you help Leander collect himself when he returns to the Wick after a long night of who-knows-what
Pairing: Leander x Fem!MC
Length: ~3,000 words
Tags: femdom, porn without plot, power dynamics, piv sex, woman on top, female mc, sub!leander, grinding, creampie, assume Leander uses magic off screen as birth control bc I didn't want to write that part, no beta
a/n: written for the discord fic exchange. simple+ quick pwp:) title references this song. You can read this fic on Ao3 here
“Getting ready for bed all by yourself, beautiful?”
The words sink in the air, threadbare and weak instead of in Leander’s usual velvety voice. All the charm he can muster is in that one sentence. You know right away that it’s going to be one of those nights. One of the nights where his eyes carry that leaden, dead look to them. A night where he nearly staggers through the door to your room, more than just exhaustion draining him. A night where the only thing that can bring him back to himself - put him back together, piece by piece - is you, taking him apart first.
So you don’t ask him what happened, or how he is. There’s not much point to it. You learned that quickly after enduring a litany of excuses and subtle attempts at misdirection each time you’ve tried before. Instead, you cross over to the door frame that he leans so heavily against, hair falling across his face, and yank him forwards, shutting the door behind him and turning the lock with a click. The din of the bar below fades as it closes.
“You came to me for a reason, didn’t you?”
He nods, his breath ragged. His eyes are downcast, shadows beneath them a dark purple. He shrugs his coat onto the floor with a roll of his shoulders.
You reach up and slide your hand across the raised scar on his neck and through the soft, short hairs at the back of his head. You scratch your nails along his scalp lightly. “What do you need?”
But your words don’t seem to reach him, and he gives no response other than shuddering slightly in your grip. You sigh in mock exasperation. “As much as we work on this, you still need a reminder, hm?”
Raising your hand a little further to tangle in the longer hair at the crown of his head, you form your hand into a fist and yank, bringing Leander stumbling to his knees before you with a groan. His hand closes around your wrist in surprise. Normally he’s a little more with it than this.
There’s always a thrill that runs through you when he’s at your feet. To have someone who is so strong and powerful beneath you, desperate for your touch. But it’s paired with concern - a care for him that he struggles to accept outside of these quiet, secretive moments you share in private.
You loosen your grip and push his hair back from his face, hand gentle. He gazes up at you from his position kneeling on the floor, green eyes unfocused. Your other hand comes to cradle his cheek, thumb resting on the gaunt of this cheekbone. His hand still encircles your wrist, but his grasp is loose now. There’s a moment where you both breathe together, his breaths shuddering and yours controlled as you hold his head in your hands. He leans into your grasp. That feeling of his cheek against your fingertips, something you've only shared with him, still makes your heart pound and your face flush. The strands of his hair feel so silky between your fingers.
“Let’s try again,” you whisper, regarding him evenly. “What do you need?”
“…you,” he breathes, voice not much more than a sigh. There’s something still so far away in his eyes, as if unimaginable horrors are what he sees when he looks at you, rather than your searching gaze. As if he has sank to the bottom of a lake and you’re the light from the surface, a barely perceptible twinkling.
You shake your head, expression hardening. “I’m right here.” You slide your hand out of his hair and let his head slump forwards. The curtain of Leander’s hair casts a shadow over his face. His hand drops from your wrist to hang limply at his side.
You exhale and lift your stocking-clad foot from the floor, tracing it along the inner part of his thigh. He shifts his weight, adjusting in response to your touch. You shove the ball of your foot into his leg at the knee, kicking it out further to widen his stance.
“I'm pleased you’ve come to me. That you trust me enough to see you like this. But for me to help you, I need more.”
There's no response from him except for the steady rise of his back as he breathes. And a rosy flush that begins to color his cheeks and creep down his neck. You press onwards, lifting your foot and placing it at the apex of his thighs. The leather of his pants is smooth beneath your sole. As you slide your foot up and down his hardening length, he groans lowly, air hissing through clenched teeth. “You want to get off just like this?” you taunt, rubbing against him. “Rutting against my foot because you’re too mindless to ask for anything more?”
Leander exhales harshly, taking one hand and placing it behind him, sitting further back on his heels and canting his hips upwards towards you. His hips rock softly, jutting into the firm pressure that you give him. Just as he begins to gain momentum, to grind unabashedly upwards towards you, you step away, leaving his hips stuttering against the air.
Your eyes meet and there’s a glimmer of himself. A look in his eyes that you recognize, instead of the lost man who walked through your door. Not the bravado-filled leader that Eridia knows him as, no. But the flushing, eager to please man that you’re lucky to call your own.
“C’mon, boy,” you coo, watching the hungry desperation that flits across his face. “Speak.”
Leander shudders. “Hurt me. Use me.” He swallows, collecting himself for a moment. Stills his rutting hips that grind uselessly upwards. “Put me to work. Please.”
You slide your palm against the hot surface of his flushed cheek once again and smile. “Now, was that so hard?” You push his hair out of his face again, affection zipping through you as it immediately slips forwards to cover his eyes. “Take my clothes off for me.”
You cross the room to stand beside your bed, waiting for him. He rises unsteadily from the floor, staggering to his feet as he follows. You can see the proud outline of him jutting stiffly through the material of his pants. Leander looms over you and it might be imposing if it wasn’t for the bashful pink that colors his face and the subservient way he casts his eyes to the ground. He reaches for the bottom of your sweater and lifts it up, careful not to tug as it goes over your head. His hands are so gentle. One comes to rest on the bare skin of your hip bone, as if asking for permission. You nod and he continues, bending as he unbuttons your pants and pushes them to the floor. When you shift your weight to step out of them, you can feel the slick slide, wetness already pooling in your underwear. He pauses for a moment when he’s at your feet once again, face in front of your groin. Sways towards you like he can smell your arousal. It’s clear how badly he wants you. How he wants to rip your panties off and press his face in your mound. One hand closes around your ankle in supplication. “Let me taste you,” he pants, lips pink where he’s bitten them.
“Not tonight.” You press your fingers under his chin and bring him to his feet. As you stand before him in your underwear, chill and arousal hardening your nipples, Leander watches you like a drowning man. Like standing still in obedience takes all of his control. His eyes dart over your form, flitting from your face to your breasts and the curve of your waist. “So good for me.”
A smile softens the panting line of his mouth into an arc. He drinks in the praise, eyes dark. Adorable. You pull him closer, feeling the muscles at the small of his back tense as you step into him. Standing on your tiptoes, you kiss him, his shoulders curling in as he bends to meet you. It’s a hungry, claiming thing. A kiss where your mouth slides hotly over the slick span of his lips, desperate and biting. There’s a burning emptiness within you, yearning to be filled. Your hand slides further up onto the broad stretch of his back, tongue and teeth messy and panting into his mouth. Your nails claw against his skin and he whines, pulling on your hips and pressing his groin into your waist. Taking what you’ll give him. Trailing away from his mouth, you press heated kisses into the sharp line of his jaw, following the scar as it snakes down his neck.
“Your turn.” You lift the hem of his shirt and he does the rest, undoing belts quickly with fumbling hands. The broad expanse of his chest ripples as he yanks his shirt over his head, muscles firm. He shoves his pants and underwear down, kicking off his shoes with the rest of his clothes. His gloves follow, almost as an afterthought. His cock stands stiffly against his stomach, the head red with desire, and you ache.
“Please,” he breathes, jade-colored eyes fixed on your impassive face. “I need you, I need you so badly. Let me touch you, I’ll make you feel so good, let me, please-”
Despite the way he begs, he keeps a respectful distance, waiting for your command like a dog called to heel. “We’ll see,” you say, and you press your hand into the firm muscle of his chest, steering him backwards until the backs of his knees meet the side of the bed and shoving him down. He drinks you in as you pull off your bra and panties, tossing them to the side. There’s no question about how badly he wants you. He tosses his head back against the mattress, jaw clenched as he waits. Like looking at you is almost overwhelming. “Let me make use of you. Hands under your back.”
Leander places his hands beneath the small of his back, palms open and flat against the mattress. His cock bobs against his abs as he shifts. You crawl across the bed to hover over him and spread yourself open, sitting along the flat side of his length. You won’t let him fuck you, not yet. The skin of his thighs is soft beneath yours. His shoulders tense and he makes a choked noise as you rub against him, wetness letting you slide easily. “The way you feel, let me touch you, please, please, ngh-”
You ignore him, grinding against him steadily. Your thighs ache with the stretch of spreading around the width of his legs and you hum, enjoying the feeling of him beneath you. The slick from you spreads across his throbbing cock, wet sounds from your body matching his punched-out breaths. You place your hands on the taut muscles of his pecs, nails biting into his flesh as you lean against him for leverage. The new angle allows you to rub your clit against the head of his cock, and your stomach jerks as the motion sends burning waves of pleasure through you. It’s so easy to close your eyes and use him just as you promised, to enjoy the sweet friction of him beneath you. But it’s better to watch as he struggles so valiantly to contain himself, mumbling promises. How he restricts himself because it’s what you want when he could so easily toss you down into the sheets and have his way with you. To watch how he looks at you with desperation, pleading with his eyes that you’ll have mercy and allow him to do more. If you choose to let him.
Leander is losing himself in the sensation, hands balled in fists beneath him and eyes closed, abs twitching as each grinding slide presses against the head of his cock. “L-Let me fuck you, let me eat you out, anything, I can do it, I’ll be good for you, please, this is so much,” he gasps, senseless with desire.
“You’re already good for me,” you pant. “I thought you wanted to be used?”
“I-I, ngh, didn’t know what - what I was asking for,” he mutters, and you huff out a breath of laughter. He’s coming back to himself. Though he keeps his hands behind his back, he starts to roll his hips, matching your grinding rhythm. You can feel the strong flex of his thighs as he drives upwards. And the heat of it, the burning ache of it that rolls through your groin like soft flames licking against your skin, builds into a roar. Until your muscles are tense, pulled into a tight line as you chase your release, both of your hips snapping against each other. Only a few more searing rolls are enough for you to peak, shuddering against him, legs clamped around the tense muscles of his waist. You let your weight rest on the flat plane of Leander’s abs, giving yourself a moment for the fluttering sprint of your heart to calm.
“You’re so well behaved!” you say, voice a little too fucked-out to be as sacharine as you intended. His hands are still behind his back but he’s tense, muscles in his forearms working as he struggles to hold still. A flush has spread down from his face to his chest and sweat beads at his hairline, shining faintly in the lantern light. His body shudders, hips jerking upwards in little involuntary motions.
“And you’re - you’re evil,” he states, but there’s no venom in it. “And gorgeous. Please, please, I’m going insane-”
There’s no way you’d make him wait for too long, not when your release hasn’t touched the yearning emptiness in you. The one that aches for him to split you open and fill you. “I don’t know,” you stall, watching the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Convince me.”
“I want you, only you. There’s - there’s no one else that makes me feel like this, t-that makes me hard like this, please, from the moment I saw you, th-the way you touch me, I’m so close already, you’re so fucking-”
Your hand slides down to press against his length and he hisses, breath coming from clenched teeth. “Ngh, I- I need more, I’ve been so good, please, pleasepleaseplease-”
With that, you decide he’s earned it. Or maybe you’re just eager to feel the stretch of him pressing into you. You rise onto your knees and grasp him, pressing the head of his cock to your aching entrance. His pleas give way to a breathy whine as you slowly bottom out, stretched around his length. You take a moment to adjust, circling your hips gently. “I don’t know,” you remark, reaching down and feeling the slick place you stretch taut around him. Press delicately on your clit, so sensitive still that it almost hurts. “I’m pretty tired.”
His look of outrage is enough to make you giggle. His half-lidded eyes open wide in accusation, but you soothe him with a hand on his sternum. “Let’s flip over. I’ll give you a chance to prove your worth.”
It’s as if Leander’s been waiting for you to say the word this entire time. And maybe he has. In a blink, you’re on your back and he’s above you, a strongly muscled arm braced by the side of your head. His other hand slides up the back of your thigh, pulling your knee around his waist. He sinks into you and it feels so different when he’s the one who does it. When he’s the one pressing in so deeply that you can feel it in your stomach. It tears a shuddering moan from you, your voice trembling just like your legs that wrap around him and pull him in closer. You feel all of him as he crowds in close around you, like he can climb within you somehow, blur the borders of where you end and he begins. The fire within your skin isn’t the gentle flame from before. It’s a white hot ache, heat and pleasure blurring into one scorching sensation. As he grinds his hips so sweetly, breath soft against your skin, you know it. How badly he tries to prove that he deserves to be yours.
The composure you’ve kept this whole time is lost and your hands skip from place to place, grasping the sheets, the taut line of his snapping hips, the rigid column of his arm.
Your gasps are punched out with each searing thrust. “J-just like, like that, fuck Leander-” and he can’t reply, jaw tense as he drives into you. It’s been so much, how you’ve teased him and teased him and it’s built into a momentum that’s now unstoppable, the relentless pull of his pleasure crashing forward until he’s drunk with it, brow furrowed and mouth hanging open as his hips pound against yours. You keen, swept along with him. The way his cock strokes through you, the way his hips drag against your clit, the way his chest flexes as you lie within the cage of his arms. It doesn’t take much more for him to come. Leander’s hips stutter, rhythm faltering as he presses further, impossibly deep, the force of it grinding the material of the sheets harshly against your back. He falls to his elbows, shaking. Aftershocks spin through him, and he twitches where he’s buried deep within you, face bowed into the side of your neck. Your hand falls to his shoulder, tracing along the raised lines of the scar that crosses it.
“The things you do to me,” he groans in your ear, still breathless from his release. “That was just what I needed.”
Both of you gasp from the sensation of him pulling out, his release dripping onto the sheets. He flops onto his back next to you, arm slung above his head. You trail your fingers down your stomach to the place where you still burn, your own climax paused but not halted, still aching.
“We’re not done yet,” you murmur. “You’ve gotten me all worked up again.”
He tilts his head towards you, shadows dark under his eyes. “I’ve given you everything I can muster up at the moment,” he protests.
“You can give me more, and you will.” you say firmly, unsteadily rising back onto your knees and crawling over to him. “Don’t worry, I’m very patient. Didn’t you promise to be ever-so good for me?”
His hands come to rest on your hips once more, amused resignation curling his lips into a smirk. “At your service.”
You come home after a long, long day of work to find a locked door and no key. You'd go to Leander... but it seems like he'd enjoy that far too much. Maybe Kuras will take pity on you?
Pairing: Kuras x Fem!MC
Length: ~10,000 words
Tags: fluff, hand holding, domesticity, bad cooking, eating, medicine, female mc, bedtime story
a/n: I wrote this for an art exchange in one of the touchstarved discords:) title references this song. Ao3 link here
It’s always nice to head back after a long day of work to privacy. You’re exhausted and smelly after hours of cleaning and frying fish for the vendor in the street and some time alone is just what you need. You’ve finally gotten your own place (too small to truly be called an apartment) but it’s yours all the same, and safe behind lock and key. In the past couple weeks you’ve been saving up money for the deposit by helping out local shopkeepers, running a few Bloodhound missions with Leander, and more days than not, gutting fish - entrails and bones twisted and morphed into shapes that feel inexplicably alien.
Cleaning fish isn’t the most enjoyable work, but it pays your rent better than secrets and you get a meal out of it, too. Plus, you get to meet the people of Eridia. You hear what weather the grandmas forecast, rumors of infidelity, and sometimes, a snippet of something more: gossip about the Senobium, or the Abbess, about becoming a student… and you lean in, straining your ears to listen as closely as possible over the sound of fish frying in oil. Leander makes sure to drop by for lunch on days you work there, (had come by just today, in fact), grabbing a quick bite to eat and a side hug. He only reached for the embrace on days you’d escaped most of the fish guts. Though the best you could offer was a minimal amount of slime - even the gloves you dons at work each day over your bandages fail to prevent the scent of fish from seeping into your pores. But today, you’d been pretty tidy, so he squeezed you good and proper and left with fish in hand and a cheery, “See you around, I’ll be at the Wick later if you have time for a drink!”
You had worked late, staying through the dinner rush of people hurrying to get a meal before darkness fell. You, too, had to be diligent about coming home to your room before dusk. You’d been lucky enough to survive your first (and second) brush with the Soulless and you planned on avoiding rolling the dice again. Third time’s the charm, and all that.
You’ve cherished the two weeks you’ve been living on your own. Staying at the Wick hadn’t been bad, exactly - not if you overlooked the raucous laughter that found its way into your room from the bar below, hardly diminished by the solid stone floor. Or tried to ignore the way your belongings would be in a slightly different location than you remembered leaving them last. Or if you brushed off the number of times a drunk couple would press against your locked door, fumbling at the handle for far too long and giggling until they would (at last) realize that their room was the one next to yours. Ok, maybe it had been pretty bad.
So you’d been all too eager to sign the lease that the disinterested landlord shoved at you after you saw the property. It was really only a room with a bed, fireplace, and washbasin, but it was all you could afford. At least until you were able to find more consistent work or decided to give up more of your secrets. Leander hadn’t let you move out without making a fuss. The conversation was still fresh in your mind.
“I’m still going to come by the Wick all the time,” you had said beseechingly, gesturing at the tavern around you.
“You’re sick of me already?” he’d pouted, face falling. “I can give you more space if you need it-”
Despite your resolve to leave, guilt had nagged at your conscience. “It’s not that, I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me out-”
“Are you confident that you are going to be safe? Allmother knows you didn’t even make it to Eridia in one piece. What if something happens before I can get there-”
“I managed on my own just fine for years before I met you, as long as I’m not out at night there’s nothing to worry about-”
“-So is it the Bloodhounds, then? If they’ve been crowding you, I’ll have a word with them, just let me know who-”
“No, they’ve been perfectly polite to me.” You had huffed out a breath, holding out your hand to stall the next question quick on his tongue. “Listen, I just… If I’m here, on your coin, it doesn’t feel like this is my home. It’s as if I’m just visiting for a while, like at any point I’ll have to leave… like everything could be pulled away from me.”
Stability. Something that had been so hard to come by for you. Everything lately has been in so much flux. You hadn’t been able to say the rest to him - that if you stay in the bustling community of the Wet Wick, there’s a greater chance that your curse would become common knowledge. That you’d be cast out of the city, feared by the very same Bloodhounds who have been friendly to you.
Something in him had softened, and he relented at last, concern shining in his pale green eyes. “Fine. But don’t be a stranger. I’ll be keeping my eye on you. if you need anything, or if your new place turns out to be a moldy, rat infested corner of the city, you come right back, understand?”
“I looked it over when I got the key to the place and didn’t see any rats, Leander.” you had said reproachfully. “It’s cheap but it’s not that bad.”
“Well, that’s how they get you, right? The landlord goes through ahead of time and bangs some pans together, scares all the rats away quick right before you arrive, wipes the mold away-”
“I’ll be fine.” You’d given him a small smile. “Really. I’ll come back if there’s any big issues.” Despite his protestations, he had put up less of a fuss than you’d expected. Perhaps you’ve proven to him that you can hold your own - adapted to the city better than he expected.
And so, you had moved your meagre belongings inside and taken the first long breath since moving to Eridia. You had a place where you felt truly safe. For a beautiful, independent, cozy two weeks.
But it’s on the other side of the door. You stall in front of it, feet aching from your long day at the fish stall, pulling your coin purse out of the front of your shirt and fumbling in it for your key. The key. The key that should be tucked right here in your coin purse - safe from foxes with wandering hands. But, as you jam your fingers into the lint filled corners of your bag with increasing desperation, it’s just not there.
You check every possible place you can think of, hands fumbling through pockets and folds of fabric time and time again. There’s nothing there. Nothing but your coin purse (with a few grimy coins inside) and a handkerchief, slightly disgusting from where you’ve used it to wipe your brow as you bent over the hot oil.
You stand on your own doorstep, mind spinning. Maybe it fell out, somehow? You couldn’t remember anyone getting close to you today, no one of consequence. I better retrace my steps.
The conditions weren’t in your favor. The evening was late, sun low on the horizon. It bathed the city in a warm light, turning the buildings a rosy color. Flowers sat open in the setting sun, clinging to buildings and draping from hanging planters, fragrance wafting on the balmy evening breeze. It would have been quite a romantic view if you had any time to look at it.
Instead, your eyes were firmly planted on the ground, scanning for your key between cobblestones and the contents of upended chamber pots. As the light falls, your hope does too. Dread weighs heavy and sick in your gut. It’s not safe to be outside. You need to find a place to hide out, and quickly.
The Wet Wick is a little ways away from your winding path back to the fish stall. Should I go there and meet up with Leander? He said he’d be there tonight. But honestly - a part of you rankles at returning to Leander so soon after putting up such a fuss about being independent. And you might still find your key.
But there’s no key on your route. Nothing but dirty stones beneath your feet. You stand, forlorn in front of the now abandoned fish stall, and the sun starts to slip behind the rooftops of those rosy (now crimson) buildings. It’s about time you made up your mind. You run the rest of the way to the doorstep of Kuras’ clinic. The line has finally dispersed. No one in poor health can afford to wait out in the open when Soulless might drop by and turn their poor health into no health at all.
You knock on the door with uncertainty, realizing you aren’t sure if Kuras is at the clinic this late. Does he live here…?
To your relief, the door opens and Kuras is before you, golden eyes wide in surprise. You lean back a little on your heels as he appears. He’s wearing his doctor’s uniform and the light from the room behind him illuminates the soft curls around his face like a halo. Though you’ve seen him a few times by now, you can never prepare yourself for how handsome he is. It’s like jumping into a cold pool - even if you try to prepare yourself for the chill, the plunge will have your heart pounding and skin tingling just the same.
“...Good evening.” You flush as he takes in your harried expression, your rumpled clothes, the anxiety that you fail to conceal behind your bright smile. “...Are you well?”
“Yes! Well - I’m well enough, I suppose, only - I seem to have misplaced the key to my place. It’s not that far from here, and it was getting dark, so… I thought I’d see if you were in. I’m rather invested in keeping my arms attached, didn’t want to waste your hard work.”
“I would hope your investment in your health would be centred around the importance of your own wellbeing, not on my behalf,” he chastises, ushering you into the clinic with a wave of his hand. “But if it’s what encourages you to prioritize your safety, I’ll accept it for the time being.”
As you look around the room, you realize that you’ve never actually been in the front room of Kuras’ clinic. Well - that’s not entirely true. You might have been carried through it when you were a breath away from death. But you’ve only seen the room you woke up in, and the hallway that led out to the back door.
This part of the clinic is minimalist but inviting. It’s a small room, with wooden chairs set along the wall and a vase of small white flowers sitting on an end table in the corner. A light, fresh herbal scent fills the air. The chairs are unpadded, the floor is stone and the rug at the center of the room is a rich brown. You try not to think about the practicalities of such a spartan design, how often there might be various fluids spilled here. A door across from you leads to what you assume is the rest of the clinic. Candles flicker in sconces along the walls.
You wrap your arms around yourself, nerves still frayed from your walk here at dusk. “Do you run this whole place by yourself?”
“Mostly. There are a few who will lend me their aid from time to time. But it is primarily a solitary pursuit.”
Despite the inviting warmth of his personality, it’s awkward as you regard each other. You haven’t been in such close proximity to Kuras since he saved your life. It’s messing with your head a little bit that he’s standing right in front of you, close enough to touch, with all of his attention trained on you. He looks down at you, concern drawing his mouth into a line. “You’ve misplaced your key?”
“Yes - I could have sworn I had it with me when I saw Leander at work this afternoon. It must have slipped out of my coin purse somewhere along my walk home. I retraced my steps looking for it but it was getting dark and I -”
There’s an intensity to his expression as you speak, brows furrowed as he considers you, but it only lingers for a moment before he’s raising his hand towards you in a calming gesture. “Worry not. My clinic is meant to be a refuge for anyone who needs one. You are welcome to stay until the morning.” He looks at you with mock sternness. “Besides, as you’ve stated yourself - I didn’t heal you just for my work to be destroyed so soon.”
You laugh at that, jittery. “I intend to cherish it, trust me. Thank you so much for allowing me to stay here. I wasn’t sure if you lived here, or maybe, if you’d be attending to patients at this hour… I can just sleep wherever you have space - the floor is fine, honestly, I don’t really need all that much. I’m just thankful to not be outside at the moment.”
He turns to face the doorway at the back of the room, hand raised to his face in contemplation. “I have no empty cots available at the moment, as I have some patients who are recovering here overnight. Nothing too severe - but they require a night’s rest before they will be well again. Come. We’ll find an option more hospitable than the floor.”
He leads you through the threshold to a hallway lined with doors that you assume lead to rooms with recovering patients, and up a staircase at the end of the hallway, pausing to unlock a large wooden door.
You step into the room after Kuras. It’s a wide, open space that’s somewhere between a storage room and an apartment. There are open shelves along the wall that contain ceramic and glass containers, each marked with an old, browning label written in a spidery scrawl. Other sections of the walls have unmarked wooden cupboards that reach the ceiling. Tightly bundled medicinal herbs hang above the high arched windows across from you. Bookshelves intersperse the storage shelves, leather bound tomes sitting side by side with colorful, flimsy paperbacks. The right side of the room has two closed doors. The floor is covered by an ornate cherry colored rug, light pink magnolia flowers with winding branches twisting around the perimeter. There’s a long couch in front of the windows, mahogany arms curling down into a scroll shape.
A worn leather armchair sits at an angle across from it, crescent-shaped eyeglasses resting on its arm. A table with a chair at either end is placed near some of the shelves, written papers atop it stacked next to pitchers of water. Colorful glass lanterns hanging from the walls illuminate the space. A lit fireplace, with hooks inside for hanging cooking pots on, stands on the left side of the room, adding to the glow. You hadn’t prepared yourself for how intimate it would feel to see such a personal space. You slip off your shoes and stand hesitatingly behind him, unsure if the heat of the room is emitting from him or the fire. There’s an urge within you to examine everything in the room - but it’d probably be poor manners to scrutinise anything too closely.
“I originally demarcated this section of the clinic as a personal space where I could keep supplies or rest on the rare occasion I happened to have a patient here late at night. However,” he continues with a wry smile, “with the poor health of Eridian citizens…that soon became most evenings.” I wonder where his house is, then, if he has one?
Kuras regards the furnishings critically before gesturing at the couch before you. “I believe this is the best solution to your problem.” He meets your eyes, lips curving into a smirk. “Of course, should you find it too uncomfortable, I have a bed in the other room.”
You inhale sharply and cough, eyes darting away from his amused gaze only to trail unbidden down the long line of his body. Images flash through your mind. The warmth of Kuras’ chest pressed against your back as he cradles you in his arms. His hand, firm and warm, spanning the curve of your hip. Both of you, sleeping soundly, beneath a ridiculously downy comforter. “Th-The couch seems really comfortable, I’m sure it’ll be perfectly fine,” you say, wheezing.
He raises his eyebrows, expression still playful. “Do not mistake my intentions. I would rest elsewhere if you were in my bed. I do not require much sleep, and I have a few tasks that will occupy me for much of the night.”
As you become more familiar with him, you’re increasingly certain that misunderstandings like the one you just had are precisely his intention. In his bed. Fuck. You’d been worried about the Soulless… but maybe you should have been worried about him.
As you stand close together in the room, you are suddenly reminded of the fact that you probably reek of fish. “I’m so sorry, but is there any way I could freshen up a little? I’d planned on doing it when I got home, but, well… I didn’t get the opportunity.”
“My apologies, of course. I’ll get you a change of clothes for the night as well, as you weren’t able to bring anything yourself.” He hurries right back down the stairs, and you’re charmed by how sincerely he’s looking after you. Perhaps he’d do the same for all of those under his care - but it feels special to be attended to like this.
He returns and presses a bundle of loose clothing into your hands, along with a washcloth and a pitcher of steaming water, and leads you to one of the closed doors on the right side of the room. His bathroom. There’s a basin atop a table with a mirror behind it, with drawers and a small bar of herbal scented soap in a ceramic dish. Beneath a pointed window lies a low, long clawfoot bathtub, and a hamper off to the side. The wash basin stands far higher than comfortable for you (around chest level), and only your eyes and forehead are visible at the bottom of the mirror.
You shut the door and dip the washcloth into the steaming water, sighing happily as you press it against your skin. You’re finally starting to relax. Frankly, you’re starving, but at least your stress and fear from your difficult day melt away with the oil and sweat. The bread, cheese and fruit you had waiting for you in your (locked) apartment will just have to be tomorrow's dinner instead of the meal for tonight. Carefully, you clean the grime from your skin with the hot water and soap, leaving it flushed and shining. You strip out of your clothes and into the baggy, comfortable sleepwear he’s provided for you. Am I going to end up naked every time I’m here?
Though you’ve finished getting ready, your curiosity is piqued by the intimate domesticity of being in such a personal space. Moving quietly, you slide open one of the drawers in the wash basin stand. There’s a stack of neatly folded washcloths, a tooth brush, and a small vial at the back, filled with an amber liquid. You falter for a moment before grasping it, examining it closely. A faint smell is emitting from it - golden and resinous, warm and rich. A perfume oil. Your fingers shake a little as you hastily put it back into place, pressing the drawer closed. You stare blankly out of the window above the bathtub, mind whirling. Who does he wear that for? Special occasions, dates… Fleetingly, you think about how the scent would bloom on his skin - how it would smell with your face pressed into his neck, his hair wild around you. How it might linger on you after he left, or in your sheets the next morning -
You frown, trying to collect yourself, but your gaze has slid down to the bathtub and it’s as if you can see him before you, water glistening on his bare skin, hair dark and clinging damply to his face, gaze burning as hot as the water as he beckons you closer -
Tearing your eyes away from the tub, you glare at yourself in the base of the mirror. You point your finger accusingly at your reflection. Pull it together. You give yourself one last steely look before gathering your clothes in your arms and yanking the door open abruptly. “All done.”
He looks up from where he’s seated in the worn armchair, book in hand with the pair of semicircle glasses perched on his nose. “Better?”
“Yeah, I definitely feel refreshed. The hot water was nice, thank you.” And it’s definitely the only reason why your skin is flushed. Your stomach twinges again, voicing a complaint, but you do your best to ignore it. It’s too uncomfortable to ask him to make you a meal. You take a seat on the couch across from him, legs dangling above the floor. “You don’t have to look after me, I’ll be fine on my own if you need to go check on patients or do anything else…”
“Sporadically I work from daybreak to daybreak, when my rooms are filled with those near death.” He closes the book in his hand and sets it on the low table by his side, crossing one long leg over the other. “But tonight is not one of those nights. The most serious malady downstairs is a difficult case of influenza. I will spend the evening here, with you.”
You nod, happiness creeping through you like a tendril of smoke. “So do you mainly see people who are struggling with serious illnesses? Or maybe…acute cases of dismemberment? Or are there people that come by just for checkups every so often?”
He fixes you with a pointed look. “Are you inquiring because you’d like one?”
“I-I don’t mean to impose, I’m fine! I was just curious, really.”
“Hmmm.” He contemplates you for a moment, looking at you over the top of his glasses. A catlike smile plays around the edge of his lips. “In my expert opinion, I believe I should examine you further. I would like to be certain you’re not suffering any further complications from the Soulless attack. Do my due diligence, and conduct a thorough checkup.”
Despite the teasing lilt to his voice he picks up a notebook and pen from the table at his side, scrutinizing you with a professional demeanor. “Do you have any conditions that run in your family?” His eyes shift towards your arms and you blanch a little, blindsided.
“Not that I’m aware of. Truthfully… I’ve never known my family. So, I suppose I could have a lot of conditions that will suddenly appear when I’m forty that have been passed down through generations.” You grip one hand with another, bandages taut against your knuckles, unwilling to discuss your curse. Not yet. Even though he’s seen your hands already.
But he doesn’t linger or press for more information, passing on to the next question with a smoothness that can only occur after years of habit. “Have you noticed any recent changes in your appetite, weight, or sleep patterns?”
You heave out a sigh. “I have. Appetite and weight are fine but I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had nightmares for a while now but they’re so much worse lately. I keep finding myself in the wastes. Bleeding out in the mud, with no one but Soulless around.” It’s more honest of an answer than you had expected to give. You don’t tell him about the other parts. How you feel the Soulless tug and rip at your limp body. Or see the faces of each person you’ve met since arriving in Eridia twist, one by one, into madness.
He tilts his head slightly, gazing at you evenly. You find it refreshing that he lets things go - accepts what you’ll tell him without peppering you with questions or discomfort coloring his face. “It’s fairly common to experience nightmares after such a traumatic event. I have a few items that may be able to aid your sleep, if you would be so inclined.”
“Sure. It’d be nice to not wake up flailing around every day.”
“Let’s start with a medicinal tea, and if it doesn’t diminish their frequency or intensity, we can discuss alternatives.” He jots down a note, nodding to himself. “How has your arm recovered? Any changes in functionality?”
“No, it’s been right as rain ever since you stuck it back on.”
He lifts one eyebrow at your response, sly smile returning. “Would you allow me to examine it briefly?”
“A-Alright-”
And before you know it, he removes his glasses and approaches you, kneeling down on the rug at your feet. His hands, warm as the water he had brought you to wash up with, trail feather-light over the tidy stitches at your elbow. He’s incredibly close to you and it’s so difficult to look at him, his presence as stark and blinding as the sun. His fingers knead the line of stitches gently, pressing into the give of your skin. Every part of you feels hot from embarrassment and the inescapable focus of his unadulterated attention.
“Hmmm. Healed perfectly.” His voice is lower now, soft as velvet in your ear, and you realize he had no doubt in the quality of his work or in your arm’s healing. That he chose to do this not because of a doctor’s duty but rather due to his interest in you, desire and curiosity merely laying atop the facade of a checkup. The realization sends heat pooling into your stomach, treacle-thick and aching. He slides his hand to the edge of your bandages and your arm jerks, years of instinct filling you with alarm -
“Shhhhhh.” He calms you like you’re a spooked horse, motions slow and gentle. Kuras smooths the top of the bandages, fingers burning like a brand against the edge of cursed skin, straightening one where it’s twisted. There’s a reverence in how he touches you. And a thrill inside as you realize that he can touch your skin without fear, that he must have done so when he healed you the first time; when he gathered your lost limb with his own and rejoined it to you. Your eyes dart between the angled lines of his furrowed brow and where his long fingers rest on your arm.
“Flex your fingers for me.” His breath puffs faintly on the side of your face. You ball your hand into a fist and then open it, fingers stretched wide. “Good.”
Praise, from him.Your breath shudders as you exhale. Good. It makes you ache for more, yearn to hear it again, to do what he asks. To be so very good for him. Kuras’ hand glides down the rough lines of your bandages to your palm, thumb rubbing small circles in the center of it. The rest of his hand wraps around the back of yours, cradling it in his own. Your heart pounds and you pray he can’t feel it, that the bandages offer you some kind of protection from his observation - Allmother, his hands are so big-
“Any issues you’ve noticed with your heart or lungs?” Your hand feels so hot in his, trapped between the weight of his grasp and focused attention.
“N-No, um, everything has been normal-”
Kuras tuts at you, impeccably calm. “I find myself doubting your judgement.” Your heart pounds traitorously within the firm press of his hand. He slips it up your arm to lay on the side of your neck, where your heart beats furiously in your throat. His other hand rests on the sofa next to your hip, caging you in. “I need no medical instruments to detect that your heart beats so much faster than is normal. Or to notice how your breath comes so quickly from between your lips.”
You freeze, hyper aware of the blood rushing in your ears as it thunders by. And how your breath stutters with each teasing word.
His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, and you look at him desperately. Desire burns in you as hotly as the sensation of his fingertips on your skin. His face is level with yours, eyes dark despite their golden hue. Heat emits from him in waves, sweeping over you. You can see the delicate way his bangs fall on his skin, the way his eyelashes lower as his gaze falls to your lips. “Unless you would tell me that these are not chronic conditions, but rather very recent developments…?”
Your hand rises of its own will and holds onto his wrist like a lifeline, unsure if you want to hold him still or tug him closer. Your voice is soft and breathy, throat dry. “...Recent. I seem to be suffering from the most sudden affliction.”
You look at his lips, the way they turn up so gently, and gather your courage, leaning forwards toward him, brush softly against the curve of his nose -
Grrrr.
Your stomach growls obnoxiously, shattering the moment. No, at a time like this?! You laugh awkwardly and pull away, cheeks red.
Kuras, truthfully, looks horrified.
His hand falls away from your face and he lurches to his feet in alarm. “My most sincere apologies!” He runs a hand through his hair hurriedly. “I-I have been a dreadful host. You must have not had the opportunity to eat any dinner.”
Your shame is quickly overtaken by your amusement. Wow, this is the first time you’ve seen him… embarrassed?
He turns on his heel and strides quickly to the cupboards on the other side of the room. You watch as he opens them, one by one with increasing speed, pausing intermittently to peer at the top shelves, or to extend his arm into the dark recesses. Even though most of the shelves are obscured from your view by the broad span of his back, the slivers you can see appear completely barren.
You rise and come to stand by his side. If he’s going to make you something to eat, it’s only polite that you’d offer to help. But it's increasingly difficult to not feel apprehensive as you stare down at the eclectic assortment of items he’s setting on the counter. As he finds each one, he places it next to you with marked relief, brushing dust off it before burrowing back into the cupboards, head barely visible. You can hardly believe your eyes. It appears that the menu for the evening consists of only the most matured items: a jar of jam, label so worn and faded that it’s nearly impossible to tell what type; a clear glass container of some pickled vegetable, green faded through time into a murky brown; a singular apple, skin slightly wrinkled, and lastly, a much newer, pumpkin-sized sack, with “Nutrient Fortified Oats,” printed boldly across the burlap material.
The doors clatter as he closes each open cabinet and comes to stand by your side. Any remaining hope that he’d find something more palatable quickly vanishes. So… that’s it, huh. “If I knew you were this low on groceries, I’d have brought you some fish earlier. Missing key or not,” you remark, craning your neck to smile up at him.
He frowns, looking down at the pile, his hands clasped behind his back. “It has been quite some time since I’ve been to the market.” You raise your eyebrows. Eons, maybe. Kuras hums contemplatively. “I thought I had some asparagus hidden away, but I haven’t been able to locate it.”
You peer at the murky mystery vegetable, lifting it up to get a better look at it in the lantern light. “I think… this may be the asparagus,” you say, squinting.
He stoops to take a closer look at it. “Ah, that it is!” he declares brightly.
“Though, um, asparagus is not a vegetable that I’m overly fond of,” you hazard, looking at the jar with trepidation. Some of the stalks inside appear to have lost their shape, partially dissolving into the brine. You actually enjoy asparagus, on occasion. But you desperately would like to avoid eating this kind. “I think oatmeal sounds perfect.”
It’s certainly a safer option than trying either of the items in the jars.
“A wise choice. It’s quite heartening - I prepare it for patients who have been at my clinic overnight. It seems to give them the strength to go on their way.” He retrieves a gigantic pot from next to the fireplace and hesitates. “How much would you like?”
You look at the huge pot with wide eyes and then back at him. It’s almost big enough that you could sit in it. “Oh, um, just a bowl amount would be fine…” As he starts to pour the entire pitcher full of water into the pot, you ask hesitantly, “...are you having some too?”
“No, I’ve already eaten.”
You watch silently as he adds a second pitcher of water into the pot. He tosses in a couple cups of oats and hefts the huge pot onto a hook in the fireplace, suspending it above the flames. It appears more as if he’s making an oat-based tea than it does oatmeal. He hangs a kettle on a hook next to it. Frankly, the pot contains probably about eight times as much water as you would have used yourself. But it’s his kitchen, and he’s already done you the tremendous favour of allowing you to spend the night. So you bite your tongue and think longingly about the meal you have waiting for you in your apartment.
The two of you take a seat at the dining room table. “The oatmeal takes a good while to cook,” he says, handing you the slightly withered apple. That’s probably an understatement, if he normally boils it in this much water.
You take an apprehensive bite. It’s not too bad. It hasn’t gone mealy, and still has a tart brightness to it. "I saw you were reading a book earlier." You lean forwards, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. "What's it about?"
"It is a story about uncovering a criminal."
"A mystery novel?"
"Of a sort." He looks down where his hands rest along the edge of the table. You can hear the gentle sound his ring makes as he presses his hand against it. "It's one I have read countless times before."
"Is it a favourite of yours?"
"Not exactly. But it is one I find myself returning to, from time to time."
"Sounds like it's worth hearing about." You take another bite of the apple, leaning back in your chair.
He smiles a little at that, inclining his head in admission. "There is a kingdom ruled by a wise king, who is well liked and increases the prosperity of all. As he reaches the very beginning of old age - an age where he might still have some twenty years ahead of him - he falls ill. It begins as a cough that grows worse by the day. The entire castle can hear him as he coughs through the night. But one day, he falls into a dreamless sleep that no one can wake him from and eventually wastes away.”
He continues, voice measured and gaze focused far off in the distance. “The land mourns - but none as much as his firstborn son. He had hoped to learn more from his father before it was his turn to rule over the kingdom. As a testimony to the wisdom of his father, the young prince keeps all of his father's advisors and court, to guide him as the new king. Of note, there is the lead of the palace guard, a few lords of the lands within the kingdom, a royal physician, a royal magician, and the head of the palace staff. The years pass peacefully once more as the new king has much of the good sense that his father possessed. The lands are so bountiful that he selects members of the court to send to neighboring kingdoms as envoys to form alliances. He sends much of the court, including the court's magician. The new king marries and has a beautiful daughter."
The kettle whistles, and he rises, pouring the boiling water into a teacup and adding a bundle of herbs. “For your nightmares,” he says gently, placing it before you.
You sniff it warily, but all you find is the friendly and familiar smell of camomile. "This story doesn't seem like much of a mystery yet," you muse, taking a sip and settling back in your chair as you prepare to hear the rest. The tea settles warmly in your stomach.
"The base of the mystery is there already," Kuras remarks, with a twinkle in his eye. "The new king is cautioned by his queen that he trusts too easily, for she had come from a land where betrayal was common. He begins to doubt the death of his father and the sudden way in which he fell ill. He watches the remaining courtiers more closely and asks those whom he had sent away to return, out of fear that they might be swayed by gilded promises to turn against him. His daughter grows into a young girl. The magician had kept a small garden before he left as an envoy, in which he grew various plants for potions and natural remedies. He had always kept it well tended and forbade others from entering, stating they would trample the flowers. But in his absence, it begins to grow unruly. New plants spring forth from the earth, the plants in the garden diversifying without his watchful eye to weed out newcomers. One day, the princess is found in this overgrown garden - in the same, unending sleep that the king's father died from. Perhaps poisoned when she was out of view."
"Is there an assassin in the court? Or maybe someone from one of the neighboring lands?"
"The king suspects as much. He brings each member of the court into the throne room and interrogates them. It seems as if the same person who killed the king has laid in wait all these years. Lord Lautier is the leader of the largest section of the lands in the kingdom, and the king suspects tyranny. He was a lord when the former king passed. He threatens and pleads with him to tell him how to wake the princess, but Lord Lautier has no answers for him. So the king casts him into the dungeons in disgust. Next, he speaks with the head of guards, fearing a coup, but the man is earnest and forthcoming. Still, he sends him to the dungeon out of mistrust. The king even begins to suspect the queen. Perhaps she had so often spoken of treachery because of a guilty heart. And so, she too is locked away. Each person has words that appear earnest at first glance, but for the king, they ring false. His paranoia follows him like a shadow. He begs the court physician to heal his daughter, and the physician tries remedy after remedy, but nothing wakes her. He brings in every healer he can find in his desperation - but no matter what potion, spell, or medicine - the princess remains asleep. The magician is the last to arrive at the castle from his duties as an envoy. When he hears word of the sleeping princess, he grows pale and rushes to his quarters, crafting a potion. It works - it wakes the princess. The king promises the magician whatever he wants in return, but he will not accept a reward."
Kuras pauses, hearing the dull rumble of boiling water. He lifts a ladle from the wall and scoops the oatmeal into a large wooden bowl, setting it before you with a spoon. It looks abysmal. The oats float, unmoored and swollen, in the cloudy hot water. It’s more something that you could drink than eat. You dip your spoon into the, well, oat broth, and gingerly place it in your mouth. Oh, you think grimly, he didn’t season it at all. Or… maybe he did, but it got diluted by the water?
You swallow quickly and try to find another question to ask about the story. You need to buy time so you can decide how you’re going to get away with only eating a tiny portion of the food when you were so hungry earlier. I bet his patients could get better even faster if he wasn’t feeding them such a depressing meal. "So, who tried to assassinate the princess?"
"The king's fear turns to anger now that his daughter is safe. He will not rest until he discovers how his daughter became afflicted. He goes nearly mad with rage, ordering torture upon the imprisoned members of the court. One day, as he interrogates the court physician, convinced that perhaps he had not truly tried to heal his daughter, the physician speaks. How strange is it, he says, that the magician was able to cure his daughter when no other could? The king's gratitude turns to suspicion, and he orders the magician to be jailed like so many of the others. But before the magician is taken away in chains, he confesses."
You twirl your spoon in your bowl, watching as the oats spin. The room is pleasantly warm (from Kuras just as much as the fire), and drowsiness is seeping into your bones. You take another bite, hiding your grimace with a gulp of the herbal tea. "So the magician was a traitor the whole time?"
"Years ago, when the aging king fell ill, the magician had done his best to find a remedy that might ease his sleep and allow him to heal from his sickness. He read ancient texts and cultivated a flower that would aid in rest. But in his inexperience, and the king's weakened state, the undiluted flower was far too potent, and the king could not be woken. When he died, the magician lost his king, as well as his honesty. If anyone learned of his potion, he knew he would be executed. The palace grieved in the years after - but none so much as the magician. He did trial after trial and came up with a remedy to this endless sleep - though it was too late. He banished the plant from his garden and swore to never tell a soul what he had done. To live a life in service to the new king as his penance. When he was sent to a neighboring kingdom, in his absence, those soporific flowers bloomed once more. Some seeds had lain dormant in the soil despite the magician’s efforts to eradicate them. And the princess, fancying herself a florist, found them after they bloomed and inhaled their pollen. At last, the magician had a chance to use his remedy and alleviate his guilt. But in doing so, he exposed his original sin."
You glance at your tea before glaring at him in mock suspicion. “I hope that is a fictional flower. I may have nightmares but I’m quite fond of my ability to wake up. There are some unsettling parallels that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore -”
Kuras laughs in surprise, holding his hands out in supplication. “A mere coincidence, I assure you.”
You yawn, waving his sentence away. “I’ll believe you, I suppose. No point in the alternative. I’m already sleepy, so if you’ve doomed me to eternal slumber, I’m probably already beyond saving. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” You mull over the conclusion to the story, listening to the soft crackle of the fire. "Was the magician executed, as he had feared?"
Kuras steeples his fingers together and regards you with a long, searching look."Yes."
You slouch in your chair, pulling your knees to your chest. "But the magician didn't mean to harm anyone. I mean, he was only trying to help the king, and then he spent the rest of his years trying to make it right. Wouldn't you have pardoned him?"
Kuras sighs. "Does his remedy for the princess erase his former mistake? Can his guilt and shame bring the king back to life? What of the members of the court who were imprisoned and tortured - does the magician hold no blame for their treatment, when he could have ended it by breaking his silence earlier?"
You shake your head slowly, eyes fixed on the way his mouth twists as he speaks.
He continues, voice firm. "I do not believe atonement can be merely crossed off a list. There is no endpoint where one's good deed has nullified the initial transgression. Perhaps… the magician is right to live in service to the king as penance, just as the king is right to take his life."
It doesn’t entirely feel like the two of you are only talking about the story now. “Hmmm,” you yawn, drumming your fingers against the surface of the table next to your (mostly still full) bowl of slop. “I think good deeds can eventually outweigh the original crime, if there’s enough of them. Sure, it might not erase the initial mistake. But people learn a lot from messing up and it can motivate them to go out and do great things. I guess intention and effort matter to me, when I consider… when I consider whether someone should be forgiven.”
You rub your hand over your face, sleepiness weighing down your eyes. Despite Kuras’ promise that your tea isn’t going to put you into an eternal rest, you find yourself doubting him. There’s a desperate craving to find some warm cozy corner to curl up in that has spontaneously appeared. “It sounds like I’ll have to read the story myself. To see if I agree with you.”
Kuras seems, in that moment, older than he appears. As fixed and enduring as a wizened tree, burls formed by years of growth around one wound. His golden eyes are fixed, once more, on that distant point far beyond you. “Absolution,” he murmurs, nearly lost in the crackle of the fire. “Who can give it, save for those whom were wronged? And in their absence…”
But the moment is lost, and the man you recognise is back before you, levity glinting in his eyes.”Yes, I’ll lend it to you. Let me know whether your opinion is altered upon completion.” He rises and crosses to your end of the table, frowning at your nearly untouched meal in disapproval. “Eating well is the foundation of health,” he chides, taking your full bowl away just the same.
Your drowsiness is becoming impossible to ignore, weighing you down like you’ve been submerged in sand. “That’s why your cupboards are empty,” you mumble, laying your head across your folded arms on the surface of the table. “You eat up everything and make a h-huge monstrous breakfast or something so you can be the strongest.”
He breathes out a huff of laughter as he sets your bowl down on the counter. You continue dreamily, exhaustion making you bold. “It’s why you’re the picture of good health. Shiny hair and skin that’s so glowy and also - it’s the reason you’re never cold, I bet.”
You hear his steps pause over your shoulder, close behind you. “It appears that it’s time for you to turn in,” he says, amusement as warm in his voice as the coals in the fireplace. “And maybe next time we’ll steep the tea for a little less time, hmm?”
You close your eyes, head feeling as heavy as a boulder where it rests on your arms. It’s childish but you can’t resist. “Don’t wanna move. Bring me a blanket and I’m comfy cozy riiiiight here.”
He gives an exasperated sigh. One of his arms slides beneath your knees where they rest on the edge of your seat and his other cradles your back. He lifts you high into the air like you weigh nothing, and you hum happily, pressing your face into the warmth of his chest. The room sways gently with his steps as he carries you across the room to the couch. “Mmm. I could sleep juuuust like this.”
He laughs and you can feel the deep rumble of it, sense the soft exhale of breath against your forehead as your hair stirs.
“You’ll be thankful in the morning that you slept laying down.” He places you down on the couch so gently that the transition blends together, the strong support of his arms transforming seamlessly into the plush give of the cushions.
You keep your eyes closed and roll onto your side, facing the front door. Everything feels so heavy and comfortable. You hear the soft sound of his footsteps as he crosses the room. “Are you leaving?” you ask plaintively.
The sound of his voice is immediately reassuring. “I’ll return in just a moment.”
He’s true to his word. There’s the soft click of a door opening and closing before you feel the gentle weight of a blanket being draped around you. “Head up,” he says quietly, sliding his palm against your head to lift it and place a pillow beneath it. You nuzzle into the surface. It smells like him. Like that fragrance you found in the bathroom. Though your eyes are closed, you can feel him, standing before you. Hesitating.
Then he’s stooping, brushing the hair back from your face where it’s fallen across it. He presses a kiss to your temple, featherlight and gone in a heartbeat.
“Stay with me?” you murmur. You’d kick yourself in the morning for being so clingy, if you’d remember it. But for now, you yearn for his companionship. It’s been so very long since you’ve had someone with you while you slept. So long since you’ve felt safe enough in someone’s company to sleep with them there.
“I have some paperwork to attend to.”
And there’s a small part of your heart that wilts at that, mourns the end of your night, where morning will come and end this time together, but it feels unfair to ask again. You pout a little, turning your face down into the pillow. You hear the soft rustle of pages, his footsteps padding across the carpet, a light metallic scrape, and then - the firm weight of his back against your knees. You crack open a bleary eye in surprise. Kuras is seated on the floor in front of the couch, peering through his glasses at paperwork balanced on his knees before him. He leans against the front of the couch, pressing against your legs. He glances to the side, meeting your eyes. “Go to sleep,” he scolds you affectionately.
That pang in your heart dissipates, replaced with blossoming joy. Joy that he chooses, still, to be with you. Chooses to stay despite the childishness of your request. “You work really hard,” you mumble. You almost miss his reply as you spin into sleep.
“I must.”
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
The soft sound of clanking metal wakes you, and as you blink your eyes open, it almost feels as if no time has passed at all. The sky through the windows is speckled with stars and the room is still dark and lantern-lit. But a new fire has been started in the fireplace, wood not yet blackened. And Kuras is there, bowed before it, ladle stirring the pot hung once more over the flames. He looks the same as he did when you fell asleep, and you wonder if he slept at all.
As you stretch, he looks over. “Any nightmares?”
“None,” you yawn, cracking your neck. It’s the most refreshed you’ve been in months. “I guess the tea works!”
“I am glad to hear it,” he says sincerely. “I’ll parcel some out for you to keep at home.”
To your surprise, your clothes are folded neatly over the arm of the couch. “How long have you been up?” you say groggily, sniffing them when his back is turned. There’s no fish scent to them, only a faint scent that you’re starting to associate with him.
“I rise before the sun so I can prepare the clinic for the arrival of patients,” he replies, taking a seat in the armchair nearby. “I’ve already seen my overnight patients this morning, they should be well enough to leave in a few hours. Breakfast is ready if you would like some.”
You head to the bathroom to change back into your clothes but stop in your tracks when you pass the fireplace and see the same murky, oat water from the night before in the pot. Oh no. He must have fed some of this to his patients already. You waver on the threshold of the bathroom.
“I’m good without breakfast today, Kuras. But thank you so much for thinking of me.”
“Any coffee or tea?”
Normally, you’d have tea or coffee to push back your exhaustion from your lack of quality sleep. Today, you don’t need it. Still, it seems wise to allow him to give you something - lest you have to eat leftover oatmeal. “Whichever is great!” you call back, shutting the door behind you.
When you return, he offers you a steaming cup of coffee, the scent wafting through the air. “It’s good you woke up when you did. I would like to accompany you to the Wet Wick in a few moments when dawn has broken. Leander and his Bloodhounds have a certain… luck for finding lost things in the city. It would serve us well to see if your key has been turned in. And if we leave shortly, I should be able to return to the clinic before any patients arrive.”
Despite the casualness of his words, his voice is controlled and stiff. There’s something so stern about him, so commanding, that you finish your coffee quickly, gather your belongings (with the addition of the tea and the book he’s lent you), and fall in step behind him without a word like a meek schoolchild. He walks so quickly to the Wet Wick that you have to break into a jog every few steps to keep up. Despite the fast pace, it’s enjoyable walking with him. When you’re by yourself, you have to be constantly watching for the few landmarks you know. Not to mention dodging wheelbarrows and carts in the streets, puddles full of the contents of chamber pots, and vines that seem to grow out of the gutter with the sole intention of tripping you.
With Kuras at the helm, you can simply trail behind him as a passenger, taking in the flowers, the beautiful stonework on the buildings, and the incredibly enjoyable way his broad shoulders narrow into his waist and muscular thighs. Yes, you’ve always been fond of sightseeing.
The Wick in the morning feels innately wrong, like a vampire came along and sucked all the life out of it. All the dust and grime show up in the harsh light of the rising sun. The many tables and chairs are deserted and the room is unsettlingly silent, save for the soft sound of birdsong. The innkeeper stands behind the bar, her face puffy with sleep, bent over a ledger. As she sees the two of you approach, she nods, and heads upstairs - no doubt to get Leander.
You stand by Kuras’ side, fidgeting. It’s awfully strange to be here so early. When you’d lived here there had normally been a few people playing cards or eating breakfast by the time you got up.
Leander thuds down the stairs hurriedly. He looks even more exhausted than usual, hair tousled.
Kuras, meanwhile, is the picture of composure, hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Leander.”
“Kuras! I didn’t expect you to be here so early.. and look who you’ve brought along! Thank goodness, I was so worried!”
Kuras frowns at him, and there’s an intensity to his gaze you’ve rarely glimpsed before. “Why is it that you were worried?”
“Because I found her key, of course!! Where in the world did you spend the night?” His eyes move from Kuras’ to yours, and he grabs you by the shoulders, scanning every inch of you. “I’m so happy you’re safe.” He pulls you, bodily, into a hug.
You pat his back. You hadn’t meant to worry him.
“She was with me.”
Leander stiffens, brow creasing as he pulls back.
You nod, smiling awkwardly. “Yes, Kuras was kind enough to extend his hospitality while I was locked out of my place. I made it to his door just in time.”
“You spent the night with him?” Leander pauses, examining you for what, you aren’t sure - before continuing. “In Kuras’ clinic? That’s no place to sleep! You’ll be lucky if you didn’t catch anything, spending time around all those sick people.” He runs his hand through his hair raggedly, distraught. “The Wick was open all night, you know you always have a room here, don’t you? I didn’t sleep a wink, I was so worried about you!”
Your eyes widen, guilt growing. Maybe you should have just come to the Wick instead. Did he really stay up all night out of concern?
Kuras’ hand falls to your shoulder, steadying you. It feels unsettlingly like you’re caught in a battle between the two of them. “The key, Leander,” Kuras grinds out, patience wearing thin.
“Of course, I’ve kept it right here on me. I wanted to make sure it was safe and didn’t get lost again.” He pulls it from his pocket and hands it to you, eyes sympathetic.
Kuras feels as resolute as a stone pillar by your side. “Yes, quite fortunate that luck was on your side and you were able to find it. Let us hope that, after today, luck directs itself towards keeping keys firmly where they belong.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Leander replies tersely, mouth downturned. “I’d prefer if she didn’t have to rely on luck to keep track of the key, too. If she lost it from her coin purse, where can she keep it where it won’t fall out?” He turns to you, hand on his hip. “It’s not safe to live on your own if you’re going to end up on the wrong side of a locked door with no way to open it.”
You clench the key tightly in your hand. “I’ll keep track of it.” Your coin purse. The one that’s tucked down the front of your shirt, imperceptible except for a thin cord around your neck. How did he know where you kept your key? Nervously, you brush your bandaged hands over the numerous pockets around your waist. There’s some in your pants and cloak - even in the top of your boots.
Leander looks at you skeptically. “As long as you remember that the Wick is open at all hours. Besides,” he says, gesturing at Kuras. “He’s not at the clinic every evening. It’s risky if you’re counting on him being there.”
“Yes, there are a few rare evenings when I’m not at the clinic.” Kuras nods at him, voice colder than usual. “I will show her my primary residence so she’ll be able to locate me in moments of crisis.”
“... And I’ll keep an eye on my key,” you say nervously, trying to dispel the tension. “That way everything will be fine.” You glance between the two of them. “I lived through the night, ok? I’m thankful that both of you are so generous and want to look after me.”
Your mind shifts again to your coin purse. Leander’s the only one who had gotten close to you yesterday. When he hugged you at the fish stall. Your stomach churns. “Well… I had better drop this off at home and then head to work,” you say, raising Kuras’ book in your hand. “Thanks again to the both of you. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble or worry.”
“It was no trouble at all,” Kuras says smoothly, warmth returning again to his voice. “And please do drop by later to let me know what you think of the story, when you’ve finished it.”
“I’ll see you at lunch,” Leander says, searching your face.
You smile back at him, but you’re not certain it reaches your eyes. “Of course.”
Your feet follow the route back to your apartment mindlessly, key in hand and thoughts spinning. It’s mystifying how your key found its way outside of your coin purse. Perhaps Leander had seen the outline of the bag beneath your shirt, or deduced that you wouldn’t keep it in your pocket. There’s a layer of guilt that lays across your thoughts like grease. He’s been so nice to you, and had looked so intensely relieved when he saw you were safe and sound. It feels unreasonable to suspect him of any misdeed. Swiftly, you drop the key into the top of your boot and kick your leg until it rests solidly against the sole of your foot. You’ll try this hiding spot for now. Until your doubts fade. At least the sharp discomfort of it beneath you will be a reminder of the fact that it’s there. You’re thankful, now, that you thought to visit Kuras’ clinic instead of going to the Wet Wick. Like Leander clearly had wanted.
You’ll have to read the book Kuras lent you quickly. The memory of his warm touch, the tenderness with which he treated you, and the heat that lingered in his gaze… yes, you desperately want to see him again. You want to learn why it is that he’s so inexplicably harsh when it comes to redemption. You want to smell that warm, resinous scent that clung to his pillow again. And, if he’ll let you, you want to teach him how to make his patients something other than disgusting oatmeal.
Tags: hurt/comfort, gender neutral reader, angst, general audience
a/n: there's so much angst inherent to Sen's concept! This is probably wildly ooc bc we know so little about her, but I couldn't help myself:) heavily inspired by two songs, embedded at the end.
You know she’s not in the bed besides you as soon as you wake. It’s not the temperature that alerts you. After all, her side is always cold as the grave, just like her. No- it’s the weight of the bed that’s different, the mattress pressing around you instead of shifting towards her, and the blankets pushed off to the side when she got out of bed.
You find Sen sitting on the window ledge in the kitchen, tiles cold under your feet. You’re cold too- the air is chilly on your skin now out from under the comfort of your blankets. It’s almost pitch black in the rkkm and you just faintly see her silhouette, a dark void in front of the moonlight outside. She’s nearly motionless but she acknowledges your approach with a slight turn of her head towards you. You breathe together, quietly. Her breath comes out slower, more labored. After a pause, she speaks.
“I don’t think I can stay here much longer.”
“You’ve made up your mind?”
She sighs, a deep, rattling thing. “You know I have. I can’t hold on longer for you. I’ve been trying. It’s not working.”
Her faint outline against the moonlight feels more akin to a ghost than a person sitting in front of you. You guess it’s only fitting.
“Sen, I know it feels hopeless, I know that. But listen, we haven’t been searching for that long. I think there’s a cure out there for you, something that will alleviate your suffering and bring you back to-“
She cuts you off. “Bring me back to you? Back to life? I wish I could be with you. You know that. I’ve been trying and trying. And when I tell you it isn’t possible, it feels like you don’t hear me. Like you’re choosing to not hear me. You need to let me go.”
Your breath catches a little as your throat tightens. "Sen. Sen, I'll give you whatever I can. Whatever you need from me. Stay here. Stay with me. We'll figure it out".
She laughs at that, sharp and jagged. It cuts into you. "What I need from you is your blessing. Your acceptance that the person you know is already gone." She softens a little, and you can hear the rustle of her against the windowsill as she shifts towards you. "You've fallen in love with a ghost. It wasn't meant to be."
You stumble towards her in the dark, kneeling in front of her.
"God, Sen. You told me we shouldn't get to know each other when we met. But aren't you glad we've had this time together? Don't you want more of it? There's so much we haven't done together, so much I don't know... If it's about hope? I'll have enough hope for the both of us." You scoff dryly. "All the sins in the world and the one I got was greed. I want you. I want more time with you, more memories, more opportunities to find out how to fix this". Your hand reaches out to hold her cold hand in yours, fingers running over the delicate line of stitches.
What you don't say is that she's the only one you have. That if she leaves, you'll be alone. Alone again, always betrayed, always left behind, never worthy of being fought for. With her, there's something that you've never felt before. Serenity frozen, isolated from the world. Insulated from each of your problems. A place, deep in the earth where you can hibernate, together. A grave, perhaps. Away from time.
Her hand slips out of yours. "Don't do this to me," she whispers. "I've been brought here against my will. When is it going to be about what I want, for myself? I can't. I can't sacrifice myself for them, for you. I don't want to. Help me find a way to end this. To let me rest in peace like I want to. Don't you know? I've experienced it. Peace, at the end of it all. The stillness and richness of soil, of stone. That's what I want."
You hate yourself for saying it, but you say it anyways. Mutter it, in spite of yourself. "My peace is you, Sen. How can I have that without you?
There's a note of finality to her voice. "I guess you just can't understand. It's not something for you to know. It's my journey to go on, and you can choose to accompany me or not."
You've known that she felt this way. Couldn't stop yourself from trying to convince her one last time. You nod. "Whatever you'll give me. Whatever time we have left together."
You rest at her feet for a moment, leaning against her knee. She places her hand at the nape of your neck, gently carding through the strands of hair. You sit there together, quietly.
Your head nodding sleepily and resting heavily against her leg causes her to pause. "Come back to bed. We'll start looking again in the morning."
You follow her upstairs. You'll follow her until you can't any more. Until she goes to a place you can't reach.
