It is foolish to be alone around Crowe. Holly, however, is always one to overstep her limits. Perhaps it is the memory of their past that makes her reckless. Pushing buttons with another around is one thing but a white mage alone, even Holly Elizabeth Whyte, is in danger.
He tells her to be quiet, which only makes her sneer.
So he makes her quiet with the spitting of blood from a torn throat. With her guard down he is able to pin her; with her magics silenced he takes off his hat and looks her dead in her furious blue eyes.
The Crowe you know isn’t here.
“Game over, Miss Wh-Whyte.”
The smell of blood is familiar to Holly Whyte, in her profession. The blazes of red on her outfit are not without reason, after all. Walking through the Keep - reluctantly, mind - to find Crowe, she would know that scent anywhere. It is either her intuition or some prickle of the white magic that guides her steps slowly, with the clicking of heels, to that room.
Crowe looks up at her with too-bright eyes when she enters. He leans against the wall, one arm unable to move and the other held over a deep wound on his chest. As she approaches he squints, cocks his head childlike at her when she bends down to pull his hand from the gash and assess it.
Perhaps it is within her capacity to heal this wound - surely it is. Holly sets her staff down to kneel by him, not noticing that her snowy white fox-tails trail in his blood.
“E-Elizabeth?” Ominas whispers, dazedly. His eyes cannot quite focus on her as she leans down with tight lips to brush a lock of hair from his face. Already he is pale as ash, even his lips are turning grey.
“Quiet,” Holly says, though not unkindly. “Rest, Ominas. They can’t hurt you any more. It’s over - it’s finally over.”
Resting her hand on the side of his face as some comfort she can feel, faintly, the press of his cheek against her palm. With eyes closed he is leaning into her touch.
Such cold skin… Holly stays there until his short breaths become nothing. Slowly his head slumps onto his shoulder.
Only then does Holly kiss his forehead and stand. Do her eyes sting from tears or smoke? She isn’t even sure.
“See you in Hell, Crowe,” she whispers. The others will need to know that their Black Mage has fallen.
How has it come to this? On his knees like a supplicant - choking the life out of a woman with one hand while, with the other, he desperately pulls at her fingers on his throat to stop her from doing the same. He could kill her - he could kill her but right now it wouldn’t be enough. Something in Ominas wants to consume her, snuff her out, become something - a mutilator - anything -
And her nails are digging into the skin of his jaw, pulling him closer. She can taste cigarette smoke and wine in her mouth - feels dizzy -
His hands are on the backs of her thighs where the dress doesn’t cover, and while the anima is silent it is as though his fingertips burn. Ominas rakes red lines across the skin on her buttocks as he pushes her dress up - so she pulls his hair, forcing his head back, and his lets out a choked and breathless moan.
They scratch to hurt, scratch as if breaking flesh might dismantle the six-years wall that has grown between them. They bite - get under each other’s skin - Ominas is already bruising from the force of her grip on his arm because he belongs to her. Holly pulls him backwards until he loses his balance, catching himself with his hands either side of her body and his ribs heaving, flesh burning with scratch-marks and desire.
His sharp little canines pierce the white skin on her shoulder where he bites her, pinning one of her arms while her other hand pushes his trousers down to take him in hand with rough tugs. He pushes the top of her corset down over her breasts, kisses and nips the skin of them as her hands slide under his robe to both caress and claw his chest.
When they kiss they can taste their own blood in each other’s mouths - they knock teeth, hiss with annoyance as one. Eyes open, not trusting one another to close them. Holly pulls him down with her legs around his waist, biting his lip until blood flows as she guides him into her. Even now she has hold of him as he clenches his fists against the wood of the floor and gasps for breath. She is fucking him - not the other way around - it was always that way. Her gasps burn him, the way her head tips back with her golden hair around her, the bruises forming on a dove-white throat. Ominas can barely watch her, cannot take his eyes from her though hers are shut as she lifts her hips to meet him.
He comes first with her nails raking bloody trails on the small of his back - panting he does not stop until the grip of her thighs around his hips is painful for a long moment, her back arched taut.
Ominas falls against Holly, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. He tangles her hair around his hands as he once used to to kiss the back of her neck, thinking of how that golden hair might look strangling the fluttering pulse of her throat.
The look in her eyes speaks similar violence but, for once, Ominas isn’t afraid.