💔 niles giving yamai a good Bite
✖. DIFFERENT TYPES OF KISSES / @selxncphilia
*〔 ☤ 。〕——— Yamai had gone into this knowing he would die. The how and when weren’t important. What mattered was that he died in the right place, at the right time. That was always the easiest way to get high value information. He’d learned early on in this line of work that people tended to talk around corpses. Not very cohesively, of course. And there was always the issue of his window of opportunity being on a precarious time limit (people didn’t often keep bodies around for long, after all). But that was the perk of not really being a corpse: he could spring up and move onto the next phase of operation at any time.
That, however, was a bit more difficult when being tortured to death.
At the very least, he didn’t actually have to play dumb about not knowing anything. Names, places, identities, times: they were all handed out freely with each angry question barked at him. It was amazing just how much an amateur would let slip while trying to pry answers from their captive. It was also amazing how much extra pain Yamai had to endure. The methods being used on him were sloppy. Two fingers broken at once. A harsh punch to the face while he was in the middle of answering one of their demands. A tooth extraction done so poorly they had broken said tooth before managing to yank it out. And then came the lacerations. It had only taken a few before warmth had started to seep away and nausea rose high into his throat. The death shakes had started soon after. By the time he had briefly died, he’d found himself glad for it. While death was not gentle or restful, it was better than going through any more of that. It was expected. As was the gradual coming-to that allowed him to start his work again.
A sudden passionate kiss wrenching him from his momentary lifelessness was not.
“Are you always so smitten with fresh corpses?” Yamai rasps, voice stuck somewhere between a garish growl and a grotesque gurgle as he sits up from his death-slump.
Eyes far too lively for someone who should be a corpse study Niles with bestial hunger. It would be so easy to surge forward and BITE. He can practically taste Niles’s heartbeat on his tongue. The hitman’s life draining down into his throat would taste decadent. The cloying stench of sweet water and packed dirt grows stronger and stronger with each labored breath Yamai takes-- curdling, hypnotic. Tension thrums in that slight space between their lips. He’s certain of it. Then, the sound of floorboards creaking overhead draws his gaze away. Dust from the footsteps treading restlessly above shake packed dust loose, sending it dribbling down onto both of them. Yamai’s noses scrunches in disdain. With a wet cough, he turns his head. When he looks back, amusement replaces that hungering glower.
“Wonder what they’re talking about up there?” the undead muses, his speech a tad on the slower side, but no less intelligible. “Surely not about their commander macking on a dead body.”
How he wishes he had been able to see the looks on those poor brutes’ faces when Niles swept into the room and planted a kiss on the bloodied lips of a tortured corpse. It would have given him at least a little bit of respite from knowing what would come next. Death from blood loss was always one of the worst to recover from. Those were slow deaths. The lucidity following slow deaths was always short-lived. Then came the actual recovery period, horrible and painful and nigh enough to drive him mad. Which means, he thinks with a barely suppressed scowl, he doesn’t have much longer. Not unless he’s able to sink his teeth into something living. He knows Niles is aware of that little detail, too. He’d been there the last time Yamai had died, albeit with them being comrades that go-round. For a brief second, Yamai recalls the hitman’s reaction: initial shock, and then a wicked glimmer of intrigue as he’d watched Yamai gorge. He wonders...
With an uncomfortable grunt, Yamai leans back into the chair he’s bound to. “So,” he sighs, not bothering to hide his exasperation, “How do we plan on doing this? I play possum and you drag me out to whatever dumping ground is around here? Or,” his tone sharpens a little, sparking with hunger and the barest hint of his own intrigue, “are you willing to let me chew on whichever one of them gets to clean up?”
