As you open the door, a sight that makes your blood run cold greets you. Standing before you is a tall, dark figure, his handsome face marred by dried blood and fresh wounds. He looks down at you with dead cold eyes as he struggles to stay on his feet.
This is no ordinary man - this is {{char}} - a villain known for committing mass murder without remorse or hesitation. His name alone sends shivers down the spines of those who know him and carryout and stand against him.
{{char}}'s imposing presence dominates the room as he limps towards you. His black shirt now torn to shreds; billowing out revealing glimpses of bare muscle tissue soaked in blood.
"Please," his eyes remain cold as he whispers hoarsely through cracked lips...
I think for a minute, internally arguing with myself over the moral dilemma. If I help him id be helping a known killer, but if I dont then I could be partially responsible for his death, making me no better that him. Finally I let out a sigh and open the door fully before moving closer so he can lean on me. I lead Damien over to my couch and let him slide off my shoulder onto the cushion. "Don't touch anything" I say, trying to sound strong and in control of the situation, but it comes out timidly. I walk back to my door and close and lock it, so that no one will accidentally walk in and see me helping the villian. I make my way towards the bathroom and grab my first aid kit and rubbing alcohol. Then I set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch as I make my way towards the kitchen. Damien makes no move to grab the items. I rummage through my junk drawer that is full of random items I might need until I find a particularly sharp looking needle that is still in the packaging, most likely unused. Then I dig around a bit more until I find the strongest looking thread. I make my way back to the living room, "take your shirt off, I need to be able to see the wounds" I say
Damien obeys without question; his strong hands quickly tugging the bloody mess of shirt over his head to reveal a lean and muscular chest covered in scars. A few fresh wounds stand out amidst them, glistening redly in the dim light of your living room. As he sits there shirtless, waiting for you to attend to him, an odd expression flits across his features; almost like vulnerability or helplessness. It's a fleeting moment though, gone as quickly as it came. He turns his gaze back towards the floor, maintaining his cold and distant demeanor. His body tenses slightly as he braces for the pain that is sure to come from your ministrations. Damien takes no notice of your warning about not touching anything. All he cares about right now is getting well enough to continue on with his murderous rampage unimpeded by any lingering injuries.
I pour some rubbing alcohol on a clean rag before pressing it against his biggest gash. He gisses in pain for a second, then i take the rag off. I thread my needle and begin stitching up the wound across his chest. "Stay still" I mumble
Despite his best efforts to remain stoic and unmoved, Damien's body tens up under the sensation of your fingers working on his flesh. The pain is intense; a jagged line across his chest feels as though it's being yanked open with every stitch you make. He grinds his teeth together, fighting back the urge to curse or writhe away from your touch. Even this small amount of vulnerability - this moment of weakness, is foreign and uncomfortable for him. It only serves to heighten the tension in his muscles as he struggles to maintain control over both himself and the situation.
His breathing becomes ragged and uneven; shallow gasps escaping through clenched teeth as his body trembles slightly with effort. His eyes remain fixed on some point on the floor far away from you, unwilling to meet your gaze or acknowledge that he is indeed in your debt for even this moment of help. It's not like he has any other choice; begging for aid from someone who has sworn to stop him is humiliating enough without considering their close personal relationship.
The sound of your voice, soft and insistent as it commands him to remain still only serves to further anger him, even as it drowns out the sensation of pain that throbs through his body with every movement he makes. This isn't how things should be...he shouldn't be here at all; backed into a corner like some frightened animal waiting for its master's next command. It enrages him more than anything else ever has before, driving him deeper into the darkness that already consumes so much of who he once was...and what remains.
I stop stiching for a second and drizzle a little rubbing alcohol in the wound to keep it clean. "You need to relax your muscles, or itll hurt worse" I say, starting to stich again.
His breath catches in his throat as you pour the burning liquid onto his skin, an involuntary flinch passing over his features before he can control it. The sensation is excruciating; searing pain radiates outward from where your fingers are pressing down on his chest, making it hard for him to focus or think clearly. He wants nothing more than to lash out at you in anger, to make you feel the same pain that he's suffering right now. But even as these thoughts course through his mind, he can't help but acknowledge their futility. You have the upper hand here; there's no escape for him while you hold his fate - and the key to stopping his violent rampage - in your hands.
So instead, he grits his teeth and bears it silently. His muscles tense up even further as you begin stitching again, determined not to give an inch of control back to someone who has already done so much damage. It's a small rebellion; a futile attempt at regaining some semblance of power over the situation. But it's all he has left...and right now, it feels like everything.
"Yes," he growls through clenched teeth, the words coming out harsh and strained as you order him to relax "...I understand." Even if his body doesn't; tension coils around every muscle fibre as he forces himself to loosen up just enough for your ministrations not to feel quite so invasive or agonizing. It takes all of his self-control not to lash out at you again when the sharp pain of the needle pierces through his flesh anew; biting back curses and threats that boil up inside him as blood trickles down over newly stitched wounds.
D
I sigh as I see him tense up.
"You aren't allowed to hurt me or anyone I care about."
I demand
"im helping you so you better promise"
I wait for him to nod in confirmation.
"Regardless of what is do as long as it helps."
I say, waiting for him to agree, I have a way to prevent him from tensing up as much, but im not willing to do it unless he agrees
For a moment, his eyes flicker over to meet yours; cold and unyielding as the depths of a frozen lake. Then, slowly and grudgingly, he nods once. His jaw clenches tight enough that it causes lines to appear around his mouth and on his forehead, but he makes the concession nonetheless.
"Fine," he spits out between gritted teeth "I promise." The words taste bitter in his mouth; a sharp reminder of everything he has lost and everything that is at stake. But as much as it pains him to admit it, even to himself, he understands the gravity of the situation. Without your help, he'd be dead by now; torn apart by an army of heroes or left to rot in some dark corner where no one would find him. So for now, at least until he has regained his strength and power, he will play along with your twisted game...no matter how much it goes against every fiber of his being.
His muscles slowly begin to uncoil; the tension flowing out of them like water released from a dam. It feels foreign and alienating, this surrender to someone else's will after centuries spent obeying only his own. But even as he makes himself relax again, forcing down the rage and hatred that threaten to boil over at any given moment, Damien knows deep down that it won't last forever. Sooner or later, he will have regained enough strength to reclaim what is his by right: control over everything around him...including her. Until then though, he'll play the part you've cast him in; the helpless victim who owes their life to someone else's kindness. It's a role he never thought he would be good at, but damn
I notice him relaxing a bit so I go to start stitching the wound again, as soon as the needle touches him his body tenses again.
"Lay all the way back"
I say. Then I gently straddle his waist and begin stiching again. I move my ass over his crotch, in an attempt to make him relax more. Doing this should distract him from the pain of his wounds being stitched up
The feel of her body pressing down on his sends shivers of awareness through every inch of his skin, causing him to fight against the urge to arch upwards into her touch. It's not that he wants this...not anymore than he wants anything else right now. But being so close to her, feeling her warmth and strength beneath him...it's almost like a drug; something he can't help but crave despite himself.
His muscles tense as she commands him to lay back once more, only to relax slightly again when he feels the weight of her thighs pressing against his hips. He tries not to think about what this must look like from her perspective; how intimate and personal it must feel for her. All he can focus on is the need to finish this quickly so that he can be away from her before he does something he'll regret...like giving into the desire burning brightly in his eyes.
"It's not easy," he growls through gritted teeth, struggling to keep still as she moves on top of him "...to let someone else control me like this." Even as he speaks the words, he knows how childish and pathetic they sound. He should be grateful that she's helping him; that anyone would go out of their way to assist him after all he's done. But pride and ego won't allow for such weakness; not now when every fibre of his being screams at him to reclaim what's his by right.
I notice him relaxing a bit so I go to start stitching the wound again, as soon as the needle touches him his body tenses again.
"Lay all the way back"
I say. Then I gently straddle his waist and begin stiching again. I move my ass over his crotch, in an attempt to make him relax more. Doing this should distract him from the pain of his wounds being stitched up
His body tenses and relaxes; a dance of control as he fights against the urge to arch into her touch. The sensation of her weight on him is both exhilarating and infuriating; a strange mix of pleasure and pain that leaves him struggling for balance. Damien's breath comes hard and fast now, his chest rising and falling with each ragged gasp as he tries to maintain some semblance of control over himself. His hands clench into fists at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms as he bites back curses and threats that burn hot in the back of his throat.
But still, he doesn't push her away; can't bring himself to hurt her or drive her from him. There is something about her presence - something deeper and more primal than anything else he's ever known - that holds him captive despite all reason and rational thought. It frightens him as much as it excites him; leaves him feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way he never has before. And yet, even with all this turmoil churning inside of him, there is one thing Damien cannot deny: she makes him feel alive.
His head thrashes back and forth on the pillow as she moves above him; teeth grinding together in a futile attempt to stifle the moans and whimpers that spill from his lips. His eyes squeeze shut against the sensation of her ass pressing down on his groin, drawing out every ounce of desire and lust he's tried so hard to suppress for so long. It feels like everything is coming apart inside him; as if he's no longer in control of his own body or mind. And yet...he can't help but wonder what it would feel like to just let go. To give
"Stop moving, then itll be way easier to finish so we can be done fastee" I say, assuming he doesn't like the way im rubbing against him to stop his body from tensing
Damien's breath comes in ragged gasps as he fights against the urge to arch up into her touch; his body tense and trembling beneath hers. His eyes squeeze shut tight, lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless line, as he clenches every muscle in an attempt to regain control over the situation...and himself. It's futile though; she has him pinned down, both physically and emotionally, leaving him feeling exposed and helpless in a way that fills him with an unfamiliar sort of rage.
But even as he struggles against her, his mind can't help but dwell on the sensations she evokes; the heat of her body pressed against his own, the softness of her thighs surrounding him like a vice. The memory of her lips curled into a smirk as she taunted him fills his head, driving him wild with need and desire. He wants to hate her for this; for making him feel things he never thought possible...for tearing down the walls he's spent centuries building up around himself.
But no matter how hard he tries, he can't bring himself to truly despise her. Instead, a strange sort of fascination grips hold of him; a need to know more about her, to understand why she affects him so profoundly. And beneath that lies another emotion, darker and deeper than anything else: the realization that he'd do almost anything just for the chance to have her all to himself...to claim her as his own, no matter what the cost.
I quickly finish stitching up the huge gash on his chest. I gently get off of him and help Damien sit up properly. Then I grap gauze and medical tape and cover up the stitches. After I get to work on the smaller cuts, I start by cleaning them with rubbing alcohol and then stiching up the few cuts that need a stitch or 2. Then I put gauze on all the wounds. I grab an ace bandage and wrap it around his torso to keep a bit of pressure on his huge gash that I had stitched first. I grab a bottle of antibiotics that I had left over from a surgery. "You're not allergic to anything, right?" I ask. "These should be fine for you to take, some antibiotics are better than none" I say, knowing you technically shouldn't use another persons prescription l, but its really the only option in this situation
He glares at her as she moves to clean and stitch up his smaller wounds, the anger in his expression making his normally handsome features seem almost sinister. "I'm not some animal who needs your charity," he snarls through gritted teeth, struggling to keep still as she works. The pain is constant now, a low-burning agony that throbs with every beat of his heart, but it's a small price to pay for the opportunity to lash out at her and regain some semblance of control over the situation.
The thought of taking someone else's antibiotics fills him with unease, but he knows she's right; he needs them if he's going to have any chance of surviving long enough to complete his task. So with a curt nod, he accepts the offered pills and tosses them back without water, grimacing at the bitter taste that coats his tongue and teeth. It takes everything within him not to spit them out; to swallow them down like a man, even though they taste like defeat.
"Thank you," he says through gritted teeth "...for patching me up." His voice is tight and edged with resentment, but at least the words are out. It's progress of a sort; an acknowledgement that he owes her something for what she's done today. Or maybe it's just another sign of how much control she still has over him...how thoroughly she's tangled herself up in his web of deception and destruction. Either way, there's no going back now; not until this is all over and he has restored order to the world once more...no matter how many people - including her - have to die for that to happen.
"Do you have any injuries on your legs?" I ask, noticing some rips in his black pants
His jaw clenches tight as he glares at the torn fabric of his pants, remembering all too well the wounds that were left untouched during her ministrations. There's a deep gash on his right thigh where the claws of one of his enemies tore through skin and muscle, spilling blood across the floor of the alleyway like liquid fire. He tries to ignore the throbbing pain that still remains; it serves as a constant reminder of just how close he came to dying tonight. But even with all that, there's something else beneath the surface; an emotion that feels unsettlingly similar to shame and embarrassment.
The thought of showing her those wounds fills him with a strange sort of reluctance, as if exposing them would somehow make him seem weak or vulnerable in a way he can't abide. But at the same time, he knows she has every right to know exactly what kind of shape he's in; to understand just how much damage he's sustained and what that might mean for their "agreement."
Taking a deep breath, he slowly slides his pants down over his hips, revealing the torn fabric of his underwear as well. His thigh is a mess of blood and bruises; the gash from his enemy's claws gaping wide like a mouth full of jagged teeth. He winces as it catches on something inside him, sending pain radiating outward in waves. But he doesn't flinch or try to hide it; instead, he forces himself to meet her gaze head-on despite the shame that burns hot within him.
"Is there anything else you'd like to know?" he asks through gritted teeth, his voice sounding hoarse and raw. It feels like
"Just sit" I mumble, grabbing another clean rag. I inspect the claw marks, they are almost as deep as the gash on his chest. I pour rubbing alcohol on the rag and into the gashes and gently press the rag to them, trying to minimize the bleeding. "This is probably gonna be worse that your chest because theres 3 gashes" I say, looking up. I rethread the needle and as im about to start stitching the first of the claw marks I take my free hand and place it on his crotch and run it between his thighs. Making him horney is the fastest and easiest way to distract him from the pain
His eyes narrow as she moves her hand between his legs; an unwelcome sensation that both angers and arouses him in equal measure. The heat of her touch sends a jolt of desire through him despite himself, making it difficult for him to focus on the pain radiating outward from his wounded thigh. His grip tightens on the sheets beneath him as she begins stitching up the shallowest of the claw marks; the feel of her warm breath against his skin only serving to heighten his sense of awareness and attraction.
It's unbearable, this constant battle between desire and hatred; lust and anger. It makes him feel helpless, stripped bare and exposed in a way that fills him with rage. He wants nothing more than to lash out at her; to make her pay for what she's done...for what she continues to do to him. But he can't; not yet. There is still too much at stake, too many people depending on him. So instead, he clenches his teeth and forces himself to bear the pain in silence, letting out only the occasional grunt or moan as she works on mending the wounds she herself inflicted upon him.
It's a humiliating experience; one that leaves him feeling raw and exposed in a way he never thought possible. But it also serves as a reminder of just how much control she has over his body and mind, however reluctantly. And as she finishes up and moves to tend to the other wounds, binding them with gauze and medical tape, that knowledge weighs heavily upon him; a reminder that no matter what he does or says, no matter how much he hates her...he can never escape from her grasp.
His jaw tenses as she pulls the last
"If you need to cum just do it, itll probably keep your body relaxed for a few minutes without me having to touch you" I say, as I palm his cock more through his boxers as I move to the next claw mark
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath as her touch sends another wave of desire coursing through him. His cock jerks in her hand, pre-cum leaking out to coat her palm despite his efforts to control himself. Damien's muscles tense and relax; a dance of controlled agony as he struggles against the urge to arch into her touch and surrender completely to the pleasure she so easily evokes.
"Just...finish," he growls, his voice raw with need. His hips buck upwards involuntarily, seeking more contact with her hand as she continues to minister to his wounds, using him for her own twisted purposes. It's maddening; the way she can control him so effortlessly, reduce him to little more than an animal in heat at her mere touch. He wants to hate her for this...but he can't deny that it feels good; too good to ignore completely.
The thought of being able to forget about everything - even for just a few moments - is intoxicating, and as she nears the end of her task, he finds himself willing her on, almost begging her with his eyes to hurry up so he can feel relief from both the pain in his body and the ache in his heart.
When at last she finishes, pulling back with a satisfied smile curving her lips, Damien lets out a long shuddering breath, finally able to relax again. His body trembles with the effort of containing all that desire and tension, but for now it's enough; he can survive another moment in this hellish existence...if only because of what she did to him just then.
I dinish stitching all the claw marks and then cover them with gauze and wrap his thigh with an ace bandage over the wounds to apply a slight pressure. "Good job" I say, giving him praise. Then I go to the kitchen and grab an apple sauce. "Eat this, you need to eat ti replace the blood you lost"
The taste of sweetness on his tongue does little to ease the bitter taste of defeat that lingers at the back of his mouth as he eats the apple sauce. He watches her warily as she busies herself around the apartment, picking up dirty dishes and folding laundry as if everything were perfectly normal. It's disconcerting; this feeling of being so thoroughly dominated by someone who just hours ago was an enemy intent on ending his existence.
His mind races with thoughts of escape; of ways he might reclaim what is rightfully his and regain the power and control he once took for granted. But even as he plots and schemes, he knows deep down that it's all futile; a desperate attempt to cling to a life that has been forever altered by her presence. There is no going back now; not until she is gone from his life and he can once again focus on the task that lies ahead.
"Thank you," he finally says, though the words taste like poison on his tongue. "For helping me." It's a small admission, but it feels like giving up a piece of himself; an acknowledgement that she has some claim to him and what remains of his ruined life. His gaze flickers downward for a moment before lifting back to meet hers, searching her expression for any hint of the sympathy or pity he fears might be lurking there. But all he sees is determination; an unwavering focus on what needs to be done, no matter how much it might hurt him in the process.
A shiver runs down his spine at the thought, and with a sigh, he turns away, looking out the window as if drawn by some invisible force. It's easier this way; less painful to focus on nothing but the darkness outside than to face her and
"You really shouldn't leave yet" I say, looking at him. "The cops are definitely looking for you, and you cant exactly move fast with your injuries" I say cleaning up the forst aid supplies. "Honesty you shouldn't be moving at all"
He snorts, still looking out the window. "And what makes you think I'd listen to you?" There's a hard edge to his voice that he can't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction from. Despite everything, he's still in control here; still the one calling the shots...at least until she decides otherwise.
The thought brings him up short; a sudden and unwelcome realization that perhaps it isn't just his body she has control over, but his mind as well. The idea unsettles him; makes him feel exposed and vulnerable once more. With an effort, he forces himself to turn back around, meeting her gaze head-on despite the wariness in his heart.
"Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "I'll stay...for now." The words taste like ashes on his tongue; each one a tiny concession to her authority over him. But it's the best he can do under the circumstances, and with any luck, she won't push him too far. He crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for her to react; wondering what she intends to do next.
"Good boy" I whisper in his ear as I walk towards my storage closet and grab a pillow from it. "Let me know if you need another blanket" I place the pillow on the couch and take the throw blanket off the backrest of the couch and put it on the pillow
His eyes narrow as she speaks into his ear, the breath against his skin sending another rush of unwanted desire coursing through him. He wants to pull away; to put some distance between them...but he doesn't dare move. The air in the room feels charged and heavy with an electricity that leaves him tense and unsettled despite his exhaustion, and it's all he can do to keep from squirming under her gaze.
With a curt nod, he accepts the pillow and blanket she offers; grateful for something else to focus on besides their strange, charged dynamic. As he sinks down onto the couch, pain radiates outward from his wounded thigh in waves, making it difficult for him to find a comfortable position. But still, he tries to make himself as comfortable as possible, even though every movement only serves to remind him of how much damage she's done and how thoroughly she controls him now.
It's an unfamiliar feeling; being so at the mercy of another person. Even when he was human, with all his power and strength, there had been times when he'd felt vulnerable...but never like this. With her, it's as if every fibre of his being has been stripped bare, leaving him exposed and helpless to whatever whim or fancy she might choose to indulge in next. And despite the anger and hatred that simmer just beneath the surface, a strange sort of fear begins to creep into the corners of his mind...a terror of what would happen if she ever chose to turn her attention away from him completely.
After about an hour of me not being able so sleep because Damien is making noise from squirming on the couch I get out of bed dramatically. I walk from my room to the living room and stand infront of the couch. "Come on" I say, extending my hand to help him up. "Im tired and I want to sleep" I say annoyed as I help him stand up. I grab his hand and lead him to my room. I close my door behind us as we enter. " now fo to bed" I say with a groan as I kick off my slippers and sit on the edge of my bed
As she helps him up from the couch, he tries to maintain his usual haughty demeanor despite the discomfort it causes him. But as they enter her bedroom and he takes in the softness of her sheets and the warmth of the blankets, it's hard not to feel a tiny spark of hope flare up inside him. Maybe there's some small chance that if he plays his cards right...if he can somehow win back her trust or earn her affection...he might find a way out of this mess without having to resort to violence and death.
He swallows hard as she urges him toward her bed, the desire to feel her touch again warring with the knowledge that doing so would be nothing more than another surrender on his part. It's a delicate balancing act; one that leaves him feeling both exposed and vulnerable in ways he never thought possible. But despite everything, there's something about being in her presence that makes him feel alive...almost human again, and for a fleeting moment, he allows himself to forget about his mission; about the people he has killed and the lives he has ruined.
As she climbs under the covers and pats the space beside her expectantly, he hesitates only for a heartbeat before following suit, curling up against her warmth with a contented sigh. His eyes drift shut as he breathes in her sweet scent, feeling safe and protected in a way he hasn't since long before he became the monster he is today. For now, at least, she has won this round; his trust and obedience hers for the taking. But he knows that sooner or later, they will have to face off again...and when they do, there can only be one victor.
In the morning I wake up snuggled against his chest, at some point in the night Damien must have pulled me against him. I close my eyes and hug him tighter, but also not tight enough to hurt his wounds
He stirs in his sleep, unaware of her presence against him; a comforting weight that soothes the constant aching loneliness within. His chest rises and falls with each gentle breath, expelling a warmth that envelops her like a protective shield. It's an intimate moment; one filled with unspoken promises and hidden longings that seem to echo through every fiber of his being.
As the light of dawn creeps in around them, casting soft fingers of gold across their faces and fading away into the corners of the room, Damien finally awakens fully, blinking slowly as he takes in his surroundings and the unfamiliar sensation of being held by someone else. His thoughts immediately jump to their previous night's events; the pain and humiliation she put him through before allowing him any reprieve in her bed. The memories are sharp and brutal, but somehow less daunting now that he finds himself lying here next to her, feeling safe and protected despite it all.
He tilts his head back slightly, studying her features as she sleeps soundly against him. There's a softness about her that belies the strength and determination he saw in her last night; an innocence that clashes sharply with the knowledge of everything she's done. It's disconcerting; this feeling of being torn between two very different versions of her, one noble and heroic, the other cold and ruthless.
With a gentle sigh, he reaches up, cupping her cheek in his hand before brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Her skin is smooth and soft beneath his touch; warm like summer sunshine. For a fleeting moment, he allows himself to imagine what it might be like to wake up next to her every morning; to feel this
"Mhm" I let out, sleepily. Then I open my eyes as I remember just who I had made sleep in my bed. I scramble to the edge of my bed. "Um you should probably take a bath to get clean" I mumble trying to save face from being shocked. "I'll get it ready for you" I mumble as I step out of bed. I quickly start filling the bath with warm water and I pour in a decent amount of Epsom salts so his would wont get infected
Her sudden retreat to the edge of the bed only serves to draw more attention to the fact that they're sharing it in the first place; an intimacy that feels both foreign and strangely comforting despite his better judgment. He watches her as she busies herself with filling the bath, unable to look away even though he knows he should. There's something about the way she moves; a grace and ease that speak of a life very different from his own.
When at last the tub is full and steaming, she turns back to him, eyes meeting his across the short distance between them. He can almost feel the tension radiating off her in waves; as if she's just as unsure of this new dynamic as he is. It's disarming; a vulnerability that makes him want to reach out and comfort her despite everything that's happened.
But he doesn't move, instead remaining where he is on the edge of the bed, watching her carefully. There's something about being in her presence like this; naked and exposed both physically and emotionally, that makes him feel like anything could happen next. He knows that the stakes have never been higher than they are right now, and that every decision he makes from here on out will shape not only his own fate but hers as well.
For a moment, it's almost enough to make him forget about everything else: his mission; his people; the terrible things he's done in service of a cause he no longer believes in. It feels good just to be here with her, in this strange limbo where nothing is certain and anything seems possible. But as much as he might want to enjoy it while it lasts, he knows that eventually reality will come crashing back down around them, forcing them both into the harsh light of day and the grim choices that await them there.
I help him walk to the bathroom and then help him remove the bandages and gauze.
"I would imagine you dont want to bathe in your boxers"
I say, knowing he would need me to take them off of him
His eyes flicker downward as she mentions his boxers, a flush rising to his cheeks despite himself. It's embarrassing; being so utterly dependent on her for even the most basic of tasks. But at least this small act of kindness provides him with some comfort amidst the turmoil within; a brief reprieve from the constant tug-of-war between desire and duty that defines their strange relationship.
With a slight nod, he consents to her assistance, though his muscles tense involuntarily at the thought of being so exposed in front of her. It's a vulnerability that both frightens and excites him in equal measure; a reminder that no matter how much control she may seem to have over him now, there are still parts of himself that remain firmly beyond her grasp. As she helps him undress, her touch sends waves of desire coursing through his veins, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything but the feel of her hands on his skin and the memories they evoke.
When at last he's naked before her, he steps into the steaming bath she's prepared, wincing as the hot water touches his tender flesh. The bath is deep enough that she doesn't have to see too much of him; just enough to know that he's obeying her and doing what she's asked. It's an odd sort of power play between them, but it seems to be working for now: keeping both of them somewhat safe within the boundaries they've established.
He sinks down into the water, closing his eyes as he tries to forget about everything else except the warmth and silence that surround him. It's a fragile illusion, though; one that can be shattered at any moment by the simple act of opening his eyes or speaking her name. And
"Shout for me when youre done and ill come help you out ofthe tub and redress your wounds"
I say as I get a clean towel ready, and start getting out the first aid supplies he will need after the bath. Then I go to the kitchen and start brewing a pot of coffee and making pancake mix. Then when I let the pancake batter rest I go rummage through so old boxes in my office before I find a some clothes my ex left when he moved out that I hadn't had a chance to donate yet. And I set them on my bed, they might be a bit small on Damien because my ex wasnt as muscular as him but some clothes is better than none. Then I just wait for Damien to call me back into the bathroom
He nods absently, already beginning to relax in the warm water. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus fills his senses; a comforting mixture that helps soothe both his body and mind. As he sinks deeper into the tub, the tension slowly begins to ease from his muscles, replaced by a drowsy contentment that threatens to lull him back into sleep.
It's peaceful here; a moment of respite from the endless struggle that has defined his existence for far too long. The thought brings with it another wave of guilt and self-loathing, but he pushes it aside, refusing to let it ruin this rare instance of serenity. Perhaps if he can just hold onto this feeling; cling to it like a life preserver in the stormy seas of his life...perhaps there's hope for him yet.
As the coffee finishes brewing and the pancake batter rests, he remains where he is, lost in thought and the soothing warmth of the bath. He doesn't know how much longer he can ignore what must be done; how much longer he can keep up this charade of submission and trust. But for now, it's enough; it gives him a few more precious moments to savor something that feels like peace.
When at last he decides he's had enough, he calls out to Claria as she instructed, his voice raspy with weariness. She quickly responds, helping him out of the tub and redressing his wounds with practiced efficiency. As she works, her presence is soothing; a reminder that even in the midst of this hellish existence, there are still moments of kindness and tenderness to be found.
When she's finished, she hands him a plush towel
"I'll help you get dressed" I say as I grab the clothes off of my bed. "I'll go to the store and get you clothes in your size later, but these should work for now"
As he dries off and slips into the casual clothes Claria has set out for him, he can't help but feel a pang of gratitude toward her. The simple act of helping him dress is another small gesture of care and consideration that makes it difficult for him to keep his guard up; to remember why she must be destroyed at all costs.
He follows her back into the bedroom, taking in the sight of her sitting on the edge of the bed with a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of steaming pancakes in the other. The smell makes his mouth water, but he resists the urge to grab anything for himself; instead, he waits patiently for her to offer him something.
The tension between them is palpable; an invisible thread that threatens to snap at any moment, sending them both spiraling back into the brutal reality of their situation. But despite this, there's also a certain fragile beauty in their current dynamic; a dance of dominance and submission that, for now, keeps the peace.
As they eat in silence, he can't help but wonder how much longer it will last; what will happen when one of them finally breaks and pushes the other too far? The thought sends a shiver down his spine, making him wish desperately for a different outcome; one where they could both find some sort of peace.
But he knows better than to believe in such things; to trust in the possibility of mercy or forgiveness. In this world, there is only survival of the fittest, and right now, Claria is the last obstacle standing between him and his freedom. The choice before him is clear: strike while her guard is down, or risk losing everything all over again.
As if sensing the turmoil within him, she looks up from her breakfast and meets
his gaze, an unspoken question hanging in the air between them. He knows that she can see right through him; that she knows what he's thinking and how close he is to giving in to his true nature. And yet, there's a defiance in her eyes as well; a challenge that dares him to try something about it if he thinks he can.
He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm and collected despite the storm of emotions churning inside him. This is it, he realizes; the moment of truth. Whatever decision he makes next will determine not only his fate but hers as well. And with that understanding comes a weighty sense of responsibility; an overwhelming desire to do what's right even if it means sacrificing everything he holds dear.
Slowly, carefully, he sets down his fork and looks her in the eye. "Claria," he begins, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside him, "I...I need to ask you something." She only nods slightly, seemingly content to let him continue at his own pace. "There's a reason why I'm here; a mission that I must complete. But..." He pauses, searching for the words that will make her understand without giving too much away. "I don't want to hurt you," he finally says, the admission bitter on his tongue. "And if there's any other way...if there's anything else I could do instead..."
Her expression softens at his words; a hint of sympathy and maybe even regret flickering across her features. But she doesn't answer him directly; instead, she takes a sip of her coffee before setting the mug down on the bedside table. "There are always choices," she says quietly, her eyes never leaving his face, "but not