The Edgiest of Laurs

Void, he had stayed the night. It was his one rule to not do -- and here yet here he is, looking at that rule lying in sleepy silence on the bed.

He had stayed the night with Daud . And now, Emily was going to have more questions than he had answers for once he got back to the Tower.

Outsider's ass, the Tower.

He curses again and gets up, searching for a shirt and beelining for the bathroom. He glances out the window on the way, eyes squinting against the sun rising over Dunwall. It isn't too late in the morning, but that's only a marginal relief compared to day he has ahead of him. His eyes flick to the bed again and something warm strikes in his chest -- but Corvo stamps it down as he gathers the rest of his discarded clothes and locks himself in the shower.

In seconds, he's got the hot water running and he's throwing himself under it, slicking his hair back, hoping to shock himself into wakefulness. He takes a breath, steadies himself, and rests his forehead against the still-cold tile.

And starts rifling through the potential excuses he can convincingly pose to his daughter and his men on why he was out all night instead of in the Tower.

Depending on the time, Corvo could, theoretically, make it back before the staff notices he was even gone. But if he got back too late, he'd miss breakfast with Emily, and meals were one of the few times they saw each other anymore. Not to mention he was meeting with a few of his men for training in the afternoon and then there was the council check-in around 5...

Of course, he can always pull from the safety net he has been building over the last month-- which is that there have been incident reports amongst the gangs in Draper's Ward clear on the other side of town. It's been his usual excuse for being out late, one Emily hasn't appreciated and his men are skeptical of.

Mostly, it's just been a way to keep eyes and attention off Daud, who relocated out of their meetup in Rudshore and took to renting a space in the Estate District for the past few weeks. It allows Daud to have a lower profile -- the nobles don't remember Daud like the gangs and the Overseers still do. Most highborn who saw Daud's face in the past didn't live to tell the tale.

Now, here he was, living in the thick of them, completely unseen and unbothered, all to be that much closer to Corvo.

Not that either of them spoke about that. Just like neither of them spoke about how Daud's “few days” in Dunwall had stretched into a week, and then a month. Or how neither of them spoke about how their sparring matches were less frequent and much less ferocious.

Or how, when they do talk, they talk about other things -- like the gangs in Dunwall, or the weather. Sharing the affectionate annoyances of past and present subordinates. Airing their grievances of the Mark and the Outsider that comes with it. Reminiscing over similar childhoods in Karnaca, where they had spent summers ruling the rooftops, watching the docks and throwing bottles at bloodfly nests from separate ends of the city.

A warm affection bubbles up at just the memory of their conversations, one that Corvo is quick to swallow down and deny. It isn't like him to be so... sentimental.

But when it comes to Daud, well…

Corvo shakes his head, letting the soap run down and rinse away. He sighs, hard and heavy; their arrangement is clearly getting out of hand if he stayed the night. Staying the night complicates… things. Then again, when has it ever been cut and dry between the two of them?

At the very least, Corvo has learned a lot about Daud in the last month, like where he's been these past years. He knows Daud gave up on assassination work, has been doing his best to stay out of Dunwall on Corvo's behest. When he also started getting Void-like dreams at night, he, like Corvo, never thought he would be able to get a good night's rest again.

Now, they both slept well. Better than well; excellently. Corvo doesn’t know if it’s a magic brought on by their marks or something else; either way, he can't deny that there was certainly an energy between himself and Daud.

And if the past month's activities are anything to go off of, that energy was more than just wanting to beat the living shit out of each other. In fact, they barely exchange blows now outside of mutual sparring. Instead, they find other -- arguably more enjoyable ways to leave lingering bruises and scratches on one another.

Just the thought of it is enough to get his dick twitching with interest. Corvo ignores it, instead opting to hurry out of the shower and hopefully climbing out of the grave he's been digging for himself.

They refuse to call it a dinner date. Void, they refuse to call it dating at all, both preferring not to give a name to whatever it is that they keep doing every other night. Corvo has started using the label reconnaissance-- much to Daud's amusement, because that barely scratched the surface of what they are really interested in, which is each other.

But Daud does get bored when Corvo isn't around-- so in the meantime he tends to wander Dunwall. The city’s changed in the last ten years, and Daud has always been too curious for his own good. So, being the professional eavesdropper that he is, Daud has plenty of information to bring back for the Royal Spymaster whenever they meet up.

Thus, Corvo's insistence on calling it such, and why neither of them fought the lie tucked away underneath it all.

“I didn't know Slackjaw got a new identity,” Daud muses to Corvo has the Royal Protector crawls his way through the highrise window. The room is quiet in the glow of the late summer evening, with the sun still barely lingering on the horizon. It's a scenario they are both used to by this point, with the lofty apartment so high up off the Dunwall streets there is little chance of a passerby seeing Corvo when he trespasses every now and then. And even if they did notice him, he would be damn near impossible to identify.

Corvo pushes back his hood and smirks, shaking his hand out as the magic of his mark burns away.

“He started taking the name Azariah a few years after the plague,” Corvo supplies easily, dropping his coat on a chair. “He helps out from time to time, and even has a legitimate business.”

“Which is why the Bottle Street Gang is still in power and looking to expand,” Daud retorts, nursing a glass of Bastillian wine. “You keep him honest, these days?”

Corvo laughs, low and easy. “It's not like that, and besides--...” but he trails off as his eyes fall on the table Daud is sitting at. Along with a bottle of wine, there's a blood sausage dinner for two set up, an almost thoughtful gesture. Corvo stills, his face going neutral as he gazes down at the set plates.

“What's this?” He asks, his brow creasing as he looks back to Daud.

“Cold, if you don't hurry up and sit down,” Daud growls back, hardly looking up from the copy of the Dunwall Courier he undoubtedly nicked from a newsstand earlier.

“Why?”

Daud's eyebrows raise to look at Corvo, whose expression has gone noticeably dark.

“Because you always complain about being hungry after climbing all the way up here, and I got tired of hearing it.”

Another lie. Corvo let's it slide anyway. While it is true that using the mark takes a lot out of him, they both know it's not the real underlying motivation. But neither of them want to hear that said aloud, so the lie is an easier pill to swallow.

And there are other, more pressing matters about the whole dinner affair.

Corvo strides past the table and over to the door. He can hear Daud protest but he doesn't care; he waves his hand, the Void burning away more energy as he draws it to his eyes. He scans the surrounding rooms and floors, making sure nobody is listening, or noticing Corvo is here, or--

“Corvo, relax,” Daud urges, but it isn't enough to pull away the angry scowl from under Corvo's beard.

“Was it delivered?” He asks, turning back into the room. “You didn't have room service bring you a meal for two, you can't be that--”

“Could you believe I walked down to the market and got some fresh and brought it here?” Daud asks, eyebrows raised, his own scowl in place. “How bad at this do you think I am, Attano?”

Corvo can hear the hurt underlying the words; he breathes out, eyes darting the room before coming back.

“I just didn't--” he says, trying not to pace. “Slip ups happen and we can't--”

“Nobody knows you're here except me,” Daud all but purrs to try and reassure Corvo that he's being, per usual, a paranoid mess. “I didn't disappear for a decade without knowing a thing or two about keeping a low profile.”

When Corvo's expression refuses to improve, Daud sighs and puts the paper down. He takes the bottle of wine and pours some into the second glass; Corvo let's a fraction of his anxiety leave, finally walking over and sitting down.

“Sometimes I think you're a little too paranoid, Corvo,” Daud tells him as he sits back, grabbing his own wine glass. “Enjoy some fucking food and have a little trust in me.”

Trust.

Void, the word is terrifying, and not because Corvo can't bring himself to trust Daud, quite the opposite. He can already tell he trusts Daud too much. Worrying about the food isn't a sign of distrust coming from Corvo, it's a sign of protectiveness-- which for him, is even scarier.

He eats the blood sausage all the same, shaking his head the whole time.

“Well, I will say I have to up my stalker game,” Corvo tells him between bites that are a little too ravenous. “If you know Marseli’s is my favorite in the city.”

Daud laughs easy over his own plate.

“Maybe it's not stalking,” he confesses, “Just very careful listening.”

Corvo stops mid chew, thinking. “When did I ever mention to you directly that they have the best Serkonan sausage in Dunwall?”

“Last week,” Daud says easily, eyes on his food. “Said you hardly ever got out to eat it, and the cooks at the Tower rarely indulged your interests. Jess would take you for your birthday. Now Emily does.”

“Ah,” Corvo intelligently supplies. He swallows a chunk of meat, brain reeling. He remembers the conversation, clear as day -- what he can't recall is exactly when his comfort around Daud reached such a level that he would openly speak about his time spent with the late Empress.

Especially when the only other person he speaks so freely about Jessamine with is… their daughter, Emily. Spirits.

Corvo clears his throat, trying to not let his emotions get the better of him.

“Well, it's not my birthday,” he quips back, as nonchalantly as he can muster. Daud's mouth twitches and Corvo's tempted to match the movement. “So, what's the occasion?”

Daud just shrugs.

“I was hungry. Figured you'd be too. And it's been a long time since I've had Marceli’s.”

Corvo smiles. They fall into a comfortable silence, finishing their meal, enjoying their small taste of home.

It’s not long after Corvo is pulling Daud's face to his in thanks, noting how his tongue tastes of Karnacan spice and Bastillan wine. Fingers curl tight into Corvo's hair, urging him on, keeping him in place.

The night later finds them in a tangle of limbs, slicked skin and summer lust.

Corvo blames the wine. He disregards the fact that he hasn't been inebriated in ages, thanks to his mark. Or how they only polished off a single bottle of wine between the two of them. Still, alcohol is an easy scapegoat in these sorts of situations, even if he remembers everything that happened the night prior and made no move to stop. Void, he could have even left, taken off any time after the first time they fucked.

But Daud has a way of making Corvo drunk that has nothing to do with wine. So here he is, four hours later, pulling himself out of the shower and scrambling to figure out how much time he has left to get back to the tower unnoticed.

All those thoughts come to a screeching halt as soon as Corvo steps out of the bathroom and sees Daud still lying on the bed in the corner.

His breath catches. The light hitting Daud through the window is just enough to give his tapered waist the outline of morning glow. There is a relaxed line along his wide, muscled shoulders, rising and falling with each steady breath.

The framing is exceptional. A Sokolov painting in the making.

It's a rare thing, Corvo waking before Daud. Usually he's a light sleeper; Corvo tends towards the same problem, a by-product of their shared trade. But it's Daud who is usually the one forcing Corvo up and out, making sure he gets back to the Tower before morning light. So seeing him asleep, so easy and so open…

Corvo stands there, stilled into silence. He's fully dressed now, his hair towel dried and his body awake. He's ready to go. All he has to do is make it out the window.

There's a rush of air and whisper of Void and then Corvo is sitting on edge the bed, leaning in close to drink in the scent of the sleeping assassin.

He plants a kiss in the crook of Daud's neck as his arm snakes around his chest. Daud sighs underneath him and exposes more of his neck in his sleep, which Corvo greedily takes advantage of. It isn't until Corvo is halfway down his shoulder that Daud stretches, humming in approval.

Corvo grins against Daud's skin before nibbling a bite against the thick muscle of his shoulder. Daud brings an arm up, putting a hand over the one currently giving his pecs plenty of attention.

“Corvo,” he breathes out sleepily, “how in the Void did you wake up before me?” His body rocks backwards to where Corvo is sitting, hunting for contact. Corvo just hums out, kissing around Daud's ear.

“Your dick woke me up,” he confesses, and Daud snorts out a laugh. But as Corvo's other hand snakes down to Daud's still-present erection, Daud sucks in a breath.

“Corvo,” he says, more alert. “Corvo, what time is it.”

Corvo's jaw clenches shut and he digs his face into Daud's neck. His deft fingers tug at Daud's dick all the same, prompting out a delicious moan from him.

That moan swiftly morphs into a snarl, and Daud's hand is finding Corvo's wrist.

“What time is it?” Daud growls out, even as his hip stutters against Corvo's hand. “I'm not kidding, Corvo, we have the rule for a reason--”

Corvo breathes out against Daud's shoulder, indulging in his sandalwood scent and avoiding all eye contact. He knows he should be paying attention to that rule, that he shouldn't still be here fooling around like a hot-blooded teenager, but if he was already here and the rule was already broken...

His fingers tease around the head of Daud's dick. Daud, using all his controlled strength, tightens his grip.

“Corvo…” he says, tone threatening. Corvo groans.

“Around 15 minutes after 6,” he finally confides, and Daud curses from under him. Despite the protest he knows is coming, Corvo's grip tightens and slowly pumps against Daud's hard and morning-swollen cock. Daud’s breath hitches beautifully in Corvo's ears as his hips rock forward into his palm.

“Fuck,” Daud breathes out, stuttering before he gains his senses again. “You better not start something you can't finish, Attano.”

“You just looked really nice in the morning light,” Corvo purrs out into Daud's ear. “And it struck me dumb to know I was the only one who gets to see the Knife of Dunwall so vulnerable.

Fingers curl their way into Corvo's hair as hips press Daud's erection more fervently into Corvo's palm. Even with the distraction, Daud still manages a sneer in the face of apparent affection.

“Taking advantage of an enemy at their weakest?” Daud rumbles out and Corvo all but laughs. “Low blow, Attano.”

“Says the man who gives me the privilege of handling his dick,” Corvo mutters into Daud's neck, all too pleased with the motions and sounds he’s currently pulling out of the old assassin. His own pants are starting to feel tight but Corvo ignores it; he's only here for Daud, much to Daud's growing annoyance -- and impatience.

“Yeah, and you're doing a piss-poor job of it,” Daud retorts, an unconvincing complaint when his hand is pulling Corvo's face closer, his body rocking up against Corvo's hand. He turns his head, lips finding Corvo's mouth for a brief kiss before he's curling his nose in fake disgust. “You already showered? And you didn't wake me for that?”

“Hmmm, I had to get ready to go, remember?” Corvo murmurs back, his hand giving another lazy tug between Daud's thighs. “Which I still need to do, by the way, so if you could hurry up and come for me that'd be great.”

“You think I'm that easy, Attano?” he growls out, but Corvo just grins at the flush creeping across Daud's chest.

“Worked last night, didn't it?” Corvo purrs out, relishing in how Daud arches like a bow against his hand. He shifts where he's sitting and swallows Daud's groan with another kiss.

The knock on the door is soft but they both freeze just the same, the sound reverberating in the quiet room.

Corvo reacts first. With a clench of his fist he's surging forward, body flattening right inside the bathroom entryway. The apartment front door is right in his line of sight; by the time he glances back to the bed Daud is already dressed, the air heavy with the magic wafting from the both of them. He's fixing his sleeve and looking at the door, already acting as if Corvo isn't even there in the room with him.

They were always prepared for something like this happening. Both of them had discussed it at length in the past weeks; it went so far as to why they chose this location in the first place. The high rise not only had a location facing the Tower but also lacked more than one conventional exit: with no balcony area, the only way in and out for a regular traveler is the door leading to the hallway and stairs. With the windows being accessible to only Daud and Corvo, they have at least one upper hand, if needed.

And if anyone did come knocking -- like now --it’s been planned for Daud to answer; Corvo's face is far too well known while Daud hasn't been seen in the city in ten years. If things end up going south, having Corvo there for backup also an advantage on their end. One marked individual is tough; two are a force to be terrified of.

Even caught like this, the odds are certainly in their favor.

Still, Corvo can't help but feel annoyed. Of course this would happen early in the morning, with their metaphorical and literal pants down. A quick jerk-off is all he wanted and instead he gets stuck with this.

Then again, it just swings back home that he shouldn't still be here anyway. The look on Daud's face says much of the same and Corvo can't help but notice the lack of an erection under the cloth of his pants.

Corvo huffs. Clearly they're both disappointed with the current state of events.

His eyes flick back to the door and he pulls the Void up over his eyes. He holds up two fingers from his hiding spot just inside the bathroom door. Daud nods; another knock raps on door and he lets out a soft “hang on, I'm coming” before striding over.

Corvo's hand twitches over the hilt of his old folding blade, but doesn't move. The two men on the other side of the door look harmless enough; they aren't even armed. Still, he stays as taut as a spring, ready to pounce if needed. Over the whisper of the Void, Corvo’s heart beats far too loudly, drowning out his other senses. Daud opens the door and the two men on the other side shift as they catch sight of his face.

“Ah, hello, sir,” the one man says. His voice is young and high, holding a nervous lilt. When Daud grunts out a tired hello, he hands him over a simple brochure.

“We uh, we just noticed that you were a new arrival in the neighborhood, and wanted to invite you to a hearing on the Seven Strictures on the 25th in the Clockwork Square,” he squeaks out. “The Abbey is for every man, even Dunwall newcomers!”

Daud grunts out a thanks before unceremoniously closing the door in the face of the two younger men. He keeps his stance casual while Corvo keeps an eye on the figures, watching the duo saunter down the hall before descending the stairs a few doors down. Corvo squints. Something about the lithe form of taller youth nags in his brain, making his stomach roll with worry.

Finally, Daud calls to him from the hallway.

“Overseers are hiring solicitors? Well, at least they weren't hounding for tithes, yet.” Corvo reemerges, still watching the door carefully. Daud flips the brochure around before handing it over, Corvo wasting no time taking a curious sweep over the lettering himself.

The brochure itself looks legitimate. The nagging in the back of his mind continues.

“What did they look like?” He asks.

“The one was a nervous wreck, practically shitting his pants when he looked at me. The other…” he casts a glance at Corvo. “... was tall, lanky build. Sharp eyes, long black bangs. Made me uneasy. One of yours?”

Corvo's gut drops and he spins from Daud, cursing. Daud sighs from behind him, grabbing his coat.

“I'll take that as a yes,” he mutters out. He fixes the black heavy fabric over his shoulders before pulling on his gloves. “Want me to trail him?”

“Yes,” Corvo immediately says, but shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “Outsider's ass, Daud.”

He throws his own coat over his shoulders and opens the window, the hood already over his eyes and shading his face in the low morning light.

They have rules. For this reason. He shouldn't have stayed overnight.

“Hey,” Daud says, and Corvo looks back at him from his perch on the window. His face is unreadable, but there's an intensity there that makes Corvo's heart flip.

“If you tail him,” Corvo manages to croak out,”stay out of sight. He's good; better than you'll probably give him credit for. And…” he breathes out, the guilt already heavy. “I'm sorry. I should’ve just--”

“Corvo.”

He shut his mouth with a click. Daud never breaks his unwavering stare.

“Don't start what you can't finish.”

Corvo's jaw clenches tight. He nods.

Corvo looks around now, sighing deep and heavy as the Void sprawls out across the horizon in front of him. Water flows upwards, whales keen in the distance, and obsidian-stoned platforms hang, suspended, inviting and revolting all at the same time. He frowns, hands in his pockets, and wonders, not for the first time, if he is going to be allowed a good night's rest ever again.

It's been more than a few months of this on-and-off teleportation of his mind and body to the Void while we slumbers. He'll hit the sheets just to be transported here, night after night, the memories and visions he sees leaving him more exhausted in the morning than when he fell asleep in the first place.

But exactly what his Mark is trying to tell him by constantly sending him here, he isn't sure just yet. He scowls, assuming that whatever it is, he'll keep having the recurring dream over and over again, until he figures it all out.

The Outsider, true to form, has been entirely unhelpful and absent in these matters.

Corvo strides over and blinks to a new platform, surveying the memory stationed there. He looks on solemnly, seeing himself hovering over a young Emily, newly made Empress. He recounts the memory fondly; he had helped her reclaim the throne without spilling a drop of blood in the city, leading towards a newer, happier, and plague-free Dunwall. Corvo, frankly, couldn't be prouder of his daughter and how far she's come in the last decade.

However, the circumstances surrounding her ascent to the throne -- and his acquisition of the Mark -- still leave a sour taste in the back of his throat. Always looming and ever present, Corvo looks to his left, seeing the floating ruins of the gazebo there, the memory of that moment of his life still constantly haunting him.

Frozen in time, the assassin Daud stabs his Empress, Jessamine, while Corvo is held back, helpless to do anything but watch. He swallows and blinks over, studying the calculated gaze on Daud's face.

There's another expression hiding there as well, but try as he might, Corvo can't ever put a finger on it. He frowns, surveying every detail, trying to understand.

“Why? Why did I let you go?”

It's a question he's uttered to himself far too often, his biggest personal mystery. Perhaps his will to not kill was just that strong: he could not even bring himself to kill Jessamine’s killer. Maybe he just found the guilt Daud had clearly been drowning in as punishment enough. Void knows Corvo had done worse to those he felt deserving.

But Daud is still a mystery. Corvo's mind tangles with the memory of him, always coming back to it, pulled by some unseen force. It makes his his mind race in endless circles, constantly recounting every “what if” moment.

What if Corvo had died instead? What if Corvo had killed Daud in the first place?

What would Corvo even do if he ever ran into Daud, again?

Even lost in thought, Corvo registers the movement on his peripheral. He stops, inhaling, all of his senses sharpening at once.

The one constant of his dreams until now is that he has been completely alone , as if his mind created its own pocket of Void. Not even the Outsider seems to find him here -- or, perhaps, the whale god simply hasn't yet been interested enough yet to look. Either way, he was the only movement he ever saw, here in this corner of Void.

But if there was someone else here...

Corvo turns from the frozen face of Daud, carefully scanning the platforms that constituted his thoughts and memories. Among the floating rock and lifeless forms, something stirs; he feels the crackle of magic on the air and clenches his fist, his own Mark flaring to life in response.

Corvo rushes forward in a flash of light and air. He turns his head and grabs for the movement he sees, the rushing shadow, and feels his fingers tug at dark fabric. He instinctively yanks back and the shadow tumbles to the ground. He catches the flash of angry, steel grey eyes and his own widen in surprise.

Fear, anger, trepidation, and elation fill his body as he stares down at the prone form before him. His breath hitches and his mouth twists.

“Daud?!”

Corvo lunges at the man but the Void shifts, lurching. He blinks against the blinding light and curses as he's flung from his dream and back into the waking world. He gasps and nearly falls out of his bed, hissing when his knee hits the hardwood.

Daud. Daud had been there in the Void with him.

But why? And how?

He's there to haunt Corvo. Corvo is sure of it.

It's almost every night now that he's forcibly dragged into his own personal corner of the Void. But where before the Dream Void had been placid, boring and predictable, it now crackles with a sensitive energy. Corvo enters the Void and can feel his Mark immediately itch, his soul begging to follow the magical strain of electricity. Now, there is a game of cat and mouse to play, where he is never quite sure if he is pursuing, or the one being pursued.

The figure of Daud flits through his dreams like a ghost. Even though he was able to touch and grab the body the first time he found it, ever since then it has eluded him entirely. Corvo isn't even sure if the shadow actually is Daud, or just a version of Daud that his mind somehow willed into being.

Or maybe the Void itself is testing him, seeing if he can finally overcome and learn to understand his constant obsession.

It makes his blood course hot in his veins. The more the figure pulls and pushes at Corvo, the more frustrated and angry Corvo becomes. He expends effort after magical effort, chasing a wraith that he doesn't even know is real . But the thrill of the hunt fills him, getting more and more feverish with every passing night, leaving him waking up in a sweat, panting from the effort of just sleeping.

The worst part is that Emily begins to notice. She doesn't say so, allowing her father and Protector the privacy he so strongly seeks, but he can see it in the crease of her brow, the thin line of her lips. He's losing sleep and he knows it; the Void refuses to let him go, and he doesn't know yet how to get proper rest. In the same vein, he can't bring himself to seek out other alternatives. Like a personal white whale, Corvo pursues his quarry each night, tirelessly trying to grab, to reach, to simply understand .

Until one night, when Corvo finally catches him.

It starts out regularly enough. Corvo jumps into the Void of his mind, immediately focusing his attention in the search for his silent pursuer. He makes a typical loop around his memories, waiting for the shadow to eventually appear. It doesn't take long; hot energy crackles in the air, signaling the arrival of the other. Corvo turns, and per usual the ghost of Daud is gone before he can even glimpse him.

Corvo narrows his eyes, and scratches at the beard hair prickling his chin. Then he sighs, turns away, and jumps off.

He makes the executive decision to not give chase, this one time. The exhaustion is almost too strong now; it falls on his bones and weighs him down. It's not giving up, not really, but tonight, Corvo just can't see the point of chasing something that refuses to be caught.

This time if the shadow wants to play, he’ll have to come find Corvo personally.

Instead, he moves to the gazebo, to where the frozen forms all stand in their respective places. The assassination of Jessamine appears at as it always does, and Corvo eyes it with a sad admiration. In the light of the Void, at just the right angle, the scene could be its own classical painting, with all the emotions expressed, the golden hues falling across Jessamine and Daud dramatically.

A beautiful death, Corvo supposes. Even if she deserved so much more a beautiful life.

The Void stirs around him and the hair on his neck prickles. Corvo feels the inexplicable sense that he is no longer alone , but doesn't turn to look, not yet.

He breathes, licking his lips. And waits.

Nothing happens. Nobody speaks.

Something in Corvo deflates and he feels what he can only call disappointment lingering in his limbs.

“I know you're there.”

Corvo speaks to the Void, his voice cracked and tired, not even sure who or what he's supposed to be talking to. He doesn't care, though; he just wants to touch whatever this crazy haunting thing is, to meet it halfway, to have it shed insight on this pocketed expanse of Void.

He feels a shift. Corvo closes his eyes, fingers clenching.

“So, it's really you. Corvo Attano.”

Corvo opens his eyes again. There, standing in the middle of the gazebo scene is, unmistakably, Daud. He looks older now, and more modestly dressed, with just a thick, black hooded coat over a red shirt and tan slacks. Corvo can see the lines of time on him, the encroaching weariness only age can bring. His hair has almost gone completely peppered, the white quickly bleaching out Serkonan black. Corvo wonders how much better he looks in comparison, with his shorter, messy hair greying at the temples, his tired beard, his dark, suspicious eyes.

Those eyes pierce through Daud now, a mixture of feelings bubbling up unwarranted, aching in his chest.

“What are you doing here, Daud?”

Daud frowns, his head tilting. Corvo is almost tempted to match it, angle for angle.

“I should ask you the same thing.”

“What do you mean? These are my dreams, my memories.”

Daud blinks. He looks around, stiff movements hiding the unseen grace Corvo knows the man is capable of. His heavy brow furrows, scars pulling in snarling patterns across his cheek and face.

“Interesting. Because what I see here are my dreams, my memories.”

He moves and Corvo defensively stiffens, but Daud doesn't close the distance between them. Instead, he passes the scene of the assassination, watching the form of Jessamine. It hits Corvo then and there that the emotion on Daud's face, the one he couldn't place -- it's written on his features here, plain as day.

Reverence . The likes of which Corvo has never seen directed towards Jessamine. Daud murmurs something soft, like a prayer, causing Corvo’s chest to tighten painfully.

Daud doesn't linger, though. Instead he walks to the far edge of the gazebo, leaning down to pick up a piece of paper lying on the worn and weathered stone. He comes back towards Corvo, closer now, and the Lord Protector is tempted to recoil. Daud stops, holding the paper up.

“What does this say, for you?”

Corvo grimaces, his jaw tight. He knows that paper well and looks away from it, the guilt bubbling up.

“'You can't save her.’ Over and over.”

Daud makes a noncommittal noise. Corvo's eyes narrow. “Why, what does it say for you?”

Daud’s eyebrow lifts, fixing Corvo with an unwavering stare.

“'You killed her.’ Over. And over. And over again.”

Corvo moves like lightning. He isn't sure what it is, but hearing those words from Daud feel like such a confession, raw and real, that he can't stop the pure rage that fills him like fire. His body, already wound, snaps and lunges, quick as a snake. His eyes and hand burns as he brings fist up and connects it to Daud's jaw.

Daud staggers, emotions darting from fear to anger to cool calculation in an instant. Corvo is already throwing his hand back, ready for the second blow, when Daud blinks.

Corvo swings at the open air, missing Daud by centimeters, when he suddenly feels pain blossom on his right cheek. He tastes blood in his mouth and he staggers away from Daud, fist clenching as he also blinks, gathering distance.

He pants, bringing a thumb up to wipe clean his cut lip. He eyes Daud, Mark flaring, anger washing over him, consuming him anew.

“So that's the game it's going to be,” Daud murmurs, an angry red welt already blossoming on his face. He brings his arms up defensively. Corvo just sneers, hands curling, predatory.

“Can it ever be anything else, Daud?”

“One can always hope,” Daud says, a hint of sadness coloring his words. Corvo catches it, but pushes away any sympathy, gritting his teeth.

And he lunges for Daud again.

They collide like two wolfhounds, fists fighting and clawing, looking to maim, to mark, to draw blood. It is painful, it is powerful, and it leaves Corvo's body thrumming with energy when he finally wakes up.

He sits on the edge of the bed, taking steadying breaths, and telling himself it's just the anger and rage making the blood sing in his veins.

Emily and Jameson Curnow stare at Corvo when he walks into the Empress’s office room that morning.

“Corvo! Outsider's eyes -- are you okay?”

She rushes over so quickly he's taken aback, blinking at her awkwardly. Truth be told, he is feeling better than okay, more rested than he’s been in months. The tired still clung to his eyes but his energy had finally returned, his attentiveness with it.

At least, he thought he was feeling more alert, but the way both Jameson and Emily look at him makes his stomach turn with worry.

“What, what is it?”

Her hand rests against his cheek and he winces, yanking his head back with a slight hiss. His own hand goes up to his jaw, surprised to find it so sore. He then draws a thumb over his lip, flinching when he finds a thin film of blood there.

His stomach drops.

“You look like you've been getting into fist fights in your sleep, sir.”

Jameson's observation is so astute that Corvo jerks his head at him, eyeing him closely. But his spy just shrugs, casting a worried glance over his figure.

“You haven't been sneaking out again, have you?” Emily pokes and prods at him some more before he finally decides enough is enough and swats her hand away, grumbling.

“No, I can assure you I'm not, Emily. I just--” his brain quickly searches for a believable explanation. “Fell out of bed.”

Emily’s eyes go wide, her brow creasing suspiciously.

“Fell out of bed.” She repeats.

“Yes,” he affirms. “I think I've been tired because my sleep has been so fitful. Last night, though, I slept quite well. I must have rolled out of bed without realizing it.”

“Did the floorboards happen to grow a fist as well?”

Corvo glares at the man, who casts him a long look that clearly says “I know the difference between hitting the floor and getting punched in the face, Lord Protector,” but Corvo has no further explanation.

“Look, I was in my chambers all night last night. There are no outside windows and if I do leave, I try to let the guards know. You can ask them, if you need another opinion.”

“You're sure you're not out causing more conspiracies, Father?”

“I swear on my life, Emily, I'm at as much of a loss as you.”

The disbelief on his face must have shone through because Emily backs off with a huff. Her eyes dart to his cheek, to his cut lip. He rubs his hands and is quick to note Jameson watching the action, noticing his rough knuckles. If he has any other theories on it however, he keeps them to himself.

“Okay, well, if this persists, please see Sokolov. I don't need my Royal Protector trying to beat himself up, not when half of Dunwall already does that for him.”

“You have my word, Emily.”

The meeting goes as smoothly as expected after that, but as Corvo walks down through the Tower gardens later, he can't slow the beat of his pulse. He clenches his bruised hand, eyes darting to the gazebo. His heart leaps up into his throat and suddenly it's all too much, too unbearable, and he's rushing through the Tower grounds, the maids and visitors complaining loudly as he runs past.

He doesn't stop moving until he's back in his room, the door slamming shut behind him. He rushes to the bathroom, checking himself in the mirror. Sure enough, partially obscured by his peppered beard, there is the telltale angry welt of a recent shiner. He rubs his hand over his jawline, wincing as the pain blooms anew. The cut on his lip is no better; he licks at it, hissing at the feeling.

He takes the time remove his shirt, checking the rest of his chest and shoulders. Here and there, a bruise makes itself known. He pulls his shirt back on, curses on his breath.

There is no doubt about it: the wounds from his fight with Daud in the Void carried over to the waking world. He doesn't even know how, didn't even think that was possible, but then, he's never really been hurt in the Void, has he? He’s never had to fight anyone there, so how could he have known? Maybe neither he nor Daud expected this outcome.

His mind entertains the idea of Daud, waking up to a similar predicament; far away in an unknown place, bearing the angry bruises of their brawl. Bruises, he thinks with a thrill, that Corvo left on him, despite the potential kilometers of distance between them.

He shakes his head, huffing out a breath, trying to not think about how fighting Daud now came with an exciting new edge. On top of this, the fight worked something out of him, with his body feeling more awake -- more alive -- than it has in months.

No matter how it made him feel, though, if they insist on fighting in the future, Corvo will have to be more careful. He didn't need Emily seeing his wounds and worrying needlessly about him. He didn't need his men, trained on spotting and treating the various injuries of their line of work, asking questions he had no feasible answer for.

Even if they were correct. Technically.

He walks back out into his room, his eyes roaming over to his bed of their own accord. His stomach flips when he realizes, with an intense clarity, that he wants to go back to the Void as soon as he's able. He wants to feel that rush that only fighting Daud can give him. He swallows thickly and tears his gaze away. He shouldn't be thinking about it. He shouldn't.

And yet, the thought lingers in his brain for the rest of the day and he makes no attempt to banish it away.

They fight for another week.

Corvo can't say why, anymore. The first couple of days, there was some conversation -- where one thing led to another and they came to blows. But with each fight, the atmosphere shifted just a little bit more. Now, no words are involved. They simply come, meet, and fight with the ferocity of pit hounds.

In the Void, they only have their fists and the powers contained within. In a way, it is ridiculously frustrating for Corvo to have only one real method of fighting. He likes having versatility and option; it comes with the job. At the same time, though, there is something pure and unfettered about their combat. It is closer, more intimate; fist against fist, Mark against Mark, blood against bone. There is nothing else between them but the heat of their breath and the flashing of their eyes.

It's a thrill; a dangerous one, Corvo knows. He's not even sure if he fights out of anger anymore; a different heat runs through his veins now, burning hot and long and never dying out. He finds he lives for the smirks Daud gives him when Corvo blocks a particularly hard blow, and he can't help but grin at those hard eyes watching his every movement. He finds himself appreciating the hard lines of Daud's body, tightening and loosening with every movement, planning every strike.

It's a dance, Corvo realizes. One they both are masters at.

He says none of this, though. He just throws punch after kick after powered blow, savoring the taste of such a perfect sparring partner, the greatest of opponents.

It's frustrating. It's difficult. It's irritating and annoying.

It is something Corvo finds himself longing for, night after night, day after day.

Corvo pulls his head back just in time; lost in thought, he almost got an elbow to the nose. He growls, his arm clawing forward, the sweat slick on his skin.

“Hey, watch it,” Corvo growls, “I'd rather not try explaining a broken nose to Emily in the morning.”

Daud falters, his brow furrowing. Neither of them tended to talk much during their fights, preferring to snarl in relative silence, working out their personal frustrations. So when Corvo expresses his worry, Daud just grins, wolfish, before striking out again. Corvo blocks again, lip curling.

“You sure? A crooked nose might be just what your pretty face needs, Attano.” Daud throws out another punch; Corvo dodges and sweeps his leg out, trying to trip Daud to his feet.

All he manages to do is to made Daud transverse away, gaining distance before rushing back into the fight again. Corvo throws his weight at Daud, pushing against him, shoulder meeting fist and feet.

“That's rich coming from you.” Corvo is used to hearing the phrase “pretty” thrown at him as an insult, but something in the way Daud tossed it at him feels nowhere near as derisive. “Trying to level the playing field?”

Daud barks a laugh, grabbing and clawing, but Corvo simply slips from his grasp.

“At least I know I'm an ugly bastard,” he replies, voice like gravel. “Instead of fooling myself into thinking I'm attractive.”

“You look well enough, Daud,” Corvo sneers, “But if you need a real scar, I'll be happy to give you one.”

Something glints in Daud's eyes, dangerous and deadly and fleeting. Corvo wants nothing more than to chase after it, to see exactly where that light goes.

“I'd like to see you try.”

Corvo rushes him, needing no other invitation. Daud greets him with equal force, their bodies colliding. Corvo does away with formalities now; he's scratching and pulling and playing dirty, but still , Daud blocks every strike and punch. It's almost as if this is all a game to him, like he can't see Corvo following through on the threat, which makes his blood run all the hotter.

His attacks get more desperate, carrying less finesse and more deadly intent. It isn't long before Daud is forced to transverse away, Corvo blinking after him to keep up. He summons the Void with a grimace, the wind blast hitting Daud with enough force to knock him out of his jump.

Corvo grins, blinking over and finally, finally landing the blow that has eluded him all evening.

It's a powerful swing, leaving Daud staggering. Without thinking, without even understanding why, Corvo lands another punch, forcing Daud down to the ground. The blood rushes in his ears in a feeling of utter triumph, of beating Daud at his own game. His body is too wired now and he follows Daud down, for one more blow.

Just as he does, he feels the hard, irrevocable lurch of Daud's pull, the breath rushing out of him as he falls forward. He grabs at Daud's shirt for purchase, or stability, as they both tumble in the Void.

Their eyes meet, icy grey crashing into burning black.

If asked later, Corvo can't recall who -- or even what -- started it. It could have been the precarious position both of them were in, their fevered bodies pulled close. Or perhaps it was the sight of Daud's bloodied nose, the grunt of his voice, the darkness of his blown eyes. Or maybe it was just Corvo's own residual pleasure, running high off of the feeling of triumph.

No matter the reason, it's their mouths that find each other, angry and hot and fighting for dominance. Their bodies land and entwine in a bitter, heat filled dance, the cocktail of emotions brewing between them finally boiling over and spilling out in a frantic rush. Nails claw at clothing, leaving angry red lines. Teeth bite at lips, battling to draw blood first. Their Marks burn in unison and something howls in Corvos heart when he hears the stuttering, wounded groan that he rips out of Daud.

Corvo bears down upon him, enveloping him, and he realizes -- between the heated bites, the claws, their dueling tongues -- that he wants more.

And with that, the spell shatters.

Guilt drenches him like ice water, leaving him heaving and scrambling to keep his head above the surface. His body burns with shame and self-hate, and he pulls himself away from Daud and out of the Void entirely.

He wakes in a cold sweat, gripping at his sheets, back arching and breath gasping. He wheezes, trying to ignore the noticeable heat between his thighs. His whole body trembles, as he tries not to think about how he hasn't felt anything like that since… since… Corvo growls, rolling over, stumbling out of bed, hating himself. He wants to be sick. He wants to claw his skin off, to scrub himself raw.

What he really wants is to will his body back to sleep, back into the Void, back to where Daud will undoubtedly still be be waiting for him.

His dick throbs and he curses to the ceiling in five different ways. He crawls into the shower, keeping the water cold, killing the insistence between his legs. He tries hardest to ignore the mirror, where he doesn't want to see those long red lines marring his shoulders, or his full, rage-bitten lips.

“Are you sure you're alright, Corvo?” Emily asks him, a few mornings later. He looks at her blearily, blinking away the sleep as the sun attacks his eyes, trying his hardest to focus.

“Hmm?” is his only intelligent response.

“You're incredibly tired,” she says, worry lacing her words. They were supposed to be going over important documents that day, supposed to be looking into trade matters with Tyvia (or was it Morley?) before meeting with the court to address taxes and public outcry. But his head is a muddled, cottony mess.

He grunts and clears his throat in response, doing his best to straighten and wake up.

“M’fine,” he says, and he hates how the words slur, even when he tries to speak clearly. He grimaces, giving the effort another go. “I'm fine, Emily. I’ve just been having trouble sleeping.”

His words are still too soft, and even with the coffee in his veins, he can feel himself threatening to nod off. Next to him, Emily makes a disgruntled sound and shakes his shoulder, trying to keep him present.

“Look, you aren't in any shape right now to even be hanging around court, let alone awake enough to act as Spymaster or Protector. I need you to figure this out, and fast… So I’m giving you the day off. Use it to actually get some sleep.”

“Emily,” he starts, trying his best to be argumentative. “I'll get over this as the day wears on; I’ll wake up more, I always do. I'm not sick, I'm still able-bodied, I'm just having some bad dreams. Nothing I can't handle.”

“If it's still bad dreams, I'll have Anton get you something to help you sleep dreamlessly. Either way, I need you to go to bed. And I won't take no for an answer.”

Corvo continues his protesting, but Emily remains adamant: she shoves him out of her office and has Jameson escort him back to his room, just to make sure he actually gets there.

As soon as the door to the Spymaster's quarters shuts behind him, Jameson Curnow bidding him a good night's rest despite it being barely midday, Corvo slumps, staring at his bed, his mind warring against his body.

He wants so badly to crawl into the sheets, to bury himself in that dark warmth, but his mind thinks of what waits for him and his stomach twists, his body writhing, the heat spreading up across his chest and over his cheeks. He doesn't want to think about how he's been actively avoiding sleep, trying not to get himself dragged back into the Void, where Daud is there with those bloody fists and that steely gaze, flashing like lightning whenever their eyes meet.

He snarls, his head dipping, his body fighting sleep with every ounce it can muster. He paces his room, he argues with himself. He checks the opposite room to see if he can't sneak past Jameson waiting outside the door. But every exit is blocked, even the secret ones. Corvo curses training Jameson so well, and for having such a competent Tower Guard on staff today.

He sighs, blinking back into his room proper, scrubbing his hand over his face. He doesn't want to, but he has to admit defeat; there's nothing else for it. He can't leave and the more he stays still, the more oppressive his exhaustion becomes.

His shoulders sag, his head and eyes droop; his knees buckle and he sits heavily on the bed. As soon as his weight is lifted, the mattress drags him the rest of the way down, pulling him in a dangerous undertow, hurtling him all too quickly towards sleep.

When he enters the Void, he's surprised to find himself alone.

The emptiness of it is suffocating and Corvo looks around himself, frantic. It has been so long now, and he's grown so accustomed to Daud's presence, waiting for him already, that his absence from the dream is palpable. Corvo looks around and blinks, sifting through memory after memory, frozen image after frozen image, searching, looking, and finding…

Nothing.

He growls, balling his hands into fists, the Mark burning angrily against his palm. He yells into the Void, and the nothingness replies, echoing his frustrations. He should feel relieved, he tells himself, happy that Daud isn't here goading him after their latest encounter. But he's the complete opposite. He feels too alone, too pent up, too everything to even be able to settle, to get the proper rest he deserves.

He should want to sleep. He should want his brain to slip back into that quiet silence of dreamless slumber, but he doesn't. Instead he clenches his fist and blinks again, wishing more than he ever had before that he could also utilize the power of Pull. Maybe then, he could be the one calling out to Daud, throwing his tendrils of thought towards the other person, enticing him to close the gap to follow him down, to where nothing remained but the two of them.

All at once the heat of their last encounter returns to him full force. His body and Mark burn, aching for the pleasure and pain of just fighting Daud, of wanting to lay his hands on him, to punch his flesh and kiss the bruise left behind, to suck a new mark into the meat of his neck, making the other man gasp and plead and beg for more, for less, for everything in between.

His skin crawls. His stomach turns. He finds himself sick with guilt and longing and other feelings he wishes he could outright ignore.

Unbidden, a new memory appears to his right, one that he inspects with a measured precision. It's when he last saw Daud, the two of them entwined, tugging and pulling against one another, trying desperately to fight but also failing to do anything more than grasp onto each other with no intent of letting go.

He studies the frozen form of Daud, walking closer to examine every detail. For a memory, it's exceptionally sharp; he can see the grey of stubble on Daud's cheek, the lines pulling at the scar on his jaw, those steely blue eyes blown black. Corvo finds himself swallowing, lips parting, his eyes tracing every line, every curve of Daud's features.

He leans in, pulled towards the memory, as if he could will himself to fall into right back into it. He watches the pulse in Daud's throat quicken as he draws near, and he bites his bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to sink his teeth in, to lick his tongue over that quiet beat, feel the heat of Daud's arousal and fear.

Corvo then stops, his mouth snapping shut.

Because he's realized, far too late, that this nonliving memory of Daud possesses a pulse.

The next instant happens as fast as the last. Daud lunges forward just as Corvo rushes in, the breath leaving him in a rush as they crash into each other. This time, though, they skip the pleasantries of talking or fighting and go straight for the jugular.

Daud's teeth and lips latch onto the bare skin of Corvo's neck and the sound it draws out of him shakes the very fabric of the Void around them. His memory ripples and fades away as Daud envelops him, all rough roaming hands searching for smooth skin, for curving bone, for sinew and muscle.

Corvo lets him search, too wired to care, his own fingers digging into any groove they can find, raking lines under shirts and across shoulders and chest in a desperate bid for purchase.

It isn't soft and it isn't nice. The heat of it sparks the fire in his veins and soon he's snarling, fighting for dominance through his aroused haze. Daud responds in kind, showing no remorse as his teeth and fingers leave evidence behind. The pain and intensity of the shallow wounds sends electricity down Corvo's spine and he arches into it, groaning.

“Outsider's fuckin’ eyes, Attano,” Daud rasps put, his voice low and broken, each syllable pulling another wave of heat down Corvo's back and into his groin. “It's been-- fuck , it's been days and you're as tightly wound now as you were then.”

“Stop,” Corvo growls, digging fingers into the flesh of his shoulder. “Stop talking about this. I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think too much on how--”

He can even finish the sentence, the feeling of dirty sickness rising in his throat again. It's a war of his mind against his body, and for once, he wants his body to win. So he tries not to think too hard on it, tries not to realize that he wants nothing more than to fuck Daud into the ground, the man who killed her, killed Jessamine--

A hard dick against his own and the sharp rock of hips against his thigh halts his thoughts and leaves him rasping for air. The coil of his gut tightens and he cries out, his own hips rushing to meet the other, aligning them just so, wanting nothing more than to pull his body flush with the one so insistently holding him hostage.

Daud stutters and rolls into him, the groan leaving him crawling across Corvo's skin. It's hot and close and he can feel his sweat forming, can feel his mind clouding over as he shoves his nose and face into the crook of Daud's jaw, breathing in deep the essence of the other man. He sucks down hard, leaving welt after angry welt as his hands run up under Daud's shirt, his Mark searing against the taut and bare skin.

All the frustration, all the pent up longing that Corvo had been doing his best to ignore all crashes down on him at once. He can't even deny to himself how good this felt, how this struggle with Daud, even in the Void, has him hotter than a whaler at Fugue. Daud, with his competence and strength and ability, his hard muscle and soft skin; all of which Corvo wants to tear apart and bring back together again, to destroy just to remake it, to dismantle just to understand.

It is pure, unadulterated; it is ecstasy. Like a drug, Corvo hates it and craves it and finds himself not caring if it destroys him, in the end. It’s delicious and heated and everything he ever wanted, and he isn't going to let himself be denied it any longer.

Whatever state Corvo is in, Daud is faring no better. The man quivers and shakes underneath Corvo, searching for his boiling skin, his hand searing and painful and perfect. He leans down into the other Marked man, rolling his hips, searching desperately for contact, as he grinds against Corvo's hard thigh, again and again.

But it isn't until Daud's hand goes for his belt, palming for the dick underneath, that Corvo's eyes snap back open and he freezes.

For all the sickening guilt Corvo feels by even engaging Daud like this, Corvo’s sudden halt in movement isn't the ex-assassin’s fault. There's a tell-tale prickle at the back of Corvo's neck, making his hair stand on end, his eyes flashing wide and dangerous. Daud gets the cue and feels it too; suddenly they are jerking away, separating as fast as possible, regaining the breath they had lost.

A shadow passes, huge and looming and far overhead. Neither of them move, watching as the Leviathan passes them, floating through the negative space. Corvo doesn't dare look at Daud, doesn't dare make contact with the other man until the whale’s presence is past them, returning to the depth of the Void.

Corvo swallows and closes his eyes, letting out the breath he didn't even realize he was holding in. His dick throbs, making itself known, but he ignores it in favor of chancing a glance at Daud.

He is in a similar state of dilemma, eyes still far off into the Void, watching the path of the Leviathan. He shifts, his left fist clenching and unclenching before he too swallows, looking back to Corvo.

“Someone's getting curious of our little skirmishes.”

Corvo doesn't need to ask who that someone is.

“Then we can't keep this up in here,” Corvo gasps out. His throat constricts, making his voice sound raw. “Unless we want to be interrupted.”

“Then we'll take it out of here,” Daud offers, “And continue this someplace else.”

“Someplace else?” Corvo asks, incredulous. “And what do you propose we do? Leave the Void, meetup out in the waking world?”

He scoffs, the idea alone sounding ridiculous. Not to mention dangerous, and potentially unfeasible. He doesn't even know where in the Isles Daud is.

“I can be in Dunwall within a week,” Daud says, and it takes Corvo a second to realize he is being entirely serious. Corvo gapes at him, but he simply continues, “We could meet up in the new Rudshore District. For old times' sake. Is my flat where it used to be?”

Corvo stares at him, flabbergasted. He rights himself, shaking his head.

“No.”

“Oh, well, then perhaps at the Hound’s Pit Pub? Or the Clocktower?”

“No, that's not what I meant,” Corvo growls out, his voice crumbling like stone. “I mean no, this is reckless, impossible -- we can't meet in Dunwall.”

“Outside of Dunwall, then?”

“Do you not hear yourself?” Corvo asks, bewilderment making his voice rise an octave. “This is ludicrous, I'm not going to-- to--”

Corvo gasps, grabbing at his knees, his head bent over as he shakes it. He can't stop the laugh that leaves him.

Spirits, how did his life come to this.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Corvo, but we clearly have some things to work through, and I refuse to do so when that black-eyed bastard could waltz in at any time.”

Corvo nods, hating himself.

“Agreed.” He swallows, gathering the remaining strands of his wits. “Your old place is still there, by the way. It's too close to that monument of Jessamine to destroy safely, so it's there, still abandoned.”

Corvo feels Daud's nod rather than sees it.

“One week then. I'll be there.”

“I'll hold you to it, Daud.”

“You should know by now I don't back out of my promises, Corvo.”

Corvo grunts, but Daud is already gone. With a gasping breath, Corvo is too; he opens his eyes and finds himself in his dark quarters, alone and sweating and just as tightly wound as before.

Except he doesn't allow himself to indulge in the guilt he had collapsed under the last time. Instead he gets up, hands tracing the marks and bruises Daud left on his skin, hand curling around his aching cock. The eventual release shakes him to his core and he has to stifle his cry, biting his knuckle so hard it bleeds.

It's enough to send his exhausted body back to sleep, the relief swallowing him whole, leading him into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The week can't pass fast enough.

Corvo regains his regular irregular sleep patterns, much to Emily's relief. But to her dismay, Corvo remains as distracted as ever, if not moreso.

He fidgets during meetings, dozes through conferences, plays with his food during meals. She tries to pry him open but the more she digs the tighter he clams up, his dark eyes burning threateningly. He knows she likes to think herself as stubborn as he is, but she isn't; in the end he knows she'll simply purse her lips, pulling away angrily, leaving him to his secrets. He’d huff out a victorious laugh then and go back to his silent brooding, watching closely as the other nobles come and go, his thoughts elsewhere.

One week. Just enough for his patience to wear thin. Just enough to have him itching for the encounter that awaited him.

He packs his pistol and his folding sword to his belt, just in case, and he blinks away from the Tower, the Void and adrenaline fueling his rush towards Rudshore. The old Flooded District has been cleaned and cleared in the last decade, but a few buildings still stand empty, abandoned and too dangerous to destroy. He beelines for one of those old buildings now, the evening light casting long shadows on the streets below.

The roof is still missing. He peers down into the room below, now grown over and worn and none too inviting. But Corvo pays the state of things no mind as he pulls the Void over his eyes, searching, searching for--

The body lights up like a candle in the darkness and Corvo's throat catches. He quickly blinks down, nearing the man sitting behind an old desk, reading a long-forgotten and water-stained book.

Time stops. Corvo stills. The man gets up from the desk, and their eyes meet.

The sound of steel unsheathing reaches Corvo's ears. He inhales, exhales.

Then the Knife of Dunwall is on him.

Their swords clash, the ring of it reverberating through the still air of suspended time. They hang there, quivering, faces close, blades crossing, pushing and pulling against each other.

The fight is half-hearted, all for show. They both know it, but still their blades hang connected, as if they really want the fight their cold metal longs for. Instead, their eyes lock and the atmosphere shifts, growing hot.

“Daud,” Corvo says, priding himself on how he manages to keep his voice even.

“Attano,” Daud replies, the name thick on his tongue. There is a smirk there, waiting to be abused.

All at once, the wave crashes down on the two of them.

There is a clattering as the swords are thrown aside, deemed by both of them to be an unnecessary accessory. In their place, hands grasp tight for each other, roaming and searching and tugging. There is barely any distance left between them as they both surge forward, mouths finding each other like magnets.

Corvo had no idea how much the Void suppressed his senses until Daud is there , in front of him, skin hot and eager under his lips and fingers. The scent of him is near overwhelming, a heady mix of smoke and sea spray and sandalwood. Corvo can't seem to get enough of it; intoxicated already, he groans heavy into Daud’s mouth, pulling him inexorably, impossibly closer to his flush body.

Daud shudders under him, shaking from their force of impact. There is relief hanging there in his sigh, a pained resignation leaving his shoulders as Corvo falls into him. Their mouths duel in the place of their fists and swords, and Daud drops his heavy coat, his trepidation leaving with the weight of it.

As soon as it's gone he is following Corvo's form, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders and waist.

Corvo is then mildly aware of the world shifting; time resumes as Daud attempts a transversal with Corvo in his arms. He lands on the floor above his old office, cursing as he stumbles, misjudging his footing. Corvo just laughs, harsh and loud, before lifting Daud and throwing him into the wall. Daud's grunt morphs into a delirious moan as Corvo grinds his hips up, the friction sending spikes of arousal racing through both of them.

“Shit,” Daud gasps out, head falling back, allowing Corvo to ravish his neck, his beard rasping against the full and sensitive skin there. “Eager, are we?”

“Cut the crap, Daud, I know you want this just as badly as I do,” Corvo snarls into his skin, the vibrations sending ripples through Daud that makes Corvo's body sing. His hands roam up Daud's stomach and Daud sucks in a breath before shakily letting it out.

“That may be so,” he manages, voice low and penetrating and Corvo can't help how his hips stutter at the sound of it. “But that doesn't mean I can't want to slow down and savor this, for as long as I’m able.”

And there it is--Daud under the impression that this excursion was a one-time affair. Corvo had hoped the same, but that was before he had seen Daud there, waiting for him, with that smirk on his face and those dark, flashing eyes focused on him, only on him .

No, Corvo is addicted. He's addicted and he knew it after that first real taste of Daud's skin, like a fine whiskey burning on his tongue and setting his whole body on fire.

It is terrible and guilt-driven on both their parts, he knows. But it's been ten years , and Corvo decided long ago that Jessamine's death wasn't worth killing over.

And Emily, well…

What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Corvo's grip tightens and he grinds closer, harder into Daud, insistently wanting and full of so much pent up energy he's already close to bursting. And Daud is right there, answering his beck and call, responding to every touch and ministrations. Daud's hands grab Corvo and hold him steady, and Corvo is heady from the power they hold, the strength lying just beneath those calloused fingers.

Corvo can't help but pull away, the grin on his face as devilish as it is hungry. He presses his hips flush to Daud's: the fact that the man's dick is already rock hard against his thigh just makes his blood run all the hotter.

“You say you want to take this slower,” Corvo drawls out, hips circling slow and agonizing, and Daud drowns in the sensation, voice catching. Corvo can't help but get drunk off the sight of the deep flush filling Daud's scarred features. “But your body is sure saying otherwise.*

“You always this talkative when it comes to fucking, Attano?” The question is something Daud tries to form into a self-confident sneer, but manages only to get out a powerful mumble.

Corvo cocks his head to the side, gaze smoldering.

“That depends, Daud. Would you rather me be quiet, or loud?”

The look on Daud's face alone makes that question all the worth it. His pupils blow wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Corvo doesn't wait for a reply, chasing after that tongue and that sharp whiskey-laced taste. Daud meets his eagerness in full, head tilting, hands steady and powerful as they rid Corvo of his shirt, undoing buttons and tracing lines and scars along the way. His fingers wander up, brushing against a nipple and fuck .

Corvo's back arches, gasping loud into Daud's mouth and the other man chuckles, the gravel of it just making Corvo press against him harder. Daud's fingers linger-- pulling, playing, teasing and Corvo growls, punching the wall next to Daud's head as heat floods him head to toe.

“Oh, look at you,” Daud purrs, and Corvo’s snarl morphs into a panting moan. “So this is what the Royal Protector looks like when he's coming undone.”

Corvo shakes his head, sucking another bite into Daud's thick, vulnerable neck.

“No, this is what the Royal Protector looks like when he gets his worst enemy well and truly fucked. ”

Corvo's free hand snakes down to Daud's belt, pulling it close, before palming the hard length hiding just beneath the fabric. Daud's breath catches and he groans, long and low. His hips roll up into Corvo's hand, who doesn't need telling twice.

Fingers fumble with buckles and laces before Corvo finally has Daud's dick free, wet and ready and already heavy. Corvo grabs it and twists up and Daud moans , hanging on to Corvo for dear life. But it's not long before Daud is pushing Crovo back a fraction, growling in frustration as he claws at Corvo's belt himself.

Corvo laughs, helping him along.

“So, who's the one that's too eager, now?”

Daud just sends him a look, and Corvo’s laugh stutters to a stop when he sees the expression hanging there. Daud then tilts his head at Corvo, the twitch of a smirk forming on his flushed cheeks as he takes Corvo in his hand in a fast and even stroke. Corvo’s eyes roll back, bracing himself, so lost in the sensation that he doesn't even notice when Daud dips lower, and his dick is enveloped in heat and wet and --

Spirits.

Corvo’s whole body shudders as Daud sucks at his dick, slow and long and far more practiced than Corvo would have expected from the ex-assassin. Not that he's got much to compare it too, not when it's been so long that Corvo had almost forgotten how good it could feel, how easy it is to lose himself in someone else, letting them have full control over his shivering and wanton body.

Void, he missed this. He missed it more than he ever thought he could, and his body shakes at the sensation, the feel of that wet heat, the tongue on his dick, keeping him there, just riding the edge. The coil of his gut tightens and when Daud pulls away before he can come, he tries his best to blink away the tears forming in his eyes.

“That good?” Daud asks, his voice rough and raw and Corvo whines, only partially ashamed at how he's already so far gone. His hips stutter as Daud comes back up and Corvo doesn't care, just pulls him in for a kiss, tasting himself on those intoxicating lips.

“Not fair,” Corvo mutters out when he breaks the kiss, shoving Daud back into the wall. Daud just laughs, a sound that Corvo hates too much to say and wants to pull out of Daud again and again.

He nips his teeth against Daud's skin before taking his burning left hand and wrapping it around both of their dicks, holding them flush together. Daud’s laugh breaks into a rough gasp, hips thrusting, and Corvo meets him, matching his every step.

He starts slow, savoring in the feeling of their lengths sliding together, fucking into his hand with an unrushed rhythm. Corvo knows he wishes it could be closer to true penetration, but that could always come later, his brain supplies, entertaining the idea of a repeat performance. Or perhaps many, or multiple, or more than one inside of 24 hours, he wasn't that old yet, he was sure -- it didn't matter, as long as he could still enjoy the look of sheer need on Daud's face again and again.

The expression alone is enough to get his blood boiling, the heat curling in his stomach. His pace quickens of its own accord and soon they are both panting in each others hot air, the sweat dripping, their voices catching, utterly lost in what the other is doing, suffocating in the thick air as they both gasp for the breath they are so quick to lose.

Daud comes with a shout, gripping Corvo hard enough to bruise. The wetness fills his hand as he drains Daud of every last drop, the man shuddering above him. Just the sight of Daud completely undone, knowing that he was the one to do that to him, has Corvo following not long after, the relief of release hitting him with the force of a thunderbolt.

Spots form in his eyes as his Mark burns, his voice stuttered and shaking. Daud quakes under the sound of it, his body trying and failing to pull itself together. Corvo leans into him, collapsing, breath heavy and hard and shivering.

Neither of them move for a good while, pinned against that lonely, rundown wall in the middle of the Rudshore District. A breeze rustles past, gentle but enough to send shivers crawling across Corvo's sweat-soaked and oversensitive skin.

Daud softly clears his throat, prompting Corvo to pull away slightly, looking at him.

Daud's face is unreadable, but his eyes are soft in a way Corvo hasn't seen before-- at least, not on the face of the hardened ex-killer. But he knew a similar look from someone else, somewhere else, tucked away in secret places, shared only with him.

The air catches in his lungs. Daud searches his eyes before looking away, swiftly tucking himself in, buttoning up his shirt. Corvo takes the cue. He pulls back slightly to fix himself up, doing his best to straighten after their… ordeal .

The twitched movement from Daud is all Corvo sees before he's darting his arm out, catching Daud's wrist in his grasp. Daud is halfway to clenching his fist, halfway to calling for the Void, when Corvo stops him, grip tight and unyielding.

“Corvo--”

“Don't,” he cuts Daud off, his voice cracked and splintered and far more emotional than it should be. He licks his lips. “Don't run away, not yet.”

Daud stills, body relaxing under Corvo's fingers.

“You know I can't stay here, Corvo. We'll have to part ways, eventually. We have lives, we have people counting on us, looking for us. I shouldn't even be in Dunwall at all.”

“Can you stay,” Corvo whispers, “Just for a few more days?”

Daud's face softens again-- but this time, it's an expression far too close to pity. Corvo's jaw clenches, working as he forces himself to keep Daud's gaze, demanding a response from him.

Daud, for his part, takes his time. He searches the face of the Lord Protector, so close to him, and so far away from that first deadly expression he displayed so many years ago, in this very place.

Daud huffs. He looks down. There's a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice holding more emotion than either of them care to admit. “I think I can manage that.”

Corvo sighs, relieved.

He then leans forward, natural as can be, and kisses Daud.

It's a slow thing, a touching gesture, but one that Daud leans into all the same. It's far too much to be considered a parting goodbye, and ends far too soon for either of them when Corvo finally pulls away.

Daud clears his throat and swallows, Adam's apple bobbing with the motion.

“Same time tomorrow, then?”

“I'll be sure to hold you to it, Daud.”

Daud grins and laughs.

“Promises, promises.”