Kenji arrived at her feet.

He had covered the three feet between where he had fallen and where she was standing on his knees, the physical effort of it visible in the shaking of his arms and the white, straining color of his knuckles — and he grabbed.

Her foot.

Then Raven’s ankle.

Both hands — one on each person — and he looked up from the floor with tears running freely and his jaw set with the expression of a young man who has exactly one thing available to him and is using it completely.

"Let her go."

From below. Looking up the full length of the scene above him.

Kira’s face.

The ahego expression that her face had found — the wide, rolling eyes, the parted mouth, the specific, demolished dignity of a face that had stopped managing itself and was simply reporting on what was happening to the body below it — looking down at him from above, her cheek pressed against the cool corridor wall.

"Don’t—" She was still saying it. "Don’t look, Kenji — please — please don’t—"

PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"AAANGHH~!!"

Her hips bucked.

The seed from three days ago and the arousal of three days of waiting combined in the gush that ran from her entrance down her inner thigh, warm and immediate, and landed on Kenji’s upturned face.

He didn’t move.

He held the foot.

He held the ankle.

He held them both and looked up and cried with the open, unmanaged crying of someone who is not going to stop holding on regardless of the crying.

Raven reached forward.

His hand disappeared under the bra cup — finding the chain where it had been sitting against her skin since three days ago, the golden chain that ran from the hook at her clit up along her inner body, gathering at the clasp between her breasts — and he pulled.

The chain caught the light.

Gold. Fine. Running from beneath her panties in a delicate, architectural arc — a golden hook seated at her clit, the chain running upward under the fabric, connected at the bra level with the clasp that had been pressing against her sternum for three days.

Kenji stared at it.

"What—"

"Master—it HURTS—"

The clit hook moved.

The pulling of the chain translating directly, the small golden hook doing its work against the swollen, sensitized bud of her, and Kira’s knees buckled — both of them — her body deciding that the information arriving from her clit was too dense for standing to remain a reasonable posture.

"AAAHH~!! STOP — THE HOOK — PLEASE — MASTER — THE HOOK—"

PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"IAAAANGHH~!! AAAHH~!!"

Raven grabbed her leg.

One motion — his hand hooking under her knee, lifting it — and her body tilted forward, the wall arriving at her face as he pressed her against it, both her palms flat on the glass of the corridor window, her hips lifted, her ass presented, the full, comprehensive view of her from behind suddenly visible to the room.

To Kenji on the floor.

Who was looking up at the first complete view of the woman he had loved since he was fifteen — the hairy, swollen, glistening pussy, the golden hook at the clit still in place, the insignia glowing at her skin, seed already running from her entrance and being added to — from the worst possible angle, in the worst possible context, for the first time.

His hands.

Still on the foot.

Still on the ankle.

"Leave her," he said.

His voice had gone very quiet.

The specific quiet of a voice that has run out of volume and is now operating on something else entirely.

"Leave. Her."

Raven looked down at him.

The warm, direct look of a man examining something he finds genuinely interesting.

He pulled the chain.

PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"IAAAANGHH~!! AAAHH~!! HIEEK~—I’M — I CAN’T — MASTER — I’M—"

The release arrived in her all at once — three days of waiting compounded by the last several minutes of everything — and her body produced the full, comprehensive response, the liquid evidence of it flooding outward, spraying in the specific, uncontrolled piss-force of a woman whose clit hook had been pulled at the exact moment of a full-body orgasm, warm and immediate and landing on the corridor floor.

On Kenji’s knees.

On his hands.

On the floor around him.

He didn’t move.

He held the ankle.

He was shaking.

PHAAACKK!

"AAANGHH~!!"

The final load.

Thick. Immediate. The dense, flooding warmth of it filling her — the insignia on her skin going briefly, blindingly bright as the seed landed, the binding responding to the seed like two things recognizing each other — and she pressed her face against the window glass and made a sound that was not quite a word and not quite a moan.

His teeth found her ear.

He looked down.

At Kenji.

At the young man on the floor of the hospital corridor, soaking, shaking, holding an ankle with both hands and looking up with the red, devastated eyes of someone who has watched something that cannot be unwatched.

Raven looked at him for a moment.

The warm, unhurried look.

"Impressed by your taste," he said.

His voice warm. Conversational. The tone of a man making a pleasant observation.

"I’ll make sure to pump her womb with at least five children."

Kenji’s jaw clenched.

"And name all of them," Raven said, the corner of his mouth lifting, "Kenji."

"NO—"

He snapped his fingers.

Gone.

Kira.

The warmth of her. The weight of her against the wall. The golden chain. The glow of the insignia. The seed still running down the corridor glass.

All of it.

Gone.

Kenji’s hands held air.

Both of them.

Where the ankle had been — empty. Where the foot had been — empty. The corridor wall, unchanged. The glass, with the pressed-palm marks of her hands and the seed running down it in slow, thin lines.

That was all.

The fluorescent lights buzzed.

The nurse at the station continued typing.

Someone down the corridor was pushing a cart.

The magic had lifted.

The world had resumed being the world.

Kenji knelt on the linoleum floor of the hospital hallway with his hands open and his face wet and his knees in the puddle of what had just happened and made a sound.

Not a word.

The sound a person makes when they have been holding on to something with both hands and both hands have just been emptied at the same moment.

"No."

He pressed his hands against the floor.

Pushed.

His legs were not going to cooperate and he pushed anyway, the shaking, total effort of someone who had been told by his body what was not available to him and who was going to stand up regardless, because standing up was what the situation required.

He fell back down.

Tried again.

"Give her—"

The hands pressing against the linoleum.

The specific, uncontrolled sound of a young man crying completely, the way children cry before they learn to manage it, with the full architecture of the chest and throat and face.

"Give me back my Kira—"

Staff movement at the end of the corridor.

A nurse turning from the station, finally noticing the overturned wheelchair, the young man on the floor, the wet linoleum.

"—what happened—"

"—the patient is—"

"—where is the woman who was—"

"GIVE ME BACK MY KIRA!"