Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The small room on the second floor of the inn was filled with a strange odor, a mixture of old wood, cheap lamp oil, and lingering traces of lust. It was by no means a romantic setting, but it was better than no setting at all. Diego might have been fine with something more casual, but Hot Pants at least needed a bed. Even if that bed was so rickety that the creaking from their movements nearly drowned out their moans.

She lay in bed for quite a while, perhaps dozing lightly, before waking up and staring at the ceiling for some time. The steady breathing beside her brought her a measure of peace. She sighed, got out of bed, and slipped like a ghost into the shadows in the corner of the room.

There was a mottled brass washbasin and a pitcher of water that had almost gone cold. The inn provided virtually no cleaning supplies. She poured the tepid water into the basin and took out a coarse soap from her luggage. Moonlight streamed through the curtainless window, coating her skin in a layer of shining silver. She began to wipe away the lingering stickiness from her body with a towel.

"Hiss—"

A sharp sting made her recoil as her soapy fingertips slid across her back.

She fumbled for a small hand mirror in her luggage, the kind of oval mirror with a handle that ladies used to adjust their sideburns. With her back to the window, she struggled to adjust the angle, catching in the dim mirror image the fresh red scratches etched haphazardly on the skin below her shoulder blades, like some unconscious signature.

Diego… whenever he got a little carried away, he couldn't help but let his body dinosaurize. She couldn't tell if the marks were from his claws or his teeth.

Hot Pants reached out with her other hand, carefully touching the wounds, and the sharp pain returned. She was familiar with this feeling; it was as if she had always had wounds like this since she was very young.

In the fields of her hometown, the sharp edges of the leaves had left fine scratches on her arms. Laboring under the scorching sun made her sweat profusely, and the sweat seeped into the bloody marks. This pain was the only way she could feel her numb arms. In her adolescence, she grew too quickly, and her pants were always a little too short. She liked to go to the forest alone, and the low brambles and thorny bushes would leave crisscrossing scratches on her calves. But she never stopped walking deeper into the forest. Later, the brand-new, razor-sharp pages of the Bible in the Brotherhood library replaced the wheat leaves of the fields and the thorns of the forest. Her fingertips were always inadvertently cut by the pages. The small wounds from the books of holy words, and the wounds from the land, from the wilderness, overlapped on her body with time as the variable.

Now it's covered in Diego's claw marks.

Hot Pants stared at the reddish scratches in the mirror. She could almost imagine Diego as he had been then, with eyes gleaming with a predator's excitement. She took a deep breath, and her empty hand lifted slightly, the hazy form of Cream Starter flickering at her fingertips.

It would be easy to erase these traces with her Stand; even the most mangled wounds would return to smooth perfection, as if nothing had ever happened.

But her fingers hovered for a few seconds, and finally, she slowly lowered them. The outline of Cream Starter dissipated into the air. She turned her gaze to the duffel bag Diego had tossed aside. Diego's bag, like the man himself, possessed a chaotic sort of refinement. She skipped over a few crumpled articles of clothing, rummaged in the inner pocket, and, as expected, found several small, cold glass bottles. Uncorking one, a scent mixing herbs and a faint, acrid odor wafted out.

Her fingertip scooped out a small, dark green, thickly textured ointment. The instant the ointment touched the wound on her back, an intense, icy sting shot through her, ten times clearer than when she had just wiped it with cold water. She involuntarily tensed her back muscles and gasped. It felt like an ice pick stabbing directly into a burning wound.

She rubbed the ointment deeper, almost deliberately, into the gash on her back. The pain became concrete and sharp, like a red-hot wire tracing the skin, outlining every inch of the mark Diego had left. The burning pain beneath the cool ointment was more proof than any tender words that they were indeed so closely intertwined.

So when did they start to become like this?

The thought suddenly popped up out of nowhere. She tried to grasp a definite starting point, but her thoughts were like a buttered knife, unable to grip the bread of memory. Was it the day they decided to cooperate? No, they had only just met then, each harboring their own little thoughts, occupying separate sides by the campfire, separated by a seemingly insurmountable distance. What about later? They camped in the wilderness for so long, most nights accompanied only by the starry sky and the sound of the wind. She couldn't have agreed to have sex with him under those circumstances.

Maybe it was after some fierce battle? They encountered a difficult enemy, the adrenaline hadn't worn off, and so in the shadows of some abandoned mine, under the guise of checking wounds, they crossed the line of ordinary comrades for the first time. It must have been something like that, at least somewhere with a roof.

Perhaps it was still in an inn as dilapidated as this one. There was only one room left, so...

She found her memory to be like a fog.

How long had they been partners? A week? A month? The sense of time had thinned in the daily escape and calculation.

Oh my god, what exactly is their relationship now? Companions? Lovers? A fake married couple? Or some other kind of relationship for which she can't find any adjectives to describe? She felt dizzy, the stinging in her back intertwined with the coolness of the ointment, disrupting her judgment.

An absurd thought flashed through her mind: what if today was really the first time, but Diego had given her some kind of drug that made her feel like all of this had already happened countless times, that made her unable to remember all the details clearly.

But the thought was immediately dismissed.

No. That wasn't it at all. She knew, with a cold clarity, that it had nothing to do with drugs. This had happened... naturally. Terribly naturally. Like two converging torrents, the struggle and resistance seemed to exist only for the first moment, and then they were swept away by a larger vortex, sinking downwards. That tacit silence, the already familiar reactions when their bodies touched, even that secret, almost imperceptible acceptance deep in her heart when he left these marks. It made her feel a slight dizziness, colder than the ointment on her wounds. She was definitely not seduced, and to some extent, she was even proactive.

＊

The call of an unknown bird drifted in from the window, dragging her wandering thoughts back to the room. She looked at the only bed. Diego was still asleep, the moonlight outlining the curve of his back, his skin shimmering with a thin layer of sweat, rising and falling gently with his breath. That bed was too small for the two of them.

The unlatched window creaked softly. A night breeze blew in, sending a shiver down her spine. She rummaged through her luggage for a change of clothes, only to find a single clean set of undergarments left. She mentally calculated the time; it would be several days before she reached the next town where she could resupply, and she would probably have to camp out in the open in between. She might even run into other contestants, or even enemies. No, she couldn't afford to get this last set of clean clothes dirty now, especially not with something like ointment that couldn't be washed out.

She sighed, seemingly resigned. She picked up the towel she had used earlier and carefully wiped away the ointment that had not yet been fully absorbed on her back. The cool touch and the slight stinging sensation from the friction became clear again. Then, she raised her hand, and the mist of the Cream Starter silently reappeared.

The mist of flesh covered her back, and the fresh red scratches healed, smoothed, and disappeared quickly. Only a slight, lingering coolness from the ointment remained on her back. She had chosen the most practical and reasonable way after all: to cover up the marks Diego had left, just as she covered up the inappropriate ripples in her heart.

Hot Pants gripped her Stand tightly. The contours of the metal spray fit perfectly with the shape of her fingers. But this was, after all, an extension of her own flesh and blood, the thing that had been with her the longest.

She still remembered the first time she used her Stand. It was in a church with a towering dome, so oppressive it was hard to breathe. The flickering candlelight illuminated the compassionate faces of the icons, as well as the solemn and expectant faces of the bishop and nuns below. They said she had passed the "test" and received divine grace. They all believed that, as Het Panze had gained her ability, it should be the embodiment of love and healing, a sacred tool to practice doctrine and help the world. Before that, she herself might have naively expected the same.

However, when that power truly awakened within her and gathered at her fingertips, she did not use it to heal any of the interwoven old and new wounds on her fingertips. Under the astonished gaze of everyone around her, Hot Pants covered her face with that cold mist.

She used her will to drive her power, subtly adjusting the curve of her eyes and tightening the lines of her jaw, giving her entire facial contour a harder, more androgynous look. Until the mirror in front of her reflected a young boy's face that was both strange and familiar.

Stripping away the unsightly nun's habit from her person, what remained was the very image of her younger brother, had he been spared to adulthood.

She had long since taken off her nun's habit, now favoring practical, unisex riding attire. But she no longer used her Stand to alter her face and body. Her hand unconsciously rose, fingertips lightly tracing her lips, down along her slender neck, over the unconstrained curves of her chest, her waist, and finally, the old, incompletely faded scars on her legs. It was as if... as if, ever since that time, she had never used that ability to "fix" her body again.

But when was "that time"?

This thought, like a stone thrown into a still lake, stirred clear ripples in the hazy depths of her memory. She remembered, "that time" was a month or two after they started traveling together. A long journey can smooth out all the discordant parts between two people. First, there was a sudden, icy downpour. They huddled in a narrow cave, soaked to the bone, the cold almost seeping into their very marrow. Diego was the first to lean towards her. His unique, lower-than-average body temperature made the contact feel like some smooth, cold-blooded creature. She should have pushed him away, but her arm was stiff and unmoving. As they leaned on each other, through the wet, cold fabric clinging to their bodies, she could clearly feel the taut, full, and fluid lines of his muscles—a solidness and warmth full of vitality, completely opposite to his cold skin, like a dormant volcano.

Then another time, she happened to see Diego wiping water from his upper body by the river. He was so uninhibited and open, displaying the entire line of his back and waist to her. In the sunlight, water droplets slid down the grooves of his spine, over the contours of his taut muscles, his skin gleaming with an almost cold luster, like some powerful and beautiful predator having just finished its patrol. She might have truly wanted to "touch," wanted to "confirm" the real sensation and temperature of that body.

Then came "that time." While passing through a certain post station, she took the initiative to approach Diego, who was inspecting the horses, and told him in a tone that betrayed no emotion that the owner said there was only one room left for the night.

The inn had much more than one room left. Diego, a seasoned traveler, could have easily deduce from the state of the stables that the occupancy rate was at most no less than three-quarters. Yet, they still ended up in one room, squeezed onto a single bed.

Even with a roof over their heads, they were still like campers, uneasy about both drifting off to sleep at the same time. They pressed their body heat close, like sheltering from the rain in a crack in the rocks. And like being wary of wolves in the wild, they leaned their heads together, their breaths inevitably mingling. Then, as if they had come across a rare patch of clean river water and had no choice but to wash away their weariness, they silently, tacitly, shed the last barriers between them.

When Diego's body heat covered her, when his subtle, inhuman predator characteristics inadvertently revealed themselves, she thought that this fallen, actively invited intimacy, stemming from carnal desire, might also be another form of sin she had to bear.

＊

She silently put on the only clean undergarments she owned, the fabric brushing against her newly healed, smooth skin without any strange sensation. She stood there, not immediately returning to the narrow bed, but quietly watching the heavy darkness outside the window. The mist of the Frostguard traveler had long since dissipated, but the coldness stemming from self-denial seemed to have permanently seeped into her fingertips, becoming one with her.

Moonlight outlined Diego's sleeping profile, his peaceful, almost inhumanly serene face, like a mirror, abruptly reflecting her own turmoil.

Perhaps she had been running away all along. She possessed the ability to completely dissolve and reconstruct her physical body, transforming a solid form into ethereal mist, but wasn't this also her way of facing the world? Each time she used her ability to change her appearance, it was a small act of murder against her true self.

From farmland to forest, from the Vatican monastery to this wilderness, she has always been running away in one way or another—running away from the gazes of others, running away from the hands that might reach out, running away from the real self burdened with guilt and sorrow.

"Hot Pants" wasn't her real name, yet she had even forgotten the name her parents had given her.

She had always known that she would eventually acquire the Cream Starter's Stand ability. As long as she could play another role, she could escape the burden of her own identity. And the healing power that the church placed so much hope in was just a seemingly noble excuse for this little scheme. She healed others, using it to fill the huge void in her heart caused by the death of her parents' most beloved boy, as if the more people she saved, the more she could prove that she deserved to live, the more she could offset the guilt of being unable to turn the tide.

Even after several splashes of cold water, the uncomfortable, ambiguous scent of bodily fluids and sweat still permeated the room. She pulled the collar of her thin chemise tighter and walked to the window, forcefully pushing open the creaking pane. The cold night wind rushed in, carrying the clean, crisp scent unique to the wilderness, dispelling the stuffiness indoors.

She took a deep breath, feeling the last bit of desire remaining in her chest being purged.

By dawn, she is back in her androgynous riding attire, the sacred seeker once more, embarked on her journey to collect the Corpse Parts. Everything about this night, including the fleeting pain on her back, will be buried.

She was hesitating whether to return to that narrow bed and get a few hours of sleep when a shadow silently blocked the moonlight she was enjoying. She tilted her head slightly, glancing out of the corner of her eye—Diego had woken up at some point and was approaching her with the quiet steps of a lurking predator, now standing beside her. His silhouette appeared even sharper against the backlight. His golden hair, matted to his forehead and cheeks, looked a bit disheveled, yet strangely exuded a wild authenticity.

They didn't talk. Diego was usually someone who liked to control situations with words, but Hot Pants wasn't. When they were alone, this silence often descended, and perhaps Diego also felt that, in moments when there was no need to perform, language was an unnecessary expenditure.

Hot Pants was the first to speak, her voice calm and devoid of emotion: "I didn't expect you to wake up, and used all the hot water."

Diego just made a muffled "hmm" from his throat, as if in response. "Cold water is fine too," he said indifferently.

He picked up the remaining half-pitcher of cold water from the table and, without any warning, poured it directly over his head. The icy stream washed over his muscular chest and back, splashing water droplets, some even bouncing onto Hot Pants' arm, bringing a chill. He casually wiped his face and neck with a towel, then tossed the wet cloth onto the ground.

Hot Pants' gaze swept over his body with subtle scrutiny. She was quite certain that, not long ago, on that creaking bed, in the throes of passion when Diego was almost out of control, the skin on his arms and even the side of his neck had briefly displayed the characteristic texture of dinosaurification, perhaps even revealing terrifying fissures. But now, his exposed skin was smooth and flawless, showing nothing but beauty.

Sometimes she wondered if Diego's ability was a dark mirror of her own "Cream Starter."

Perhaps this was also rooted in Diego's unbearable past. She had heard him speak with a tone mixed with disgust and mockery, mentioning that he always appeared smaller than his peers due to malnutrition. His mother—the only woman who might have given him some warmth—probably always looked at him with worry, concerned about whether he was full, whether he had lost weight again. And Diego would claim that he had simply grown taller.

That's why he was so obsessed with becoming powerful, perfect, and fearsome. "Scary Monster" would allow him to transform directly into an ancient predator, using absolute, overwhelming physical power to completely tear apart all his past humiliations.

Yes... the completely opposite.

Her ability was to "dissolve" flesh into an amorphous mist, while his was to "strengthen" flesh into a more aggressive, less human form. She yearned for liberation from the flesh, while he yearned to reign within it. Both were engaged in a cruel negotiation with their own bodies.

"Any dry towels?"

Diego's voice broke through her wandering thoughts. Hot Pants looked in Diego's direction; he had already sat back down on the edge of the bed, his back to her, water droplets sliding down his sculpted back from his golden hair.

Hot Pants turned and rummaged through Diego's luggage, pulling out a relatively clean cotton towel. She walked up to Diego, directly wrapping the towel around his wet blond hair and wiping it. Her movements weren't exactly gentle, but they were careful enough.

They were very close. Diego took the opportunity to sit on the edge of the bed, so that his face was almost buried in her chest, separated only by a thin shirt. She could feel his cool breath penetrating the fabric and smoothing against her skin. The only sounds in the room were the faint rustling of fabric against hair and their almost imperceptible breathing.

When his hair stopped dripping and became a little messy, Hot Pants' movements slowed, and that was when Diego wrapped his arms around her waist. He raised his head, his green eyes appearing particularly bright in the shadows, swirling with a familiar, undisguised desire.

"May I..." His voice was low and hoarse, carrying the heat that the cold water hadn't quite extinguished, "...you're not that exhausted, are you?"

Hot Pants' body stiffened for a moment, but the hand that had been hovering finally fell slowly, with a hint of hesitation, onto his damp, cold-water-scented blond hair, and gently ruffled it. The gesture seemed to be a silent permission.

He didn't wait for her answer, or rather, he demanded an answer in his own way. The arm around her waist tightened, pulling her off-balance and into him. She yielded to the motion, letting him guide her fall back onto the creaking bed.

Just as he was about to completely take control, the bed frame beneath them let out a sharp noise, as if in final protest. The bed frame's protests never ceased, mingling with their re-entwined gasps, drowning out the gradually brightening dawn light outside the window.

Chapter Text

　　Diego Brando was being tortured, in full consciousness.

The walls of the inn were thin, and he could clearly hear the dull snores of the man next door. Each rub of the rough sheets beneath him was like sandpaper, scraping against his overly sensitive skin. The lingering smell of burning low-quality lamp oil constantly stung his nostrils. The most nauseating thing of all was the strange odor left behind by countless previous occupants of the room, which had long since permeated the wood and fabric fibers. Sweat, grease, and more unimaginable things.

For Diego, who possessed the ability of a Stand called "Scary Monster," the various sensory stimuli unique to human settlements, which almost suffocated him, were nothing short of constant mental torture. So he kept his eyes closed. What he heard, smelled, and felt was enough; there was no need to trouble himself with what he saw.

For example, he didn't need to see it to know that Hot Pants was awake, just from the sound of her opening her eyes.

Hot Pants probably thought he was asleep, so Diego continued to pretend to be. He heard her walk to the corner of the room and pick up the slightly rusty kettle. The sound of water falling into the brass washbasin was almost like a rushing stream in his ears. He could even feel the lukewarm water washing over her skin—her skin still carried the afterglow of what they had done, and when washed with clean water, it would release heat, so her unique scent filled the entire room. And his throat went dry, thick with the awareness of her.

Then there was the sound of the rough, hard soap rubbing against her skin. A clearer, cooler fragrance spread, briefly washing away the nauseating foulness in the air.

Then there was a very faint sound of pain, like a needle piercing his eardrum. She probably touched a newly inflicted wound. He heard Hot Pants pick something up, a slight clink of metal against the wooden surface. It was the hand mirror. He could almost picture her standing with her back to the moonlight, struggling to examine her scars.

Diego's fingers unconsciously brushed against the spot where Hot Pants had been lying beside him. On the rough cotton sheet, there were several even rougher snag marks, and even... his fingertips felt a faint, almost imperceptible, half-dried sensation, probably blood.

He hurt her again.

A wave of frustration and sudden humiliation washed over him. The feeling was vile. It was as if, just as he sought to project an image of perfect control, the untamable beast within had broken loose, leaving its brutal signature on her skin. This was the inherent price of "Scary Monsters." He could no more silence his heightened senses than he could master the beast's savage power with the same ease he commanded a horse.

It was powerful, inhuman, an extension of his ambition, the perfect form he aspired to be. But in certain moments, like when passion became overwhelming, it would reveal itself unrestrained, like slightly elongated claws, or the hard texture faintly visible beneath his skin.

It couldn't be helped. The open fields were indeed easier on him than places crowded with humans. At least there, the sounds and smells were natural: the rustle of wind through grass, the distant howl of an unseen creature, the comforting crackle of a campfire. Regular, understandable sounds. Soothing, even.

But here, now, only Hot Pants fell into that category. And it hadn't always been so. On that first night they'd camped in the wilderness after deciding to cooperate, Hot Pants had been the most unsettling presence amid the plains' tranquility.

That woman—though Hot Pants had never spoken of it, her body temperature and scent were undeniable to his senses—every detail of her existence invaded his awareness. When they made camp, he could hear her steady breathing, the faintest rustle of her clothes, the occasional crisp clink of the iris badges on her chest.

But only Hot Pants falls into that category here. And it wasn't always like that. At least, on that first night they camped in the wilderness after deciding to cooperate, Hot Pants was the most irritating presence to him in the peaceful plains.

That woman—although Hot Pants never confessed, Diego's keen senses couldn't be deceived by either her body temperature or her scent—every detail of her existence invaded his senses. As they camped for the night, he could hear her steady breathing, the slightest rustle of her clothing, and the occasional crisp clinking of the iris badges on her chest.

The situation worsened when night fell, the campfire died down, and they each prepared to sleep in their sleeping bags. In the absolute silence and darkness of the wilderness, his senses became even more focused on Hot Pants.

So he tried to lull himself to sleep with repetitive motions, such as grinding the dirt beside him with his fingers over and over, feeling the granularity of the soil and the faint scent that belonged to the depths of the earth. The more he couldn't fall asleep, the more irritable he became, and the grinding of the dirt became rapid and forceful, his fingernails scraping against the gravel in the soil, making a grating noise.

Then, there was a rustling sound from Hot Pants' sleeping bag.

Diego froze immediately, holding his breath and pretending to be asleep. He heard her get up, her footsteps steadily approaching him.

"What are you still fussing about? Are you going to sleep or not?"

Diego didn't turn around nor respond. He barely moved for the rest of the night, his body as stiff as a stone. He didn't fall asleep either. All night long, he listened to Hot Pants' heartbeat gradually returning to a steady rhythm, thump-thump.

Regular, powerful, in the dead silence of the wilderness, each beat pounded on his eardrums.

...She's the one making more noise.

But a difficult journey does have a way of smoothing out all the rough edges between two people. Hot Pants was nothing like the annoying, loud, and unpredictable common folk Diego loathed. She was like an ancient well, rarely rippling. Her actions always had a clear purpose, with few superfluous movements or words. She was like a solid stone in a stream, standing firm no matter how turbulent and chaotic the outside waters.

And so, the noises and smells that originally belonged to her seemed less unbearable. Hot Pants even gradually gave him a sense of security. Although Diego had only recently been willing to admit it, he was even beginning to taste a bit of... strange dependence in it.

It might have something to do with body temperature. Diego's skin was always cold, and it was difficult for him to maintain his body temperature, making him more like a cold-blooded animal than a human. When wet, Diego was more prone to hypothermia than Hot Pants. They took shelter in a cave and lit a bonfire. Even right next to the burning flames, he couldn't help but shiver slightly, his lips turning a little white. But Hot Pants on the other side was the complete opposite. Before long, her cheeks were flushed a healthy red by the firelight. She took off the hat she always wore and used a dry towel to wipe her vibrant magenta short hair. Her hair also dried quickly, spreading out fluffy and frizzy, looking extraordinarily soft in the firelight.

Diego's body made the choice before his mind could catch up, almost instinctively pressing against Hot Pants' side. Her body stiffened for a moment, but she didn't push him away. She simply continued drying her hair.

That night, he almost fell asleep relying on Hot Pants. Her body temperature transmitted steadily through the thin clothing, dispelling the chill from his bones. The sound of her steady, powerful heartbeat rang in his ears again, rhythmically drumming, strangely smoothing out all the rough edges of his sensory world. The scent emanating from her, washed by the rain and then baked by the campfire, carrying a hint of warm moisture and clean soap, lingered around him for a long time.

In those difficult nights of his childhood, drifting from place to place, without enough heating, he seemed to have done the same, clinging tightly to his mother's thin but warm body, drawing from it the heat necessary to survive, and an unspeakable, reassuring aura. It was ironic, especially when he considered how Hot Pants had almost suffocated him with "Cream Starter" when they first met.

He fell into a deep sleep under her silent indulgence. It was a rare, defenseless sleep for him since he obtained the Stand "Scary Monsters."

He did prefer the wilderness. Especially loved lying naked in the clear streams, letting the water wash over his body. The crisp sound of the water could cover up most of the annoying sounds, and the cool touch could soothe his overly sensitive skin, without really causing him to lose temperature, because there was always sunlight to shine on part of his body. The water itself carried the clear scent of grass and soil, which was part of the natural order, allowing him to endure. If he felt too cold afterward, he could always find a reason to get close to Hot Pants and retrieve the lost heat from her constant body temperature.

But the staying in hotels was another matter. The walls blocked the natural wind and sounds, but concentrated and fermented all the filth left by humans, like poison gas to him. He couldn't understand why Hot Pants always had a reason to stay overnight at the inn.

This meant he had to endure the air mixed with the smells of countless strangers, listening to all kinds of unbearable sounds next door, until dawn, alone in a room. Just imagining it was enough to make his scalp tingle.

But this time it was "good news." Hot Pants told him in her emotionless, flat tone that there was only one room left in the hotel. Diego tried to maintain his usual, slightly sarcastic, indifferent expression, nodded, but felt an almost base sense of relief in his heart. He didn't have to face this sensory torture chamber alone.

The smell in that room was still terrible, the sheets were still rough, and the noise was still unbearable. He almost instinctively moved closer to her in the dark. At first, they might have just been lying back to back. Diego tried to avoid letting the rough sheets touch his skin as much as possible. But the inn bed was too small, and with the slightest movement, his arm would touch hers. Hot Pants didn't move away, so Diego let that area of skin-to-skin contact transmit her reassuring warmth and touch. It was like a silent permission.

He moved closer, tentatively wrapping his arm around her waist. Her body was still a little stiff, but she didn't resist. Her back was pressed against his chest, and his overly sensitive hearing could clearly capture her steady heartbeat... The development of things was logical. In the most intimate moments of entanglement, all his senses were occupied by her—her breathing, her body temperature, the tension and relaxation of her muscles, the increasingly clear scent on her body—at that time, all external noise and filth would be completely shielded.

He sought this sense of security as if parched for water. He embraced her, possessed her, driven less by lust and more by… an instinct to combat the cruel flaws of his own existence.

But in his most infatuated, most desperate moments to become one with her, were also the moments he was least in control of the cruel flaws of his own existence. His bones would begin to deform, his fingertips turning into sharp claws, leaving a few unexpected red scratches on her smooth back or the side of her firm thigh. Inextricable, non-human textures would emerge on his skin, rubbing patches of red onto Hot Pants as their bodies intertwined.

This damned, great power, even when he wanted to present perfection, still exposed the untamed savagery that remained within him. This naked shame seemed to remind him that he was unworthy of the tranquility and intimacy of this moment.

But the body's cravings and the spirit's dependence overwhelmed everything. He could only hold her tighter, as if to press those inadvertently revealed claws back into his body, melting into hers. At the same time, he greedily drew more warmth and sense of existence from her to fill the panic caused by this small loss of control.

Anyway, she would use her Stand to restore the marks to their original state. She never wanted to leave any trace of him.

…So, did she also think that this, along with the traces of his loss of control, was just an accident that needed to be completely erased?

Diego was accustomed to this. Despite a subtle stirring, he chose to ignore it. He saw no profit in pulling things apart. His focus belonged to tomorrow.

So he kept his eyes closed, listening to the movement in the corner of the room, feeling her trying to erase the traces Diego had left behind, including those wounds he felt guilty and helpless about.

What else could he do but continue to pretend to be asleep?

Was he supposed to speak?

He never knew what to say to her. It wasn't as if they didn't talk. "Take the path on the right," "The next town is to the east," "Camp tonight," or discussions about the movements of other competitors, and even occasional mentions of the Saint's Corpse. But these were necessary communications, not exactly conversations, were they?

Was it necessary to talk about feelings and goals? Hot Pants obviously knew his background, his origins, his history in England (possibly even from Johnny Joestar, a thought that made him slightly uncomfortable).

But did Hot Pants also know about his new entanglements with the President? Did she know about his true intentions towards the Corpse, a mixture of ambition and some deeper longing?

Even knowing all that, she still chose him to be her companion?

He remembered asking her this question, half-jokingly.

It was on a rare, less tense evening, after they had just purchased a cow. She used the seasonings she carried with her to make some rather delicious sandwiches. The campfire crackled, and the air was filled with the aroma of food.

Diego had wanted to grab it directly with his hands, but Hot Pants scolded him. Even for a meal like this, basic table manners had to be maintained. If there were no utensils, at least use a napkin to separate your hands from the food.

Perhaps lulled by this rare warmth, or perhaps the taste of the beef had briefly relaxed his guard, Diego brought up his childhood—including his poor, cold mother who had given him warmth, and her unavenged death.

Then he looked at Hot Pants and said casually, "You know so much about me, but what about you? You never talk about yourself."

Hot Pants silently finished the last bite of her sandwich and brushed the crumbs off her hands. The firelight reflected on her profile, revealing no emotion other than the flickering light. She began to narrate, her tone flat, as if she had just read the newspaper and was reporting the weather for the next week. She spoke of her family's farmland, of the towering mountains of her hometown, and the untouched primeval forests high in the mountains. She wasn't a standard girl; she didn't even ride sidesaddle, so she could go anywhere she wanted. Back then, she always ventured into the deep forests, where there the sweetest berries, wildflowers she couldn't name, beautiful birds...

And grizzly bears that can easily take human lives.

"Because I can go anywhere," her voice lowered almost imperceptibly at this point, "...so I lost my brother. At least, that's what I think."

Diego remembered trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction, commenting on her riding skills, saying that if she hadn't withdrawn, she really had a chance of winning. But Hot Pants simply replied, "I no longer have a reason to compete the race."

Diego looked at her silhouette, outlined by the firelight, which seemed unusually lonely, and suddenly wanted to do something. An accident is an accident, unlike her mother's death, which had a mastermind with malice from the start. He tried to offer a little of what he thought was "sincerity" to mend her wounds.

What he meant to say was: You didn't do it on purpose, you had no malice, so you don't have to bear such a heavy burden of guilt.

But when he actually spoke about his experience, he saw Hot Pants turn her head. In the firelight, her eyes still looked cold, and instead of the relief he expected, he saw a deeper... indifference, even disappointment.

“But the consequence was that my parents’ most precious boy only lived to the age of five, and never grew up.” Her voice was soft, but it struck his heart like a hammer. “Who can truly say whether someone harbors ‘malice’ in their heart? If we only consider intentions, anyone can use lies and wordplay to escape the sins they should bear.”

Diego frowned, feeling she was splitting hairs. “What does that mean? It's not like you actually pushed your brother to his death.”

She didn’t reply, only turned her gaze back to the dancing flames, as if there were scriptures there she needed to repeatedly recite.

Diego realized he’d fucked up. He was used to negotiating, deceiving, and attacking, but when he tried to engage in genuine, vulnerable communication, this habit of speaking made his comfort so pale and weak.

Words were dangerous and useless between him and Hot Pants, at least that’s what Diego thought. He couldn’t decipher her complex sense of guilt as he would an opponent, nor could he offer her the comfort she wanted in a way he was familiar with—if she even needed it. His rare attempt, stripped of calculation, seemed to subtly push her further away.

“But even so, you still chose me as a companion?”

Diego asked.

No.

Diego had never asked.

Not even until now. He saw Hot Pants summon Cream Starter, the familiar sound of flesh mist surging. The scars on her back must have disappeared. In the moonlight, Diego could see her silhouette as she put on the only clean petticoat. He felt another strong urge to go over and hug her from behind, bury his face in her newly healed back, still warm with the lingering flesh mist, and apologize to her. For the wounds left during his loss of control, and for all the clumsy, hurtful words of the past.

But he just curled up on the rough sheets, his fingers unconsciously picking at the few dried bloodstains beneath him. He was afraid of messing things up again, afraid of seeing her even more distant gaze, afraid of breaking this fragile balance built on physical understanding and silent coexistence.

He was still pretending to be asleep, but Hot Pants suddenly pushed open the window.

A gust of cool wind rushed in, bringing with it the lingering smell of cheap alcohol and tobacco from the tavern downstairs, instantly dissipating the comforting, ambiguous atmosphere that belonged to them in the room.

Diego stopped beside her, also gazing at the scenery outside the window. If they were camping in the wild tonight, perhaps he could actually get a good night's sleep. They were so close that Diego could almost feel the warmth radiating from her body.

Hot Pants spoke first, "I didn't expect you to wake up, and used all the hot water."

Diego only offered a mumbled "Mm" in response. He needed something to break the overly tense silence, thick with unspoken words, and also a cold stimulus to suppress the surging, indescribable emotions within him. "Cold water is fine too." He said nonchalantly. He really didn't care about hot or cold water at this point.

"Any dry towels?"

Diego sat back on the edge of the bed. Water droplets slid from the tips of his golden hair, winding down the grooves of his spine. He could feel her gaze on his bare back, and he began to feel a little remorseful again. She wasn't without opportunities for revenge, but she never left any marks on him. Perhaps he wasn't worth it.

Hot Pants took out a clean cotton towel, walked quietly in front of him, wrapped the towel around his wet golden hair, and began to dry it. Her movements weren't exactly gentle, even a little clumsily forceful, but Diego felt a near-comforting tranquility. He obediently, even with a secret longing, sat lower on the edge of the bed, so that his face could almost bury itself in her chest, separated only by a thin shirt.

His nose was filled with her unique, warm scent, a mixture of the cold fragrance of soap and her own body temperature. The warmth of her breath penetrated the thin fabric, smoothing over the skin of his forehead like a silent caress. The only sounds in the room were the subtle rustling of fabric against hair, and the throbbing in his own heart that he dared not reveal. He closed his eyes, almost drowning in this rare, proactively cared-for intimacy. A strong sense of dependence seized him, more primal and deeper than desire.

When his hair stopped dripping and became a little fluffy and messy, Hot Pants slowed her wiping. Now, Diego thought, maybe now he could... could finally ask her that question.

Can we talk?

Can you tell me why you chose to stay with me?

Almost instinctively, he reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face deeper into her warm embrace. He looked up, wanting to catch her gaze, those green eyes shimmering in the shadows.

"May I..." His voice was low and hoarse, with an inner heat that even the cold water couldn't extinguish, "...you're not that exhausted, are you?"

But the words in between were too vague. Even Diego wasn't sure what he had mumbled in between.

Hot Pants' body stiffened for a moment, but her suspended hand finally fell slowly, with a hint of hesitation, onto his damp, cold-water-scented blond hair, gently ruffling it.

He didn't wait for her answer—or rather, he feared any answer that might shatter the moment. The arm around her waist tightened suddenly, with an undeniable and desperate force, tilting her forward, further forward.

Hot Pants lost her balance, letting out a soft cry, and followed his force, being led by him, together falling towards the creaking bed. Diego looked into her rose-colored eyes, hoping to get permission to talk from them, but Diego still couldn't decipher the emotion in her eyes.

And so, he leaned down and sealed her lips with a kiss, sealing away the question he had.always wanted to ask.

Chapter Text

　　//

"You're late again."

Diego stood on the porch, watching his wife slowly walk up the driveway in the night, and couldn't help but call out.

Hot Pants ignored him, sighed softly, then turned and frantically slipped her wedding ring on from her coat pocket.

Her husband, who was waiting for her, looked like he had been outside for a while. On the porch table was a bottle of red wine, more than half empty, and two stemmed glasses used only for special occasions. But only one had wine stains on it.

"Sorry." She took off her coat and boots, and made sure to adjust the position of her wedding ring. "Something came up at the last minute."

"It's only the second week, no need to celebrate being single so soon." Diego reached out to her, his eyes involuntarily glancing at her ring finger. Combining what he had just seen, he roughly understood what was going on. "You said we'd have another chance."

"I said I was sorry."

Hot Pants replied coldly, pulling her hand away. She openly twisted the diamond to where it should be, then looked at Diego as if to say, "There, is that okay?" But she didn't care for Diego's response.

"You're too luxury to open this bottle." Hot Pants said.

And those two antique silver-based stemmed glasses. They came from a set of tableware purchased when they got married, unusual things also reserved for "important moments," and worth Hot Pants mentioning on purpose, except she didn't want to recall anything about the wedding.

Diego shrugged. "Why not? How do I know how many more important moments I'll have with you?"

"If you want these bottles, they're all yours," Hot Pants said, pouring herself a glass of red wine with the clean glass, and walking past Diego without looking back. "Just clean everything up. I'm going to take a shower."

Their house had three bathrooms, and Hot Pants headed straight for the most remote one.

The bathroom on the second floor was connected to the master bedroom, separated only by glass, and she didn't want to use it. The bathroom on the first floor was next to the hall, the sink was full of clutter, and it wasn't convenient to put things down... so she could only go to the guest room on the third floor, which had been unoccupied for a long time, and she had to take a cold shower.

That room didn't have solid walls either, only a screen of special glass separating it from the bedroom. She had always felt that this design was unsettling, and wanted to renovate it as soon as she moved in, but Diego raved about the design, so she never managed to bring it up.

If she showered, the water would inevitably wet the glass wall, turning it into a one-way mirror looking into the bedroom. She knew Diego would definitely be masturbating on the other side of the glass, and then, as a matter of course, he would stick to her and ask for more when she came out. She liked to shower with water that was too hot, so she was always burned by his lower-than-average body temperature. She would scold him for being as cold as a snake, but she was also happy to reach out and let him wrap himself around her. Strange, now that she thought about it, something that should have been a cold shower and a disappointment could "scald" the flames in her heart at the time.

No matter how desperate Diego was, he probably wouldn't be waiting for her outside the guest room now. She could take a comfortable shower without worrying about the person outside the door...

Person.

Without worrying about the person outside the door.

Suddenly, Hot Pants realized that she could no longer use "snake" or other cold-blooded animals to describe Diego.

They had been cold to each other for too long, and she had long forgotten the feel of his skin. What did it feel like to be embraced by a body temperature that was always two degrees lower than her own? Had her impression of him become so thin? She stopped rubbing the lather in her hands and unconsciously leaned against the bathroom tiles, trying to open up her memories with the cold touch.

Diego was quite concerned about his appearance. He was a playboy when he was young, and as he got older, his temperament became mellow, but his aristocratic demeanor didn't seem to have become more stable. Needless to say, his body had always been as strong as an equestrian athlete. Most rare of all, he avoided the curse of the English and still retained a head of brilliant blond hair.

She would stare into Diego's sapphire blue eyes all night long without looking away, and she would hold him as she fell asleep every night, waking up the next day to tousle his messy blonde hair.

But when she occasionally came home for weekends, waking up and cuddling together in the morning, once she felt his undisguised desire between her legs, she would rack her brains to make up excuses to go out, avoiding further intimate interaction.

However, there was this one time when Hot Pants' blurted-out "emergency meeting" happened to be written on the bedroom memo, a week prior, thus betraying her completely. Diego obtained the car's GPS address from the secretary and successfully found Hot Pants feeding pigeons idly in the park.

"I even prepared myself to catch you cheating," Diego said with a wry smile, sitting next to Hot Pants. "I thought there would be a handsome, hot-blooded young man, and I was ready to admit defeat. But I'm losing you to a flock of pigeons."

“If you were a pigeon,” Hot Pants said, “you’d be my favorite of all the birds in the world.”

Diego followed her gaze. “That one?”

Who remembers pigeons? In a flock, all pigeons look the same, except for the particularly deformed ones. Hot Pants scanned her surroundings and realized she only recognized the one with a wound on its beak.

"That one." Hot Pants pointed to the treetop, "The pigeons in the park all have their wings clipped, only it doesn't want to really become a ground hen."

But they were not to talk about pigeons.

After a long silence, Diego spoke first: "I know your vows, but if we put aside those doctrines... if God granted you a miracle, showed you a way out, would you leave this marriage?"

"I would," Hot Pants responded softly, but didn't nod or turn to look at Diego.

"If I cheated," Diego pressed, "If I was a bastard who betrayed his wedding vow, pouring all his lust and energy into someone else. Would you forgive me?"

"I would," Hot Pants gave the same reply.

"So if I... you and I... we... please, would you let us try one last time?"

Diego's pride made it difficult for him to say anything to make him stay, struggling to throw out phrases that were barely coherent, already embarrassingly closing his eyes.

"I would," Hot Pants replied.

She always had to tell the truth in front of Diego.

The man sighed, and instead of contacting a divorced lawyer, he made an appointment with a specialized doctor—

Sensate focus therapy.

This was their last attempt before they decided to divorce.

 

The first week was kissing and caressing, lying in bed in pajamas, avoiding sensitive areas, and re-familiarizing themselves with each other's bodies. Nothing more than that, and no masturbation was allowed during this time, nor were other forms of sexual stimulation, maintaining absolute abstinence.

Now it's the second week—

Knock knock.

Two knocks sounded on the bathroom door.

"Are you done yet?"

Hot Pants turned the water on a little harder, pretending not to hear. The blurry figure outside the glass disappeared. She wasn't ready yet. Even though there was nothing left to wash, she'd used the scrub and body lotion all over. The only way to stall was to dawdle.

After the steam in the bathroom had dissipated, she couldn't find any more excuses to hide in there, so she reluctantly opened the door.

The spiral staircase seemed to go on forever, yet it also seemed to take only one step. The master bedroom door was open, and Diego, wearing a bathrobe, was lying on his side in bed, reading by the dim bedside lamp. His half-dry blond hair clung to his chest along his neck, perfectly outlining the curve of his muscles.

Diego saw Hot Pants at the door without looking up. "I thought I could only see you in my dreams."

"Then you can just dream tonight." Hot Pants closed the door and turned off the romantic music on the stereo. "Whatever you want me to do, I can do it better in your dreams."

She flopped onto the bed, propped herself up behind Diego, and wrapped her arms around him. The air conditioning was cranked up high, and Diego's body was as cold as ice. She had also taken a cold shower, and the few minutes she spent downstairs hadn't warmed her up. Right now, she and Diego were the same temperature... If she were really infatuated with this kind of physical intimacy, she might use ambiguous words like "becoming one" to describe this hug. But she wouldn't.

"Did you look at the doctor's advice?" Hot Pants snatched the warm-lit tablet, speaking to herself. "What are we doing today?"

The answer is a kiss.

Hot Pants tasted the mint that Diego had brought. Diego was a fairly skilled lover, and his kissing skills were naturally commendable. His lips and tongue intertwined with measured advances and retreats, and while the person being kissed was still enjoying the tickle of his eyelashes against their nose, his hands had already begun to explore their body.

The Kindle was naturally stuffed under the pillow by him.

"Starting this week, it's kissing and caressing erogenous zones." Diego's voice was husky and magnetic. "Let me think... for most people, the nipples, inner thighs, external genitalia, tailbone. Personal favorite spots are of course also included."

Hot Pants thought for a moment, "Ah... my breasts."

"It's a place that makes *you* feel excited..." Diego awkwardly untied the belt of his robe, wrapped it around Hot Pants' waist, and lightly circled her lower back through the towel. "Not me."

"Then there isn't any." Hot Pants moved his hand away.

Hot Pants wasn't frigid, but she was much more straightforward and hated boring flirting. She rarely experienced much pleasure from foreplays.

She had made many efforts to keep up with Diego, and she had read quite a few books.

Some people treat their lover's body as a delicacy, devouring it like a storm, while others treat it like red wine, savoring a sip or two in their spare time to excite themselves.But Diego was a complete carnivore, treating her body like salt and bread, a staple at every meal.

Collarbones follow the breasts, tracing around the shoulders and slowly sliding down the arms, sucking on the pale pink fingertips, the tip of the nose touching the back of the hand, savoring the faint fragrance emanating from the delicate skin.

Diego's lips were full, but a little chapped from the cold, and every kiss scratched her skin. The kisses landed on her in a dense flurry, like raising an angry cat that scratched her body with half-retracted claws.

Her way of dealing with it was to hold Diego's head and bury it in her chest, preventing him from wandering further. Hot Pants wrapped one arm around Diego's neck and drew a cross on his back with the other.

"Ah..."

Only then did she barely find some amusement in Diego's almost out-of-control self-restraint. Diego held her arm tightly, afraid to let her touch him again.

Although it wasn't a decisive victory, Hot Pants had won this round. She had pushed Diego to the edge first.

"It's over, right?" Hot Pants stretched.

Diego was still panting. After a moment, he shook his head. "Sit up."

"The session is over." Hot Pants confirmed again.

However, Diego just called her name again, "H.P., sit up."

Fine. Hot Pants had no choice but to sit up.

She was still looking at Diego's notes in the Kindle, not paying attention to what Diego was doing, until a cool sensation on her lower abdomen reminded her.

Hot Pants patted him on the head. "What are you doing?"

"It's your turn."

Then he took her nipple into his mouth, his tongue quickly gliding over the tip as if it were a sculptor's brush coloring a statue. He kept one hand on her waist, while the other slid down to her abdomen, stirring the sticky, cool mass.

Then he descended lower, straight into the secret garden between her legs, pressing her hidden bud between his index and middle fingers. The calluses on his fingers, formed from years of horseback riding, rubbed against her sensitive clitoris, sending waves of pleasure throughout her body.

The passage of her abdomen was particularly open due to the previous caresses, and the fiery passion gathered here, just a layer of skin away from the cool, sticky substance.

"Hey..."

The heat slowly rose to the throat, and Hertpantz's voice also began to sound hoarse.

Diego completely ignored Hot Pants' words and continued to boast about the skills he had discovered over the years. Without pause, he pushed her deeper into the abyss, then sent her soaring on the waves of the abyss—

"Eh..."

Hot Pants felt as if she were engulfed in a sea of flames. Then, a cold hand passed through her spine from her waist to the top of her head. The sound of her pink hair being pulled was piercing, as if the windows of a car weren't closed during a late-night drive.

All her patience was shattered by the pressure on her head, from the highest point to the lowest, his body tensed into a single line, and she lost her balance, falling onto Diego in front of him.

The petals between her legs slowly released the heat within her, and streams of warmth flowed into Diego's hands.

"The therapy requires two weeks of absolute abstinence, and you have failed," Diego kissed the sweating Hot Pants, "This is very important. Perhaps we should start from the beginning."

Nor did any one know what it means to start from the beginning.

"I'm going for a bath," she chose to run away, "This doesn't count... and I still don't feel anything."

She wrapped herself in a towel and rushed out of the room, her slippers clattering down the stairs. This was the first time in all these years that Diego had seen Hot Pants flee in panic.