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Dawn awoke, bathing the snow world in a blue light. Soap stir his long painful limbs, careful to not trigger another painful cramp in one of his calf, before even caring to open his eyes. By now, he knows the small cold flat he's in by heart, can navigate it in perfect dark and does it regularly in those uncanny nights.
It's been almost a month now that he's living there, feeding on whatever the previous owners of the building's multiple flats have left behind them in a hurry. Most of it is frozen now and if he took the time at first to cook it, at least for a warm meal, he doesn't dare anymore. Every single resource is precious now and even his broken radio he doesn't dare to throw out, who knows if he'll finally find some piece to fix it, or use his own radio to fix something else. From time to time, he even dares to hope for some sun or a particularly cold storm will magically fix whatever is wrong with it. It's been almost a month he's living there and it's been almost as long he ration out his hopes about this broken radio. The mission that led them here was supposed to be a quick in and out and as always the information was off, the orders confused and those so called trustful people proved themselves corrupted. He could write a fucking book with all the times Price told them it would go quick and Soap ended with a knife through his thigh, he could call the book " 200 stories about dickheads and the price Price didn't have to pay ", he'll get more time to get a better tittle, a better wordplay about the fucker's name.
Of course he would get more time, since his radio was broken, since he was cut off from the others, since he heard the chopper fly off, since it was the start of winter in the middle of fucking Mother Russia, since the nights lasted weeks and of course, since he disappeared in a random ghost city free of any living things.
Except for him.
Except for the things he heard crawling around some time ago.
It's hard to keep an idea of the days passing when the sun rises and sets normally, it's nearly impossible when looking at a watch, there is no possible way to know if it's 2am or 2pm. But now, right now, eyes still closed and body stuck under dozen of blankets, with the blue light turning yellow, at least, the noises have stopped. The things started to scratch the concrete when all noises died around him, when the friends were gone and the enemies left him to die. Hurt, bleeding, in an empty city where all the medical resources were noted with " made in East Germany", he wouldn't have bothered himself to hunt him down either. At first he though of rats, then of giant roaches Gaz used to swear existed, but none of those possibilities made sense, no animal or human would made sense.
He'd swear on his dead radio, on his favourite blanket, on his sanity and life even, that the noises were following him in the building, always when the sun disappeared, always when his mind was dancing with the mist of skulls.
At first the noises were just following him, sounding from the ceiling or the floor, crawling when he walked, trotting when he ran, stopping and rummaging when he did too. The first few times, not too lost in the paranoia of silence and not knowing if there was something or if he was loosing his mind, he took his gear off. Only with a shirt, pants and socks, freezing to death, he walked silently, not even daring putting the heel down to muffle the noise of bones against the ground. He didn't take deep breathes to not exhale loudly, didn't touch anything, slow and controlled, and all his focus on the silence. On the absence of complete silence. The brush of bones against concrete at the ceiling, the muffled sound of a hound tracking his prey behind him, He turned around to see nothing except the cold light emanating from his gears and the flashlight on it. A click made him turn again, the light was sliding smoothly around him, revealing every asperities and defaults in the walls and his own distorted shadow obstructing most of the hallway. Another click, he took a step in its direction, a third made him stop, the heel of his foot made a loud wet noise and when he looked down, a thick black line was running from his thigh to his foot, on the ground was a small dark spot and when he lifted his foot again the low-angle light made it shine in red.
He had the time to curse himself for opening his injury before the fourth click. His eyes rose back to the empty hallway, a fifth.
" Wha' ?"
Ninth.
A step back.
Seventeenth.
By the time he turned around and started to run, he lost count, the click morphed to a run and in the steep angle he had to take to enter the flat, he felt the blow of wind on his nape, in the middle of this usually stale air. He closed the door without resistance, locked it and pressed himself against it, muscles tight and ready for the blow to come but nothing happened. He started to hear again the crawling over him, the rummage under him, maybe a bit more insistent than usual.
After seconds that felt like hours, hours that felt like seconds, he opened the door again, to find his gear untouched.
By the time he had the nerve to roam the hallway again, his injury fixed, his gear equipped and his damp sock thrown in a corner, the red spot had spread, a long smear like something slipped on it, like someone tried to brush it off.
He never found back his soiled sock, the same way he never had to threw away the small pile of bandages that never grew bigger.
From this experience and all the others, he learned to navigate the things around him or at least, the things he was made to believe were around him. It wouldn't have been this bad, waiting there, feeding on eons old frozen goods, waiting patiently for Price and the magical item that would allow him to fix his radio, if it wasn't for the dreams, the nightmares. Most of the time they were too blurry to decipher a real plot in them, he would just awoke wet from terrified sweat, unable to do anything for hours, singing to himself old lullabies he though forgotten, sometime wasting his flashlight battery from the fear of something hidden in the dark corners, sometime hidden under the blankets like it would stop a monster from reaching him.
It is childish he knows and he also sure knows he will never talks about that when he will be saved. Having nightmares in his field isn't unheard of, but you're scared of ghosts, not of shadowy monsters crawling at the ceiling.
The dreams aren't easier to deal with. It feels like both of it are in a desperate run, the winner will be the one that would break his mind, push him to jump through the window, conqueror in the image of Price finding his disarticulated body.
There were clearer, ethereal hands grabbing his nape, coldness soothing the lava in his skin, burning from untold desires, ravenous for a forbidden flesh. Having such dreams should normally be a lull, a way once awoke to let some steam off and fall back asleep, emptier, calmer. But where there should be plump breasts, wide hips and a delicious sheath to slip into, those dreams decided to create a lover more sinful, born from desires he always had repressed, prayed away. He is a man, a catholic one, he sinned before wedding but it preserved him from a bigger sin, one he always had refused to face. Other men weren't tempted and he shouldn't be either.
A warm light unable to fight the cold is now bathing the room, as his eyes are still closed and his long limbs unmoving. He refuses to move and feel fabrics against his arousal, refuses to move and instil the desire to touch and relieve himself. He knows by now those dreams won't go away but if he dares to act on them, he'll fall back asleep content, relaxed and guilty, he'll dream of it, of him, again, and he refuses to do so.
The silence is complete now, the things unmoving with the day. He should get up, open every doors in the hallway to let the light penetrate the darkness, he definitely shouldn't think of the word penetrate as he's fighting so helplessly the memory of the night. He should focus on searching for food and something to fix his radio, free of the creatures or their ghosts, but the one tormenting him right now don't care about the sun's place in the sky.
Maths, chemical components, molecules, everything is proven useless and as he's citing organic polymers in his mind, he lose the focus on himself and his body. Polyethylene, polypropylene. He doesn't even realise or care for his hands starting to move. Polystyrene, polyisoprene. A warm breath leave him as the pressure between his thigh is finally relieved. Polybutadiene, polyacrylates. He's already so wet, his shaft rock hard and ready to fecundate anything, he needs somewhere to go, to not spill his seed in his too tight pants, but as he can't remember the last one, the last two ones ? He's also unable to push away the memory, the images crossing the gate between his dreams and his reality.
There, he almost always waste himself on the ground and if he doesn't, it's into a dense fog, right between the mandibles of a skull, where he'd swear a frozen tongue would suck all the warmth in his body. Even in those moments, breath short and skin too hot, he would be filled, his brain exploding from the pleasure to finally, be the sheath to another sword. He would scream then, moan, break his voice in his exultation. He can't remember if it's from pain, pleasure or both, the only thing he awoke with, is the conviction he was screaming from finally being where he should always have been.
The whine crossing his lips is not enough to push the things in movement and he's too lost to care. Would he get forgiveness if he get killed right now, as his other hand brushes against his ass, as his fingers pushes against a too loose rim. His breath catch up, his hips move by themselves, chasing a high his engulfed fingers are too short to reach. He can't cum like that, he needs to think of a woman, she could wear a strap if it made her able to save his soul, but he also can't in a more terrestrial sense. His hands are too small, too short, too familiar to get the hitch, to break the wall separating him from the release.
Time is an useless measurement so far up north but he knows the light shouldn't be setting already. He knows it can't be physically possible that he's chasing his release for days, it can't but the light slowly turn blue, his cock is still hard and spilling into his grip, the silence of his whines slowly joined by some rummaging. It can't be possible but it's happening. The hand on his shaft leave its useless work to push the blankets over his head, to seal him in a smaller world where the light doesn't exist, where the passing of time can let him work on his shameful despair. There, protected, shying away from any eyes, may they be God's or the creatures', he smells it, the particular iron one so strong he can taste it on his tongue. It startle him out of his carnal frustration, getting up, pushing away the blankets that weren't red, that were never red. The smell of blood is unbearable now, how could he not notice, how could he not be in pain. The bed is drenched, the skin of his hands now bloody red, the same shade as his pants and his finally calming erection.
Somehow, the though that seeing blood was finally the solution against his sin makes him smile. He puts his sin back in his trousers, just in time to notice the rummaging, the crawling and the clicks. They're everywhere now, from the ceiling, the floor, the flats at his left and right but more importantly, at his door. They never made themselves known so carelessly, silently taking his bloodied sock, his bloodied bandages. He looks down, the way his body is covered in blood, from his elbows to the tip of his fingers, from his belt to his knees. He could give them his clothes but he can't wash his skin, can't take it off either. A look by the window is useless as it remind him he can't jump without losing his life in the process. If they want his blood maybe it's a better end.
The things roaming on the ceiling wants his blood. He feels crazy, the unnatural movement of the sun eating at his sanity and finally reaching the end of its meal. He doesn't have to search to find his flashlight, turns it on and calmly looks as the battery dies on him. He knew he shouldn't use it against the nightmares, now one will eat on his flesh and he won't be able to wake.
The heavy wooden door starts to sing under the assault, its swan song before letting them in, before the end of his life. He never found his perfect Price joke, the man will never hear it. Taking his gun and checking his ammo, he wonders, if at least there will be a god to judge him, if there will be a skull to welcome him.
John MacTavish is not the sort of man that let himself be killed stuck in a trap, he's not a man that commit suicide for chimera and even if he sees the door moves and ears it cracks, he step forward. Gun in a hand, the other on the handle, he breaths deeply and wonder what it would mean, if there is nothing behind it, if there is, he hopes nobody will come searching for him. The door concede before he have the time to turn the handle, the fight between his nose and the wood is quick, blood flies as he falls backward, the noise of things fighting is muffled by the ring in his ears as his head hit the floor.
As soon as they're done fighting he's gone and maybe his chance is there. He stands, stumbles and in front of him, he sees. The things seems like they were human once, naked tanned skin leather stretched on dried flesh, a pair of round unblinking white balls stands in place of eyes and the mouth. The mouth is a black hole circled by teeth, no sounds emanate from it, not even a breathe and as he stops doing so, one turn to him. It stand on four legs, the hands replaced by a single claw you'd imagine on a Jurassic World monster and as the thing take a step, he hears a click. They're done fighting for the small droplets of blood his nose lost and now are aiming for the bag full of it.
The sound of his gun makes him deaf before he realises he's firing, his body working on adrenaline and habits, his nerves trained to keep him alive, and as he sees himself jump over them, as he hear them move again and others, he runs.
He'll fight to reach the snow outside and if there is a God in this world or at least mercy for his soul, he'll die frozen with his blood nicely packed inside of him. He jump the stairs four by four, feels the ground getting colder and colder against his bare foots as he descend the floors, the clicks silenced by his heart pounding at his hears. When he reach the entrance door, it's not closed completely as he left it months, hours, weeks, days ago. The snow had accumulated against it and pushing is a last effort his body struggle to give. The clicks behind him gets louder, the snow burns his feet and the moment a claw explode the door's glass, right next to his face, the cold tears a painful moan out of him. No one is made for those temperature, especially not covered with just a shirt and the things don't even have that. They back off and he pushes forward, cuts himself even more in the gaping hole left by the thing.
Outside the snow turns red, everything burns and the moon bath his burial with a beautiful shade of blue. If he'll die with his blood nicely packed inside of him he's not so sure anymore, every step further covering his way with a beautiful poppy field. He doesn't have to continue as the things stay nicely behind, protected by the towering concrete walls, but he can't stand hearing them as he dies.
He knows the cold makes you get sleepy but he's still surprised by the speed of it, his brain already a distant noise, a wheel struggling to spin. He knows that near death, you start to feel hot, leading to the weird discovery of naked people deep into the mountains. But now, what his hot body asks, what his foggy brain provide, is to wash his bloodied hands, the dried liquid unpleasant against his skin. He takes snow with one hand and aim to rubs it against his other arm as something grabs him, he looks up, unfocused and confused. There, stands a man all geared up, taller and wider than him, a white skull in place of a face, but still two caring eyes behind it. He doesn't know him, can't recognise anything any symbol on the uniform, even the gears itself looks off to him. He may be a regular army Russian for all he knew, except for the British accent.
" Don't do that." His voice is rich and deep, he would have fallen in love with it if he wasn't going to die. He feels even smaller, scolded like that and as he bits his lower lips, the new wetness there makes it burn.
" Beware the things." John answers in a murmur.
" I know."
" Inside the towers."
" I know."
His feet leaves the ground, his weigh not him to carry anymore and he's carried as a child, his arms around the other man's shoulder, his thighs around his waist. He wonders slowly, why a para would carry him like that, then he feels a sharp pain at his neck, he would fight back if he still could. Maybe the blood hunger things really are humans before becoming that. John close his eyes and exhale, too tired to still care.
John wakes, running hot under blankets he's too weak to push away. No dream or nightmare to disturb his sleep, just the weird feeling that he shouldn't be alive, shouldn't be in a bed. Maybe all this was just that, a particularly well crafted nightmare, where the sword of his dream came to save him, maybe if he opened his eyes he would be on base, in his Russian flat or floating peacefully on a cloud. His eyes opens to what looks like a decommissioned military base but it's not his, it's not one he knows and there no one there. The room is huge, the furniture pushed in a corner tells him a story of reunion or communication, it wouldn't be that weird if it wasn't for the gigantic bed he's in. Beautiful carved wood square it, he can't smell anything except for blood but he's sure it would smell of clean antiquity. He's still wearing his shirt, his arms and pants are still covered by now completely dried blood and he's sure, he didn't dream, not all of it at least.
Maybe did he ran out of fear, jumped out the door and was still found and maybe there was nothing chasing him that night. He tries to scratch at the blood, feeling too weak to search for a point of water to clean and as if touching his own blood was calling for his name, the man came back, caring and scolding once again.
" Don't do that." He said again and again, John felt like listening to him.
" I need to wash." He still pleaded.
" I'll do it."
The other man takes his mask off, revealing dark blond hairs, big brown eyes and lips a strange shade of white. He could have used a damp cloth, a sponge, snow, even a metal brush for all he cares, so why, in all the shitty shade of greys the other man starts to lick him.
" The fuck are ye doin' ?" are small little words that had the time to leave his mouth as the realisation dawned on him. A tongue, beautiful, red, hot, cleaning him like anything else is too harsh for his skin, like his blood shouldn't be wasted. ' You are one of them' he wants to say just at the moment the other man takes two of his fingers in his mouth, the only thing that left his mouth is a whine. Inside the feeling is a mixture of cold lips and burning tongue, four teeth too long to be human brushing against his delicate skin and a memory that felt distant came back. A warm tongue against his cock, swallowing all he could give, now giving the same treatment to his fingers. Everything coming back like it was just a minute ago that he was searching for release. The desire crushing him an unbearable pressure he can't fight against, pleading him to stop, to keep going, to do it to his cock, to let go of at least one of his hand and allow him to touch himself. The guilt only fuelling his desire, forcing him mute, all his senses drowning under the sound of saliva and the one of his own hips, rutting against the sheets.
" With how resistant you were, I though taking our time would have suited you better." How could he sounds so calm after sucking at his fingers this way, resistant to what, he couldn't bear the idea of taking time for anything.
" Please." His own voice sounding like gravel. That single word made a mean smile bloom on the other man's face, something fierce John is unable to understand."
" I'll need to take more from you, to be able to gives you what you need."
" Please." The man got closer, bend over him and pressed his lips against John's, waiting for the moan that came quickly and as soon as the access to his tongue was open, bites in it. An hard, painful bite, with those too long fangs that punctured the tick veins there. The scream that should have left his body got muted by the bubbly sounds of blood rushing out of him, blocking his airway.
He should panic, should fight back, but a steady hand brushing against his torso, fighting against his belt, came to grabs his cock and another muffled sound left him. The pain vanished from his system, replaced by the pleasure of his tongue being sucked on, by that huge hands squeezing hard around him. His hips still moving frantically but this time the release was possible, his orgasm building inside him with the instinct that this time, he could finally achieve it.
When the kiss broke, only the taste of blood distantly lingering on his tongue was trace of what happened. He could breathe, he could talk and he could moan loudly as an expert thumb came to brush his fraenulum. Lightheaded, drunk from pleasure, he fought what was left of his clothes to give full access to the other man, not questioning anymore how the thing in his dream became suddenly a real man.
In those dreams he was a sheath and now is burning to become a real one. " Fuck me." The order comes with all the determination left in him but he has none left when two rough hands grabs his thighs, finger pushing into his injury and pulling his whole body, far enough on the bed to bend him in half, his knees brushing against both of his hears.
" You need to be washed again." The pressure of a tongue against his rim chase away all the air in his lungs, he can't breathe and he can't make a noise, his body startle out of life by the surprising pleasure. It comes all back in as it push inside, the new air in him pushed away in a loud moan as soon as it came in. It's shorter than a finger but ticker and somehow, it's still incredibly better. Ravenous, nothing seems enough even if his body is already trembling, he wants it deeper, harder, it can't but it does. The strain grows as he feels it get deeper and deeper, first to what his own fingers reach then deeper again, brushing against skin, organs, that should never be touch but are still incredibly are. Lips sucking at his rim, hungry tongue licking at his walls, and as soon as an hand brush against his cock again, he's coming. White nose electrifies his nerves and when he comes back to himself, he's still screaming his pleasure. The movement inside him doesn't stop, takes him behind his limits, fucks him deep and press hard but he's full of an hunger he can't seem able to satiate. His body is still ridding his orgasm, the stimulation borders to pain now but he still needs more.
" Cock !" Is the only word he's able to articulate, first the hand around his works harder, tearing a moan and tears out of him. " The other." He cries and finally is on the road to gets what his dreams were made of, what he craves so deeply. The tongue gets out of him, the hand leave his body and he looks down, just in time to witness the state he's in. Spent but still hard, ass high and offered, blood dripping slowly from his thigh, and right here, over him and preparing between his legs, is the other man's cock, hard and pulsing.
He's not drunk but feels like it, fear unable to take a consistent grip at his soul, he can't bring himself to care for the amount of blood he's loosing, for the size of the sword going to take his virginity. He can't take his eyes off the man, his every movement a wonder to watch. The way his forearms flex, his skin is now blushing in a delightful pink, his slightly open mouth with too long teeth and tongue, they way his breath is so peaceful and controlled he can't even see his ribs move. The thread of his mind is neatly cut by the push of the man's cock against him, as he fights to keep breathing the man push and push, only stopping when their balls flush. The man then tips forward, all his body weight only on the tip of his toes and John's hips, to kiss chastely his forehead.
" Breathe." He murmurs. " You need to do it for a bit longer." He answers John's confused look with a small smile, like every word escaping his mouth clear as source water. " You're not there yet, seize the moment."
" Am I going to die ?"
" Of course, it's okay, I'm here." He kisses him silent just the time to get a better position and moving.
It's slow at first, enough for John to be able to feels everything, every brushing nerves against veins, the feeling of hairs against his ass when the other bottoms out. The rhythm grows as the level of John's voice, unable to keep to himself the pleasure burning at him. His dreams were made of frozen skin against his but the other man is as hot as John his, shining both in sweat. He's finally full, at his right place, sucking in this cock as soon as it tries to escape him, his grab on reality escapes him, drown in pleasure, pounded hard and steadily. His moans dies out, the blood at his thigh stopped to bleed a long time ago now, he struggle to push air in his lungs or keeping his eyes open. He's conscious enough to feels his back going down against the mattress, his legs circling powerful hips and the change in angle makes him pound into a new place, that drags out the rest of his forces into moaning a bit louder, tentatively arch against the bed but it's no use. He can't think, barely ear the other talk, the sounds of his voice a lullaby dragging him further in unconsciousness.
He breathe out, a liquid reach his lips and tongue, tick and tasteless and as he starts to drink, everything comes back at him. The colours, the low light, the thick cock hammering in him, he moans loudly but doesn't breathe in, doesn't hear his heart against his ears, he doesn't care as the man over him cover his face in kisses, murmuring sweet nonsenses, all of him devoted to burn his nerves with lust.
He should have died with the things, should be dead right now but if he is, he found himself the favourite of a blood-hungry God. None of their heartbeat gets faster as they reach their orgasm, John doesn't even gasp as the other man still doesn't stop, he doesn't even wonder how or why. If he's dead, he have all eternity to asks what's happening, if he's not he shouldn't question his luck.
His moans still breaks the endless winter's silence, long after his last drop of blood had been drunk.