An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Wolf wakes beneath one breath and the next, body coiled tight, heart hammering in his chest, blade already glinting in hand before he's even finished sitting upright. His neck aches, his left arm too, his mouth dry and his heartbeat loud in his ears, and it takes him a moment to realize why the reason his fingers feel so odd is because he can feel them at all. He glances down and stills.
His right hand is tight around his swords hilt, his left around the biting star of a shuriken, except that it's wrong, because the fingers clutched around the shuriken aren't wood and wire, but flesh. His heart stills in his chest, a white noise whine wailing in his ears as he stares down at his hand, able to feel the blood pumping through it, the cold bite of the metal cold against his fingertips, the old ache beneath the tendons of his last two fingers where Owl had once driven a sword through his hand, teaching him a lesson that Wolf had been to slow to pick up without incentive.
His fingers clench around the shuriken, easing tighter until one of the points of the star bites into the pad of his finger, drawing a stinging line of red. He stares at it. He can feel that. That's his hand.
Did someone say Sekiro Wolf/Genichiro time travel fic?
