#leander ts

He's sweet.

Too sweet.

You know what a horrid idea it is to trust Leander as much as you do — at least, you think you know how horrid it is. The smiles, the free room, the food and drink, the clothes and jewelry, the bits and pieces of trivia about this city of knowledge and secrets, the drawn-out moments of innocent feeling as you draw your bare, trembling fingers over his own... 

There has to be a price. A high one for all of it combined. And with every passing day, whatever debt he insists you don't owe grows.

For your own sake, you have to at least try to offer something resembling compensation.

Besides. Leander looks good like this.

Every part of him is beautiful. Face flushed a vivid, rosy pink. Eyelids heavy, pupils blown wide enough to leave only a fine ring of that pretty pale green around them. Hair a mess from your hands gliding through it over and over. You'd never felt someone else's hair before meeting him; the strands slide across your knuckles like silk, smooth and slippery. Novelty — even after feeling it so many times now — keeps you distracted. Fixated. Fascination glows bright inside you, made stronger and hotter with every heavy swallow and not-so-subtle twitch of the man lying half-naked beneath you.

He's patient, for the time being. Docile. His eyes flutter when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, a strained whine escaping him as you comb through his hair with the tenderness of a —

You’re absolutely not going to label whatever the two of you qualify as. Slap some form of terminology on it — any terminology — and suddenly it’ll be too real. Too much.

You shift — scarcely a movement, really, only spurred by the beginnings of a cramp in your hip — and the subtle drag of your groin against his (unintentional, you swear. You don't even recall when you climbed into his lap in the first place, you’re just too accustomed to it these days) has his breath hitching. Fingers slide down from his hair to his jaw, careful as they cross the angry line scored across his cheek. The tension in the muscles there reminds you of what started this to begin with, before you became so transfixed on running your hands through his hair.

"Sorry," you offer as you rise, smiling bashfully. "I... didn't mean to get distracted."

His lips move wordlessly for long enough that you chuckle, which seems to snap him out of the temporary speechlessness. "No! No, that's — Don't worry about it, please." Hands, careful and smooth and more familiar now than you'd have dared to believe just weeks ago, reach out, curling around your wrists tenderly. His thumbs rub slow, gentle circles against your skin. Deciding whether to stare at the points of contact or at his flustered smile is truly impossible. "Really, I don't mind. Thought you’d have learned better by now."

You don't doubt him. But still. "Roll over?"

Disappointment flashes across his face before he's moving to do as you ask, laying face-down on the mattress, one cheek pressed to the sheets so he can peer back at you out of the corner of his eye and over his shoulder.

A moment passes, your eyes roving over the bare skin before you. You’ve had him stripped down to nothing before you plenty of times now, had plenty of chances to feel just about every part of him from scalp to sole. Still, it makes you dizzy. Images of anatomical diagrams come to mind, labeled with the names of individual muscles and tendons. Leander would make a better model for such a thing than the nameless examples from your books, you think. A beautiful alternative, outside and in. A deep breath, and you climb back onto the bed, slow in each movement as you straddle his thighs. Thick, hard, every bit as strong as the rest of him. You'd enjoy the sight of them bare as much as you always do. As much as you enjoy the sight of every other part of the man.

His hands clutch at the sheets on either side of his head, knuckles turning whiter as his face turns redder.

It's adorable. How can he get so worked up from this little after the two of you have slept together… however many times it’s been now?

His lips curl into that infuriatingly satisfied smile as your hands slide up his back, gaze fixed on you. Your face. Plenty eager to watch you as your fingertips press lightly into flesh, intently seeking out stiffness and knots as they trail a meandering path along either side of his spine. Plenty of tension — everywhere. Half of it, you’re sure, is as much due to your current positions as due to everyday stress.  

As you begin kneading either side of his neck, he groans long and low. “Gods, I needed this.”

“I’ve barely gotten started. I could stop at any moment, you know.”

His smile only grows wider. “But you like me, so you won’t.”

You elect not to dignify the smug bastard with a response. It’s more of a punishment than any answer could hope to be.

The slightest twitch of his brow confirms that thought.

However much your silence might have irked him, it seems quickly forgotten as you begin to dig knuckles and fingertips into muscle. He melts beneath you as you press your palms into naked expanses of flesh, as you rub and caress your way from neck to shoulder, from trapezii to latissimi dorsi. Deft fingers prod along the ridges of scapulae and sink into obliques with precision, dragging whimpers and moans from the man beneath you as you work diligently down and up and down his back, taking care to make your way outwards from his spine to his sides, then back again. 

It’s slow, measured, careful work you do when you have him like this. There’s a purpose to it — a simple one, granted — and you focus on that. Focus on trying to undo each and every hard knot, to alleviate as many unspoken aches and as much hidden stiffness as you can. You leave no part of his back unaddressed, no sliver of skin untouched.

You’re attentive, in a word.

Very attentive.

You wonder if Leander thinks he's subtle as he slowly ruts into the mattress below him, or if he simply can't bring himself to care about maintaining an illusion of decency when the two of you are alone like this.

Deft fingers halt at the junction of his neck and shoulder, your thighs tensing as you consider whether to humor him so soon.

You may as well.

His eye opens and follows you as you move, desperation obvious despite the heavy eyelid threatening to fall shut again. Curiosity — excitement — replaces it as you guide him to roll over. You don't say a word as you straddle him again, hands returning to their task. Now, you work your way down his body once more, beginning this time from his shoulders. Take your time kneading every enticing inch of your dear... benefactor? Friend? With benefits — a lot of benefits? 

Forget it. You’ve already told yourself you wouldn’t name it. 

Both dragging him further and further back into a state of relaxation — or something akin to it — and obliging your urge to grind against the outline of him through his pants are far more important at present.

He’s as happy as ever to feel your hands travel across his chest, your fingers combing through the hair there leisurely. Massaging built pectorals on their way to deltoids, then over pectorals again as they return to his torso proper and travel further down the length of his body, tracing lightly across bone where they pass over it. If the cascade of groans rolling out of him are anything to go by, he especially appreciates the generous amount of attention you lavish on his nipples. Predictably. As if he ever doesn’t appreciate it. Fingers tug delicately at the piercings — gentle, in contrast to the nails digging into the flesh around them and leaving shallow, crescent-shaped indents behind.

Heat rising to your cheeks, you lean down. As you lower your mouth, intentions clear as crystal, he arches his back to meet you. Eager. Willing.

The moan you pull from him the moment your lips touch his flesh makes your stomach flip. So needy.

Your tongue prods at the steel of the jewelry, teeth grazing over the pink of his areola. And, oh, does he react beautifully: gasping, squirming, hands yanking at the bedsheets in a bid to ground himself, restrain himself. His hips jerk upward, snapping to meet yours gracelessly, fixed only on chasing sensation.

It takes a great deal of effort not to admonish him for ruining the rhythm you’d set as you’re forced to adjust to his desperate bucking, to accommodate his wishes.

This is for him, after all.

It's not as though you've ever shied away from pleasing your partners in the past (and Gods, you shouldn't think of him as that, shouldn't compare them — it's too much, too intimate; it pleases the part of you that's become obsessed with him and the feel of his skin under your touch too much). The desire to control, to service for your own enjoyment, comes naturally. And prior to him, you've needed to be conscious of your actions. Of your partner's actions. Strictly avoid any contact between the lethal skin of your hands and forearms and any part of whomever you were with. Difficult to do that, at times, without the use of ropes or ties to ensure compliance.

But now you can pleasure another with nothing between your skin and theirs. Now you have the thrill of feeling the way muscle tenses and relaxes under your touch. The satisfaction of knowing how affected he is through your fingertips.

Of knowing you can offer something in return.

That you can “take care of” him as much as he has you.

Still novel. Still addictive.

It takes little time for the last illusions of a “massage” to devolve into mindless rutting, his hands finding your hips and dragging you along the way he wants, the way he likes. Selfish, happy to take every inch you’ll offer and an extra mile beside it all for good measure. A good thing this is your room you’re allowing this to happen in; you’re already soaking through your trousers, and with the delicious friction between your clit and his cock, you know the poor garment will need a thorough wash by the end of this.

Worth it, in your mind — not everyone is so fortunate as to have a beautiful man eager to get off just by humping and being humped like a stupid animal.

You’re being moved, adjusted. Lips press to your neck, wet as they kiss and suck. A tongue drags over your throat as if to distract you from how you’re being crushed against the man beneath you — forced to feel every last inch of him through layers of fabric. If you stay right there, if he keeps moving the two of you just like that, then it won’t take all that long for you —

You’re getting ahead of yourself.

Sliding off of him with legs unsteady, yanking his pants and underwear down and off is a damn struggle with how badly you’d like to ride his thigh until you’re gasping and coming. A struggle made no easier with his efforts to pull you back into his lap. But as pleasant as the idea might be…

This is about him.

Does Leander notice how your hands tremble as your fingers slide into the curls between his legs and tug lightly? The texture — so different from the straight hair on his head — both does and doesn't come as a surprise every time you feel it. The coarseness of it in comparison to the satin of the strands he so often attempts (and fails) to push out of his eyes is — well, as fascinating as every other sensation he’s gifted you the ability to experience.

It shouldn't all be so novel. You're plenty familiar with how it feels on yourself... but it's still just such a different feeling when it's someone else.

He whines your name, raising his head further upward to peer at you.

You hum, brushing your fingers through the dense hair trailing up to his navel.

"Stop teasing me, will you?"

Your lips curl into a coy smile, face warm as you meet his eye. Though you settle between his legs, kneeling on the mattress and running your hands up along the firm muscles of his calves, the hard lines of tibiae, you make no move to acknowledge what he obviously wants you to focus on. "Not sure what exactly you're asking for."

The whine he responds with is as much growl as it is whine. "I want more, just — just touch me already."

"But I am." Fingers dip into the bends of his knees. He jumps, not quite succeeding in his effort to choke back a laugh. Ticklish. Going by the flash of a scowl on his face, he doesn't appreciate the thought you might have just tucked that little fun fact away in the back of your mind.

"My cock. Need your hands on my cock. Please," he begs.

Sweet, sweet satisfaction rolls through you.

Your eyes drop from his face to the thing he so very dearly wants you to look at. 

Delicately, you wrap your fingers around his length, heavy and hot and hard and... velvety. It's... different from what you’d once imagined it might be. Different from how you’d once imagined it might be based on the texture when felt through your tongue and lips, or through your fingertips, behind the safety of bandages or gloves. It’s remained just as thrilling as everything else he has to offer. Your fingers flex around him, seeking a reaction; he obliges without hesitation, hissing and twitching. The sight of his lip, caught between his teeth when you glance up, sends waves of arousal pulsing through you.

One stroke, slow and experimental. You savor every inch your hand glides over. Admire the sliding of his foreskin down his shaft, pulled along by your grip. Another stroke, a familiar curiosity spiking as you become more aware of veins against your palm.

"Before you, I'd never..." You trail off as you release him, fingers following the lines you'd felt. Mind catching up with your mouth, you rush to add, "I mean, I had, I just — uh. With bandages or gloves or — You know?"

Leander chuckles, propping himself up on an elbow to watch you. Tremors run through his thighs; when he talks, you wonder if it's to help him maintain his composure more than anything. "So... I was your first? For this?"

Glaring is what you intend, but you can't quite fight away the flustered smile. At the sight of his lips twitching upward, you grasp the base of his dick. Firmly. Leander gasps and keens, a high, breathy sound, body going rigid and cock pulsing.

How interesting. How satisfying.

"Sorry, sorry — Just a joke. Bad joke," he grits out. You loosen your grip, stroking languidly. More massaging, exploring than aiming to give him pleasure. Still, it earns you a low groan, distinctly unlike the sound you'd pulled from him just before. Melting under your attention, his emerald eyes flick back and forth between your hand and your face. Unsure which he wants to watch more.

"Does —" you begin, halted by nerves. Anxiety demands you stay quiet; curiosity demands an answer. It's the latter that wins out. "Does it always... feel, uh... satiny?"

A laugh isn't the last thing you expected to hear, but neither is it the first thing you hoped for. Again, you squeeze. He throws his head back with a whine that goes to your head first — and straight down from there to low in your belly. "Yes, yes, it does when —" you ease up again, stroking slowly, and he stops talking in favor of panting. Well, if he's not going to answer... you suppose you'll just have to repeat the action. His abdominals jump in response to the tightened grip. "Gods — Shit — Y-you can't keep doing that."

"And why can't I, exactly?"

"Because —" Another. Just because. Your name spills from his lips with all the desperation in the world. "Come on, stop teasing me like —" Again. "Shit — I can't —"

You can't help the grin on your face; seeing him struggle like this, resisting the instinct to buck into your touch with each pass of your fingers up and down his shaft is one of the more gratifying experiences Eridia has offered you. "I haven't exactly been touching you for very long."

Leander's head snaps back up, scowling even as he jumps under your continued ministrations: a cycle of squeezing and gentle stroking he's quickly breaking under. "You've — hnn — You've been touching me for — Gods — plenty long.."

"But not like this, right? Or maybe you were grinding against the mattress that entire time?" Is it a bit sadistic of you to go on like this? Yes. Is his squirming and twitching and the pulsing of his hot, smooth skin under your fingers utterly irresistible? Yes.

He sobs, and you can't remember feeling this high before meeting him. Before letting him in your bed. "I-I needed it — Needed it, Gods, you just — Hands felt so good, made me feel so good, couldn't help it, needed it so bad, I'm sorry, fuck —"

And then you withdraw your hands entirely.

"Despondent" is the first word to come to mind when you look at Leander's lovely face. You could drink it up to the point of sickness. To the point of drowning. Pale green irises all but lost in deep black pupils, jaw slack in disbelief, brow raised in raw distress. Stunning — he's positively stunning. Broken noises leave him. Attempts at speech, you think. Failures. Beautiful, precious failures.

"Don't look at me like that when you were just begging me to stop,” you chide with a laugh.

"I didn't —" he screws his eyes shut "— I did, I just — I just —"

"Did somebody not know what he wanted?" you ask, derision dripping from every word.

He swallows, eyes trailing back and forth between your hand and your eyes, leaving only when he allows his head to fall back. “Something like that,” he concedes.

You huff, taking him in hand again and chuckling at the whines just a few strokes elicit. “At least you’re admitting it.”

Your gaze drags down his shaft, traveling further and further, down past his testicles. You bring your other hand to your face as your lips curl into a smile, licking along your fingers and coating them in saliva. Gently, you bring the digits to massage his hole — no pressure, no pushing, merely asking without words.

Leander’s breathing halts. His eyes snap wide open, meeting yours. Not a single muscle in his body moves, drawn taut with anticipation.

One finger — just one — slowly presses inside and he's breathing again. Panting, more accurately.

He's so, so tight. Tight and molten hot.

And impatient.

A strangled "Fuck —" is all the warning you get before he begins bucking, seeking both the relief of the firm grip around his length and the gentle probing inside his ass.

"Didn't I tell you to stay still earlier?" you muse, both hands falling still.

He growls, cursing, muttering something under his breath about how unfair you’re being, but reluctantly forces himself to stop moving. Obedient.

"Good. Good boy. Stay like this for me, alright?" you purr, hands beginning to move again, slow and steady. A full-body shudder tears through him at your words, the man exhaling shakily before gripping the sheets hard enough for his knuckles to turn white.

He’s cute. Sweet. Pliable, despite all the taut muscle and the clenching of his hole. His hips twitch as you slide another finger inside, a staggered breath leaving him at the intrusion.

“The — The drawer. Over there, over — Fuck — I’ll be good —” The ragged plea makes you pause.

Ah. Yes, the drawer. The same one he’s always happy to see you open and start rummaging around in, or to rummage around in himself.

Leander sighs deeply, sounding very nearly disappointed, as you withdraw your hands and slip off the mattress to oblige his request. The weight of a familiar pair of hazy green eyes is impossible to ignore as you open the drawer and examine the contents.

A nice collection consisting of everything from dildos to ropes to floggers stares back at you, a variety of “toys” collected over time by the very same man squirming behind you. Your eyes linger on implements you’re quite sure would make him scream — some sharp, some blunt, others quaintly soft like that little wand with the feathers on the end. 

None of which is what you’re looking for. This time.

It takes a moment of digging through haphazardly strewn tools and firm objects contained in silk bags, but you find what you’re looking for quickly. Or, at least, quickly enough that a certain mage doesn’t start up with pitiful whines and complaints about how you’ve left him alone for too long. 

A harness, a dildo, and a small glass bottle. All of which you’re just as well-acquainted with by now as you are with the man you intend to use the lot of it on.

Leander watches as you don the harness and adjust the toy, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as you shift and tighten the leather straps, attempting to balance your own comfort with his soon-to-be pleasure. If you take a little longer than is strictly necessary to ensure everything is fitted properly, hands trailing over your still-clothed thighs, ass, and, of course, your decidedly-unclothed cock slower than you’re certain he’d prefer, he doesn’t remark on it.

At least with your pants still on, you won’t need to worry about chafing.

Even if the wet mess between your legs is growing more uncomfortable by the minute without the distraction of something firm and hot pressed up against you.

Leander beams at you as you approach him, smile wide and eyes bright, fixed on you as you clamber onto the bed. Thick thighs part readily for you, his twitching cock just as blatant a sign of his excitement as his teeth sinking into his lower lip in anticipation. His fingers tighten around the sheets he’s been yanking at; it occurs to you that he might just tear a hole in the linen if he keeps this up. 

How annoying.

Leander waits, tense, as you pop open the bottle, green eyes locking on to the first drops of cool, thick, clear liquid as it pours from the bottle onto your fingers. Making a show of rubbing your fingers together, spreading them, flexing them well within his line of sight, you can’t help but huff a soft laugh at how intently he follows each and every movement, practically vibrating with enthusiasm as you clumsily recork the glass container. As your hand lowers between his legs again, he props himself up on his elbows in an attempt to continue watching. Not even a token effort is made to hide how badly he wants. There never is. If there’s only one thing you can be certain of when it comes to Leander, it’s that he wants you.

Nevermind the fact that you still can’t quite say why.

He tenses as two fingers slide inside him again — smoother, this time, thanks to the lubricant coating them. He fights to sit further up, to get a better angle, a better view. To see what you’re doing to him as much as he feels it. 

“Lay down.”

His eyes snap to yours, fluttering as you slowly withdraw your digits until only the tips of your fingers remain ensconced in his hole, resisting the urge to tear your gaze from his rather than observe how his rim stretches around you, how his thighs quiver with the effort it takes not to fuck himself on just two of your fingers as opposed to simply being patient. Being good.

He exhales softly, dropping back against the mattress without a word.

“Good boy,” you murmur, fingers pushing in languidly down to the final knuckle. The long, low moan and tightening of his walls around your fingers with the two simple words brings a smile to your face — one fueled by fondness as much as lust.

No need to hurry. You’re in no rush. Neither is Leander — even if his constant squirming might imply otherwise as you lazily thrust your fingers in and out of his tight little ass.

He needs the slowness. The wait. Certainly, you know he’d love it if you simply rolled him over, shoved his face in a pillow, and rammed into him as though he were the toy he so often seems to wish he was when you have him at your mercy like this. He’d love it if you told him to hold his legs up around his head so you could pound into him as though you want him dead, and listen to him babble out delirium-fueled words of gratitude and admiration. And oh, he’d absolutely adore if you made him suck you off before you even considered fucking him the way he wants, especially if you made him grovel for it after anyway.

But today, you’re helping him relax. In body, yes — but more importantly, in mind. What better way to accomplish that than taking your sweet time stroking his prostate and making him beg for just one more finger — nevermind the dildo sitting pretty between your legs, ready to be used.

“Please, please, please, please —” It’s a steady refrain, interrupted only briefly as you grant him the mercy of sinking a third digit inside him, filling him that little bit more and making his cock throb. The mindless chanting starts up again as soon as you’re dragging your fingers back out again, keeping up with the same unhurried pace you’ve so adamantly stuck to thus far.

It’s a sight, to be sure: dark gray fingers cut through with gold, shiny and wet, sinking into a pretty pink hole surrounded by pale skin tinted a rosey hue. It feels wrong. It goes against every instinct in you. Seeing your hands bare against someone else’s flesh — seeing them disappear inside someone’s body — has you on edge, ready to flee at any second should Leander’s hands abandon the sheets in favor of curling around your neck. Ready to fight — as much as you can — should those jade eyes cloud over with something other than lust.

Part of you wonders, as you slip your littlest finger inside him as well, if he’s aware of just how quickly all of this could turn tragic.

Part of you is pretty certain that’s part of the appeal of this arrangement for him.

The steady, languid drag of your fingers unwinds him, reduces begging and moaning to hushed gasps and soft whimpers, brainless little noises that speak more of genuine pleasure than some endeavor to perform and please. Eyelids droop heavily, his eyes nearly closed. Plush lips are tinted a lovely shade of red from being bitten and sucked, glistening with the saliva smeared across them. His grip on the sheets has eased up, the fabric no longer in imminent danger of being shredded. Not far from your hand, his cock remains hard, pre leaking from the tip down his shaft. Though little spasms run through him here and there, he’s mostly relaxed. At ease. 

It’s a nice sight.

With one last gratuitous look up and down his body, you pull your fingers from his hole. Blearily, he blinks and tries to focus on you, groaning weakly at the loss of sensation as you busy yourself with uncorking the bottle yet again and smearing a generous amount of liquid along the shaft of your cock.

Leander manages to look you in the eye by the time you’re pressing your tip to his entrance.

He’s plenty ready, whining as you thrust into him shallowly — testing him as much as teasing him. 

“Just…” It’s one word, and it’s all he mumbles as you work your way deeper, deeper. The mage is content to lie back and offer muted sounds of approval and pleasure, legs curling around you and locking behind your knees in a bid to keep you right where he wants you: balls deep, your eyes on him, your fingers digging into his sides, moments away from giving him (another) reason to sing your name. Your eyes flick from one place to another, taking him in; from glazed-over eyes looking back at you, to the sweat gathering on flushed skin, to the planes and curves of muscle and fat shifting as you rock into him. He’s beautiful. Objectively. Everything from the dark hair sticking to his temples, to the scar tissue slicing its way angrily up his left arm and shoulder, to the way he moves along with you, pliant and pleased and all the prettier for it. 

One could imagine he was made to be on his back like this. Doubly so when he yelps so beautifully with the first real snap of your hips.

Now, if only he didn’t have the gall to look so smug about it.

There’s nothing to be done for it — nothing other than forcing the same indignified yelp out of him as many more times as he — and his vocal cords — will allow. Previous experience tells you he’d permit you to fuck him hard enough and long enough that he’d need to limp off to Kuras for relief. Whether or not you’ll go that far tonight is mostly up to him.

Leander doesn’t fight in the slightest as you slam into him, too busy moaning and bucking, trying his damnedest to meet you thrust for thrust. Grip tightening on his hips, you glance at his hands, one buried in his hair, yanking at the smooth brown locks, and the other back at its previous task of endangering your poor sheets once more.

You have no intention of letting the man rip a hole in your bedding… 

… again.

“Touch yourself,” you order. It’s a good enough solution as any other right now. The surprise on his face alone is worth the suggestion, the mage gawking at you through strangled groans and grunts. “Now.”

As good a boy as he always endeavors to be, he’s wrapping his fingers around his dick before you can say one word more, attempting to stroke himself in sync with your movements, fighting to maintain an angle you know he likes.

“Thank you,” he pants out, “thank you, Gods, needed it so bad —” he chokes, caught off guard by a particularly harsh thrust. Not enough to shut him up again now that he’s gotten started running his mouth. “You’re so perfect, feel so good — incredible,” he rambles on, undeterred as you fuck into him harder, faster. “Always make me feel like I’m — fuck — in paradise, make —”

“Can I make you shut up again?” you snap out, failing to bite back the too-genuine laugh that follows quickly after. Damn.

Leander laughs back, only cut off by his own keening. “Shit,” he gasps, “I love this, love your dick, love what you do to me, love how you —”

You’d love to tell him to shut up. But then he’d pout and whine and do anything but — and he’d like every last second of it, so long as your focus remained on him. There’s never any winning those foolish games with him. Not really. Drawing to a tie, perhaps, but never outright winning. One of the perks of having such a nasty masochistic streak you suppose; you can never truly lose if you can find joy in the loss itself. Smarmy bastard. He’d probably find a way to get off on being murdered.

“Can’t get this from anyone else,” he groans. “Just you! I just need you —”

Bitterness rises on your tongue; you try to chase it away with a scoff between labored breaths. “Maybe I should just leave you here and go grab a drink downstairs instead.”

That gets his attention. Like a whip’s been cracked inches from his face, Leander’s attention sharpens, something harsh flaring in those mossy irises. He’s watching you watch him, eyes glued to you as though you truly might leave him here at any moment, alone, in the room he’s lending you, to go get wasted at what may as well be his bar while he — What? Sits here, crying and jacking off?

Rather pathetic mental image. But a pretty one.

The legs locked behind yours tighten like vises, and then he’s reaching up and pulling you down to him.

You jump. “Le —” One of his hands finds its way to the back of your neck, holding you in place as his mouth works at the space just below your jaw. Teeth scrape across spots he knows to be sensitive, a pointed attempt to throw you off balance. His legs relax again as your hips stutter — only enough for you to properly thrust once more while he continues stroking his cock as you’d ordered him to. 

Well-behaved. Barely.

A mirror isn’t necessary to know he’s leaving marks along your throat that’ll be evident come morning. He always does, given the opportunity — and he’s terribly adept at making opportunities to do so. It hardly matters whether he has you folded in half, incapable of uttering a sentence, or if you have him bent over and screaming; you always seem to walk away with at least some proof of what’s occurred. Funny how he manages that.

There’s no point in entertaining thoughts of being gentle with him anymore, not when he’s muffling all the pretty sounds you’re punching out of him by biting into your neck, leaving dull pain blooming wherever his teeth sink in. If he wanted you to be nice, he should have stuck to moaning like a slut rather than trying to smother you in affection you can’t be sure is even partly genuine.

Not that you expect him to complain about being used like a whore. It’d certainly be a first if he did.

Between your cock driving into his ass and his fist jerking his cock, it doesn’t take long for him to break. You suck in a breath as he comes, covering his belly and chest belly in thick white ropes and grinding back against your cock throughout his release with a melody of some of the most beautiful sounds you've heard a man make.

You lean back then, slipping from him (you respond with nothing more than a short, amused laugh at the indignant sound he makes in complaint). Weight resting mostly on your heels, you attempt to collect your thoughts, finding them drawn to your hands.

Typical.

Your wretched hands, always a threat, always something to guard and guard against, always something to hide... for once in your life, they're able to do something that doesn't cause agony. Suffering. Able to do something harmless consistently. For once in your life, you have cause to feel something other than revulsion for the appendages. You drag your gaze from Leander to your hands where they rest on his thighs, fingers trembling as they so often do after these little “sessions.”

If your heart beats any faster, if your head grows any fuzzier, you might faint. Worse, perhaps, you might cry.

Swallowing hard, you rise, ears ringing as you force your eyes back to the brunet on the bed. Leander is still panting, eyes closed, covered in sweat, (mostly) dried saliva, and his own release. Shudders run through him still, weak aftershocks that make muscle jump and breath stutter. His lips are curved into a gentle smile, the quiet signs of exhaustion he carries so heavily each and every day still present... but eased for the moment.

You should clean him up. Send him on his way. Reclaim the space he’s so generously granted you so you can sort through the mess of emotion these little “meetings” always leave you burdened with — this time more than most with the stupid, stupid shit he’s said. You've read books in which characters cleaned each other after sex. Where they took baths together. Where they talked and exchanged heartfelt words and made dramatic confessions. Where they cuddled. Tender moments of affection and connection. You took it for fiction. Fantasy. 

Previously, you'd taken the idea of ever touching someone with your bare hands as being no less fictional or fantastic.

You admonish yourself; that’s a dangerous line of thought.

Numbly, you rise from the bedside to collect the rag and carafe of water you keep on your nightstand. Intent on skipping well past whatever he might do for you as routine would demand. This routine where Leander finds his way into your room, shoulders held a little lower than they’d been just downstairs, smile a little less radiant, eyelids a little heavier, bags beneath his eyes a shade darker — letting the burden of the weight he carries show while away from the crowd. The audience.

Only for you. He only drops at least that much of his performance for you.

And you love it. His vulnerability — or whatever passes for it. You love the feel of how he comes undone beneath your touch. Love the heat of his skin and the subtle beating of his heart and the frantic thrum of his pulse. Love how he stops thinking, and simply does as you say — whether that be opening his mouth wide so you can spit in it, kneeling so you can put the silver tongue to work, or simply lying back and taking whatever you’ll give him like today.

He’ll beg for all of it, if pressed. And what else could you do other than indulge him when he begs so sweetly?

This is for him, after all. There’s no harm in it so long as it remains nothing more than that. There’s no reason to bring feelings into it. Rather, there’s plenty of reason not to, regardless of whatever honeyed bullshit he might have to spew in the heat of the moment.

Plenty of reason to clean him up and get him out. 

You step toward the nightstand —

Fingers curling tight around your wrist halt you before you’ve moved more than a foot. When you turn, brow furrowed, a sharp question on the tip of your tongue, Leander isn’t smiling.

As a matter of fact, his face is blank.

A chill runs down your spine.

How did he snap back to fully collected so quickly…?

… and what’s with that dead stare?

He sits up, pulling you close by wrist and waist. You stumble, bracing yourself with a hand on his shoulder. One broad hand slides from your waist to your lower back, herding you as close as he can get you. Corralling you, oh so carefully, and leaving you exactly zero room to do anything more than squirm. His lips part, then close again, collapsing into a frown. Fingers tighten around your wrist. Knees dig into your hips and heels into the backs of your calves as those cold emerald eyes narrow. Alarm bells ring out through your mind at how he wraps you in himself.

You were just railing the man. Somehow, this flusters you more than that ever could.

Flusters you — and scares you.

The strange expression is gone then, the chilling look in his eyes replaced with something warm and heavy and dark. “Isn’t this the part where I return the favor?” he asks, voice even, easy, but sure. It’s an offer he fully expects you to accept.

It warms you from the inside out as much as his expression just seconds ago had chilled you to the bone.

You can’t handle it.

“Not right now,” you force out, “I’ll just get you cleaned up, then send you on your —”

His handsome face twisting into a pathetic puppy-dog pout stills your tongue. You’re still processing whatever the hell that blank stare had meant, much less whatever sad, sappy expression he might fix you with next. 

Breaking eye contact is the only way to clear your mind for a moment. Your eyes focus on the small, shining dagger dangling from his ear and the autocannibalistic snake pierced by it. Your gaze trails down to the scar tissue cutting down his jaw, his neck, his chest — all the way down his arm, wrapped around your waist. "I..."

A foreign sensation against the inside of your wrist makes your whole body twitch.

Your eyes flick back to his face again: a mistake, you realize too late. Without your permission, the damned things lock onto the sight of his tongue, soft and warm, laving across your pulse point, the pink a sharp contrast to the black and gold it runs over. Lips press to the tender spot, and you choke out half a curse as teeth drag against the thin, delicate skin.

"Please?" More than hear the word, you feel it — mumbled into your palm as his lips and teeth lavish attention on the pitifully, painfully sensitive flesh. "Don't you think you deserve it?" Before you can answer, his tongue traces up along the side of your thumb.

Your heart stutters, hammering against the inside of your ribcage unevenly, an unwelcome accompaniment to the ringing in your ears and the weakness in your knees.

"I can't, you — I think I'm going to — I’ll faint," you rasp weakly.

He pauses, considering you for a moment that stretches on far too long. Finally, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, eyes narrowing. "Is that so?" You don't know whether the twinkle in his eye is merely humor or a warning sign.

Swallowing hurts with how dry your mouth has gone. "I'm — You know I'm not used to — This is — My hands — I —" Curse the way your voice keeps cracking, and curse how his tongue darts out to trace along the lines of your palm, scrambling your thoughts.

Whatever semblance of coherent thought you had left is annihilated the moment he takes the tips of your middle and ring fingers into his mouth, eyelids heavy as he lightly bites down just past the ends of your nails. Breathing turns into a labor; the room around you fades away as your focus fixes squarely on him — his mouth. Deeper, deeper his lips travel down the length of your fingers, tongue massaging the too-sensitive digits all the way. When he sucks, the heat in your cheeks flares and spreads, turning the tips of your ears all the way down to your chest nearly as crimson as your face.

Your voice is hoarse as you manage to say, "It's too much."

He releases your fingers, dragging his tongue to the very tips slowly, teasingly, until it leaves your skin entirely, a fine line of saliva all that's left to connect his mouth to your hand. The cheeky bastard is all too aware of the effect he has on you as he licks his lips, breaking the liquid thread. His smile returns, and it's a soft thing now, his cheeks turning a perfect, pretty pink as he nuzzles into your palm, evidently uncaring of the saliva he's coated it with. What gives him the right to blush when he's the one tormenting you? "You're so cute."

"And you're killing me," you say, trying (failing) to affect some degree of irritation.

Leander laughs, the sound pouring from his lips like honey. Why must he have so damned charming a laugh? Quite possibly the worst part of this is the way your traitorous fingers stroke across his cheek lightly even as he releases your wrist.

He'll be the death of you, you're sure of it.

"You're — Gods damn it, I’m so..."

"So... what?" he asks, bringing his hand to your face, thumb brushing across your lower lip.

You're bothered. You’re sick of him. He's buried himself under your skin in a way that's so pleasurable you want to not mind it at all. You resent it. Resent how sensitive you are to any and every little touch. Resent how he's taking full advantage, and looking so pleased with it all. Resent how — how reverently he looks at you, like you're something worth his time and effort. Resent how you're unsure whether to send him away — puppy eyes be damned — or —

He calls your name quietly, green eyes boring into you, demanding an answer.

"I —” Your voice cracks. Pathetic. You need to get a hold of yourself. Need to regain your footing. “Ugh, just let me —."

"You don't need to do anything else. Let me handle it from here." Pressure against your lips, a request, and they part with not a moment's hesitation; his thumb pushes into your mouth, tracing the edges of your teeth.

Why are you allowing this?

You jerk your head back, swallowing saliva that had pooled too quickly in your mouth. His hand trails down your neck, settling on your pulse as you rush to spit out, "This — all of this — is supposed to be for you. I'm trying to... to pay you back. For — For everything you've done."

Leander leans forward and pulls you down to meet him, breath cascading light as a feather over your cheek. His eyes grow soft at your words. Warm. Glowing with affection (you think — and that's a dangerous thought), disappointment that makes guilt tangle your guts into knots, sadness, and... satisfaction.

... Satisfaction?

Of course. Of course. This was what he wanted from the start: you feeling indebted to him. You’ve known that. You’ve been trying to fight it.

So why are you inclined to believe the affection, disappointment, and sadness are just as sincere as that fucking satisfaction?

His hushed voice distracts whatever warning the wiser side of you might have offered. "You don't owe me anything."

But you do. You know it.

Again, you open your mouth to argue, only to be cut off as he draws you close. Lips brushing against yours, he murmurs, "If you really feel like you need to repay me, let me have this."

Gods damn him.

You resent how much you enjoy being kissed by him; it's always felt like crossing a line. Too far. Too real. As though it might actually mean something. As though, despite the vile curse that ruins everything good in your wretched life, you might be something worthy of genuine care, not just lust or pity or whatever else it is that's driven past partners to offer time and contact.

Leander makes you feel worthy. Lips pressing softly, sweetly — heat behind it low and warm, not raging and hungry. Sometimes — often — you wonder if he doesn’t enjoy this more than sex itself. With the way he pouts and whines any time you deny him this simple pleasure, it’s hard not to get such an idea.

Demanding as he was that you allow this, he doesn't rush in the slightest. His hands smooth across your back and nape. Comforting you. Encouraging you to relax into him.

Prior to him, this kind of intimacy seemed impossible. Now, it’s… almost a staple. Something you, regrettably, have come to anticipate being offered on a regular basis. Instinct requires you to remain at least semi-detached. Ready to bolt or fight back in the event his defenses fail. Rationality reminds you that if he of all people lost control, you’d have as good a chance at escaping with your life as you would if you were staring down a Soulless while bound and gagged.

You’d be dead before you could even attempt to defend yourself. 

But you can trust Leander not to snap, right? If he can stay himself even with your fingers curling inside him down to the final knuckle, you must be able to relax around him like this as well. He might be the only person you could ever say that of.

Just him. Only him.

Why did it have to be him?

You quiver as he begins to undress you, one garment at a time, beginning with the harness you’d just put to such good use. It’s not a new experience, but it’s no less perturbing than it has been any time before. Warm hands wander across each and every inch of flesh no more than a single breath after it's exposed, lips and tongue and teeth quick to follow them. You struggle not to wither under the attention. It’s still too strange, too alien. This — This adoration. You've always been the one to control the pace, the flow. Always set rules and strictly enforced them. Largely out of necessity, granted, but you enjoy that feeling of commanding all the same. How little else have you had control of in your damned life?

He stands once you're as bare as him, turning you around. As before, he lavishes you with attention, beginning with chaste little kisses to your temple and cheek. Warmth glows in your chest; you try not to think about what that might mean.

You look at him over your shoulder when he stops for a moment, straining your neck to meet his eye. Usually, the mage doesn’t prove particularly daunting to you. He’s tall, yes, and broad, yes, but it's only ever felt worthy of noting when you've had the man at your mercy, writhing and gasping and pleading for you. It feels different with the fresh memory of that look. That cold stare that had shut you up faster than a knife to your throat could have. It’s different when the same man who’d fixed you with that stare is behind you, looking cuddly as a plush bear, his arms snaking around you in a brief, shockingly innocent embrace that leaves you shaking from the — the gentleness of it.

You are not a thing to be treated gently. Knowing that has never stopped you from craving it. And it doesn't stop you from liking it — even as a newfound fear of the man treating you so tenderly lingers, quickly rooting itself in the very marrow of your bones. 

Goosebumps chase after Leander's touch as he returns to exploring your body, easing that fear the smallest bit. You squirm as his lips travel the length of your spine, as he litters kisses and nips down over the curves of your buttock and thigh — only to give the same treatment to the other side a moment later. Thoughts run through your head as his mouth parts from your skin at your knees and he rises again, eyes drinking up every last detail of you just as thoroughly as his hands and mouth have. You’ve never let anyone touch you so freely. Your hands, certainly, have always been off limits, and that he’s seen and felt them with nothing to separate your skin from his gaze or his fingers is already far more intimate than anything else you could offer. More dangerous. A dubious honor few have ever been able to claim — and none who could claim it was offered willingly.

Yet... you shift your weight from foot to foot as you turn to him and watch him, uncertain. Uncomfortable. Around him, it's as though a layer of detachment, a degree of separation that previously offered certainty and safety has been torn away. What do you do with yourself when you're not trying to run? To hide? It's all you know.

Green eyes as soft as velvet and warm as embers meet yours. "You're stunning, you know."

"Everything save what's below the elbows, maybe," you return, following with a strained laugh.

The flat frown he fixes you sets the hairs on the back of your neck on end. It’s not hot anger that flashes in his eyes, but cool annoyance sharp as a blade. It cuts deeper than outright anger would. "I mean it. Everything about you is gorgeous — above the elbows and below." His tone has an edge to it you only hear on rare occasions — when he’s working. When he’s serious as the grave. It’s like he's almost offended you'd suggest you're anything short of flawless. Like he’s offended you’d dare to disagree with him. Almost like you’ve been testing his patience — pushing him precariously close to the point of snapping.

It doesn't mean you believe what he says. As nice as it would be, you can't delude yourself like that. Self-loathing, at least, does wonders at calming your racing heart. "If you ever see for yourself what they can do to someone, I think you'll find yourself agreeing with me," you say, voice quaking.

"Oh, I've seen what they can do..." He smiles again, cheeky this time. Back to bright and sunny and sweet in an instant. You’re not sure just how effectively it quells the unease that threatens to settle in your stomach. "I've felt what they can do, too."

"That's not —"

One hand caresses your jaw, and you stop talking as fingers sneak up to find their way into your mouth; the other busies itself with kneading your ass. Leander hums as he bends to shove his face in your shoulder, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your skin.

Gods, it's hard to think about anything at all when he starts up with the sucking and biting again, with leaving marks in your skin to serve as reminders of this very moment — the fingers stroking against your tongue help you keep it together exactly none.

Why does he have to be so slow about it? Why isn't he just... getting it over with?

Maybe you shouldn't take your time taking him apart so often. It may be that he's just getting back at you for the torture you've subjected him to time and again, the torment that he's kept coming back for over and over. That’s all this is. Just that, but reversed this time because it suits whatever whim struck him today. Just the simple, uncomplicated "arrangement" you've had until now.

...

You try very hard to believe that thought, even with the undeniably sappy look on his face when he abandons your neck and withdraws his fingers from your mouth.

He probably looks at everyone he's been in this bed with just the same way if they stick around long enough. Give him enough attention. You’re only special in that you have something he wants — whatever that may be. 

As he urges you to lay back on the bed, guiding you into taking his usual place, cool now in his absence, you’re made uncomfortably aware of just how easily he could do… quite possibly anything he pleased. Use a spell to immobilize you, silence you, render you completely and utterly helpless. Keep you pinned with brute strength alone. Wrap his fingers around your throat to either strangle you or leave a brand — his brand — burned deep into the thin, sensitive skin there over however many hickeys he’s left. It's impossible to drive these thoughts from your mind when he's pressing down on you, caressing and mouthing at every hard line and gentle curve of your body from your collar to your hip he finds. Dizzyingly reverent with each and every inch of skin his fingers or lips trail across.

He looks up at you as he kneels, pulling your legs over his shoulders with one of the most eager expressions you've ever seen on his pretty face. That alone makes arousal curl sharp as a dagger low in your belly.

"May I?" he asks. Does he really need to ask? Isn't he — Isn't he the one in charge right now?

... Is he in charge? Is he just taunting you? What the hell is going through his head right now?

"'May I..?'" you echo.

Fingers tense around your thighs. Leander swallows, glancing between your legs and back up to your face. "May I eat you out?" You tilt your head at him, eyes narrowing. Take in the details of him. Jade eyes glazed, jaw tightening and relaxing and tightening again, breathing heavy and erratic, pulse fluttering visibly in his throat. He looks... desperate. Utterly desperate.

So very unlike he did with all the emotion drained from his face.

Your tongue darts out for just a fraction of a second to wet your lips; Leander's eyes lock on to your mouth, a short, sharp breath escaping him. You can't help but find it endearing.

"What if I said no?" A test. A test you couldn't name a "correct" answer to even if you tried.

His brow furrows, as though he doesn't understand — or doesn't want to understand — the question. A ghost of that same eerie irritation from earlier passes across his features, hidden away faster than he’d managed previously behind a veneer of confusion alone. He searches your impassive face, looking for a hint as to what he's expected to say. For the answer you don't have. "But —" His expression softens back to that damned pout. "But I want to."

"That doesn't answer my question," you chide, voice light and even.

The groan you get in response makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward even with your unease, one of your hands moving to comb through his hair. You freeze as he asks, "What do you want?"

What do you want?

"Tell me what you want," he urges, words as much a plea as a thinly-veiled command, "I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want me to — just let me make you feel good. Just let me give you what you want. What you need. Please."

Silently, you regard him. Then, your hand slides into his hair, petting him like... like he's a dog. Like he's a big, sweet puppy just dying to be given any praise at all. His shaky exhalation and fluttering eyes in response to your touch is what finally forces you to sigh and admit defeat.

Gods damn him.

You can't say no when he's this adorably pathetic — and you're sure he's well aware.

You guide him forward to exactly where he's so desperate to be. "Go on. Make me feel good."

And then, he’s on you.

Strong hands yank you closer to the edge of the mattress, right to his waiting mouth. He’s lapping at you like he’s been starved for weeks the second you’re where he wants you to be. His tongue runs across your folds, flicks at your clit, dips inside you, repeats every action that draws a groan or a yelp from you. You feel his lips curl into a smile when his teeth graze across that sensitive nub and you yell. Any attempt to wriggle free, to put some distance between you and the unrelenting pleasure, is in vain. Vivid, sharp points of pain bloom under the iron grip he has on your hips. You try to stutter something out, a complaint of how it’s too damned much, but all that passes your lips are strangled moans and choked gasps.

Pulling at his hair, you try to jerk his head away; a whimper tears its way out of his throat as you succeed. His hands release you and you think you have a chance to get away — for a heartbeat. Before you can push yourself back and escape him in search of even a tiny reprieve, his forearm presses down across your hips, anchoring you in place unforgivingly.

You only manage to spit his name out once before his lips wrap around your clit and two fingers slide inside you without resistance, pumping in a quick, measured rhythm — a practiced motion that has your nails biting into his forearm. If it hurts, it does nothing to distract him. If anything, you’re sure it only serves to spur him on in his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. It’s violent, the way he’s working you. 

Swearing, spasming, you grasp for something to anchor yourself through your impending orgasm, nails scoring pink lines into his skin in your search. It doesn’t even make him flinch. With the way he sucks at your clit, there’s no mistaking that he’s trying to shove you over the edge as quickly, as harshly as he can. Like he’s trying to make this painful for you. Like this is meant at least partly as a punishment. A lesson. Like he wants you to remember this later, when your clit is still swollen and sore from just how rough he’s decided to be.

You were already worked up before his mouth was on you, on edge from arousal and fear alike. The heat builds in your lower belly with startling speed, twisting into a knot and driving you to your climax with all the kindness of a sledgehammer to the skull.

The sigh you heave as his lips part from you is sorely needed, yet only barely helps you relax with his fingers still moving inside you.

You aren’t allowed more than a moment to catch your breath before his tongue swipes across your swollen clit again.

“Shit!” You’re writhing in an instant, each slow pass of that slick, hot muscle across your clit sending jolts through you; something his breathless chuckling assures you he’s thoroughly amused by. 

“Le — Leander!” Another long draw of his tongue makes you gasp. “Fuck!” Lips curl around your clit for a second, and you shout as he gives it a single harsh suck. “Leander, fuck, fuck, fuck, please! Please, Gods — Can’t — I can’t —” He hears you. You know he hears you. He shakes with laughter as he contents himself with making you suffer beneath his touch, toying with you and making tears roll down your cheeks. Leander’s as greedy as can be, the way he keeps you pinned in place, bucking and crying out for a sliver of mercy, or kindness, or pity — anything to keep you from being driven over the edge a second time. Anything that might aid you in holding on to a shred of self-control.

You’re given no such thing. Offered no quarter. Left to writhe and choke on sounds louder than you’d like them to be. To take what you’re given. 

A pair of soft green eyes stares up at you, lit up with a delight you want to describe as predatory. A delight perfectly suited for devouring someone so thoroughly as he does you, toeing the line between heavenly and hellish. Compliance comes easily like this, after a point. Too easily. The intelligent, self-preserving part of you whispers words of caution about how obsessed he seems to be with this — with you. Obsessed with occupying every last inch of your mind he possibly can. With making sure you cannot and will not send him away.

Clingy.

He’s so Godsdamned clingy.

Clingy — and ruthless as he goes at you, his fingers curling inside you and pumping away steadily still as you squirm and cry. The second climax he drives you to hits you like a fist to the face; it leaves you disoriented, shaking — surprised, even. You hadn’t expected to be forced over the edge again so quickly.

The third is no gentler.

Nor any after that.

… is it six he stops at? Seven? You’re not sure — keeping track is rather difficult when you can barely breathe clearly, much less think clearly.

Still, he elects to have mercy, finally, pulling his lips and fingers from you and lifting his arm from your hips. In your current state, you fail to take advantage of your freedom to do more than twitch.

Warm hands smooth up and down your arms as you reel, gasping, hiccuping, and shivering against the sheets. “Easy, I’ve got you.” You find yourself pulled along with him, the world flipping, as he turns onto his back. Sweat sticks to both his skin and yours — the least sticky of the fluids you're both covered in —, but he cradles you close all the same. Even if you weren't still weak, exhausted, dazed, you doubt you'd be capable of escaping the warm cage of his arms. “Just relax. You did such a good job. Just like you always do.”

You grunt, head still hazy as though Fogfall has crept into your skull and taken up residence where gray matter should be. Arguing, while not the furthest thing from your mind, isn’t exactly your highest priority at the moment. You allow your full weight to sink into Leander, who seems nothing less than pleased with his new living blanket.

Laying there, skin buzzing where warm fingers run across it drawing shapes you can't discern, you feel safe. Secure. More than you do any other time, anyway. Your ear rests against his chest, his heart beating away behind the muscle and bone, steadier by the minute. You could fall asleep like this. Maybe even sleep truly well for the first time in recent memory. A nice, quiet, dreamless sleep. Peaceful, thanks to the watchful, loving eye of —

It's the last bit of mindless, hopeless romanticism you permit yourself before your heart clenches and drags you back to reality. "Love." What a foolish thing to dare to hope for. Gentleness. Tenderness. Affection in any form. It's already more than you'd have expected from someone. Even someone as — allegedly — kind as Leander.

Leander. The man who’s already proven himself happy enough to lie to your face when it suits him. You can be content with this. Even if it's all just an act. Just another lie. Love is best reserved for someone less…

… you. Someone less you. Someone without a curse and no future as a result, unless you somehow find a fix.

You clear your throat, willing your voice to be steady. "We're, um, both kind of a mess. I should get  —"

"I've got it!" Leander is quick, rolling you off him smoothly and rising (leaping, really) to fetch the same carafe and rag you'd meant to grab earlier. You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch him, careful to maintain a look of impassivity.

The eagerness with which he moves is unexpected. Maybe it shouldn't be. It's just common courtesy to aid someone with cleaning up after you've slept with them, after all. Something anyone should extend to a partner when said partner isn't obsessive about never — ever — being freely touched by anyone save themself. Nothing worth reading into. It only means so much to you because it’s been out of the question until him.

The bed dips under his weight when Leander returns to your side, one hand pressing lightly down on your sternum.

Whether because of your self-loathing or your discomfort with his endless array of saccharine words and actions, you don't comply with his unspoken request. "You... You really don't have to —"

He cuts you off promptly. "Just let me enjoy this part."

“It’s fine, really, I can do it —”

“I want to do this —”

“Leander,” you snap.

Silence. He stares back at you, that unnervingly blank look from before settling into his features as naturally as that smile you’re far more accustomed to seeing. You’re not sure if it’s more or less terrifying than displeasure or pity would be. If you should find it more comforting than plain anger.

Again, it vanishes, replaced by a pout so pathetic, you want to believe it’s earnest. “... Do you… want me to go…?” Leander asks, voice more fragile than you thought it capable of being.

Averting your gaze, you focus instead on the hand pressed to your chest. As though it’s safer. Jaw clenched tight, you stay still — as much as you can. Better to sit here, chest tightening under a vice grip of uncertainty and chills running up your spine. Your eyes follow his hand as it smooths across your chest, down your arm, and settles on your own hand.

Your own mottled, horrid, unquestionably cursed hand. The hand no one else alive can touch without being changed somehow.

You should answer, “yes.” Should tell him you want him gone. Now.

You try but —

A sad cracking sound, something you fear might not be your voice failing you but instead something delicate fracturing within your ribcage as you remember the cold, hard truth: you need him. 

You need him. To survive. To be safe. To feel human.

Gods, you hate that you need him.

Forcing out your next words is harder than attempting to expel water from your lungs would be. “You deserve something better.”

With a huff, as though he’s speaking to an ignorant child he can’t bring himself to be truly angry with, he leans down toward you. “I deserve what I want. And what I want is you.”

It’s sweet.

Too sweet.

Saccharine. Sickening.

That first touch of the rag to your cheek makes you flinch away, only for the fingers resting atop yours to move in favor of clutching your chin, holding you in place as Leander dabs at sweat and tears alike. 

It’s a loose grip. It roots you in place like a lead weight.

He murmurs your name. It's so calm, so even that you can do nothing but listen as he speaks. Quiet, but near-deafening to your ear nonetheless. "I won't leave you, remember?" A moment goes by, the air in your lungs heavy as stone. "I won't leave you," he repeats, "and you won't leave me... right?"

“... Right.” You don’t fight him any further. Partly because you so, so desperately want to believe what he says. Partly because you’re just too tired to argue any further. 

No moonlight illuminates the room, and in the absence of lit candles or lanterns, it's too dim to see anything beyond dark silhouettes. Muted sounds of a rainy night filter in through the latched window. Distantly, screeches of what can only be Soulless break through the nearer sounds of raindrops hitting the roof and the light foot traffic that persists at this hour even with the steady shower outside.

Difficult to care much about the muffled sounds of Soulless with your present company; his snoring is doing an excellent job of covering it up, for the most part.

Leander has spent what you imagine must have been far, far too much time at your side over the course of your recovery. Only when Nelle, the Adder "doctor" (there's no way she's a doctor; you asked once and she dodged the question. You've elected to not press the issue) is present does he leave your side. She’s… a bit testy at times, but kind enough (to you, at least). Rough around the edges, but witty — and as attentive as any medical professional ought to be. Knowledgeable about alchemy — though the slips she's made here and there have left you thinking she's more familiar with the dosing for poisoning than healing. Now that you've played enough rounds of every card game she knows (and good Gods does she know a lot of them), you're rather well-versed in how to hide a card up your sleeve or tucked into your bandages. A skill you can be trusted not to abuse, naturally.

Leander, of course, has continued to “politely request” (insist, really) you allow him to help you bathe — he's already done it so many times by now, after all. And besides: after that first night you spent wrapped up in each other, it’s not like there’s anything physical left secret between the two of you, so far as you can tell. Especially not after a number of “repeat” performances.

He helps when you need any help rubbing that ointment Nelle gave you to soothe the stiffness and lingering pain in the new scars. Even though his help is most definitely not required at this point.

He insists on sticking close to you any and every moment he can. Even going to the extent of still sharing a bed with you each night.

You'd imagined that once your injuries had healed enough for you to hobble up and down the stairs and you were capable of using your left hand again, Leander would return to sleeping... wherever it is he slept prior to your injury. Does he have his own home, somewhere in the city? Or does he just have a room here in the Wick that wasn't previously used as a rendezvous point for his one night stands and flings — somewhere he could keep personal possessions without fear of someone he'd met an hour prior swiping something valuable?

Hell if you know. As much time as you spend with the man, you still seem to know damn near nothing of tangible value about him.

Wherever he slept before, he's still sleeping here every night. In your room. In your bed. With you. Quietly cracking open the door just enough to let himself in (spare key — you haven’t said it, but you’ve sussed out it must be that after the alarm spell you’d laid on it hadn’t been set off by any magic) not long after midnight to join you has become a regular part of his routine. And yours.

Despite his (presumably) best efforts to avoid disturbing your rest, you still wake up most nights. Most nights, it’s the turning of the lock and muffled creaking of the door hinge. Others, it’s the shifting of the covers or the sudden chill when he lifts them and slips into bed with you, arms winding tight around you as he cuddles up to you.

Now, you haven't said anything about it. Neither has he. A part of you wonders if it's just an unconscious habit on his part now; you had asked him to do exactly this quite a few times while you were recovering. Admittedly, you've grown accustomed to it. The thought of the tall mage not crawling into bed with you each night is a disconcerting one by this point. You may not be fond of the snoring, but at least when you lose sleep with him beside you, it's not over the not-quite-subconscious fear of some horrifying monstrosity bursting through the window and tearing you to shreds. At least you know it's Leander, who's not going to hurt you... 

… probably.

He’s here. Constantly. There’s proof scattered throughout the room.

It's gotten to the point where you keep finding something new of his left in your room every few days. A comb. A bar of soap you haven't touched but has still shrunk little by little over time. A bottle of cologne that, upon conducting a sniff test, is definitively his. Clothing that is easily too large for you (he still hasn't asked for that brown shirt back, now that you think of it. Not even when you’ve worn it to bed with him — if anything, he seems pleased whenever he sees you wearing it).

Does he just... want the closeness? Physical and otherwise? Loneliness seems to follow him like a shadow, abating for a time when you're there, only to return in full once you've left. Is it the fact that the two of you have sex on a regular basis now? Some standard, unnotable, hormone-driven connection he can’t shake?

Or maybe it's just another piece to whatever act you're pretty sure he's putting on for you.

Suddenly, the rain seems louder.

... No, it's not. There's just nothing drowning it out now.

The snoring right behind you has stopped — a sure sign that your bedmate is awake. Even if he were half-asleep, he'd be making some noise.

You remain still. Quiet. Waiting for him to move, speak, or begin snoring again. Feeling how his breathing grows deeper, more controlled. How his fingers subtly tense against your stomach.

Leander presses his face into your hair and inhales slowly, deeply, holding the air in his lungs for a moment before slowly exhaling. It's quiet. Shaky. Fragile. Halfway to a sob toward the end, like it's taking everything in his power not to break into tears. The arms curled around you tighten the tiniest amount, hands clutching your shirt. A lifeline.

Why does he need a lifeline right now?

As you lie there, frozen in place by the shock of this unexpected moment of vulnerability, you ask yourself what you ought to do. Comfort him — or try to? Clear your throat and politely give him the opportunity to compose himself or leave? Close your eyes and pretend to be asleep until either you fall asleep, he falls asleep, or he leaves to begin his day before the sun is even up? Wouldn't he hate to be seen in a moment of weakness? You certainly would. Although…

Although, he has seen you in a moment of weakness. Well over a month of weakness, in fact. It's the reason he's even in your bed right now, clinging to you like a frightened child rather than a grown man.

Maybe this is just fair.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you move your hands over his and squeeze gently.

Every muscle in his body goes rigid, his breath hitching. Even the fine muscles in his hands are taut under your thumbs as they run across his knuckles. He's still as a statue. Turned away from him as you are, his expression is a complete mystery to you. Are his eyes wide, as they were that night he promised he wouldn't leave you after you'd shoved him back to the bed by the shoulders? Are his lips parted that way they always are when you do something he didn't anticipate?

You'd like to know.

Prying his arms loose, you turn onto your right side to face him. As you imagined, his green eyes stare back, just barely visible in the darkness, wide open and piercing through you. Likewise, his lips are open, those pearly white teeth behind them just as difficult to see as his eyes.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. None even make it to your tongue. Instead, you wrap your arms around him and tuck your chin over his shoulder. What could you say? With no idea as to what the problem is, how could you be sure you're not making it worse? Just adding to his distress?

But he's always seeking your touch. Always. He takes anything and everything you'll give him, from the smallest brush of your little finger against his, to a full embrace like this.

The breath in his chest leaves in a full sob as he finally shifts. He's curling around you, clutching you like something precious. Shaking, hanging on to you like you're the only thing keeping him together in this moment that feels brittle as glass. You can feel where he buries his face into your neck, hiding from whatever it is that woke him and drove him to look for comfort in you as you "slept."

You wonder if he's a good enough actor to fake a few tears like this.

It wouldn't be a surprise.

Your hands smooth up and down his bare back, one coming to scratch softly at the short hair just above his nape. The action earns you a whimper and the tightening of his hold.

It's the quietest breakdown you've ever witnessed. Even if you count your own. Wetness against your neck follows closely behind shuddering, silent sobs. He's choking down as much as he can. Forbidding himself from making any noise aside from small, stifled gasps for air. Forbidding himself from being too weak, to break too much even in the privacy of this locked room. Even with only you for an audience.

And you lie there as the sole witness, mouth firmly shut, not daring to say a thing. Just holding him and soothing him wordlessly. Giving him the space and time to fracture in what little safety you can provide.

How novel. You've never been able to provide safety to someone before.

But it is rather nice. Being able to handle someone gently, with care — not keeping them well beyond arm's length in fear of only bringing harm and misery. Is this normal for others? Being able to take some measure of pride, of pleasure, in simply holding someone else in a moment of need? Did your mentor ever feel like this when she held a younger, more innocent you in moments of fear and sorrow? Or was she only ever humoring you and hiding distaste behind that motherly facade she'd maintained for so, so many years?

In comparison to decades of motherly tenderness, how easy would it be to fake a short bout of distress after, presumably, a nightmare? How easy would it be for him to convince you anything he does or says or claims to feel is genuine?

Something you find yourself questioning more frequently every day that passes.

For as poignant as it is, the vulnerability doesn't last long. A few minutes, maybe. Leander pulls himself back together with little fanfare; he simply releases you and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, taking deep breaths as he collects himself.

It's his silence and lack of showmanship in the wake of it that inclines you to trust that this once — just this once — Leander's not lying. Not pretending. This small, ephemeral break in his usual persona (and you're very certain now that it is a persona, not simply him — at least not all of him, only whatever he wants people to see) might be the most genuine he's ever been with you.

He swallows, hard enough that the sound of it makes your throat hurt in sympathy. Voice soft, ragged, he admits, "I didn't think you were awake."

Should you try to dig?

Would he tell you anything if you did?

You doubt it. You choose to go a safer route: light-hearted teasing. "You might have been snoring."

It gets a disbelieving guffaw out of him. Clearing his throat, he turns his head to look at you, however effective that may be in the current lighting. "That's not — You're joking. I don't snore. Someone would've said something by now."

"I'm 'someone.' I'm saying something now," you shoot back.

He swats at you playfully, hand connecting with your upper arm with the force of a toothless puppy in a play-fight. "Someone is lying."

You snicker. "I bet the Soulless can hear you each night. Maybe you should try asking the next few you run across on your patrols before you put them down."

"No."

"Sounds like someone's afraid of —"

A hand clamps over your mouth — his right. Leander props himself up on his left, his scowl faintly visible in the darkness. "I think that's enough out of you for now. Why don't you —"

The second your tongue meets his palm, he shuts up. Another lick, followed by a bite to the inside of his middle finger, and his hand snaps away as though burned.

"'Why don't I' do what, exactly?'" you tease, sitting up.

He scoffs, but it turns to a laugh. “Why —” Another laugh puts an end to his sentence; even without a mirror or enough light to see it, he knows the heat in his face only grows deeper as laughter spills from his lips. He clears his throat and tries again. “Why don’t you try…”

He trails off, not even attempting to fumble for words, whatever witticism he might have offered lost in the dark and the rain and the warmth of your presence. Saliva left behind by your tongue grows cooler on his palm, but he finds himself more preoccupied with the lazy curl of the smile on your face he can only just make out in the dimness than the faint sensation of drying spit.

Leander reaches out, fingers gliding across your jaw and cheek. His heart flutters at how relaxed you remain as his fingertips trail from one place to another, mapping out your features not unlike you often do his. It’s a small thing, really, that you allow him to touch you like this. So small. With anyone else, it would scarcely even matter to him. Someone accepting his touch would be a given, not a novelty.

But you’re you. 

Just the fact you don’t flinch away as his knuckles run along your temple is a rush; that you don’t fight it when he grasps the back of your neck and pulls you to him feels more akin to a blessing than any sermon or talisman he’s witnessed the Senobium spit out.

And you’ve thus far chosen only to grant this particular blessing — permission to touch you, feel you, guide you — to one person. Only one.

He has no intention of allowing that to change. No one else needs to know the silkiness of your hair or the warmth of your lips. No one else deserves to know how much comfort dragging you into an embrace brings. No one else has any right to feel your breath puffing against their face as you laugh in between kisses, some smart comment forgotten as quickly as it was uttered with another brush of your lips against his.

Only him.

Only he deserves to know how much easier it is to settle again with the shape of your body against his, the remnants of a bad dream burned away by your presence alone.

You’ll allow him to be selfish with you, right?

It’s not like you have any other options that you need to know of.

And even if you did learn of them, he’s still the best choice you have — and by no small margin. And all he’s asking is that you stay close. That you trust him. 

That’s all.

Stab wounds are hell to recover from. Hardly news to you, but hardly any fun either.

The first few days prove easy enough. Either that doctor — Nelle — or Leander are there each time you wake, attending to your needs in your brief periods of consciousness. You spend most of the time sleeping, unconcerned with much of anything until the brief periods immediately after waking. It's peaceful. Calm.

You suspect, in your moments of lucidity, that the analgesic they keep giving you is the culprit for your ease more than your body demanding rest. Plenty of potential formulations — the majority — would cause drowsiness and mild euphoria as a natural side effect It’s hardly a concern. Some sedation is to be expected. Natural side effect. Or benefit. Useful in some instances — particularly when anxiety and agitation are concerns.

But you've created such formulations in the past. Administered them. Taken them yourself. You know how it should feel. And the revolting concoction you're given every few hours? It soothes your nerves far more than it should while in your system.

As much as you dislike the throbbing pain in your thigh and hand, you feel relieved when Leander shows up with a slightly different disgusting mixture early the fourth day — one that makes you drowsy, but doesn't quite knock you out less than an hour after downing it...

... while still seemingly addressing your pain just as effectively.

You consider saying something to him.

You instead choose to ask Nelle — knowing full well you may as well be asking Leander anyway. Still. It feels less dangerous than asking him directly.

It's the fourth day. You down the small bit of disgusting liquid you're given with only a minuscule degree of hesitation. "One alchemist to another, what did you use in this?" you ask the brusque woman, grimacing in distaste as you hand her the now-empty vial.

"Oh, that?" She huffs a laugh, recorking the little glass cylinder before shoving it back in her bag. "Nothing that out there. Bit lighter than the stuff you got the first day or so."

So you weren't imagining it.

Nelle continues speaking as she straightens up, her worn deck of cards back in her hands to be idly shuffled. "Probably should've just given you this one from the start, but most of the poor bastards I take care of are more likely to try bolting or gearing up for another fight as soon as I've finished up with the last stitch. Better to keep 'em asleep as much as possible." A card is dealt to you, the woman scoffing under her breath. "Idiots."

That's... a rather innocent explanation. You're not a medical professional, exactly, but you're plenty aware from first hand experience that immobilization can be paramount in properly healing an injury. For a little while.

You chew on her answer while she continues dealing the both of you a full hand. "I take it you're no stranger to fists flying at you mid-operation?"

She guffaws, graying hair flying as she throws her head back. "All the damn time! Had to stumble over to Kuras to get a tooth yanked once after a guy cracked it down to the root. Asshole."

Sounds about right.

She never actually says what ingredients she used.

If she tells Leander about your inquiry, he doesn't say a word about it to you later that day when he takes her place at your bedside. Happily, he foregoes the chair his subordinate had grumpily pulled in from somewhere else in favor of settling beside you on the bed — a place he’s increasingly comfortable occupying whether it be day or night, whether he be in full “regalia,” or stripped down to merely a shirt and trousers. Any complaint you may have raised is set aside as he produces a small lumpy bundle concealed in plain cloth. Before you can decide whether to take it and attempt to free the offering of the fabric, he's doing it for you.

Buns of some kind. Golden brown and smaller than your palm — each maybe two mouthfuls a piece — and still warm to the touch as you pluck one from the bunch. You raise an eyebrow at him, compendium entries of sedatives and poisons accompanied by diagrams and detailed explanations of the functions of the brain and body they might impact still lurking in your thoughts.

The steady smile on his face doesn't budge an inch. Perfectly calm. Placid. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he chuckles, taking one for himself. "I just thought you'd like actual meat for a change."

You bite into yours after he does his; savory sweetness coats your tongue, the crisp, fresh bread giving way to filling: a mix of fatty meat and tender vegetables swimming in a thick, spiced sauce of a green hue. Is it some kind of cheese lending the sauce that sharp, nutty taste and creamy texture — or some other “ingredient” you might be less pleased to learn of? You're not sure, but uncertainty doesn't stop the moan that tears from deep in your chest at the euphoria tasting something so delicious fills you with.

You're getting too accustomed to food that's actually palatable, not just edible.

Leander watches you with glee as you enjoy the food he's brought you. Seeing you a little more... lively than you've been the past couple days is nice. As pretty a picture as you make while resting, he'd missed actually talking to you for longer than a half hour or so at a time. Seeing you react to him. Being forced to react to you.

It doesn't take long for Nelle to switch you over to an even lighter painkiller than before. Only a few days in, she's shoving them at you. "Should help with any swelling pretty well," Nelle tells you, "I reckon it should last you at least a week. Go through it any faster than that, and you'll tear your guts to shreds." She jabs a finger to your chest, and Leander already knows what she's about to say to you. "No drinking."

You raise your hands as if to placate her, nodding along as she quickly rattles off more directions interspersed with warnings and anecdotes.

He’s there the first morning you're allowed able to venture outside your room. Once you've proven you can limp to the door and down the stairs with the aid of a cane while under his supervision and Nelle's, wincing and clenching your jaw the whole way through. Nowhere near as steady as you were before your little mishap, but you're managing. More or less.

He's hesitant to let see you out of your room again this soon. Not that he thinks you'll go running off to get stabbed again or anything. But he does worry that Vere, Mhin, Ais, Kuras the wrong person might ask questions should you run into them. Natural that the lot of them someone who knows you might worry about you, particularly while you're limping around —  but the last thing he wants is anyone taking you away advantage of your condition to get in your good graces. Additionally, he's concerned that you might aggravate your wounds. He trusts Nelle's expertise and all, but... is she sure it's safe for you to be walking again so soon?

It's easier than making sure you have someone by your side at all hours, admittedly, but —

He should stop thinking so hard about it.

There's too much to take care of today for him to spend much time with you. Some petty dispute between a few merchants that's quickly spiraling out of control. A residence that needs repairing, the elderly couple living there unable to handle it themselves. An ongoing project to deal with predicted runoff from the river during future floods. Reports of Soulless activity he'll need to arrange patrols to address. A handful of missing persons cases — predictably, none involving your assailant. Must have been a lovely guy.

At least you only seem interested in going downstairs for the time being. Plenty of eyes and ears he can trust to look after you and see to it no one tries to harm you while you recover. Keeping track of you even from the other side of Lowtown is nearly as easy as doing so from right beside you. And if any of his people raise an eyebrow at his not-so-subtle concern over you, they quickly attribute it to the obvious infatuation he's made no secret of.

It's not like it's a lie that he's fond of you. No one else has ever helped him turn his mind off for even a few minutes the way you do. No one else has carved their name into the inside of his skull the way you have — without even realizing it. Effortless. Like you were made just to plague his thoughts like this.

If only you eyed him with less suspicion.

He can deal with it; you don't trust anyone. Don't accept help without having something to bargain with first.

Except when it comes to him. Leander occupies a position no one else seems to for you, and that doesn't seem liable to change any time soon.

He should stop thinking so hard about it.

The day is a flurry of activity — one damn thing after another. Or rather, one damn thing, then another piled on top of it before the first is squared away, only for another to invite itself in on the fiasco, and more following suit.

The merchants throw fits, the civil engineer the Adderstone contracted to calculate the runoff suddenly finds some new confounding factor that's completely altered their predictions, the increase in Soulless activity might include some of Ais' unnerving "pets," which means sending patrols would (presumably) be a waste — if they truly are the demon's Soulless. And, on top of all of that, a smith is complaining about "bad copper" from her supplier, and multiple Adders are injured in some accident involving a well. Somehow.

And the missing persons cases… no one really expects even one to be solved. Pessimism is just pragmatic in such cases, much as he may hate it.

An exhaustingly average day for Leander.

At least repairs on that house are going well. However minor it may be, he'll take the win — any win, really. No guarantee he won't go insane if he doesn't.

By the time he's back in the Wet Wick, it's well past dark.

You're nowhere to be seen — though Nelle is perched at the bar, sipping on water and leafing through a book.

Hazel eyes meet his as he approaches, the heavy clink of each step only just audible over the usual clamor of the tavern. Her spine straightens before he’s within easy hearing range in the expectedly crowded tavern. "Boss."

He offers his trademark smile; hopefully this is the last time he'll need to plaster it on his face today. "I trust the day went well?"

She nods. "Your favorite alchemist's been upstairs most of the day. Got tired fast. Came back down a couple times to eat and play a round or two, but that's about it."

"That's normal, right? The fatigue?" Obviously.

But it doesn't hurt to ask.

The woman snorts, then clears her throat and takes a long drink of her water. It’s set back down on the bar with a glare leveled its way. He'd think a "doctor" would prefer water to ale. He supposes it only speaks to her primary career. "About as normal as it gets. Happens when you get a new hole poked in you." 

He knows that.

But it's different with you. You're not him. You're not an Adder.

Though going by the number of scars on you and how ragged and deep some of them look, you might be a little tougher than some of his Adders. Maybe he should test that sometime. Best to avoid needing to find out.

His smile doesn't waver. "Just looking out for my guest."

"'Guest.'" She turns from him with a scoff. Her tone doesn’t turn bitter or harsh, but lightly, cautiously teasing, as though she wants to hold her tongue but can’t quite manage it.  "Go ‘check on your guest.' Be hospitable. Just don't wake any of the neighbors. And keep it gentle — don’t want any complications when things’ve been healing so well so far."

His ears tingle with warmth. Should he correct her?

No. Better to let her think exactly what she thinks.

Besides, if you did ask to...

Well. Another day. Not while you're injured.

Leander knocks this time, calling your name and waiting. Now that you have your key back, it's not like he can use it to just barge in — and he doesn't particularly want you to know he has a spare.

Muffled swearing and shuffling answers him, lasting several minutes, followed by the screeching of wood on wood. A few thumps, devoid of rhythm, and the door handle rattles.

A glare is what meets him when the door finally opens, killing the greeting on his tongue before it can be spoken. The poisonous look only deepens as your right hand grips the cane handle tighter, wincing as you shift weight off your left leg.

"That taking some getting used to?" he asks gently, gesturing at the cane.

"What gave you that idea?" you snap, no shortage of sarcasm lacing your words. You catch the pout he gives you when you glance back up. Eyes screwing shut, you pause and take a deep breath. "Sorry. Just... frustrated. Not with you."

He offers a smile, but you don't look back at him, instead limping to the bed with a number of hushed curses. He follows behind, closing and locking the door with a quick gesture. You pause beside the bed, and it's then he notices the bowl of water set on the nightstand and the rag haphazardly dangling from the lip of the ceramic.

Leander, for his part, flops on the bed like he owns the place. Which isn't far from the truth; he is the one paying for the room. You glance at him as you prop your cane against the nightstand. For a moment, you stand there. Then, you begin to undress.

He’s seen you nude a number of times now while aiding you in bathing while your wounds closed, then continued each time your new scars have ached too fiercely for you to bend and twist to reach every inch of yourself. Got plenty of nice, long looks at you while he drew a warm, damp washcloth over your skin from head to toe with the reverence of a layman before an altar, praying for the barest shred of divine pity — knowing your unconscious form would offer none in return for his meagre offering of servitude. Knowing you, concious, would offer none.

It doesn't stop each inch of skin you reveal from making heat build low in his abdomen.

You pay no mind to his gaze as you strip, wincing periodically as you tug at your clothing. Are you just in too much discomfort to care he's watching, or are you truly unaffected by having an audience? By having him for an audience? You don't even spare him a sidelong glance as he shifts, attempting to hide his growing erection.

Gods, he's never exactly been slow to get worked up, but this is a bit much even for him. Far from surprising, now that he thinks about it; it's been too long since he’s had an opportunity to hop in bed with anyone. With you having set up residence both in this room and in his head, it's been all but impossible.

He clears his throat just as you finish fighting your shirt and it lies discarded on the floor. "Do you want some help with that?" he rasps.

Refusal jumps to your tongue quickly — he can sense it even as you bite it back.

One more vicious wince as you relinquish your waistband and sigh. Must be one of the rougher days for you. "I'd... appreciate that."

He stands and steps closer, swallowing heavily as he kneels. His fingers make short work of the closures on your boots, and he loses himself in thought as he pulls your shoes from you. Only a few inches separate his face from your groin as he lifts your legs one at a time, sparing you the effort. All it would take is leaning in, and he'd be pressing his face into you, mouthing at you through just a couple layers of fabric. Taking it slow and steady from there as he peeled the rest of your clothing from you. Kiss you, pull you close, guide you to touch him just the way he likes, to show him how to touch you just the way you like, press you to the mattress and take you, or lay back and let you take him.

He reprimands himself as he undoes the button on your pants, carefully pulling them and your underwear down; you're still healing. Even if your palm no longer requires gauze, the bandages wrapped around your thigh prove you still need time  — even if he hasn’t seen blood or discharge on them for some time when helping you change them.

But Allmother does the scent of you from this close make it difficult to focus. Would you begrudge him just a little taste? He'd behave — torturous though it may prove. He'd restrain himself from dragging his tongue across you over and over, paying special attention to any spots that make you keen his name, driving you over the edge as many times as you'll allow, and —

Your hand — the good one — finds its way to the back of his head. Fingers scratch at his scalp, gentle.

If his pants were tight before, they're becoming suffocating now. Green eyes flutter shut as he leans into your touch.

"Thank you," you murmur.

"Uh-huh," he answers cleverly. Your fingers find a spot that feels too good, too satisfying.

His fingers curl tight in cloth he still hasn't discarded. He should get up. Laugh. Make a joke to break the tension. Back off and retreat somewhere he can take care of his erection so you can get back to washing up.

Any coherent thought evaporates as you push his head closer. "Go on," you say. "But you'd best do a fine job of it."

"The — Your, uh..." Shit, he can't even speak without his lips brushing against you. Nelle didn't say you can't, but she didn't exactly say you should. It's a bad idea. Another time, when you're better, he'll happily get back down on his knees and do as you please. "Injury,” he mumbles. He opens his mouth to say more, but his mind goes fuzzy at the edges as you press him closer and his tongue inadvertently slides across bare skin. Get a grip. “Injuries. Should — Shouldn't — Don't want to aggravate —"

"Then be careful. Either that or get out."

Ice runs through his veins. His heart clenches tight, threatening to shatter under the unbearable weight of the very idea of you dismissing him.

You can't kick him out. You wouldn't. That's not — You can't. You're not allowed to.

... But what if you would, given the opportunity?

He's not willing to find out. Not when you're right here. Not when he has a chance. You see him. See through him; he knows you do. Notices the twitch of your lips downward every time he diverts conversation to avoid answering a question. Notices the restrained furrowing of your brow when his laugh grows a little too strained. Feels the smile slipping from his face in moments of fatigue he’s too sick of hiding when he's alone with you — only to be replaced by a more genuine one moments later when your fingers ghost along the back of his hand.

Because you're there. 

He can't let you discard him kick him out.

Leander drops the garment in his hands, lifting your left leg and resting it over his shoulder as he gets to work as directed. Your hand doesn't leave his head as he drags his tongue along you, savoring the taste of salt and the scent of musk and the way they purge the last shreds of hesitance from him in a rush of pure decadence. Shudders run through him at your sighs, wracking through him mercilessly until one of his hands drops to his belt, unbuckling it to relieve a fraction of the pressure. The buckle clinks, then his fingers scrabble at the button of his trousers.

"Don't you dare." Your stern command stops him dead in his tracks. "If you really want this, then focus. Focus on me."

The whine that slips from him is embarrassing, but the heat of humiliation only serves to exacerbate his "problem."

That doesn't mean he has any plans on disobeying.

Why disobey when he's not confident you won't follow through on your ultimatum? Being rejected tossed out now after finally learning what you taste like, after getting a sample of what you sound like — it's a terrifying thought. What if this is the only chance you'll offer him? What if he loses the chance to have you paint his face with your come, or to take it down his throat? What if he's just one good performance away from knowing how you'd feel hot and stretched around his cock? How you'd feel buried inside him while he sings for you like a bird, a one man choir just for you? To pretend for a moment that he can burrow under your skin and make a nice, cozy home in your marrow? To do to you what you've done to him?

There's no way he's letting the opportunity slip through his fingers. Not with how painfully pent up he is. How much he needs you. Has needed you.

Why does he need you so damn badly?

One hand clamps down on your hip, the other slipping a finger inside you — as much to hold you steady as to keep the damn things from wandering down and touching himself.

At least you don't seem to take issue with how his hips buck, pathetically seeking relief against the inside of his trousers without regard for his dignity.

His mouth works at you like his life depends on it. Tongue lapping and flicking and pushing into you, lips wrapping around you, sucking greedily, moaning into and around you as you rock your hips. His middle finger pumps into you, soon joined by his ring finger. Then the index. Then the littlest. He takes turns alternating between stretching you with the digits and allowing his tongue to delve inside you. Spreading you slowly, carefully, while you groan and gasp and pet his head. How many times has he caught himself daydreaming about exactly this when he should have been concentrating on other things? More exhausting important things? How many times has he thought of being on his knees, just like this, being of use to you? Giving you more cause to stay?

You're talking — and it's not helping his situation below the waist. "That's it. Just like that. So good for me." Every word goes straight to his cock. You have to know that, right? The effect you're having on him? An amused lilt enters your voice as you breathlessly laugh and say, "I didn't really have a chance to appreciate how lovely you look on your knees last time."

Last time...?

Ah. When he'd undressed you right after you’d gotten wounded. Your head hadn't exactly been clear at the time, had it?

It certainly sounds like it is now, though.

Fingers tighten in his hair, jerking his head back a couple inches, and he doesn’t bother trying to contain the whimper the motion tears from him. You huff a laugh. “That’s a pretty noise. Why don’t we just —” Another yank, harsher, and he’s moaning at the pain that blooms where his hair’s pulled taut. Does he ask you to keep going? To stop? Another tug, disappointingly gentle compared to the previous two. All the more so because you refuse to allow him to continue his previous work. “Up, boy.”

Fuck.

Leander’s shaking as he lowers your leg from his shoulder and rises. His mouth and chin are slick, soaked — not least of all with his own saliva; if it bothers you, you don’t let on as you take hold of his chin. Tingles spread across his skin where your fingers touch him. Your gaze meets his steadily, sharp and hot, appraising him like a piece of meat. Shivers run down his spine, intensifying as your fingers trail south, curling around his throat and squeezing gently. Teasingly. A warning, a promise that you could. 

Hope that you do stokes the already-bright fires burning in his belly and chest.

He needs this. Needs this. Needs how empty his head is right now, how easy it is to let every fatiguing thought of anything other than you slide off his brain like rain off shingles. Your touch makes things quiet for once. Makes the weariness melt away for a time. No thoughts. No worries. Just a chance to listen and worship and obey. 

Your good hand slams into his chest suddenly, pushing him back more by way of surprise than actual force. Stumbling, he catches himself just short of falling to the mattress.

You step forward gingerly, eyes dropping to your left thigh as you shift weight to that leg. A harsh hiss leaves you with the step; he twitches forward to aid you and earns a scowl for it. He’s frozen by the wordless reprimand, torn between helping and remaining still. Obedient. Good. For you.

It takes longer than he’d like — longer than both his body and soul would like — for you to reach him without the assistance of him or the cane. The scowl has mellowed, eased into something softer, sweeter, more approving.

He needs it. The approval. Your approval. Your eyes scanning him up and down, scouring him raw, picking him apart even with all of his clothes on. Needs to be taken apart piece by piece, washed clean with careful hands struck through with gleaming gold, and put back together into him. Not the facade. Not the perfect smile and quick laugh. Not the practiced lines spoken a thousand times before and a thousand times again. Him. Pure. Real.

Real — until he’s tearing himself from you, ignoring every demand of this tar-like attachment to stick to you like a tick. A parasite. Sustaining himself on the brief, beautiful moments of relief only you seem to offer. Seem to be capable of offering.

“Would you mind taking all of this —” you take the edge of his coat’s lapel between your fingers “— off?”

It’s a request. But it’s not. Not really. You fully expect him to comply.

The coat’s first, shrugged off without fanfare. You take a seat on the bed, eyes closing briefly. Your eyebrows knit, pain written in your face and body. He longs to reach out, brush his fingers along the curve of your cheek, lower his lips to the rough scar on your neck. Paint it over in deep purple as if to erase it. Do the same to every last one of the healed scars decorating your flesh — from the thin, faded ones like silvery floss embroidered into your skin, to the sunken divots marking deeper, graver wounds, to the gnarled cords of rough tissue not unlike the mountain range of disfigurement that carves its way from his cheek to his forearm. He’d drown himself in the moment in fear that it might end at any second. Drown you in him, fill you with him until he’s the only thing you can think of. No curse. No injuries. No one trying to sink a blade into you like you’re nothing more than a dumb, frail animal to be slaughtered and skinned.

At least the marks he’d leave would mean something.

That cutting gaze is back on him, your eyes narrowing; he hasn’t shed anything further. The opening of your mouth snaps him back into action before you speak, adrenaline pumping through his veins with the urge to please. The belts, the collar, the shirt, the boots, the pants, the undergarments — one after another hit the floor gracelessly. Unworthy of his attention or yours.

Leander’s first instinct, as the last of his clothing joins the pile, is to close the distance between you and him.

His second, wiser instinct is to wait. Look at you expectantly, awaiting your command.

Those beautiful eyes that haunt his thoughts and dreams soften. Examine him. Grow tender as they trace over the most obvious scar scored into his flesh before seeking out the smaller, finer ones elsewhere. Explore every nook and cranny and line and curve of him as though he’s —

As though he’s a person.

Something just as breakable as you.

He trembles under the scrutiny and he can’t say whether it’s anticipation or fear. Have you forgotten you don't just have to look? That you have another, better option than simply staring?

He swallows hard, unsure if he’s allowed to speak, but desperate to do so anyway. “You can touch me, you know.”

No response. No acknowledgement. Your fingers twitch — both those on your right hand and your left. He recognizes the wince you refuse to allow to overtake your expression. 

When your eyes meet his…

… your expression is unreadable.

A chill goes down his spine as you beckon him closer; electricity ripples across his skin; fire pops and crackles beneath it all deep, deep inside him. He steps forward, every sensation growing in intensity as the distance between you shrinks. 

You reach out with your left hand, carefully sliding your fingers along his hipbone, taking care not to flex a muscle in your still pained hand. Before you reach the curls between his legs, you pause. The glare you cast toward your hand makes him laugh — just a little. It's such a vicious look he wouldn't be surprised if your hand burst into flame.

Gently, he takes both of your hands in his. The left he brings up to his face and flattens against his cheek with care, fingers encircling your wrist to root you in place. His heart twinges at the uncomfortable clench of your jaw, but you don’t fight him. Your right hand he directs to just above his heart. Your fingertips and palm meet both smooth, unblemished skin and rough, dense scar tissue. He doesn’t release your hand, instead loosening his grip as it slides down your mottled forearm to rest in the bend of your elbow. 

Idly, he traces along the lines of gold his fingers rest on, waiting for you to make the next move while relishing in the warmth of your skin against his.

Your left hand stays anchored against his cheek as your right smooths along the contours of his chest. Cheeks turning rosy, you grope and dig your nails in, pulling a delighted little breath from him. Have you ever — No, no you haven’t. This is the first time you’ve had a chance to feel someone up like this. There’s not a doubt in his mind of that as you touch him. Surprisingly innocent. However visible the effect this intimacy may have on you, your curiosity is — mostly — pure. Simply a matter of being able to experience someone else, the warmth of another’s skin.

Such a simple pleasure. So human. And you’ve never had the luxury of it. Not once. Not before him.

It’s sad. 

You’d be content stopping here, wouldn’t you? You’d have been content with just holding his hand. Just the tiniest, simplest contact imaginable. He hopes you don’t pull away. Don’t grow too overwhelmed to continue. He’ll take anything you’ll give him. Happily. Greedily. Beg for more. Whine and wither and grovel however you like. Surely you’re well aware of that.

Or maybe not, he thinks. With how tentatively you pull at the ring threaded through his nipple, flinching away at his soft moan. His grip on your forearm and wrist tightens, preventing you from recoiling too sharply. Eyeing him warily, pupils blown wide, you tug at it again. 

Your name leaves Leander’s lips like the plea it is, drawn out long and low. One more little jerk of your wrist is all you offer before you’re moving on somewhere else, cheeks burning. He laughs lightly, swallowing down his dissatisfaction.”Don't tell me you —”

“I don't recall telling you to talk,” you interrupt.

“I don't recall you telling me not to,” he returns without thinking. Your eyes flick up to his, fortunately lit more with mirth than anger. 

“I suppose that's true.” The amusement dies again; you're tracing some old scar he's long forgotten the cause of. It must be… Gods, what? A decade old, maybe? Ancient history, for all intents and purposes. Whatever it was from, it means nothing to him now. Just one more piece added to a collection already dominated by a big, ugly centerpiece that steals the show away from all the rest, leaving every mark other than itself invisible to any viewers.

But you notice. 

You notice, and you pay it attention with a degree of reverence that makes him feel out of place. There’s no pity in your gaze, but understanding. No awe, but acknowledgement. It’s new. It’s novel. Leander allows you to touch him as you like despite how he aches for you, because he — Well, he thinks he likes this. 

He thinks he likes this quite a bit.

It’s interesting to note what you linger on. The scars, yes. The muscle, naturally. But other things… fascinate him. Fingers toy with body hair on limb and torso, trace the outlines of bone cloaked under thin layers of skin, and prod lightly at dips and curves in muscle and fat he’s never lent much thought to outside of his daily training. Light touches pave paths up and down and across his torso, arms, and thighs back and forth in some pattern he doubts even you could describe. Short, light laughter escapes him as your fingers find their way to his underarm, prompting a faint smile from you. He bites his lip as you continue on your way elsewhere, palpating flesh almost more like a physician than a lover.

“Should I have asked Kuras or Nelle if we could borrow some scalpels and forceps?” He’s joking. Mostly. 

Your eyes widen and your lips part in surprise. Recognition dawns in your eyes as a deep flush overtakes your skin. “S-sorry,” you stutter, “I shouldn’t be drawing this out. It's just — There's —” You flounder, broken syllables streaming out of your mouth. It occurs to him that he could interject, but seeing you so uncharacteristically at a loss for words is just too good to pass up. “I’d always look at illustrations in my books and trace along the lines, wondering…”

“... what it really felt like?” he finishes quietly.

You nod.

Cheekily, he asks, “Should I take it I’m an improvement on the illustrations, then?”

Your eyes narrow, and he honestly expects snark — until he recognizes the flicker of fond amusement. “Yes.”

He cringes inwardly at the breathy, giddy laugh that escapes him. The hand holding your elbow rises to instead scratch at the back of his neck. “Well, that’s — That’s good to hear!” Gods, he sounds like an adolescent boy — or maybe an overly-excited puppy that can't stop wagging its tail.

With the way he preens at your partially-bandaged thumb smoothing gingerly across his cheek, maybe “overly-excited puppy” isn’t too far off the mark.

You hum, your good hand traveling lower, lower, until it meets the coarse hair you’d stopped just short of earlier. Both of you look down simultaneously. Your fingers comb through the dark curls, unintentionally (or not?) teasing him with the gentle pulling. Were it not for the trepidation evident in your trembling fingers, he might mind it. 

Difficult to mind it when thrill surges through him at one more reminder of the fact he’s the first you’ve been able to touch like this. He’s special to you. Special in a way no one else is or can be. Right? No matter where else you might look, how many other humans are out there able to withstand your touch? How many people could stand here, allowing you to revel in something as utterly mundane and unimpressive as pubic hair of all things, without reacting just the same way as the man responsible for your latest scars? 

As patient as Leander may be, feeling your hand finally wrap around his length is nothing short of heavenly. Your throat bobs as he sighs, your cheeks growing darker. Gods, he hopes you don’t back out now. Right as you offer him a sliver of mercy. His eyes flutter, threatening to close against his wishes, but he fights the impulse. He wants to see you. Wants to sear the way your pupils dilate and your lips part, the way your breath stutters as his dick twitches in your grasp, into his memory. He wants to commit every minute detail to memory in case you never offer this closeness again.

One stroke has him shuddering with relief. He can’t help the way his grip tightens around your wrist and the other yanks at his own hair. Can’t help the miniscule buck of his hips as you keep going, keep touching him the way he desperately needs. 

“Thank you, fuck, thank you,” he moans. It’s all he can think to say. You glance up at him, a ghost of a smirk dancing on your lips.

“You can’t tell me this is enough,” you scoff.

He laughs, breathless. “It’s a start —” A hard squeeze cuts him off, ripping a whimper from him. He inhales raggedly, hand  abandoning his hair and covering yours. “Like this, fuck, please, like this —”

You oblige him, allowing him to guide you, your eyes glued to both his and your hands. Wonder and lust smolder in your darkened eyes. That beautiful flush in your cheeks spreads further. Because of him. Because of him. The hand on your wrist slides up to your shoulder within minutes, Leander hunching over you, turning into more and more of a pliant, panting mess with every smooth glide of your palm and fingers up and down his shaft. 

The feel of his own hand in what brief, private moments he could get to himself doesn’t compare to the bone deep satisfaction of yours — not even remotely. It’s not just the physical sensation. It’s not just the faint pulse of that curse of yours beating against him, a threat he finds far too enticing. It’s more than that. He doesn’t know what, exactly, but it’s more. More than he knew he needed. More than he knew he wanted. 

As good as it is, as satisfying as it is, it’s not enough. Not nearly. 

His fingers clench on your shoulder. “On the bed. Lay down...”

Conflict plays out on your face clear as day when your eyes meet his. For a second, he thinks you’ll refuse. Only a second, then you’re moving with care, situating yourself as he’s requested.

He crawls after you, slotting himself between your legs; it’s like he belongs here. Right here. His hands find your hips, his cock brushing against you makes him hot. There’s no avoiding the moment he spends grinding against you; it’s not intentional. He’s just too excited to be this close to you, not a single thing separating your skin from his. As close as he can get you without one of you sheathed inside the other.

If only he could crawl inside your ribcage or tuck you away inside his. 

That the thought even enters his mind makes him falter, unmoving as he looks down at you. Considering what in the name of the Gods it is about you that could inspire that kind of thought. You watch him. Expectant. Your good leg curling behind his knee in an almost polite indication of what you’re anticipating. He stays frozen. He needs — 

He needs —

What exactly is wrong with him? Why is he hesitating? You don’t get it; just a minute ago, he was the one eager to get on with it.

Do you say something? Do you let him take his time unwinding whatever it is that’s holding him back?

You don’t know. Every time you’ve had sex before this, you’ve been too absorbed in avoiding any contact between your hands and forearms and any part of whomever you’d found yourself with. Avoiding a fleeting, stolen moment of pleasure in your ever-tense life turning into either one more anecdote of agony or the inglorious end to your misery at the hands of a newly-minted maniac. You’ve never — never — had the opportunity to just… enjoy yourself. To lose yourself for even a moment. Vigilance is all you’ve ever known. All you’ve ever had.

And now you have the chance. Perhaps the only chance you’ll ever get.

… Why is he denying you this one moment of enjoyment? What second thoughts is he having? 

"Can I kiss you?" Leander asks suddenly, his hands on your hips turning into a vise. Bruises are sure to show tomorrow, a distant part of your mind muses idly.

A laugh escapes you, caught somewhere between flustered and bemused. Why is that at the top of his priority list right now? One second away from sinking his cock in you, and he's asking you to hold off in favor of a kiss? Really? Isn't this very room the one the barkeep formerly set aside specifically for him? For his little escapades?

He's teasing you, surely. Or maybe just trying to give you what he thinks you want. Probably teasing. You think. Fucking with you instead of fucking you either way.

You chuckle, in on this little joke of his now. "Wouldn't you rather —"

"Please. Before we — Before anything else. I need this," he interrupts, gripping you tighter. The scarcely-veiled urgency lacing his words and the tautness of his muscles takes you by surprise. This is important to him. Really important. But —

"Why?"

Pink turns to red, the color in Leander's face spreading from his cheeks up to his ears and all the way down to his chest. He's cute enough when he's a bit nervous, but right now he's nothing short of adorable. "Because I just — I-I want it more. More than — I..." Exhaling shakily, he trails off, glancing away as his hands slide from your hips to your waist, fingers relaxing, digging in, then relaxing, only to dig in again hard enough to hurt. His eyes screw shut as though he's in pain, opening seconds later with nothing short of despair gleaming in the emerald green. Then —

Then he's begging. "Please, please, please! Just once, please? Please? I-I'll do whatever you want after, I promise — anything! You don't even have to touch me. Just let me kiss you, I'm begging, I've wanted it for — Gods, so long. You have no idea how bad I've wanted it. Needed it. I'm — Just once, please?"

Stunned, your wide eyes are glued to him as he rambles, pleads, moisture welling at the corners of his eyes and voice cracking under the weight of want and —

You don't dare finish the thought. It's too much. Overwhelming. A sickeningly fuzzy little fantasy based on the story he's trying to sell you. Nothing but another lie, probably. Though...

... what if it's not?

Heat — distinct from the kind that's been building low in your belly and face — floods through your arteries directly from your heart, turning your tongue to stone as you stare up at him.

Leander leans down abruptly, a hand abandoning your waist in favor of cradling your jaw while the other bears the brunt of his weight, sinking into the uneven mattress beside your head. Taken aback, you clamp your hands onto his broad shoulders, hissing at the way the healing flesh of your injured palm shifts with the motion. 

He's trembling. This close, you can feel his breath puffing against your cheeks, uneven and erratic. Pressing his forehead to yours, those emerald eyes bore into you, half-lidded, dark, and glazed over as tears begin to fall, sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto yours. The plaintive whine that leaves him makes your spine tingle from top to bottom. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, but he doesn't dare try to close the gap between your mouth and his. When he speaks, whispering your name, he sounds... pathetic. "Please. Just once. Once. I'll get on my knees again right after, if you want. You wouldn't have to do anything, I promise, just — Just let me have this. Please. Please."

Lower, his cock slides against the wet mess between your legs. He’s hard. Harder than he was just moments ago, you're pretty sure, when no more than an inch away from being inside you.

Yes, "pathetic" is definitely the right word.

You've never had someone this completely, utterly desperate for you. Certainly not for a kiss — and especially not enough to deprive themself of outright sex. You struggle to comprehend it. He's been plenty touchy from the start, and plenty willing to encourage you to touch him in turn. Always encouraging you to go further, farther, one step at a time. "At your pace," as he'd once said.

Why not just kiss you if he wants it so badly?

Your fingers trace a line across his collar bone, up the artery in his throat, up to his lips. He shudders as your index finger trails across his lower lip, but otherwise remains still. Brow furrowing, confusion twisting your thoughts, you mutter, "Answer something for me."

"Anything."

You almost believe him. You almost want to test whether he means "anything," or if you'd still be left wondering if a word he's said to you about his motivations for going to such bafflingly extreme lengths for a complete stranger is true.

Almost.

Mouth dry as sand, fingers curling under his chin as if to hold him in place, you breathe, "What's stopping you?"

He doesn't answer right away, searching your face for something. You hold your breath. Waiting.

"I need you to want it too," he answers finally.

It's such a soft, sappy, hopeless answer that you very nearly laugh. You restrain yourself enough that you merely scoff. "I didn't take you for a romantic."

"I'm not." A beat, a glance to the side, then he amends, "I wasn't." His eyes stare into yours with something you don’t attempt to name. “You’re different.”

You frown. He's almost certainly said something like that to plenty of others.

If he hasn't, maybe he's just decided it's a great way to get whatever it is he wants from you. To further whatever long con he's pulling.

Your mentor played at endless maternal affection, unconditional love and guidance, for decades. Spent more time, money, and effort than you can imagine preparing you. Grooming you. Molding you into the perfect test subject. Cutting you down to a thing she could use. 

What's a few minutes of crocodile tears in comparison to that?

But you'd like to believe he's being honest.

You'd like to feel like someone, knowing full well just how much of a liability, a burden, a threat you are, might just be willing to choose to be stuck with you.

To choose you.

For once. Even if it's a lie. Even if you're just deluding yourself — with his help.

You try to lean upward to oblige him. But Leander stops you, the hand holding your jaw maintaining the short distance. Refusing to budge, to give you so much as a centimeter. Something hot flares in his eyes. For once, he doesn't hide it a heartbeat later. Voice raw, rough, he whispers, "I need to hear you say it. Please.”

If your heart beats any faster, you fear it might just shatter some of your ribs.

Unfortunately, you choose to risk finding out whether or not it will. "I want you to kiss me."

And then he does.

It's not a gentle thing, nor is it rough. Just... intense. Desperate — much as he has been. He's groaning, tangling his hands in your hair, pressing his chest, belly, and hips flush to yours. Pinning you in place with the weight of his body. As if afraid you might take back what you said, might push him away. As though you're one wrong move on his part from trying to escape his tongue shoving its way past your lips and tracing along your teeth. You nip at it and he whines — but doesn't stop. 

It's a kiss. 

Just a kiss. 

It's not your first, nor is it likely to be your last — assuming you don't die tomorrow. Always an imminent possibility, that. 

It's just a kiss. Nothing special — or it shouldn't be.

But have you ever felt this wanted? However many partners you've had before, however many people may have expressed some degree of interest in you, it's never been like this. Never more than a means to an end. An inconvenient one, you imagine, given you rarely felt confident enough to touch them with anything other than your mouth even with bandages or gloves on. Enough for some people — for a time. It's never felt like you were any more than a passing interest. Something novel to enjoy for a month, a week, a day, an hour. Just long enough for your idiosyncrasies to scare them off. Always well before you even considered informing them of any details regarding your "condition."

But right now, you feel like someone. Like an actual, honest-to-Gods person. Like you're more than just your curse. More than an unpleasant stain that can't be washed out.

You’ll be just as much a stain once this is over with, a detestable part of yourself reminds you. Be as hollow as before. Both you and Leander will walk away from this having gained nothing of true value.

The thought threatens to tear you apart. 

You'll deal with that pain later. When you're more affliction than human again.

For now, you rut upward against Leander, breaking away from his lips just long enough to pant out, “Inside. Now.”

It’s an order — not a request. By the short, heavy breath he releases, it’s clear he understands. One hand releases you to take hold of himself, nudging his way into you.

He doesn’t try to rush it. Doesn’t try to slam into you without reserve. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he had; you’ve grown accustomed to such treatment — from others and yourself.

No, Leander chooses to rock slowly, carefully into you, whimpering and whining all the while. His lip caught between his teeth, forehead still pressed to yours, he works himself into you with a degree of care that leaves you stunned and warm — heated deeply in both your chest and your abdomen.

This is… You don’t know what this is. You don’t know how to feel about it. It’s almost too much. Overwhelming. You want — You want to stop. Want to flee. Escape.

But fuck, you need to have this. Just once. Just once. Need to know what it’s like to be human for once. For a moment. Just a moment. After this, you can content yourself with those same restrained encounters with people who will drop you like a hot lump of coal the moment they understand just how little you trust. Just how little you have to offer.

His hands find yours, fingers twining together and pinning you, anchoring you. The sound you make when he bottoms out is mortifying, but your pride hardly matters in this moment. It’s — It’s too much. But you need it. Whimpers escape you as much as Leander, the rawness of the moment getting to you in a way little else can.

A pause, long and heavy as you both still.

Then he’s moving.

It’s the handholding, you think. That’s what has you fraying at the seams, all thought ceasing in the cascade of emotion you both revel in and reel from. You’ve dissected and vivisected an array of creatures under your late mentor’s guidance; is this how those creatures felt as you took them apart? As you poked and prodded?

No. Certainly not. Such creatures were surely wiser than you; they wouldn’t have enjoyed being peeled open and seen for what they were. Whatever you feel in this instant, it’s nothing like what they might have.

Lips press against the corner of your mouth, messy and uncoordinated. Trail a path to your chin, your jaw, your —

The scar. A tongue, hot and wet, drags the length of it, bringing to the forefront of your mind the flash of a memory that man you’d dispatched had left. The searing pain of his fingernails sharp and desperate against your throat that had gone unnoticed in the wake of the white hot pain of the split in your palm and the visceral agony of the blade he’d buried in your thigh. All three mostly-healed injuries throb painfully at the recollection forced upon you.

Leander’s lips latch onto your neck, purposefully covering that mark you wish you weren’t thinking of. The way he sucks at it, teeth threatening to dig in, intent evident, fragments you. You hate it. Hate how it makes you feel. Hate how you need it down to your marrow. You’re exposed. The weakest, tenderest parts of you, the most easily injured, bared before someone you’re not even certain you can trust. 

But you can’t stop him. You don’t want to. You’re not sure you could if you did, but you’re not sure you couldn’t either. Not sure he wouldn’t fold in an instant if you demanded it of him.

You — both of you — are a mess. You know you were in control at the start of this. Leander’d been too needy, too obvious. He’d crumbled easily, readily, waiting for nothing more than your command. 

But now? Now, you don’t know. Are you controlling this? Is he? Or is he just as lost as you are in the moment?

Then again, why would he be? It’s not as though you haven’t heard of his promiscuity… not that you’re judging. You’ve hardly been one to engage in anything beyond one night stands and brief, ultimately meaningless flings. The choice for anything else has rarely — if ever — presented itself.

You don’t dare hope for a heartbeat that this may be any different in the end.

But you do allow yourself to enjoy this for what it is: perhaps the one and only instance in which you’ll feel even the illusion of real, genuine connection with another person.

You can’t say how often Leander’s mouth moves, dragging across your throat and shoulders and chest like it matters that you walk away from this covered in evidence that this happened. That this was real. Is real. Like it’s important that when you next look in a mirror, or someone next looks at you, it’s clear: someone was here. Someone saw your history of pain and suffering and misery and chose not to reject you, but to take every last hint of pain you might have felt and make it into something you could enjoy. Appreciate. To take it and make it not a hundred undeniable marks of pain, but a hundred marks of — 

You can’t think it. Not even in this haze. Not even as you keen alongside Leander.

It’s too dangerous.

But Gods does the repressed thought of it pull at your heartstrings. Make you weak and vulnerable and — 

And it’s too fast, but you’re arching your back and choking on sounds you don’t want to make — until they break free anyway, and you relinquish any illusion of control, of reticence, of distrust, and just allow yourself to float in the delightful, unknown sea of… dare you say, freedom.

Whatever collar Leander’s slipped around your neck, whatever leash he’s clipped to it, you feel free. You feel safe. You feel like you could fall a thousand —  a million feet, and still find yourself landing upon clouds.

It’s hard to say what happens once you reach that peak; it’s too easy to get lost in, to linger on. It’s unlike anything you’ve experienced before, and you know with no shortage of despair: you will never know this again with anyone else.

But at least you’ve known it once.

You scarcely recognize when he finishes. Scarcely realize he’s pulling out save for the sudden, depressing emptiness left in his wake. Your heart seizes at the realization: it’s over. All of it. The feeling of belonging. The fantasy of being wanted. Of being seen for the horrid, detestable thing you are and accepted. Not just settled for, but chosen.

You’ll never have this with anyone else ever again.

Gentle hands pull at the bandages wound around your thigh.

You hadn’t even realized you’d closed your eyes. It’s only when you force them open, staring disbelievingly as Leander drags a washcloth (a washcloth that shouldn’t be so comfortably warm, but is) across the not-quite-healed hole in your thigh. Across the mess between your legs. Across every part of you, guiding you up and around and this way and that with more affection than you have any right to. You’re cleaned with a diligence you couldn’t have guessed anyone would extend to you in the aftermath of getting what they want —  much less without your asking it. 

Tears build in your eyes, fueled by whatever ridiculous, loathsome impulses biology demands, and by a quiet, starving desire for exactly this. This lo — 

No. Don’t you dare —  not for a second. You know better. You know better.

You fight them back, eyes shut tight as you’re cleansed, made clean, made pure. Treated with gentleness not even priests could offer.

You are not a thing to be treated gently.

Leander doesn’t seem to care.

Even if you would like to, you can’t extend the offer to return the favor as he finishes cleaning you up. Your throat is too tight, your muscles too tight, your everything too tight. Bandages are wound around your thigh. Fresh. Sterile. As clean as you.

How quickly does time pass? How slowly does time pass? You don’t know. You couldn’t possibly say.

But soon, as always, his arms wind around you, pulling you close to him. Chest to chest, hips to hips, legs twining with yours. Leander buries his nose in your hair and inhales slowly, deeply, holding the air in his lungs for a moment before exhaling. It's quiet. Peaceful. Contented. Like he's truly at ease for the first time in years. The arms curled around you remain loose, relaxed. Large hands smooth up and down your back, attempting to lull you into the narrow space between wakefulness and unconsciousness.

It's honestly not that new.

You could almost pretend tonight never happened.

Despite everything, despite all he’s said, despite all you’ve felt and thought, despite the fingers tenderly running across your skin, suddenly the space inside your ribcage feels hollow. Fight it though you may, heat and tears continue to build in your eyes.

You have plenty of experience staying quiet and still while crying. It's been necessary to survive the raw deal you call your life.

Tonight likely meant nothing to him. How can you believe it might have been anything other than just sex and sex alone when you can't be sure he's telling you the truth any other time? When you're stuck constantly doubting his kindness, questioning whether he's just trying to train you to stay in a cage with the door left wide open? You know he's hiding something. Everyone in Eridia is. He's just good at directing any skepticism elsewhere. It's only rational to doubt.

Maybe it's better if it means nothing. Easier. In this city, you can't trust anyone — especially not the man handing you one thing after another, necessity and luxury alike, on a silver-plated platter, while asking for nothing more than “you.” 

It's safer that way.

In just a few short hours, Leander will rise for the day. He'll carefully extricate himself from you, doing his best to avoid disturbing you. He'll stretch and groan after he climbs out of bed. He'll be sure to tuck the covers around you enough that the chill of the pre-dawn air doesn't reach your skin before quietly preparing for the day ahead. Then he'll leave, locking the door behind him with either the spare key you know he must have or some spell you have no doubt he's capable of casting without a word.

Not much different from yesterday, really.

You tell yourself you'll feel less empty when the sun is up.

You've never been particularly good at lying to yourself.

---

Sleep doesn't come easily. The ache in your chest forbids it, and you spend the majority of the remaining time before Leander wakes exhausted and distressed. Tossing and turning as much as his hold will allow, you finally wind up curled in on yourself facing away from him. The only sounds that reach your ears are the snoring of the man behind you and the distant howling of things you'd rather not think too hard on, muffled behind the glass pane soon-to-die moonlight filters through. Lying there, unmoving, tears running from your eyes, brings forth memories of hiding in dark, dirty, hostile places while things and people seeking your blood or your scant money and belongings pace just out of sight.

It's miserable.

You never should have let things get this far. You never should have asked him to stay that first night of recovering from your injuries. You never should have accepted the free room and board in the first place. 

You never should have come to Eridia.

You try to continue feigning unconsciousness when Leander stirs, groaning softly. Any second now, he'll leave. And then, if you still feel empty, you can cry without an audience.

His grip on you doesn't loosen.

In fact, he holds you more tightly. Securely. He hums into your shoulder, lips pressing the lightest of kisses to the bare skin.

Does he know you're awake?

If he does, he says nothing. He sighs softly into your hair, squeezing you as he lingers, refusing to just follow his usual routine and simply get on with his day. Refusing to just be considerate of your false-sleep. Like it's more important that he take his time lying here, cuddling, than that he just go.

Gods, you're even more pathetic than he was a few hours ago.

It's a relief and a disappointment when he finally pulls away from you. As careful as ever in every touch and shift as he pulls away, attempting to avoid disturbing your "sleep." Immediately, you miss the gentle heat of his body. It's fine. You'll get used to it. It’s too new a sensation for the absence to kill you… you think. 

Behind you, he begins wringing out the stiffness sleep has left in his muscles, cracking his neck and knuckles in the process — the only loud sound (no louder than his snoring — not that he'd know) he’s ever allowed himself in the mornings he’s woken beside you. Covers shift as he tucks them around you, the worst of the chill barricaded by the soft sheets and plush blankets. He'll turn around now and begin pulling on his clothes and accessories one item at a —

A hand gently tilts your head. Lips brush delicately against your cheek, right on the small stream of tears you hadn't wiped away.

There's a pause. 

A long, suffocating moment in which nothing happens.

And then, there's the slow, delicate press of lips against your other cheek, your forehead, your eyelids. Painfully, confusingly gentle. Intentional. Sweet. There's not a doubt in your mind he can feel the tightening of your jaw or the twitching of your mouth when he kisses your lips, making no effort to deepen it.

A soft scoff leaves him when he pulls away. An admonishment, you think — but not of you. "I'm sorry I can't stay in bed any longer," Leander murmurs. "I'll make it up to you later, okay? I promise."

Your mind is now far more empty than your ribcage.

With that, the warmth of his skin is gone. As always, he prepares for the day —  finishing with pulling on his clothes and accessories one item at a time.

You wake surrounded by only warmth and softness, the world half as dark beyond your eyelids as behind them, illuminated solely by pale moonlight.

You feel like hell.

Lying there in the dark, motionless, you take stock of how hellish you feel. Dull pain in your thigh, like the worst bruise you've ever had. A lesser version of it throbs in your left hand, turning into a vivid, lancing thing you regret having felt when you try to curl your fingers into a fist. The ache in your head is faint in comparison, barely noteworthy. Chapped lips and a dry mouth come to your attention as you swallow, and the tight clenching of your stomach shortly after.

Injured, in pain, dehydrated, and starving.

Isn't your life just grand?

You shift, groaning and grimacing with each movement as you force yourself to sit up and lean back against the headboard. Maybe one day, you'll be able to stop worrying about getting stabbed, strangled, or otherwise almost-murdered on a regular basis.

Probably not any day soon.

But at least you're safe for the time being. Safe, in a bed, after having received actual medical treatment. Vastly preferable to improvised bandages, rickety splints forged from driftwood or rotting sticks, and some woefully inadequate concoction you managed to whip up in a frenzy with whatever paltry ingredients might be available to you that you pray will ward off poison and infection alike.

When was the last time you felt safe while this vulnerable?

Not since you were a child, at least. Back when your mentor made an effort of treating you well. Years ago, when she'd read alchemical and arcane compendiums aloud to you and run her fingers through your hair when you fell ill. Memories of her voice, refined (snobby, truthfully) and wise (stuck-up, truthfully), play so clearly in your head you could almost pretend she was sitting next to you. Recollections of looking up at her from where your head rested on her lap threaten to yank the corners of your mouth upward.

The comforting image of her smile is dashed to pieces as the fonder, warmer memories melt away, elements of her loving, maternal demeanor twisting to resemble more closely that of her final moments: her face contorted in pure outrage, her voice shrill and ragged — then silent, save for sickening gurgles and choking as her face went slack with shock. As she'd stumbled back, the knife lodged in her neck had stayed rooted in place, crimson spurting out around it as she fell.

She's the only person you've ever killed who had the sanity left to be stopped by one good stab. The only one whose mind was intact enough to actually feel the pain.

Or maybe you just need to find a way to talk Mhin into training you to be a fraction as deadly as they are with a dagger to get the same ruthlessly efficient results they do with the crazed victims of your ailment. That sort of lethality could save your life.

Not that you'd ever take advantage of that.

You have to look down at your hands, bare now save for the soft, clean cotton wrapped carefully around one palm, to assure yourself they aren't covered in the blood-soaked fabric of earlier. The sight of your naked arms unnerves you. But they're clean. No blood, no dirt. Nothing. Perfectly clean.

All of you, actually, feels clean.

Well that's... not a bad thing, exactly. Still, you're not sure what to think of having evidently been bathed while unconscious. Presumably by Leander.

... Hm.

How should you feel about that?

It's then that you notice your state of dress: not naked.

You pinch the fabric of the oversized brown shirt you're wearing between two fingers in confusion. Where did this come from? Leander, most likely. It's certainly not yours. Though you suppose given how soft it is, you can't complain too much. Doubly so with how that ghastly chill left behind in the absence of a concerning amount of your blood still hasn't fully abated.

Your eyes drag down the length of the bed; interestingly, there isn't any blood. Not even a drop, actually. As you look closer, you realize these aren't the same covers you'd been using. They're new. New to you, at least. Clean. Warmer than your old ones, you think, though you're not exactly in the greatest state to draw comparisons.

Now if only your head wasn't pounding, your stomach growling, and your wounds aching. Maybe you can fix some of that?

Muffled voices and movement below — a sound you've become so accustomed to — confirm that the tavern is still very much open. If you were to stumble to the door and open it, would you be able to make your way down the stairs without tripping and eating wooden plank?

Doubtful.

Still... you need food and water. Relatively soon. Now that you've been awake for a few minutes, both needs gnaw at you from inside like desperate rats, impossible to ignore.

But it would royally suck to survive getting stabbed only to die from falling and smacking your head against wood floor not long after.

You sit there deliberating, weighing the risks and benefits of walking downstairs. Crawling might be safer. Though, your dignity would go out the window the moment anyone (everyone, realistically) noticed you. Is there something you could use to stabilize yourself in here? A cane, a walking stick — anything?

What are you even thinking? A walking stick? This is Leander's old hook-up room; why the hell would he keep something like that in here?

As if summoned by the mere thought of his name, the door opens slowly, quietly, in an effort to avoid waking the room's sole occupant. Once the door is open just wide enough, a tall figure squeezes through and shuts it behind them.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but as soon as they do, Leander is at your side in a flash, lighting the candles with a simple gesture on the way. He's missing his coat. Strange to see him without it. Why —?

Right, you did kind of bleed on him, didn't you? Thankfully, the bright smile on his face suggests it's not a matter he'll hold against you. All he seems to be concerned with is kneeling beside the bed and taking your hands into his carefully, holding them as though they're something impossibly precious as opposed to the wretched, nightmarish abominations they truly are.

However much caution he may be taking to hide it, you still notice: he's trembling.

"You're awake!" Your heart flutters at the relief in his voice; you can't recall someone ever being so glad to see you conscious. "It's been a few hours. I know you needed the rest, and Nelle said you'd be out for a while, but I kept checking on you anyway — just in case you woke up. Didn't want you to be alone too long, you know? I was just —" Seeming to realize he's rambling, he cuts himself off to scan you from the head down, eyes dragging slowly over the brown garment hanging on you with something hot stirring in the green.

Whatever it is, it disappears as he examines your injured hand cradled in his. He looks back to your face, pressing your good hand to his cheek. He's so warm. "Nevermind. How do you feel? Are you in pain? Are you cold? Do you need anything? Just tell me and I'll get it for you. Anything."

The flurry of questions — all centered on your well-being exclusively — overwhelms you. Even on the odd occasions you have had the luxury of being taken care of when injured or ill without your deceased mentor around, it was strictly business. A matter of you having paid someone for a service and that service being rendered. Nothing more.

Kuras may have broken that streak with his resolute principles as a doctor and willingness to work for free, but that wasn't exactly personal concern for you. Someone being genuinely concerned for your health — yours specifically — no money involved whatsoever? Out of simple attachment to you as an individual?

That's new. New enough you hesitate to trust his sincerity...

... which isn't new.

"Uh..." Shyness spurred by his unwavering, affectionate focus makes it difficult to think — not to mention the headache still hammering at the inside of your skull. Voice rough, scratchy with dryness, you mumble, "I'm... Yeah, there's some pain. Um, lot of it, honestly. And it's kinda chilly. And —" growling from your midsection briefly interjects  "— I'm a little hungry. Little thirsty."

Before the last word has fully left your mouth, he's standing, striding to the other side of the room to grab a carafe of water and the glass next to it off the desk, only to be back at your side in seconds. After filling the glass and setting the carafe on the nightstand, he sits beside you, slipping an arm behind your upper back and bringing the glass to your lips.

The proximity and the intimacy of the action causes some small amount of heat to rise to your face. "I, uh. I can hold that myself," you laugh weakly, reaching your good hand up to take the water from him, attempting to quell the mild tremors running through it.

Leander only smiles at you. "Can you?" He glances at your hand and back to your face, but makes no move to pull away. Just waits, looking at you expectantly.

Gods help you, you're not sure whether to feel grateful or indignant.

Choking down your pride, you lean forward. He tilts the glass as you drink, watching closely as your throat bobs with each swallow. Utter bliss is all you feel when the first drop of cool, fresh water hits your tongue — colder than you'd have expected. Colder than it should be. Not that you're complaining. Probably just a simple spell to chill it.

Peering from the corner of your eye, you can see the rosy hue that settles in your "nurse's" cheeks. When you pull away and he rights the glass, you catch the narrow parting of his lips and minute widening of his eyes as a couple drops escape the corner of your mouth and run down your chin, your neck, disappearing under the brown cotton shirt.

It's silent. Neither of you says a word as you turn from him and wipe at the trail left by the errant drops.

Leander sucks in a breath and rises abruptly. Clearing his throat, he makes for a dresser to rummage around in; he only remembers to set the glass on the nightstand halfway there, doubling back to do so with his face burning, tips of his ears a bright red. He nearly trips when he turns around and walks away again.

After several minutes of digging around in drawers stuffed full of bedding and whatever else it is he'd kept stashed there before you took up residence (is that... rope? And what's in those bottles — Oh. Ohhh. Maybe he does keep a cane in here after all), he's draped two more blankets over you. "I can get another, if you'd like," he offers. "There's a few more in there. Bit old, but plenty warm — and perfectly clean, I promise!"

A tiny, tiny seed of doubt sprouts in your mind with that last part, particularly given that he feels the need to mention it.

"I think this is fine. For now, I mean." Being fretted over is so awkward, so alien to you, a long moment passes before you remember to say, "Thank you."

"Yeah! Yeah. Yeah, of course," he chuckles. He brushes an errant lock of hair out of your face, fingers playing with the ends too long for you to pretend you don't see the tender expression he wears. It's hidden behind that mask of easy charm the second your gazes meet again. "I'll be right back. You just stay there and try to relax, alright?"

You nod, then watch him leave in a hurry.

It's... odd.

This. All of this. It's all odd. It feels like some fantastic dream. Did you pass out from blood loss in that alley? Did the stranger kill you and now you're experiencing one final, immensely gratuitous hallucination of being comforted and cared for by a beautiful man with the means to provide prompt medical treatment, comfortable living conditions, potable water, and food that doesn't taste of swamp water or ash? Of being safe for once?

Somehow, you doubt you'd feel this wholly shit on every physical level if you were passed out, an inch from death. Severe blood loss would've sufficiently numbed the pain by now if that were the case.

You stare up at the ceiling. This is reality. This is your reality. Your reality, where you get stabbed by some random lowlife in a dingy alley, kill said lowlife, then get babied by one of the most socially powerful and magically-gifted men in Eridia after he promises to cover up your crime.

What is it Leander sees in you that drives him to go to these lengths for you?

You think of the utter joy on his face as he crouched beside you. The subtle shaking of his hands. The rapid-fire questions. How the first reaction he had to finding you injured, alone with a corpse you'd clearly been responsible for, was to check you for injuries and pointedly ignore the carcass like nothing more than distasteful scenery. How he came looking for you in the first place.

The only other person to ever come looking for you out of personal interest intended to lock you in a cage and treat you as a lab rat.

Eyes darting throughout the room, you take note of a number of details. Clothes you'd left neatly folded on the dresser, materials of a higher quality than you've ever been accustomed to — paid for by none other than Leander. A small collection of jewelry beside it, bracelets and necklaces and earrings — no rings, given how you cover your hands at all times. Also courtesy of the mage.

The carafe and glass sitting on the nightstand to your right, well within your reach, droplets condensing on the sides telling of the cold temperature of the water within. The soft, cozy layers that allow you to finally feel warmth seeping back into your bones.

The window, closed but still unlatched from when you opened it this morning. The door left slightly ajar, forgotten by Leander in his flustered haste.

Cages can take many forms.

Do you dare believe he's been honest every time he's claimed he can't stop thinking about you? That all of his consideration and saccharine promises and little (sometimes not-so-little) gifts are driven not only by some fascination with your curse, but also by some inexplicable crush he has? On you? You? While knowing of your curse? A crush spontaneously developed within a day of meeting you?

If that's the truth — half of it, even — you should probably be even more worried than if he's only interested in using you.

With the way your life has been, though...?

...

Honestly, maybe you deserve to be doted on. Even if only for a little while. Maybe you can force yourself to relax and enjoy it. Just for the time being.

Especially when your (potentially sincere?) admirer returns, flashing you a smile as he deposits a plate filled with some of the Wick's modest fare (though maybe that's a generous way to describe it) on your nightstand. Modest or not, nut leather is still food. Again, he settles on the bed at your side, a small vial in hand. Uncorking it, he offers an apologetic smile. "Same stuff as earlier."

Great. Maybe it'll taste less rancid the second time...?

You expect to be handed the tiny vial. To your surprise (and you scold yourself for your surprise; have you forgotten about the water just minutes ago?), he takes hold of your chin in his free hand before he presses the vial to your lips.

"If you're trying to distract me from how vile this smells," you mutter, lips twitching at the unintentional pun, "I'm afraid to inform you it's not working."

He laughs. Bastard. "Well, it was worth a try anyway."

He doesn't release you. His hold isn't exactly a vise grip; it's quite gentle, in truth. You could move away easily.

You don't.

No, you allow him to tilt your chin up. When he says, "Down the hatch!" in a voice far too chipper for your impending ordeal, you open your mouth and suppress the immediate and violent urge to spit out the nasty, bitter liquid that flows into your mouth and down your throat.

Pain might just be preferable to this absolutely horrid shit.

Leander still doesn't release you, his thumb running over the very edge of your lower lip. Toeing the line between "touchy" and "sensual" by mere millimeters. Or maybe crossing it — you've gotten so used to his handsiness it's difficult to tell. You might like it more if you weren't fighting a grimace.

When your tongue subconsciously darts out to collect the remnants of the revolting concoction, he retracts his hand with a bashful laugh. You'd go so far as to call it a giggle.

"Ugh." At least you know it'll work; it certainly tastes like the same medicine as earlier. The memories of the first dose of this poison are foggy, but you vividly recall this exact terrible taste. You eye the water again, but decide against requesting another drink. Even if a part of you is enjoying the whole "being pampered" thing, you'd prefer not to give Leander much more cause to get... excited. Nor do you want to grow too accustomed to this treatment. You've no guarantee the rug won't be pulled out from under you at any time, any place, for any reason.

But you do want this damned taste out of your mouth.

"Would you mind passing me that plate?" you request.

The empty vial is replaced in an instant with the plate, which — yes, that's nut leather. A few other, more appetizing offerings sit alongside it: bread, cheese, dried fruit, some small pastry you're willing to bet didn't come out of the tavern's kitchen. It's simple, most of it. But it's food, and it's substantially more than you'd have if you were handling the aftermath of your stabbing alone.

Dutifully, he holds the plate as you eat, chatting idly about some mundane matters to take your mind off of your immediate problems. Random little things his Adders had reported. Some of the wares he'd seen while patrolling the market yesterday. A joke he heard downstairs while you were asleep. A review of some tea he'd tried yesterday — not the best that particular stall has to offer, allegedly, but he'll take you there to try it yourself sometime if you'd like.

Time passes quickly. The food is gone before long, and your eyelids are slowly growing heavier as your pain grows duller.

Leander sets the plate aside and fidgets with the cuff of his glove, the conversation dying as you struggle not to pass out. You don't miss the huff of laughter as you yawn, scowling at him after. Standing, he begins to speak. "It's late, so I'll just let you get some rest. You need it, after all. I'll keep checking in on you every now and again. Just to see if you need me."

Your lips quirk upward. Easy to be grateful when you're so much more comfortable than you were about an hour ago. "Thanks, Leander."

"Of course! Wouldn't do for me to leave you to lie there and suffer, would it?" Reaching for your hand again, he gives it a gentle squeeze. "Good night. Sleep well."

Collecting the plate, he moves to the door.

Muffled alarms ring in your head suddenly as he walks away, the thought of falling asleep alone while injured unnerving. Recollections of more nights — and days — than you care for of you curled up, isolated, too terrified to let sleep take you in case you didn't wake again by will of blood loss or infection or some asshole come to finish you off, force their way to the front of your mind. You don't want to be alone. For the first time in a long time, you have someone who cares (or pretends to, at minimum) within reach while you're vulnerable. Someone you can trust in this state (for now). For once, you have an opportunity to ask —

"Can you stay?"

Leander's gaze is on you in a heartbeat, the man frozen in place. He blinks. Once, twice. Then he's grinning wide, face flushed as he hurriedly locks the door and returns to your side. "Of course. Anything you want."

You remember how warm he'd felt when he held your hand to his cheek. Even with the covers, the thought of having that same heat curled around you is nothing short of heavenly. Heart beating fast, you scoot over, clenching your teeth as your still-fresh wounds protest the movement, pain breaking through the barrier of the foul-tasting analgesic. Lifting the covers without saying a word to indicate what it is you want, you wait.

Giddy, eager, he's throwing that plate on the nightstand again and removing everything save his shirt, trousers, and belt (at least, the one wrapped around his waist) quick enough that his fingers fumble on the buckles. One item after another, they're tossed carelessly to the floor. Then he's sliding into bed with you (you try not to linger on that statement), settling on his side. Facing you. Just enough space left between the two of you to make it clear that he won't crowd you unless you want him to.

You shuffle closer, wincing at the pain and refusing to meet his eye as you tentatively situate yourself as comfortably as you can without exacerbating the twinging in your thigh and hand. Your breath catches as his arms embrace you, pulling you flush against him and caging you in place.

Cuddling wasn't exactly what you were betting the night would involve when you woke, but Leander seems awfully content to indulge your change of plan to the fullest extent. Content, and very, very warm. Delightfully so. Large hands smooth up and down your back, lulling you into the narrow space between wakefulness and unconsciousness. You nuzzle into his chest, enticed more by the heat he radiates than anything else you might admire were you more alert.

... Were you more alert, you might take note of how Leander struggles to stay still.

Having you in his arms this way is a dream and a test of his restraint. You don't need to know he held you like this just a few hours ago — only for an hour or so, nothing that wild. It's just...

You were so cold. And it's not as though he did anything untoward. Of course not. He'd never do something like that to you regardless of how tempting you may be in that state. Especially while you're injured as you are; it wouldn't do to ruin that shapely thigh or beautiful hand of yours.

Even if you do look so, so perfect like this with your guard down, all loose, relaxed. So unlike when you're awake. Always tense, ready to run, ready to fight. Pretty eyes darting this way and that, never simply looking — no, always searching. Seeking any sign that something or someone may be looking to harm you.

And you're never far off the mark. The fresh wounds he'd bandaged earlier are proof of that — as are the many scars littered across your body he learned of while washing the blood off your skin and out of your hair while you slept. Evidence that while you can survive on your own, it's really just surviving. By the skin of your teeth, you've been clawing your way through life, one day at a time. Running, walking, crawling, dragging yourself forward inch by inch. No other choice, was there?

But now. Now you have Leander.

And he's been taking such good care of you, hasn't he? He's made sure you don't have to worry your pretty little head over a single thing.

Food? There's always something here in the Wick (however mediocre), and he makes a point of treating you to some of the many delicacies to be found among the Eridian streets and markets every day he can. Medicine? At the drop of a hat, no questions asked — just like today. A safe place to sleep? Well, he knows this is hardly the finest mattress, but it seems to be nicer than anything you've known prior. He's spent enough nights in it himself to know it's perfectly adequate.

And of course, you're free to drink to your heart's content on his tab — so long as he's there to watch over you. And if he enjoys seeing you tipsy, drunk, maybe even wasted, a little further from your usual diligence and a little closer to your current state, where's the harm in that? It's not as though he's forcing you to drink. Just enabling you to. If you want to.

And your curse...?

Well. The two of you will get to that. Eventually.

You shift, a small noise escaping you that he can't help but find adorable. He holds his breath until you go still again. Exhaling slowly, his hand finds the back of your head, holding you there.

He wonders if you'll invite him into your bed again the next time you wake. He hopes so. He hopes you'll be selfish — begging for his time, his presence, his body pressed against yours. Hopes you'll grow to need him and what only he can offer you. Really, you shouldn't concern yourself so much with "bothering" him. It's what he's been steering you towards, after all. All you'd need to do is ask, and he'd either be right there where you wanted him, or he'd be making plans to be there in the next day or so.

A hand brushes over the bandages wrapped around your thigh.

All traces of the man you killed  — the man who did this to you — are gone by now. Body disposed of in the wastes, where it'll no doubt be picked at by carrion creatures. Clothing and personal effects (what few there were) burned. All the blood on the stone and dirt rinsed away — his and yours.

Even if he's reported missing by some worried loved one or mildly-concerned neighbor, his disappearance will make for uninteresting, short-lived news; people go missing all the time in this cruel world, what with the Soulless and gangs and desperation-driven criminals roving about. No Senobium dog is about to help the average schmuck, and the Adderstone can only do so much at any given time with so many innocents in need. The Adder who learns of it will nod their head, and by the time it reaches Leander, the bottom line of the report will surmise the man is as dead as dead gets and most likely either rotting in a ditch or being digested in some horror's belly.

Which is the truth.

Leander's lips curl into a frown, brow pinching as the stress creeps back into his mind and exhaustion back into his marrow. It was a minor thing, but annoying all the same. One more problem added to his already heaping plate of responsibilities. Not your fault, of course; you're rather diligent about avoiding what trouble you're able to. But you're still new to this city. Unfamiliar with it and all the dangers waiting to tear into you. He should have kept a closer eye on you.

It is good to know that you're capable of and willing to kill, though.

Not that he'd ever take advantage of that.

He's been messing with the edge of the bandages, he realizes. Best to stop that. As much as he's enjoying having you so dependent, he needs you in as good of shape as you can be in.

Pulling your injured hand up, the examines the neatly-tucked gauze.

Will you ask for help changing the dressings later? Obviously, he's an expert at winding and unwinding wrappings just like them by now. He only does it, oh, every single day now?

You always listen when he suggests you take the opportunity to satisfy your appetite for physical contact. Deprived of the simple luxury of being able to touch someone your entire life, you haven't been able to get enough of running your sensitive fingers along the lines and contours of his hands and face, across the gnarled lines of scar tissue marring his otherwise smooth skin. Every time you ask to do so yourself, it's with this pained expression — like you're pulling teeth from your own jaw.

As endearing as your reticence may be, as much as he may like seeing you off-balance and vulnerable, he really wishes you'd just touch him. Every time you do, every time your fingertips ghost over his veins and scar and the fine lines in his palm, it feels...

... right.

Right like little else has felt before. Why? That's beyond him. Maybe if you keep doing it, he'll come to understand. Until then, all he knows is that he wants more. Needs more — not as badly as you need the pleasure of that basic human intimacy you've been denied your whole life, but he's not sure much can come close to that.

He should stop thinking so much. Bad habit. Necessary, almost always, but he can afford to take a break for a little while, right?

Just for a little while.

For now, he should relax. Focus on the feel of you. Asleep. At ease thanks to the painkiller and sedative that's knocked you out. In his arms where you belong. So long as he stays awake, it's fine. He'll lay here with you a while, watching over you. Once he's sure you're deep in sleep's embrace, he'll slip out of bed, tuck the covers snug around you, and return downstairs to his Adders for a time. Until the majority of them are passed out from either exhaustion or drink.

Then he'll take care of the last of the day's work. The ugliest of it.

You should wake again a bit after midnight.

Leander takes you back to the Wet Wick.

Not a soul questions him as he strides through the room. Any who chance a look at you two immediately direct their gaze elsewhere once they catch sight of blood. Not even the barkeep says a word.

He stops only to pointedly hover over one of his Adders. Looms like an ill omen above her where she sits hunched over a hand of cards and a glass of something too light a shade of amber to not be watered down, in the middle of a game with some others.

Your eyes linger on the glass unbidden, much to your disgust. Just the sight and faint scent of alcohol makes your stomach uneasy.

Without having been told, the woman gives you a once over and rises with a nod, headed upstairs. Leander follows close behind but takes the turn she doesn't, now bee-lining for the room you've called yours since arriving in Eridia.

Given that his hands are, well, occupied, you're the one to open the door. Fumbling the key repeatedly may be understandable in this situation, but you feel no less frustrated and no less embarrassed by it. Being able to finally turn the handle so Leander can lightly kick the door open is a relief — both to your ego and your sense of self-preservation that's only becoming more alarmed by your condition each passing minute. Your heart pounds faster than it should, your lungs grow worryingly tight in your chest. And Gods, you could use some water right about now — assuming the queasiness you're trying ignore permitted such a thing.

All bad signs.

He's careful as he sets you on the bed, eyes locked on the knife still dug deep into your thigh. You've been trying not to think about it. About the gradually building dizziness and increasing cold. Better not to think about it. Better to stay calm until —

A knock on the door gives you something else to look at.

"Come in. Lock it behind you," Leander calls out. As instructed, the person — the Adder from downstairs — enters, quickly shutting and locking the door before hurrying over to your side. In her hand is a plain canvas bag, jingling and clinking softly with every step until she sets it down on the bed beside you.

She glances at your palm for only a split second before a large hand falls heavily on her shoulder and her leader brings his mouth to her ear, whispering something into it. She nods, focusing instead on your thigh without comment.

Sometimes, when you're laughing with them downstairs in the evenings, it's easy to forget just how thoroughly subservient the members of the Adderstone are to Leander. How they just obey without question like trained dogs just dying to appease their master.

Sometimes, it's made unsettlingly clear that any one of them would slit your throat without a second thought if he told them to.

Not that you're complaining per se, given the circumstances. The Adder produces a set of shears, blunted at the ends but sharp down the rest of the blades, and makes short work of cutting and peeling away your trousers above and below the knife. A part of you that's still unaccustomed to having more than one or two outfits to wear groans at the thought of losing an item of clothing; the better, wiser part of you is more concerned with whether you'll be able to remain upright much longer.

She takes a long, careful look at the blade sunk into you, using gauze she'd pulled from the bag to dab away any blood oozing out around it.

"Don't think it'll kill you so long as we keep the bleeding under control and keep the wound clean. But it's gonna hurt on the way out," she states plainly, "and right now, I don't have anything to make it hurt less in any less than half an hour. Unless you want a shot or three from behind the bar, that is." She's only half-joking; you get the feeling that if you gave the word, you'd have a shot of the hardest swill the Wet Wick has to offer in your hand within the minute — with another two on the table to chase it with.

The thought of anything going down your throat right now is nauseating.

You swallow, eyeing the blade for a split second. A split second too long, evidently, because the sight of it planted in your leg is enough to exacerbate the lightheadedness that plagues you, your vision narrowing until only the glinting of the metal and your bared skin is all you see. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, tensing, sweat beading at your temples, only opening them when you feel warmth envelope your unharmed hand. Leander gazes at you, his thumb rubbing small circles into the blood-stained bandages. The sight of the now-dry cotton dyed with blood that largely isn't yours sparks a disgusted, guilt-ridden desire to tear the damned things off and scrub all traces of today away until your mottled skin feels clean again.

You've killed before. That doesn't mean you've liked it.

"Just fucking get it out," you snap.

The Adder, thankfully, doesn't seem to take your tone to heart. Likely used to hearing worse, you imagine. She hands something to Leander with hushed directions. When something dark brown is shoved in your face, so sudden you flinch, you aren't given a chance to ask what the object is before she commands, "Bite."

A distinct, warm taste fills your mouth when you do as you're told: leather. At least you might not be adding "severed tongue" or "fractured tooth" to your growing list of complaints today.

She doesn't give you a heads-up before she pulls it from you.

You're not sure if you're grateful or furious in the fleeting moment before everything goes black.

You become vaguely more aware of deep, pulsing pain in your thigh as the world fades back into focus — along with distant speech and something akin to a dying animal moaning, both sounds muffled as though your head is submerged in swamp water.

It occurs to you as your awareness sharpens that the "dying animal moaning" is in fact you moaning around the leather, your teeth digging into the hide with such force that the roots of your molars ache. The "distant speech" is Leander, murmuring what you can only assume is praise or consolation meant to soothe you — even if you can't parse so much as a word. Whatever is happening is a blur of noise and sensation. Are your eyes closed?

You register the feeling of something being wrapped around your leg snugly, chatter you can't understand, and the sound of the door opening and shutting shortly (you think) after. It's only when you're being sat up, propped against something firm and warm, and the leather pulled from your mouth that you pry your eyelids open.

The room is a mess of color and indistinct shapes. Smooth glass is brought to your lips as you blink away tears. "Bottoms up," breathes a low voice. Before you can think better (or worse?) of it, you allow Leander to pour the contents of the glass... vial, you figure, down your throat.

Gods, is it revolting.

Bitterness lingers, sticking to your tongue, teeth, and gums like tar. It takes a truly impressive amount of self control to keep it down. If nothing else, the painless unpleasantness of the lingering taste helps bring you closer to full lucidity again once the rolling of your stomach calms. Dully, you realize you're seated in Leander's lap, your back to his chest.

Probably should've seen that coming.

"That's it, nicely done," he praises. You're shaking, soaked in sweat. Dizziness still has the world swimming a fair bit, but it's the shaking and sweat that you take note of most. "Still have to take care of that hand, but we'll wait for that."

Swallowing, grimacing at the taste coating your mouth, you rasp, "Why?"

"That little 'cocktail' was for the pain," he explains patiently, arms snaking around your middle. He sighs, sounding at least half as tired as you, resting his chin on your shoulder. "We can wait for it to kick in. The cut isn't bleeding. No point in making you suffer any more than necessary."

Right. Yeah. That's reasonable. You're already on the verge of passing out from pain. Again.

...

Things are quiet now. Quiet enough that your brain, exhausted but somewhat functional again, starts thinking.

And thinking.

This is all because of your fucking curse. It always is.

Your mentor wasn't the last before Eridia, but she was close. Once you'd figured out what she had planned, you tried to run. It wasn't a surprise when she attempted to stop you, tracking you further than you'd expected, but that didn't make it any easier when you lodged a knife in her throat either.

At least she hadn't been mad when you did it. At least she was herself — really herself, the truth of her charity revealed for the ugly, twisted thing it was. You were just a pet project for her. Nothing more. Killing her might have torn you apart because she'd raised you, certainly, but you didn't hate yourself for it the way you always do after killing someone who's attacked you solely because they've been subjected to your curse. Because of you. Your dear mentor  was just a selfish, amoral witch.

Maybe you should feel less bad about today. The man had tried to mug you, after all. He wasn't innocent by a long shot.

But would he have tried to kill you if he hadn't unknowingly cut the bandages and grabbed your wrist?

Probably.

But you don't know for certain.

"Hey," Leander whispers in your ear, "it's okay. You're alright. I've got you."

You're crying. Are you really surprised? You need to get this under control; he doesn't need to see you this weak. This pathetic. For the sake of your pride, yes, but also because his unerring generosity and care is far too reminiscent of the dead woman you're crying over. The dead mage who'd groomed you into a tool, kept you placated and obedient until you were "ripe" enough to serve as material for some insane experiment. Baring your physical wounds to him is risky enough; baring the still-bleeding lacerations on your heart and soul to him would be suicidal.

"I'm fine," you croak out. Your uninjured hand rises, headed for your face to wipe away tears, but all it takes is one gentle touch of Leander's hand against your forearm to stop it.

His fingers pick at the end of the bandages. "Let me get this for you?"

It's a request. But it's not. Not really. He fully expects you to give him the go-ahead.

"... Okay."

He takes his time unwinding the cotton, the dirtied fabric fighting to remain adhered to your skin as he peels it away. The sensation of your skin being pulled taut after it and the crisp sound as the dried blood that's seeped into the cotton crunches sends a shiver down your spine.

"Can I take your cloak off?" he asks next.

"I guess," you say, slightly regretting it when he rises, moving you and reseating you back on the bed. Without his support, you sway. You say nothing about the amused smile he tries to hide. Difficult to figure out whether it's because you don't care that much about it or if you simply don't have the energy to care about it.

He hums, eyes raking down your body. The smile dies as he examines you. "The rest's a mess too..." He reaches for your shirt, hesitating — sincerely, you think — before his fingers make contact. "Could I...?"

You nod. Whatever sense of modesty you had before taking a knife to the thigh, it's long-forgotten in the shadow of the overwhelming feeling of blood on your skin and your clothes. Probably your hair too, though you're too fatigued to bother to check.

These bedsheets are going to be a mess by the time you actually get to sleep.

For as happy as he is to get his hands on you or your hands on him any other time, Leander is surprisingly reserved as he strips you. Only hushed requests — small ones, like lifting your arms — and murmured "thank yous" leave his lips as he removes your clothes. Perfectly gentlemanly, not counting the grimace he gives the pile of your ruined garments once done.

He looks you over again — carefully, with only the lightest shade of pink dusting his cheekbones betraying the effect seeing you naked has on him. Searching for more damage, you imagine. You allow your eyes to shut while he inspects you, too tired and too cold to do much else.

The pain is somewhat muted now. Not gone. But muted. Better than earlier by a wide margin. Fatigue threatens to overwhelm you, to pull you down, down, down into a deep sleep you, frankly, wouldn't be averse to right now. Sleeping sounds downright lovely right now, actually. Surrendering to the urge to rest, you lay back, allowing your eyes to shut without so much as a token effort to fight off the drowsiness.

The bed dips to your right, causing you to slowly slide toward the heavy weight beside you. You don't have it in you to fight it. Even as something warm and damp runs over the cut on your palm, the most you can muster in complaint is a whine you would, in a more alert state, not believe came out of you.

Leander's talking again, though you catch only individual words here and there. Enough to put together that he's apologizing, probably, and trying to put you at ease.

Sharp pinching breaks through the haze enough to inspire the wherewithal to force your eyes open once again.

Leander holds your injured hand securely in one of his, eyeing you warily as his other slowly pulls something away from your palm. Something long and thin, pulled taut by the time he looks at you fully.

Needle and thread, so far as your tired brain can tell. That's fine. Needed to be done. Better than doing it yourself.

"... Shit."

In the dim light of the alley, back pressed to the wall, you struggle to catch your breath. Like magnets, your eyes are drawn to the crumpled figure just a few feet away, slumped against the pale stone wall opposite you. Streaks of blood smeared above the corpse (he is a corpse now, right? He can't possibly still be —?) show all too clearly where he'd stumbled into the wall, hands scrabbling against the cold stone as he'd gone down from several stabs to the gut and chest. Adrenaline leaves your hands trembling — or maybe that's pain from the deep line carved across your palm and the knife buried in your left thigh.

Both. Definitely both.

It's not the first time you've killed. Your life — your curse — has necessitated it. One mistake on your part, one curious stranger meaning well when they see your bandages, one entitled bastard feeling the need to sate their curiosity by yanking at whatever torn fabric you'd wrapped your hands in, one greedy asshole willing to kill you for a handful of coin... and suddenly it's a matter of your life — or theirs.

It is the first time you've killed since arriving in Eridia.

Been a minute since you've needed to do this. Fight someone off even if it meant their death. The last was that poor stranger in your caravan who'd just wanted to help you; a guilt-rotted part of your heart is relieved that Soulless offed the innocent stranger so quickly, so cleanly. It's better than you could have offered them. Every time this happens, the insanity drives the afflicted to just keep going, no matter how many times you sink a blade into them — until their body finally fails entirely from the right strike to the right place or just plain, good old blood loss.

Coincidentally, plain, good old blood loss might just be what you succumb to if you continue to sit here reminiscing about deceased strangers.

Far too accustomed to this routine, you begin running through the next steps: tend to your wounds, hide the body, then either cobble together an alibi or make an excuse that won't prompt further investigation. You've done this before. You've had to.

And with no other cities to run to with a better chance at finding a cure for the very affliction that got you in this mess, skipping town with your mentor's help isn't an option as it has sometimes been in the past. This is the end of the road for you; there's nowhere left to go.

The sting of any thought of your backstabbing mentor is shoved aside. Not the time for that. Not the time to lose yourself in foolish sentimentality.

You drag a hand down your face with a deep sigh — your left hand. The hand currently bare and bleeding (just as that dead prick wanted) you realize, wincing at the sensation of something warm and wet painting your face and the sharp pain shooting through your palm and up your arm.

"Shit." As you try to wipe the mess off your face with your sleeve, your mind races. How the hell are you going to handle this? You can go to Kuras and he'll patch you up for free... but he'll probably have questions, whether or not he actually asks them. Questions that can't be answered with "a Soulless did it" like the first time he patched you up. You're not sure you wouldn't let the answers slip out, even if you don't want them to. Even if he doesn't ask. And the cut on your palm — he can't tend to that, surely. Not without suffering the same consequences as your unfortunate victim (no, not victim. This was self defense; it's his fault he's dead and it's his fault you're hurt right now). Although, he did fix your arm before, so maybe...?

No. Too much of a risk. He'll insist on fixing the cut and you don't know for certain that the tall doctor won't decide on the fly to vivisect you instead of stitch you up.

Maybe you could limp back to the Wet Wick and take care of it yourself, or with Leander's help...? No. The mage isn't even there at this time; he's waiting for you to meet him for coffee. Why would you expect to find him at the tavern?  And there'll be too many people packed in the Wick, anyway. Even if it's barely past noon, the early bird crowd will be there and they'll be sober enough to raise eyebrows. If they didn't, you're still not sure you have the means to address the knife in your leg among the eclectic mix of alchemical and medical supplies you've stashed away.

Your eyes flick down to your leg briefly, then back up as your cone of vision narrows concerningly.

No, you definitely don't have the means to fix this back in your room. You can't even tell if the blade hit an artery from this angle; you might just wind up fainting and bleeding out on the floor if you pull it yourself.

You need someone else right now. Regrettably. Ideally someone learned in medicine — or at least anatomy.

Would Mhin — Forget it. They might, but they might not. Difficult to tell with them, just as Leander's previously observed. You don't even know where to find them at this time of day. Not while they're working.

Vere isn't exactly an anatomical expert, but he also likely wouldn't give a single fuck about the killing part of this — he may even get a laugh out of it —, but you doubt he'd actually help you either. Assuming you could even find him. Assuming, additionally, that Basilea wasn't right there beside him.

Ais? He helps Kuras enough to be able to lend a hand (internally, you laugh just a little at the unintentional pun; good to see your sense of humor may be shaky, but in-tact) and you doubt he'd pry or insist on touching your hands if you really stood your ground on the matter. You could find one of his crimson-eyed "friends" and they could lead you to the Seaspring.

Your eyes drop to your thigh and the knife sheathed in it.

Walking through the wastes, even if you had Princess to accompany you, sounds like hell right about now.

Then again, groupmind, right? Maybe he'd vicariously see your wounds and come pick you up himself out of pity...

... and then haul you back to the Seaspring through that abysmally long, repulsive, muddy swamp? Wonderful idea. You'd just love to add to the chance of developing an infection. Or risk him taking you straight to the clinic instead.

And thus, you've come full circle and begin considering crawling to the clinic yourself again, Kuras' inevitable questions be damned.

Out of the corner of your eye, the entrance to the alley darkens.

You stiffen. All thoughts of the clinic evaporate and a million explanations fly through your head one after another as you shove your naked, bleeding hand in your pocket and slip your dagger into its sheath. Any irritation you feel at the thought of needing to clean both blade and sheath is quickly dwarfed by your mounting fear and the nausea it brings with it.

You focus on the body opposite you. On the dozen wounds in his front and the crazed look his face is frozen in. On the blood splattered and smeared on the wall behind him. The blood pooling below him, taking all the color in his face with it. It's a properly gruesome scene you've been forced to paint. Perhaps gruesome enough Vere might see fit to bestow upon you a single head pat were he to see.

Which is to say: this looks bad.

This looks bad (which it is, for a number of reasons), and you're still too new for an unfamiliar face to take your word for it if you tell half the truth. Gods forbid they're a friend of the guy you just murdered (it's not murder. It's not. Just self defense).

Every panicked thought in your head screeches to a halt at the sound of your name being called by a distinctly familiar voice.

Turning, you look at the person rushing toward you, the hurried clinking of their boots bouncing off the stone walls, and — Yes, that is Leander.

Right. You'd agreed to meet him during his afternoon break; of course he's come looking for you. How are you going to explain this? What if he knows that guy? Or rather, knew that guy? What if he was important, somehow?

Wait. How did he even find you this quickly?

Green eyes dart between you and the body before you, widened as he takes in the scene. Finally, they fix on the knife buried in your thigh.

Before you can start spitting out an explanation, he comes to a halt before you, broad shoulders and long coat obstructing your view of the mess just behind him. Large, gloved hands clasp your shoulders cautiously, anchoring you. He scans your face, your body — eyes lingering on your throat longer than you'd like, more intensely than you'd like — before they meet yours. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

It takes you a minute to respond, staring into those emerald eyes in search of any sign that might indicate he's something other than concerned about you. You find only tightly restrained worry and stress written into the knitting of his brow and the downward curve of his mouth. Every second you remain silent, his jaw clenches tighter.

Dumbstruck by his complete focus on your well-being, you pull your hand from your pocket wordlessly, heart pounding as he takes it in one of his and examines it. He inhales sharply as he tenderly runs his thumb parallel to the gash. Clicking his tongue, he squeezes your fingers in his, mindful to avoid the wound. "I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's going to need stitches."

You nod — then go still as his hand abandons yours in favor of trailing a finger across your neck. Why is —

A hiss leaves you; his touch leaves pain in its wake. As he withdraws his hand, you remember.

The dead guy had lunged for your throat, hadn't he? Classic. Why do they always go for your throat? Must have dug his nails in harder than you thought. At least it's not as deep as the other injuries, going by Leander's reaction. It could be a lot worse.

"Here, let me just —" Leander produces a worn handkerchief from within his coat, swiping it across your face carefully before delicately dabbing at your neck. By the time he's pressing it firmly to your palm (ow), your brain has finally begun to function (somewhat) normally again and your mouth alongside it.

"He started it, I swear. I tried to tell him to back off, but then he had a knife and —"

"Shh." The look on his face is warm now, eyes soft and smile small. It's thin with worry, his smile, but real (real enough) and sweet nonetheless. Reassuring. "It's alright. I know it was scary, but it's over now, okay? You did what you had to. That's all."

You don't know what to say to that. You've never been given the benefit of the doubt before — much less the benefit of complete trust that you weren't acting out of malice. Without giving a full explanation first, even. Numbly, dumbly, you watch him neatly fold the handkerchief and use some longer lengths of torn bandages further up your forearm to secure it against your palm, bleeding stemmed for the time being. He fusses over you further, using scraps of shredded cotton wetted with his saliva to wipe away whatever blood on your face he hadn't quite caught on the first pass.

Once his hands leave you, apparently satisfied you're in as good of shape as you'll get for now, he casts a glance over his shoulder. Staring at his profile in the brief instant, a chill runs down your spine at just how blank his expression becomes. Tired, disinterested, apathetic. Like he is, if anything, slightly irked by the dead man — not angry, not disgusted, not sad, just... mildly annoyed. Like the man you've killed is just something tiresome to be checked off a to-do list later. Not a person whose life was just extinguished (even if he deserved it. He did deserve it. You wouldn't have had to kill him if he'd just listened). Not someone he might've known or worked with or drank with. Just... an annoyance.

When he looks back at you, the blankness vanishes in a flash. That kind, gentle smile you're so well-acquainted with is all you see, as brilliant as ever. Not a hint of the expression from before left. Like he's slipped a mask back on. "Let's get out of here and get you cleaned up, hm?" His eyes flick down to your leg and back up, sunny disposition wavering. "Can you walk?"

In the wake of... whatever that look was, it takes a minute for your brain to process what you're being asked.

Steady hands grip your waist as you take a step forward. Pain throbs bright and blinding as muscle strains to move around the metal lodged in your flesh, and you nearly collapse with a strangled growl. Your saving grace is the uncompromising support of Leander, holding you up as you struggle to regain your footing.

"That's a 'no,' then. Ah, well." Suddenly, neither of your feet are on the tightly-packed dirt below. Instead, you find yourself lifted off the ground, hands death-gripping the lapels of that gilded coat, only to relinquish it in embarrassment as you realize you're being cradled against his chest, held securely in place by strong arms under your legs and back. Great. Now he has blood on his clothing too. This is a fantastic look for the both of you.

He's walking before you can apologize for the mess or protest being carted off like a bride, striding away without sparing the bloody scene another look.

"But... the body. Won't someone —"

"I'll take care of it," he interjects, "so don't worry about it."

... Just like that? No hesitation, no stipulations, no interrogation — nothing?

Again, you don't know what to say. Whatever debt you're racking up with your reliance on him, this has easily doubled or even tripled it on its own. Covering up a homicide (not a homicide. The dead man started it. It's his fault) isn't easy. You'd know. Unfortunately.

But then...

... this is Leander you're talking about.

Leander.

Leader of the Adderstone. A man with the sort of network you could only ever dream of having. Who's owed favors small and large alike by more people than you can count. The guy trusted by nearly everyone in Lowtown.

You shove your bloodied hand into your pocket and rest your head against his chest as he carries you, listening to the steady — if rapid — beating of his heart.

Covering up a homicide is easy for him.