.
Ging exhaled slowly, control thinning at the edges. A bead of warmth trailed down from his mouth to Pariston’s bare skin, a lazy, claiming line that made Pariston shiver despite himself.
There was a pause.
Not hesitation.
Precision.
Ging’s hands tightened at his hips, steadying him, aligning them with an intent that made Pariston’s pulse spike. The air between them felt charged, thick enough to swallow.
“Still want to talk?” Ging muttered, voice rough against the shell of his ear.
Pariston’s laugh came thin and breathless.
“Only if you’re going to keep pretending you’re not enjoying this.”
Ging answered by pulling him closer instead of replying.
“Oh—shit!” Pariston gasped, back arching before he buried his face into the sheets, breath breaking apart. “Don’t stop—please.”
A calloused hand dragged slowly down his spine, firm enough to press him back into the mattress, grounding him there. Ging’s palm spread wide between his shoulder blades—steady, claiming.
“You beg prettier than I expected,” Ging murmured, voice low and rough near his ear. “All that pride, all that smirking—and this is what it takes to ruin you?”
His grip tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt—enough to remind.
“Thought you liked being in control,” Ging went on, breath hot against his skin. “Now look at you. Can’t even keep your voice steady.”
Pariston made a strained sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so breathless.
Ging leaned closer, mouth nearly brushing his ear.
“Go on,” he said softly. “Say it again. I want to hear how bad you need it.”
“Shut—shut up, Ging—” Pariston managed, the words breaking apart as a sharp sound tore from his throat.
Wrong answer.
Ging’s arms wrapped around his chest, hauling him back against solid heat, holding him close—possessive, unrelenting. The shift in pace wasn’t gentle now. It wasn’t teasing.
A low, displeased sound rumbled from Ging’s chest, though it did little to hide the strain in his own breathing.
“That’s not what I told you,” he muttered, hot breath scraping along Pariston’s neck, teeth grazing just enough to make him tense. “I don’t want clever. I don’t want attitude.”
His grip tightened, fingers spreading wide over Pariston’s sternum as if he could feel the frantic rhythm underneath.
“I want to hear you beg,” Ging said, voice dropping lower—rough, edged. “I want you to show me how long you’ve wanted this.”
Pariston’s pride warred visibly with the way his body betrayed him—hips pressing back, breath shuddering, fingers twisting in the sheets.
Ging leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Go on,” he whispered. “Or are you going to pretend you don’t need me?”
Through muffled sounds against the sheets, Pariston’s voice finally broke.
“Ging—” he gasped, breath unraveling as the rhythm turned relentless. “Please. I need you— I want you. I want you.”
The words came raw, stripped of smirk and calculation.
A low, satisfied sound left Ging’s throat, vibrating against the curve of Pariston’s neck. He pressed his mouth there—not gentle, not careful—teeth grazing hard enough to leave a mark, a sharp claim that pulled another broken sound from Pariston’s chest.
“Good,” Ging muttered against his skin, voice thick. “That’s what I wanted.”
His hands held firm, fingers digging in just enough to remind Pariston who had him—who he’d asked for. The room filled with uneven breathing, the creak of the bed, the quiet, desperate sounds Pariston couldn’t swallow back no matter how hard he tried.
Ging’s control frayed at the edges, breath hot and uneven now too, but he didn’t loosen his hold.
“Shit—Paris—ngh, Paris,” Ging’s voice cracked, low and ragged, carrying through the quiet room. He hunched over him, hands pressing into Pariston’s chest, searching desperately for something to hold onto.
The rhythm that had once been measured and teasing had become frantic, hungry, desperate. Every touch left them both raw with tension.
One hand tangled in Pariston’s golden hair, fingers threading through it, pulling gently but firmly until Pariston’s head tipped at an almost unnatural angle. Pariston’s sounds grew louder, sharper, spilling into the room, echoing off the walls like proof of their shared need.
Tears glimmered in Pariston’s dark eyes, catching the silver moonlight that spilled across the bed. He tried to hide them, but the shine only made Ging’s chest tighten, each sob and shiver pulling at him in ways words never could.
The heat coiled in Ging’s abdomen, spreading outward until it consumed him completely. A tension he hadn’t realized was there wound tighter and tighter, twisting through him like a spring ready to snap.
And then it did.
The sudden release rattled through him, shuddering down his spine. The creak of the bed beneath them echoed in the quiet room, punctuating every ragged inhale. Ging’s breath came sharp, heavy, cutting through the cool air, leaving him trembling—but alive, fully aware of Pariston beneath him.
A cool shadow fell across Pariston’s body where Ging had just been, leaving only the lingering warmth deep inside him. The contrast made him shiver, every nerve still buzzing.
“Flip over,” Ging said, voice low and ragged, breathy. “I want to watch you.”
Pariston obeyed, rolling carefully onto his back. Eyes glinting in the silver moonlight, he met Ging’s gaze, heart hammering, every muscle tight with anticipation. The room felt smaller, hotter, as if the air itself had thickened around them.
Pariston started slow at first, movements careful, tentative. But as he felt Ging’s golden gaze sweep over him, the pace quickened, desperate, almost frantic.
The weight of Ging’s stare pressed down on him, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the thick, heated air like a blade. Every look, every flick of those golden eyes, made Pariston’s chest tighten and pulse in response—awareness of Ging’s need washing over him in waves, impossible to ignore.
Ging’s presence was all-consuming, silent but demanding. Pariston’s hands moved faster, responding instinctively, driven by the heat between them, by the intensity of being seen so completely.
“Shit… ah, fuck, Ging—fuck!” Pariston gasped, voice raw and ragged as a rush of heat and tension finally released, spreading through him in a wave he couldn’t contain.
Ging hovered over him, golden eyes drinking him in, holding every moment as if committing it to memory. Every ragged breath, every shiver, every flicker of movement under his gaze only deepened the pull between them.
Then, softly, deliberately, Ging leaned down and pressed a kiss to Pariston’s forehead.
Ging pulled back slightly, letting the warmth of the kiss linger against Pariston’s temple, a ghost of heat brushing across his skin. His golden eyes raked over him, sharp and unrelenting, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You really think that little kiss means I’m soft?” Ging murmured, voice low and teasing, every word deliberate. “Cute, isn’t it? You think that lets you off the hook… that makes you safe.”
Pariston’s chest rose and fell, breath uneven, as the weight of Ging’s gaze pressed down on him. “I… I—”
“Shh,” Ging interrupted, brushing his lips along the shell of Pariston’s ear this time, just close enough for him to feel it. “Don’t start whining yet. You’re loud enough for me already.”
Ging’s fingers trailed along Pariston’s side, possessive, teasing—just enough pressure to make him squirm. “So cute. So fragile,” Ging murmured, smirk widening. “And you thought you were in control… after that kiss, I can see just how much you need me. How much you want it.”
Pariston’s jaw tightened, heat pooling in his chest. He tried to protest, tried to act like he had a choice, but even as his lips parted and breath caught, Ging could see the truth: Pariston was utterly undone, and Ging loved seeing it.
“Say it,” Ging whispered, voice rough now, low and commanding. “Tell me you need me… and mean it.”
The night faded into a haze of ragged breaths and low, desperate sounds, each one echoing off the walls of the quiet room. The air was thick with heat, heavy and clinging, as if the walls themselves had grown warmer under their presence.
Bodies tangled together, pressed close, every movement a mix of instinct and desire, helpless against the pull of one another. Fingers clawed at sheets, hands threaded through hair, tracing, holding, claiming. Every gasp and groan fed the other, the rhythm chaotic but perfectly attuned to the way they fit together.
Even in the chaos, Ging’s golden eyes never left Pariston, sharp, hungry, consuming. And Pariston, breathless, shivering, and flushed, could feel it—every glance, every smirk, every teasing murmur—wrapping around him tighter than any embrace could.
The golden light of morning filtered through the frosty windowpane, spilling across the room and softening every edge. It caught Ging’s face in a warm glow, highlighting the sharp planes relaxed in sleep, Pariston’s golden hair flickering like embers in the sunlight as it shifted with his shallow breaths.
Pariston lay draped across his chest, still tangled in the warmth they’d shared, the marks of the night before dark and visible on pale skin. He stirred slightly, lips parting in a soft exhale, eyes half-lidded as he traced a lazy hand over Ging’s shoulder, memorizing the feel of him all over again.
Ging’s hand drifted down Pariston’s side, thumb tracing lazy, teasing circles over the curve of his ribs. Pariston shivered at the touch, letting out a soft hum that made Ging’s smirk widen.
“You’re way too comfortable,” Ging murmured, fingers still roaming, voice low and teasing. “You’re acting like I’m not even here.”
Pariston tilted his head up just enough to brush his nose against Ging’s jaw, lips ghosting over his skin. “Am I supposed to be scared?” he teased, voice husky, half-lost in warmth. “Or… impressed?”
Ging laughed, low and rough, pressing a shoulder down against Pariston to keep him pinned gently. “Neither. I’m… amused. You think you get to tease me after last night?” His thumb grazed over Pariston’s collarbone, careful, lingering, as if memorizing every line of him.
“Maybe I do,” Pariston murmured, smirking despite himself. “Maybe I like seeing you flustered.”
Ging’s golden eyes narrowed, but the smirk never left his face. “Flustered? Ha. You haven’t even begun to see the consequences of being this bold around me,” he whispered, leaning closer so their foreheads nearly touched. “You’re lucky the sun’s up… or maybe I’d make sure you regretted it.”
Pariston let out a soft, breathless laugh, pressing closer anyway. “I like it,” he admitted, fingers curling around Ging’s wrist, anchoring him. “I like that you’re dangerous… and that I still get to annoy you.”
Ging’s smirk softened just a fraction, warm and unguarded for a moment, as he brushed a lazy kisses along Pariston’s temple. “Bold little brat,” he murmured.