Warning: Presence of Lime
Disclaimer: Shingeki no Kyojin (c) Hajime Isayama / Dachau (c) Jayne Stark
Chapter XX - Silence II
Long ago, far longer than she really wants to remember, the innocent Historia Reiss possessed, like many children her age, three great fears: the fear of what hides in the night, the fear of what emerges from darkness and, lastly, the deep and overwhelming fear of the loneliness of silence.
Fear was, for her, something constant, inevitable and irrational. It was during that awful moment, when the lights in her small room away from everything else in the lonely Reiss mansion were turned off, when the sweet little girl would start weeping; she would curl up in her useless cot, sobbing uncontrollably until exhaustion would make its presence in full force, tormented by the fear of a damned trinity: night, darkness and silence.
But, as she grew older, the fears that plagued her nights began to fade like her innocence. She doesn't fear the night, not since the Holocaust caught her by surprise during one of those; she doesn't fear darkness, not since it had found her in a nightmare known as the Bunker.
But silence. Silence has been as elusive as a beast, hungry, miserable, waiting for the time to hunt.
"Come at me." She mutters in the air without imagining that soon, perhaps too soon, she would be regretting her own words.
The threat is lost, like the orchestra of the sleeping city, in the deafening roar of the moving vehicle that pierces her ears to insane limits that she could impossibly put into words.
It was true that she hated silence more than anything else but, which sane person could stand this scandal for hours? The devil, only the devil himself could stand this noise.
That's right. She says to herself amid a silent smile. Only the devil.
She looks straight ahead, she looks to the sky, she looks straight ahead again. What is more beautiful? The silver light that the moon pours over their heads, or the sharp-faced woman that the perfect light illuminates? She can not imagine the answer.
Liar. She corrects herself, irritated at her own modesty. You would have never noticed the moon.
Historia Reiss hides her flushed face in the powerful back of what, until recently, she believed to be a man. Strong. Dominant. A body that seems to be made for destroying rather than for creation. She inhales her scent, which mixes with the evening breeze granting her a fragrance she hopes she will never forget.
Two hours. They had been traveling for two hours at high speed on a road that, at least for her, seems to lead them to an unknown destination. Why were they leaving so quickly? Why, barely seconds after having revealed her real name, did the sergeant cover her with her black coat and lifted her up like a small child to carry her to her motorcycle wrapped in an unusual silence?
She would like to know, as she would have liked to have had time to enjoy that lovely moment.
However, silence had now found her: amid the deafening noise, she can only perceive the silence.
"Ymir." She calls out to her in a muffled scream, trying her utmost so her dying voice would not be devoured by the roar of the machinery.
Shut up and enjoy the ride- Is what you would expect someone like her to say; but the silence, that insane silence is more of what she can handle. Frustrating. Ironic. It is silence that which she fears so much.
"Ymir." She mutters again, more to herself than to the person in front of her, making sure to caress each abdominal muscle to which she holds on in a desperate attempt to calm her nerves; she's strong, she could perhaps be as strong as Mikasa.
Eren had no chance. A playful giggle escapes her lips.
It is at that moment, when her hands slowly rise across her torso, feeling up the bandages that hides her breasts from prying eyes for the first time, when she allows herself to imagine what she looks like in her natural form. With no trace of those loose clothes, hovering over her body with that hungry smile that threatens to devour her again.
Her sweat. Her warmth. Her body.
Beautiful.
She shakes her head vehemently, doing her best to clear up all the tempting ideas that cause an unusual moisture to form between her legs, stopping herself in time to notice the brown eyes that observe her discreetly, wrapped in silent undeniable desire.
"We'll stop for a bit." Ymir informs her in a whisper which, to her infinite surprise, she hears without any inconvenience. "I want to show you something before I take you home."
She knows perfectly well what she's referring to and, in fact, she's anxiously looking forward to it.
"Alright."
She clings to her chest with a huge blush covering her angelic face; going back home, what she had wanted for so long, what she needs to correct a mistake that she had made. She should never have fled. She should never have followed Reiner.
Reiner. What had become of Reiner?
And Eren? Had he returned to the refuge? Could he be looking for her?
Why did her father's men seem so intent on catching her? How had Pastor Nick recognized her?
What happened to Ymir? Where had she been all this time? How did she trace her back to that place? Had Sasha resorted to her? Mikasa?
No. She corrects herself immediately. Ymir found me by herself.
She knows, but she doesn't care at all. She doesn't care as long as she can enjoy the warmth that makes her feel like a true goddess: a sacrilegious goddess who has defiled her holiness to surrender herself in body and soul to a demon.
Demon or not, Ymir's mere presence put aside her fears: her gaze, her scent and, the most soothing thing, her raspy voice breaking through the cruel silence that she hates so much.
She's perfect.
She has no awareness of the time that elapses from the moment she decides to close her eyes to enjoy her delicious aroma of ash, until that very moment, where the speed of the machine slows down until it reaches the pace of a conventional bicycle.
There's no doubt, whatever their destination is, they have already arrived.
"Ymir?" She calls her lover at the time the motorcycle comes to a halt in front of a large door, wide open, perfectly mimicking the open jaws of a predator.
Decrepit. Desolate. Decadent. The barn is almost as small as a shed (Maybe a little wider than her home in Munich), built out of wood that looks kind of grayish under the moonlight; such a place, from the distance, could seem like a pile of ruins with nothing to offer.
But, indeed, that was what it is.
"Can you walk?" Ymir asks in a whisper, nimbly hopping off of her beloved motorcycle.
"No."
She's lying: Ymir knows this, but she doesn't seem to care in the least. Without a word, the female soldier takes her within her arms as if she was made out of fine porcelain, as if she feared that she'd break at any time; Historia remains still, inert, listening to the slow heartbeats of her beloved, watching how the sky gets lost in the darkness of the small building.
"What are we doing here?" She asks hesitantly, getting silence in return once again.
Ymir walks through invisible obstacles she can easily detect in the thick darkness, getting lost in it as if it had been accompanying her throughout her life. Historia clings to her neck tightly, straining her beautiful sky blue eyes to the darkness.
In the past, that now seems more distant than ever, this darkness would have made her start shaking. It's terrible, far more powerful than the ridiculous gloom that pervaded her useless room in the lonely Reiss mansion.
...!
What is hidden in darkness; what is hidden in silence.
"Ymir!" She calls out to her in desperation, watching the corner where the discrete noise is coming from that draws her attention in a terrible way; Ymir, that is only lit by the dim light coming through the open door, shakes her head with a knowing smile.
"Look around you." She says in her hoarse voice, laying her down carefully on a messy pile of dry hay, senselessly dispersed across the worn-out wooden floor. "Do you really think there aren't rats in a place such as this one?"
She looks around, observing that, in fact, dozens of fuzzy silhouettes of scared rodent were running from one side to the other along the enclosure, fearing the two hostile shadows that had invaded their territory.
"Y-you're right." The hay fibers mold around her figure perfectly, brushing against her like the long gloved fingers that she so longed to feel. "I'm sorry."
Her whisper gets lost in the night as well as the gaze of the brunette on her skin, she watches as her strong hands undo the knot of her black tie with dignified solemnity of cults of older deities than mankind itself, savoring the spectacle as if it were a strange play that was hard to understand.
"Historia."
Her body. Her heart. Her soul. Her whole body becomes paralyzed as she hears her name being pronounced by that provocative, attractive murmur echoing in the darkness. The tie falls to the floor as the buttons on her white shirt fall one by one.
"Historia."
The hoarse voice resonates in her eardrums while the impeccable white shirt, indispensable in the uniform of the Schutzstaffel, gently slides down her body and falls on top of her tie; she trembles, clutching the black coat that protects her from the cold, without missing out on any of the details on her tan torso and the bandages that cover it.
"Historia."
The last one. The last murmur before Historia herself, who has always been the submissive lover, rips the disturbing bandage from her body with her own hands, and immediately after makes way to catch her beloved's lips in her own, tasting, memorizing the invaluable image of her naked torso.
Ymir. It's the only thing that the delirium allows her to think. Ymir. Ymir. Ymir.
In the past, when she still possessed the name Christa Renz, her biggest desire was to form, by herself, the family she had never had the chance to have.
A beautiful girl with the peculiar features of her father, a little girl that would enjoy her parent's unconditional love that she herself never got to experience during her own childhood; her beloved sergeant, handsome as she has always been, as the proud father that Lord Reiss had never been interested in being; and she, finally, as the loving mother who devoted her whole life to her family, a mother that would never slap her daughter when she asked for a hug.
That was her wish, her greatest wish.
But now, submerged in the imperturbable silence, staring at the naked torso of her enlightened sergeant by the light of a moon that seems to be glowing with abnormal intensity, she concludes that she doesn't need any of that to be truly happy.
"Beautiful." She mutters in between the kiss, giving Ymir the perfect opportunity to introduce her tongue, prompting her own to gain life and dance around hers.
Her hand, that up until that moment had been clutching to that useless bandage, slowly slides down to feel the dark skin that seems to tremble at her touch; her breasts are humble but firm, smooth as those of any woman, her abdomen is hard as a rock, strengthened by the hard training that she had gone through for years. She's perfect, everything about her is perfect.
And then, when her palm traps Ymir's left breast, she manages to feel it: her heart. The frantic heartbeats of her lover's heart makes her understand reality; she is the first person whom Ymir allows touching in that way, the only one who has seen her vulnerability. Her. Only her.
"Ymir." She doesn't want to cry. She doesn't wish to cry. The tears roll down her face uncontrollably. She tears, almost literally, her own shirt so her skin could completely merge together with that of her beloved Ymir, plunging into such an intense warmth that it makes her sigh. She freely runs circles up and down her back like she had done never before, distributing small bites in pristine sections of her skin.
"Historia." Ymir whispers in her ear, laying her against the hay with such delicacy that she had never bothered to show before, getting rid of the few clothes that still cover the goddess' beautiful body; as she feels the cold air hit her naked body, she also feels the Titan's hungry look devouring her skin.
"Please." She begs with a flushed face, feeling the full weight of silence on her urgency, provocatively stroking her lover's belly in order to induce her to act. "Ymir."
Then, venting the ferocity that had remained asleep up until that moment, Ymir turns her body violently to lay her down on her belly, resting, in turn, her full weight on her. A moan chokes in her throat at the moment three long fingers, wrapped in a leather glove, penetrate her insides immediately, with urgency, moving at high speed.
"Ymir...!" The Titan's free hand imprisons her lips, stifling her moans with the palm of her hand, slipping inside her brusquely. She can feel her breath on her ear, she can feel her breasts against her back; she can feel her, she can feel her completely.
"You're mine." The words, perfectly audible, emerge in a whisper impregnated with excitation, increasing the brutality of the penetrations to limits that she had never before, not even when she tore her insides with the sheath of her dagger, allowed herself to cross. "Only mine."
The fibers of the hay scratch her breasts as the swaying intensifies, her moans are lost in the night, giving strength to the strange cough that she had not heard in a while. In that moment, when she finds herself touching the peak of definite pleasure, her body is turned around again to come face to face with an Ymir that awaits her completely naked, throwing her last garments into the darkness.
"Come." She mutters with glazed eyes, pleading, opening her arms wide to invite her beloved, the forgotten love of her childhood, for a direct touch. "Please."
She doesn't mind the eerie silence, not when the anxious cries echo in the darkness, not when Ymir's exposed body intertwines with hers making their most sensitive spots rub against one another.
One of her legs is raised to Ymir's side, allowing their union to deepen. Immediately, the ferocious swaying begins; the excited growls, accompanied by the furious unfamiliar blush covering that freckled face, gives her more pleasure than what the wild lunges could achieve.
For the love of God! She can feel her wetness mix with hers, she can feel her erect clitoris rubbing against her own as if there were no tomorrow and, more importantly, she can feel her warmth blend with hers as if they were one being.
"You're mine." Ymir repeats in her ear again almost as if it were a threat, looking straight at her, pinning her left breast with one hand, full of sweat like the rest of her skin. "Christa is mine." Her breath erases her fears, her touch erases everything, her kiss erases her reality. "Historia is mine." One thrust. Two. Three. "You're all mine!"
Then, when she feels her whole body tremble, a cry snatches her consciousness to an inexplicable limit, to the intense peak that they were both eager to find.
"Ymir!"
She clings to her neck tightly, tensing up, feeling a few more thrusts before her lover's body also reaches that state of perfect delirium amid a guttural growl; when they finish they remain silent, holding onto each other, allowing the moisture of their joined pleasure to run freely down their intertwined legs.
"Don't you forget, my goddess." Ymir mutters, brushing her lips, slipping her fingers inside the blonde's intimacy again that still beats slightly due to all the pleasure. "You're mine."
Then, so are you. She tries telling her during that moment, but those fingers, skillful like no other, penetrate her insides with great force, turning her precarious prayer into a clumsy and useless babble.
"No matter what happens to us, you'll always belong to me."
The moon moves slowly over their heads as the sensations of the unique night turn into an incomprehensible delirium; maybe one day she'd manage to understand the urgency in those wild property declarations, but now, united in body and soul, she only allows herself to enjoy the moment.
A new moan hits the night, one in a thousand.
The soft light of dawn, accompanied by the desperate cough, makes the goddess awaken from the most beautiful night she had ever had the opportunity to experience in her scarce sixteen years of life.
"We'll stop for a bit." No. There was no way; they had made love for hours without interruption, until toppling over from exhaustion over the pile of hay that they had used as if it were a marriage bed. Her whole body was aching, prisoner of a numbness that only makes her want to sleep a little longer.
We're going home. Historia thinks with a wishful smile, affectionately clinging to the black coat covering her nakedness as she hears Ymir's slow steps whom, apparently, walks around indifferently just outside the barn.
"Ymir?" She asks aloud, catching a trace of the cigarette smell that the wind brings along. "How many times do I have to tell you that those things..."
...!
The cough. That despicable sound that now, with the sunlight in her eyes, she knows for sure that it can't come from any nocturnal rodent. She stands up carefully, making sure not to strain her sore ankle, covering as much as she can with the piece of uniform impregnated with the aroma of ash. Slowly, she walks through the fuzzy silhouettes illuminated by the first rays of sun.
...!
"It's there." She mutters, looking directly at an abandoned corner that nobody had bothered to clean for many years; it's there, where no light could reach, where the mysterious sound comes from. "H-hello?"
...!
Frantic. Desperate. She receives an orchestra of coughs in response to her hesitant greeting.
"Ymir?" No, she can still see her silhouette standing outside through the broken planks; whatever it was, that thing was not Ymir.
In an unexpected fit of courage, she launches herself without thinking to that dark place but, as she finds herself facing the unspeakable terror that awaits there, her courage fades into a scream.
"Oh my God!"
The boy seems relieved that finally, after a whole night of calling out to her nonstop, his cries are heard through that nasty gag that impedes his speech. His hands, bleeding to the desire for freedom, are tied up as well as his feet, immobilizing him completely; his body was injured, every inch of it.
"I'm here." With shaky hands she tries removing the gag, looking for the most reassuring smile in her repertoire. "Everything will be fine."
She was sure of one thing: Ymir knew. Ymir always knew.
Had she brought her here for this? Had she been the cause of this? Why did she do this? Why?
It wasn't possible, right?
It wasn't. She says to herself trying to regulate the tremor in her hands. She would never do something like this.
But, as much as she tries to remain calm, the boy in front of her, battered like she had never seen him before, wrings about nonstop. She barely removes the gag completely, when she gets a hoarse mutter from a throat destroyed by anxiety.
"Run."
Dry. Clear. Without error. A warning that disturbs her heart.
"Eh?" She asks in confusion, ignoring his exorbitant eyes that sink into panic.
"Run! Damn it!"
Then, emerging from the purest silence, a big hand presses a wet handkerchief over her face with force; its odor is strong, so strong that she can barely perceive Eren's desperate cries and, more importantly, Ymir's cutting whisper against her ear.
"Let's go back home."
After having challenged silence, it makes its presence once again, treacherous and miserable, snatching her consciousness as well as her happiness away.
To be continued in Chapter XXI - Mistakes