Suit Of Cups

by MagnaAlmaMater

Chapter 2

Summary:

I actually made it in time, lol.
Please check updated tags.

He turns his back to the man and moves away from the door leaving them open. It should be enough of an invitation. He hopes that there will be no more discussion as he stumbles to his bed and fortunately, Naib seems to be frozen silent. Which is fine because shit, Edgar hates talkative men. He doesn’t bother to look back at him, instead he settles for unbuttoning his shirt. 

No one should be allowed to look at the humiliation that he is too dizzy to wipe off his face. He's going through enough embarrassment as it is. The buttons pop out of the holes, one by one. He ignores the fact that he is hard as a stone, because there is no pleasure in it, as it is merely a physical response to the toxins that work through his body. Naib must know it as well, given his experience with cantharidin, so there is no reason to be ashamed. 

He always found it quite relieving when he was allowed to do it himself in peace instead of servants fuzzing over every bruise that appeared on his body, or worse, trying to tame impatient men that put them there. It gives a sense of security, albeit a false one. His fingers get confused as the drug affects his motor skills, which is bothersome, but he figures that the fact that he is still standing is a miracle. When he meets his dear teacher in Hell, he will thank him personally for helping him grow a partial resistance to a fucking mix of poison, alcohol, and anesthetic. Right after he stabs him again. 

When he is done with his shirt, thanking God that he didn't wear a corset today, and still does not hear the man coming in, he sighs in annoyance. At other times he might have appreciated the novelty of a man with no interest in him, but unfortunately, he needs to do this as quickly as possible. Naib’s sudden need for chastity does not help anyone.

"Naib is not your name, correct? Not a real one."

The black eyebrows frown. "No. It’s a rank."

He sounds careful. As if he suspects Edgar’s scheming something. But it is not like Edgar already didn't know that. You cannot hide shit in this place, no matter how hard you try. Something so obvious as people's past gets out in a week, if not in a day. When he thinks about it, Emily is the greatest joke one can bring up during a mundane dinner because everyone gets it. Naib Subedar was a little harder, but not everyone in the manor is ignorant.

Uncarring, Edgar throws his shirt on the floor, but leaves the rest of his clothes on as he turns to the mercenary. Let them both use a certain layer of defence then.

"Then what is your name?" he demands and from the look he receives in an answer is obvious the man doesn't understand where the conversation is going.

"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it," he replies, drily. 

"I still want to know."

"Naib is enough," the man says, and it sounds so resolute it is possibly true. "It is a name I've chosen."

It sounds like a compelling reason, but Edgar refuses to accept it for now, though he supposes he could care less. A man of his stature shouldn't care about the names of the people who serve him. Unfortunately for him, he's always been a bit sentimental. Human names confer a certain power that nothing else can quite replace. 

"How's it in the army?" he asks. "What was the equivalent of your rank?"

"None. There is no equivalent to gurkha's ranks in the British army."

"Then, who did you answer?"

He knows Naib swallows, although he does not hear it. With satisfaction he notes, he managed to get under the mercenary’s skin after all. At least now he feels a bit more on equal terms. His own skin was boiling away with anxiety during this whole damned evening, let Naib be a bit unsure of himself too.

"Gurkhas…" says the man finally and oh, it is so deliciously obvious he doesn't want to talk about it, "Must obey any British soldier. Their ranks don't matter."

"See," closes Edgar the conversation, victorious. "Then obey."

"You are not a soldier."

"And yet, you will obey," he dismisses and ignores the mercenary’s expression. Looks cannot kill anyway. “Naib, then. I do not enjoy circumstances the slightest, but let's not complicate this. I need you to fuck me. And I will pay you later.”

He himself is surprised at how steady his voice sounds. He definitively doesn't feel steady. Though he still doubts Naib's words, the idea of internal bleeding is not a pleasant one. And even if those claims weren't true, the whole situation brings back memories of situations that, while not quite threating to be this fatal, were no less pleasant.

The truth is, he doesn't want to experience waking up again and not knowing what happened. At least this way he'll know who he was with. Soldiers are brutal men. Ruthless. Gurkhas even more so. But they also casually follows orders. He never considered Naib to be a gentleman but usually that's exactly what one must look for if they don't want to be treated dishonestly.

"Come here," he says.

The mercenary looks like he wants to say something and for a second Edgar thinks shit, maybe he overdid it. Or maybe Naib is not into men like Edgar after all, or he just finds the situation off-putting, which is understandable considering that he must look terrible. He can barely stand up straight because of the dizziness, and even though the overheating of his body is past its peak, he still has all that cold sweat clinging to him. He must be sticky. And probably smells. Only thinking about it is nauseating. But then Naib sighs and Edgar figures that only an expensive whore pretends to be reluctant. 

He glances back at the man, with a little smirk that bears no humour at all, but well, he is not joking in the first place. "I will add an extra if I vomit all over you.”

Clearly, that makes for the mercenary. There is not a man on earth who cannot be persuaded to do something for a large enough sum. Unfortunately, people are naturally disgusting like this. With cynical amusement, Edgar realises that he is not even the first person to pay Naib for this service. Although, he may be the first to pay him for his own rape.

He tries hard not to think about it, as he lets himself sit and then lies down on the bed as the weight of the evening finally falls on him, all that dizziness and tiredness numbered at once as he touches the soft mattress. The bed beneath him is so comfortable and welcoming; he thinks that he will not be able to fight the urge to sleep anymore. For some reason, it brings tears to the corner of his eyes. But wherever this momentary bout of weakness came from, it disappears as quickly as it appeared the moment the mattress sags again under the weight of another man's body.

 

Edgar opens eyes he did not even realise he closed, just to find himself staring into the black, piercing ones.

“One day someone will cut your nasty tongue out.”

The mercenary makes it sound almost nonchalant, despite settling himself down with a very clear intention. He puts his hands next to Edgar's body as if his approval meant anything.

“They clearly poisoned me with a date rape drug for it already,” Edgar dismisses, not impressed by empty talk. “And your protests lack the necessary assertiveness because you're still here after all.”

It's not that bad, he tells himself, when Naib takes his answer as an allowance and finally lays his hands on Edgar's body. He even seems to be interested after a moment, butterfly touches dancing down and up his torso, dark skin against pale one. It looks pretty. In a different situation, perhaps in a different life, Edgar could appreciate it.

“Perhaps I am really an idiot," the mercenary grunts and it sounds like he resigned in some internal conflict Edgar wasn't invited to observe.

It makes him snort. “Perhaps you are.”

The veteran frowns at him. To his credit, he also actually stops caressing Edgar's body, but his hands, although frozen, are still on his skin, hot, firm, and calloused. So close to grabbing and bruising.

"Listen," he says, and Edgar has to listen, although he does not care. "There are men who like their girls– or boys bitchy. I'm not one of them."

It's a lie. It is a goddamn lie, because there has never been a man who has been repulsed by Edgar's rudeness. It hardly mattered to them what he says or thinks. He feels his nose wrinkle in disagreement.
Proving his point, he presses leg up the mercenary's crotch, finding him as hard as he expected. Naib's eyes darken and it makes Edgar smirk, but there is no humour in it. The patheticness of horny men stopped being amusing very quickly. Actually, he was not sure if it ever was amusing in the first place.

Maybe the contempt was clear enough on his face to finally show Naib's true colours. In one brisk motion, the soldier lifts Edgar's hips and pulls them into his lap. Having no other options, he lets his legs wrap around the mercenary's waist, trying not to focus on the swift hands working on his belt. Instead, he pushes half of his face into the blankets.

The aphrodisiac in his blood must finally have hit his brain, he realises. His skin crawls and itches with every touch from Naib, but he cannot tear away. Something inside him burns with a fire that wants to feed on the touches of other's flesh, and the thought of losing the skin on skin contact is terrifying. He needs it as well as he hates it. If he was a lady, he would be soaking wet at this point. The idea is sickening.

Strong fingers press into the back of his knees and tights and then even higher, under the hem of his shorts. Even through the stockings the touch burns. With body heat, drugs, and memories. It feels almost unreal. As if he was far away, in another place and time. A rough hand sneaking spread flat and cool over his bare skin beneath the fabric, grasping, touching, and feeling-- so many things can be hidden by a simple piece of clothes.
No one would ever notice. No one would care. He digs his nails into the soft meat of his palms, hoping the pain would bring him back to reality. When was the last time he managed to chew his lips bloody with nervousness?

Over him, Naib tilts his head in a silent question, but it is not something Edgar is obliged to answer. Instead, he tugs on the mercenary’s shirt, suddenly finding the man's dressed state irritating beyond rational compression.

"Take off your clothes,” he demands sternly. “Let's be civilised about this.” Then, perhaps because he feels the mercenary’s own heart thumping through his chest, so much calmer and steadier than his own frantic heartbeat, he adds some poison of his own. “Can you?"

Naib hardly grimaces, but it’s clear he understands. "Can I what?"

"Be civilised. It it too much to ask of Gurkha?"

A shadow passed through the black eyes. "Be careful."

It is a threat as well as an order. Clear as ice. The mercenary’s facial muscles barely move but the deadpan delivery only adds to it.

Maybe the mercenary finally understood Edgar has no other choice than to comply and decided to force him to go fully through the all the possible humiliation. Fucking asshole. All men act like they are a godsend until it comes to the moment they are with someone who can't defend themselves. They always pretend it's for his own good, and once they realise they won't be punished for whatever they do, then their true colors come out.

"Or what?" he spits out, offended beyond believe. "What will you do, Naib Subedar?"

 

Edgar can take intimidation without even blinking once. He also can deal with violence; God knows he can appreciate a little straightforward honesty in his life. But the way the veteran says this is so arrogant and so sure that it makes his blood boil in anger, because he heard these self-serving excuses and victim blaming way too many times. He doesn't need the mercenary to speak, he has heard it too many times.

Be careful, Edgar. Be careful because if you get hurt it is your own fault.
I didn't want to, but you made me. It hurts me more than it hurts you. 

Of course he had tried to blackmail him like this. He cannot even count how many people tried to force him to accept that he is cornered, and the only option out is to obey whatever sick bullshit they had prepared for him. It's at the point where he can' t escape when suddenly they have no problem with taking him and fucking him and destroying him, and then they would say it was because he needed it.

They pretend that they are not just following their sick fantasies that they have accumulated over the years. They claim it was for his own good, that he begged them to fuck him, and they just obeyed, as befits good friends. They bend him over and over again, stripping him of his last vestiges of dignity. Like liars, they claim that it was his choice, that he had asked for it. In the end, they take no blame for whatever deprivation their cocks craved, because after all, it is always Edgar's own fault. And at the worst scenario, it was not even a lie.
At the worst scenario, he was young, stupid, and naïve enough to believe in love and its guilelessness.  

He always welcomed Sarai's touch. He appreciated his advances. He wanted to be loved and to love back at any cost because millions of lies had convinced his brain that love could not be consuming.

Do you want to know about real art?

The true art is a lie. It is a scam that people impose upon others. It is an internalised pretence that convinces everyone about its genuineness.
True art is a lie. It is a deception that people impose on others. It is an inherent pretense that convinces everyone of its authenticity, but the strokes of a brush will never become a real forest, just like pretty words do not reveal the truth. Sarai's touches never made love, never gave anything, no matter how much Edgar convinced himself that they did. They just took and took until there was nothing left, but an empty drained shell that didn't matter in the first place.

Did Sarai even like boys?

Sometimes Edgar thinks that even that was bullshit.

He would go on all fours for him without thinking. He would take off his clothes and wait for hours in a cold room. He would suck him off and let him fuck his throat until it bled, and he would not say a word of protest.
He would plunge a knife into his chest, over and over, until he killed that bastard again and again, and then he would gladly continue, so he couldn't be born again, or go to heaven or hell.

"Remember your place, mercenary," he growls and something passes through Naib's dark eyes. Something malicious.

"You're not in a position to boss people around."

But of course it is. He's an aristocrat. There is no British household where an employee, a mercenary, could speak to his employer, nor a noble guest with such arrogance. No respectable household anyway. Though Edgar had noticed that he had been losing his decency at a rapid rate ever since he had entered the damned mansion. But there is one thing the mercenary doesn’t expect. Edgar would rather die than to let himself to be treated like that again.

He feels his fingers tremble. Once they start, they can't stop shaking. The pooling anger that has been stewing inside him threatens to burst in an instant. His eyes itch and it’s unfair. It's so unfair that he always ends up crying when he was angry. It was an utter degradation, especially in front of some asshole who thinks he can get away with anything he wants. 

"You will not threaten me," he grits out, not caring once for keeping a straight face. He wishes he could say it every damn time with all the anger that accumulated inside him over all these years. "If you speak to me like that once again, this is over. I won't have any scum threatening me in my own bed."

They fall silent.

Edgar’s headache creeps back with the force of the imperial navy as if it is trying to fracture his skull and split it open. His tear ducts burn as tears of rage try to claw their way to the surface. If the mercenary notices, he doesn’t say anything, his hand still wrapped around Edgar’s legs. Even through the fabric of his pants, the touch stings. His skin is too hot to handle direct contact with a foreign body. He's probably running a fever. He cannot imagine how this night is supposed to continue.

Perhaps he will boil alive.

Maybe he deserves it too, who knows. 

The soldier takes a breath like he wants to say something. Edgar has no desire or reason to let him.

“Just do it,” he says. He doesn’t bother to look at the man, just goes slack boneless under him. Through his closed eyes, he presses his fingers against the top of his eyelids in the vain hope that the pressure will help reduce his migraine. “Do your job and get out. I want to get this over with.”

There is movement on the mattress as the mercenary moves. His hand slips down Edgar’s thigh and back to his knee, slowly stroking it through the fabric. To Edgar’s surprise, he realises that it doesn't feel as intrusive as it should, but he cannot exactly believe his senses now. He presses a forehand over his eyes and makes sure that he feels nothing. He doesn’t want to know what happens next. There is no breath left in his lungs and no fight in his heart.

A broad hand lands on his forehead and for a moment he thinks the man will catch his wrists, removing the pitiful cover from his eyes. Perhaps he likes to be watched during it. Edgar remembers that some men have that fetish. It is quite pathetic if you ask him.
But nothing happens. Naib's hand just rests on his forehead, its touch firm but not demanding. The whole gesture seems like an intuitive attempt to calm him down, as if Naib had not even thought about it. Edgar wants to pull away but before he can move the mercenary finally speaks.

"You are burning up."

"No shit."

"Are you alright?"

Edgar’s eyes fly open. He looks up at the man in disbelief. His expression must give away his thoughts because the mercenary seems to realise his mistake. He straightens up in a defensive gesture.

"Stupid question, fine.”

“I was… worse,” he says, hoping it's dismissive enough. He is not in the mood to ask what the hell the question is, how could he be okay if he is drugged and poisoned. Or how much of an idiot Naib must be to even ask such a question.

“Fair,” Naib hums. “It's the drug."

“Yes,” Edgar agrees and does not believe it at all. “The drug.”

It is not so much a lie, although he does not believe it at all. Rationally speaking, his mind must be pretty clouded at this point, so even Naib has to forgive him for an uncharacteristic lack of self-control. The black slanted eyes dig into him.

"Listen, you don't have to be… nervous. I won't hurt you."

It sounds honest, that's the worst part of it. Edgar's madness grows like an ivy in a humid summer.

"Subedar, if you will treat me as a virgin bride on her first night, I will kick your ass off the window. I am a man and getting fucked is very much not a novelty for me."

"Yeah, that's obvious, but it will not get us anywhere," he remarks and then gives a quick but pertinent glance at Edgar’s half-bare body. “You can put our shirt back on, or something if you want."

The suggestion is so slow and gentle that Edgar wants to vomit.

“You can hardly fuck me with my clothes on,” he snarls, trying to hide his embarrassment behind the offence.

"Yeah, but lack of clothes makes you stiff and I am not a magician to make you cum when you are as frigid as a log."

Edgar blinks at him, although it's clear what he means. Cantharidin itself does not cause sexual interest; it only stimulates arousal. He guesses that this was the most diabolical part of the drug; if the poisoned person really needs to reach orgasm to survive, the drug will not do it for them. It gets a man hard, but not into a mood for sex. And who the fuck can enjoy their own rape.

"Unfortunately," he replies to the mercenary, with the teeth grinded. "It is not in my power to find the necessary spirit for enthusiastic participation. But when I find the bastard who gave me this shit, I will be sure to criticize him for the lack of foresight that prevented him from adding some actual aphrodisiac to my wine."

 

Naib snorts. Actually snorts with amusement. It lasts barely a second before his face returns to his usual half-pissed demeanour, but Edgar sees it clearly enough. He makes sure to give him as offended look as he can, but cannot bring himself to be genuinely angry.

He watches as the man shakes his head in apology and slight disbelief. 

"It’s just… I must say, I've never seen a man dosed with this shit so coherent."

Edgar supposes that is as far as the mercenary compliments can go. It sounds genuine too.

"Well,” he says, suddenly unsure how to handle this kind of unusual flattery. “I've already heard a few times that I'll only stop speaking once my tongue is cut off."

Something passes through Naib's eyes that looks almost like sorrow or pity, but it is too quickly gone to be sure. Edgar doesn't like it. He wants to say something nasty just in case his interpretation was correct, but before he opens his mouth, the mercenary speaks again.

“Will kissing make you feel better or worse?"

He blinks, because what question is that? He swears that the man just wants to be difficult. Rationally, perhaps only internal bleeding and a following painful death would make Edgar feel worse at this point; and the night is only beginning. Still, he stares at Naib in confusion, considering an answer. No one ever asked him that. Hell, Edgar never even thought about whether kissing makes the whole act worse or not; he usually just took what he was given.
Who the hell even asks such a question? He'd hoped it was just a rant, but Naib is still looking at him, unmoved, clearly expecting an answer.

"You can kiss me," Edgar tries, after giving it a long consideration and finding himself unable to decide under the influence of a dulling drug mix. He hopes it is enough to cover the fact he has no idea what to do with such an offer.

For a moment, Naib looks puzzled. Then he scoffs, clearly reaching some decision.

"Will fucking me first make you feel better?"

What.

This time Edgar simply glares, struck stupid.

"Don't get me wrong," Naib says, as pragmatic as it gets. "Before the night ends, I'll be buried in you multiple times, but nothing requires you getting your asshole getting drilled open. You just need to cum and I'm not so uptight to make this whole thing one sided."

As if there could be any fairness in getting drugged and forced to have a sex marathon, with the second option being death. Edgar rolls his eyes with annoyance and then, despite his better judgement, he nods.

"Yes. That sounds-- reasonable."

In fact it does not sound reasonable at all. From the way his cock twitches, he assumes he will not last five seconds, bringing even more embarrassment to the humiliation of the night. But the mercenary puts on an expression that can be with some imagination described as pleased and Edgar would lie if he said the prospect of being the one doing the shagging for once wasn't at least a bit thrilling. 

“Fine,” Naib says for what Edgar assumes to be the thousandth time this night.

 

At least he looks like they have just achieved a breakthrough, because the man finally takes off his damn shirt and then, as if he is naturally exhibitionist, the rest of his clothes too. He sits on the bed as naked as God made him.

Edgar stares.

It's a nice body. Naib has a nice body. His figure is firm, his muscle lean and toned. Without thinking for once, Edgar leans towards the man in front of him. He allows himself to place his hands on the mercenary's chest. Runs them his over his pectorals, his nipples. It feels like touching a marble statue, perfect muscles and elegant curves born out of stone, except that these ones are made of hot blood and dark skin. Under the taut skin are clean muscles and tendons, nothing soft. It's frankly fascinating. 

The mercenary’s brow raises smugly. “Like what you see?”

“Oh shut up," he rolls his eyes. “What do they feed you, concrete tiles?”

The man's eyes flash in a rare moment of humor. “Only once in a while.”

Edgar had a wide enough variety of men in his bed for some of them to be serving in the military. He was lucky in that respect. Or unlucky, depending on how one approaches it. But all those marshals and generals, even their hopeful sons, were in the end nothing but artificially grown figures whose purpose was just to flaunt their uniforms. It was unclear to Edgar if they had ever held any weapon other than their own cock in their soft hands.

Naib's body is nothing of the sort. Of course, that’s to be expected. He is no gentleman. He's rough, with many edges. His hands are calloused and squarish, the kind of hands people coming from a long line of field workers have. He's a bit too short to be built purely for strength, but too heavy for acrobatics.
Edgar has hardly any knowledge of combat techniques, but as he tracks Naib's muscles with his fingertips, hoping to appreciate their beauty, he realises the man must rely on agility more than on raw physical strength. It's a good body. The one old masters would like to immortalise. At least those who were not too occupied with screwing boys, to appreciate a grown man.

Perhaps he is a bit lost in his own appreciation of the muscles in front of him, because when Naib tilts his head to press wet lips on the side of his neck, Edgar allows it. It doesn’t feel bad at all. Neither does the way the mercenary’s body presses up against his. Not so much out of a need to reciprocate as out of my own volition Edgar trails the dark hair on the mercenary's flat stomach and then lower. His cock is still soft. For some reason, Edgar finds it unacceptable. Mentally, he is not in mood for sex just yet, but he surely would be up to giving the man a hand job or two. Even without being drugged. He wonders what a man like this likes. Probably slow and tight. With lots of spit, as wet as his kisses are. It seems likely. He tightens his hand on the man’s cock and feels him stiff and thickens in response.

When he repeats the motion, a little sigh escapes Naib’s mouth and Edgar is overwhelmed by the sense of power only port whores have, when they have the privilege to hold a soldier's most vulnerable part in their grasp. He feels warm spreading through his own loins at the thought. 

Fuck, it's so hot.

He probably would have enjoyed reducing Naib to a drooling wreck with something as simple as a handjob, but then there was something else on today's menu. Edgar always makes sure that people keep their promises.
Feeling bold, he lets his other hand slip behind the mercenary’s balls and then, quite playfully, presses inside. The mercenary jolts in surprise.

“Hn, eager.”

It’s not angry at all. Edgar snorts. "You promised me a fuck, not this boarding school bullshit."

“Mm,” Naib confirms. “I suppose I did.”

His face shows no hint of amusement, but Edgar decides that Naib must be in a good mood after all, because he quickly removes his belt and, subsequently, his trousers. Edgar doesn't even have time to feel embarrassed when his shamefully red erection, which has been bothering him for half an hour, finally pops free, because Naib does not hesitate in the slightest. Without warning, he sinks lower and swallows him whole.

The air leaves Edgar's lungs. 

If he were to be honest, he would not expect a person who had been in the military to not have at least some experience in this area. Despite not being sure if Naib preferred men or not. Things like preferences do not exactly appeal to boys playing soldiers. But the thing is that Naib... is good. Not only surprisingly good, but really fucking incredible. Edgar's bloodstream crammed with aphrodisiacs, true, but he'd never, ever gotten such a good head before. Not even when he was drunk as a Danish prince and Sarai dragged them to Molly's house on his birthday. Or it was his mother’s birthday. He doesn’t remember. He doesn't care. His mind is occupied by heat and smell of sex and images of Naib in the uniform, on his knees with shirt open and tanned skin glistening with sweat- oh fuck--

“Shit” he gasps, quite involuntarily as the mercenary releases him from his mouth and then takes in again, sucking the tip of his cock as if it were cream on one of the sweet cakes, he favours so much. Edgar’s hips buck up, which only makes his cock slide down Naib's throat. The man takes it without any effort.

The drug has him edged in a minute. In fact, he was probably doped with such an amount that he could eventually cum only from hiding his dick being stepped on like a freak. It's too hot and he's going to cum way too soon. He absentmindedly wonders how the fuck a gurkha mercenary can gain so much experience on his knees to have a cockwasher for a mouth. Did he double in a field brothel or was it a part of his negotiations training or something?

His trail of thoughts dissolves when Naib’s fingers flick across his perineum and then go even further. Despite knowing it's coming sooner or later, he squirms, almost kicking Naib into his head. The only reason he misses is the man's dodging skills.

Still, he's not going to apologize.

"Didn't you say you are going first?" he gasps quickly to hide his embarrassment, but not quite managing to cover the fact the mercenary's mouth left him breathless. "I thought the mercenaries kept their word."

"You don't have reliable sources then," the man snorts. "I plan to keep my word, though."

With that he opens the bottle of oil and very unceremoniously pours it over his own hands. Edgar breathes softly as the mercenary reaches behind him. He watches the spectacle with silent awe, although there is hardly any reason to find it fascinating. He himself had this done to him many times. He watches the spectacle with quiet amazement, though he has little reason to find it fascinating. He has experienced it many times himself. Perhaps it is only the fact that he has never seen another man willing to debase himself in this way that keeps him from averting his eyes.

The mercenary seems to have good practice in this regard as well. Edgar supposes that he has his own fingers deep inside himself in a minute. It's obvious that he doesn't hold back on anything and handles even this matter quickly and reliably. Perhaps a bit too quickly. But if it is painful, it doesn’t show on Naib’s face.

Edgar wonders if he was about to be treated the same way. Although he cannot see it from this angle, the movement of the mercenary’s hand is clear enough. He watches the muscles in the mercenary’s biceps tense as he moves faster, lips parted in a silent sigh. He imagines these thick fingers pushed against the soft skin, spreading, and massaging the muscles and flicking the bundle of nerves, heating the body up, and the image is so erotic it almost brings him to completion.

It’s too much.

Edgar rarely kisses. Sometimes he allows others to kiss him. Usually not. To be the one to initiate the kiss, to seek it not only willingly but enthusiastically, is practically a taboo to him. Usually. The drug had obviously finished the job on his brain, because not a single thought remains in his head as he takes Naib's face in both hands and kisses him.

The mercenary’s surprisingly soft lips part to allow him in without any resistance. The sound of their lips smacking fills the room, along with the quiet gasps of breath, and Edgar feels like he could come untouched.

“Naib-” he whispers as the man breaks the kiss to focus on Edgar's neck and chest. 

He’d never think someone like Gurkha would make a good lover. It makes sense, the guy has always been an overachiever. He feels the contractions of Naib's muscles under his hands. He didn't even realise that he was clenching the swell of the mercenary's biceps. They fell incredibly firm. It suddenly occurs to Edgar that Naib has more power in one arm than he will ever have in his entire body. There was no way he could ever tame such power. He can hold this man just because he obediently lets him. For no rational reason the realisation sends a shudder of unwilling heat through his already burning body.

All his thoughts suddenly vanish as the man lowers his head into his lap again. He arches up, mouth opening, shuddering.

“Naib-” he tries to warn desperately. “Naib, I will-”

The man gives him a quick glance of acknowledgement, eyes blown wide, and face flushed, but does not let go. He sucks hard and down.

"Naib-!"

It's the only warning the mercenary gets, but it's already clear, he doesn't mind. With a ragged inhale, Edgar comes into the wet heat of Naib’s mouth. He doesn't even orgasm properly. There's just a blindingly hot moment of release and then it's all over. The mercenary is already ridding him of his sperm, licking him clean. He had better instincts than to swallow. He doesn't even orgasm properly. There's just a blindingly hot moment of release and then it's all over. The mercenary is already ridding him of his sperm, licking him clean. He had better instincts than to swallow. Who knows if the toxin isn't transmittable that way. 

 

Edgar lays breathless, stupid, efficiently drained from his last shreds of energy, and perfectly abashed.

“That—” he says once he is able to control his tongue again, “wasn’t your initial offer either.”

Naib looks up at him. The remains of Edgar's cum still linger on Naib's lips, and the image burns itself into his mind, making it considerably difficult to think. Shit.

“Feeling better?”

Hardly. In fact, he would even say that it's even worse. His cock is still hard, aching and wet against his stomach. It is burning hot and slick with Naib's saliva and it seems like it wants nothing but to be in the soft heat of the man's mouth again. Edgar is so worked up it hurts and he thinks maybe he might throw up.

“I’d feel better if I had an antidote or something,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

The mercenary hums in shameless acknowledgement. Edgar hates how composed the man still is. Sucking Edgar off did leave him unaffected, but clearly, his self-control does not have to deal with a goddamn aphrodisiac in his blood.

"Do you think we can continue?"

Yes, God. Edgar’s eyes meet Naib’s, finding them darkened. Pupils blown wide. He is almost as hard as Edgar is.

"I think,” replies Edgar slowly, masking his sudden nervousness beyond fake bravery, “I'm going to flip you on your stomach myself, if you won't get on it immediately."

In response, Naib's hand closes over his thigh through his trousers in a reminiscence of a touch he gave the man during the dinner. Of course, Edgar's thighs are not as wide and firm as Naib's. It makes him feel a bit inadequate. The rough fingers trail down his legs, pulling the hem of his trousers and drawers, finally freeing him from the last bits of clothing he kept. He realises that the black eyes are still pinned on him, asking silently for approval. It feels so stupid to be forced to agree with something so mundane. Naib has no reason to ask permission when he already had it, even if it was only in his mouth.

“Hurry up,” he says, breathless, and the mercenary obeys.

He ghosts one hand up Edgar's leg, around the knee, his touch searing hot through the skin. When it gets to his thigh, the heat is already burning through Edgar’s spine. It’s overwhelming even before Naib’s fingers finally reach his cock. The mercenary begins with just wrapping his hand around Edgar's aching erection, and that alone is enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. 

Pathetic. He feels like a schoolboy.

“Have you ever been with an aristocrat?” he asks suddenly, not sure why. Perhaps he just instinctively wants to hide his nerves behind words. As always.

The eyebrows on the dark face raise a question. “No. I figure it’s the same as with any other man.”

Bullshit. He has never met a commoner who wouldn't give anything for an opportunity to shag a noble. The more ambitious they are, the greedier they become until they perceive the opportunity to fuck the only son of a prominent family as personal enlightenment.

“When you tell Norton, he will disagree," he says drily.

The mercenary watches his face for a moment. His tendency to evaluate each remark as if it was a trap somehow starts to piss Edgar off. Especially since Naib seems to perfectly see through him.

“I don’t plan to tell anyone," he answers finally.

“I thought you two are friends.”

“We are. But it doesn’t change my discretion.”

Edgar doesn't comment on it and Naib clearly doesn’t expect him to. Then, without further ado, he spreads oil on Edgar's whole length with a quick, mechanical motion. Then he kneels straddling Edgar's hips with his knees as he towers over him.

“Ready?”

The way he says it is soothing. His tone is honeyed and deep. Uncharacteristically inarticulate, Edgar can only manage a nod. For Naib, this is sufficient clue to continue. With one swift move, he eases himself down, slowly, painfully slowly, on Edgar’s cock. Edgar tries to say something, but the only sound that comes out of his mouth is a faint whine like a wounded dog. It is unlike anything he has ever experienced.

He bites his lips, as he sinks inside, holding back a curse and a whimper. He finds Naib's body surprisingly soft and pliable, the sensation is electric, consuming, and more overwhelming than he could ever imagine. He would never have guessed that the mercenary is used to being in this position, but apparently, he is having more trouble controlling himself at the moment. The soldier looks almost unaffected compared to him. The wet, tight heat of the muscular body makes him moan: a little, pathetic noise that he makes sure to cut off before it grows.

"I won't—" Edgar forces out hoarsely, fighting the rapidly approaching embarrassment with each cell of his body. "—last long."

Hah, if any man told him this, he would probably laugh into his face. Or more likely, he'd tell him exactly how pathetic that is. Fortunately, Naib is a much kinder man than he is.

"I figured," he says, and it doesn't sound angry at all. "It's good, actually. We need to do it more than once."

With that, he pushes himself up and then sinks back down, driving Edgar’s cock even deeper into himself. It’s incredible. Impossible. Irresistible. Edgar clenches his teeth, swallows and breathes in. It hardly helps. His entire mind is filled with overwhelming tightness and the burning heat of the man’s body. It is scorching hot and soft at the same time, completely engulfing his cock and driving him absolutely insane. All Edgar can do is to thrust deeper into it, mindless like a mere animal. His brain is melting away; only the overwhelming, delicious sensation of the narrow channel pulsing up and down his length is left. Clearly, that’s what being doped with aphrodisiacs does to you.

“Fuck,” he groans, a little too loudly.

He thinks the mercenary chuckles, but he is too overwhelmed to think anymore. Naib keeps up with his fast rhythm, clearly knowing what he is doing. The channel is tightening around Edgar's cock every time Naib sinks down. It is too tight, too hot, it is nearly unbearable. He is fast approaching his orgasm, despite experiencing one just a few minutes ago. He thought it would help. He was hoping that the effects of the drug would decrease after he submitted to it. Instead of the fire inside him that is so hot now it is melting him from inside, burning his brain and every last shred of will. 

It wants him to let go.

He doesn’t know if he can. He did not allow that to happen for ages.

Someone sobs. It’s a desperate and pathetic breathless sound and somehow Edgar knows it comes from his mouth. Hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

“Let me help you,” says a husky, breathless voice, but Edgar is only half certain that it wasn’t just in his head.

You are years too late for that, he answers, mentally. It may be the only thing he is sure of.

His hips jerk up uncontrollably, and he hates that he can't control his reactions. He hates that he needs it so much. He hates that Naib decided to break his boundaries. He is on the brink of begging. With desperation, he looks at Naib, but his eyes are closed. His face tense with the effort to control his body, his face glowing and flushed pink. He seems to be trying to move in a rhythm. His erection is standing, dark, and thick between his thighs, and suddenly Edgar cannot take it anymore.
His vision goes white, and then black, and then all he can see are dots of blue and amber light in front of him.

It doesn’t end there. Naib rides him through his orgasms and then another and another, until he himself finally comes and Edgar doesn’t have the power to even complain because he has never felt so intense as this. Naib is nothing he would expect from a war veteran or his lover. He is not violent or angry, but not fluid or sloppy either. He is not gentle, especially not when he is forcing another orgasm from Edgar, who has long since been unable to feel any real pleasure from having his cock rubbed raw. But his hands are firm on Edgar's skin, pushing him deeper into the bed with each heavy thrust of his hips. His breath comes out in heavy, shuddering gasps, and it is so fascinating to see him actually enjoy it - to be waiting for someone else’s pleasure - that Edgar feels like he would be utterly incomplete if Naib did not cum.

When he does, his body is so taut, so tight, so hot, so close to him that Edgar cannot help but groan. In a thoroughly ungentlemanly manner, he comes inside Naib for God knows what time that night. 

 

Afterwards, they lay together, gasping on the bed, drenched in sweat, and spent and completely and utterly exhausted. Edgar’s head spins. He feels like he is flying and floating, and yet his body is heavy and languid, and he is not sure what it means. Perhaps he is still high on the drug. He realises with unease that he is still erect, although the oppressive heat of his body reduced a bit.

“I’m-” he says and his voice is reduced to a whisper: it has none of his lived-in timbre. “It seems like it was not sufficient.”

The mercenary barely glances at Edgar's aching cock, which shows no signs of wanting to diminish. Instead of answering, he leans to the side and his lips touch Edgar's neck. It’s a soft touch. The drowsy kisses send flutters through his body and Edgar doesn’t remember when he has been touched so tenderly.

"I did not expect this to be... pleasant,“ he says without thinking, suddenly shy like a damn milkmaid from the fantasy of a teenage boy or something similarly stupid. He hates himself for such a silly display of vulnerability. 

"That was quite obvious."

The hand caressing him is warm, strong, calloused. Under other circumstances, it would probably make Edgar heat up all by itself. Naib smells of sweat and sex, and for once Edgar doesn’t want to associate it with desperation and helplessness, but he doesn’t believe he can come anymore. I don’t want to, goes through his mind for the first time since they got rid of their clothes, but knows that it would be useless. They went too far to stop now. He swallows his objections. As he is used to.
After all, the drug is surely almost entirely gone by now, having exhausted itself in its overworked flesh. It would be stupid to stop now.

“I’m tired,” Edgar admits weakly. “Very tired.”

The black eyes look at him and he cannot decipher what he sees in them. 

“I know.”

The man says matter-of-factually. "But we have to do it again."

"I don't want to," Edgar objects pointlessly. He hates it. He hates that his dick is still hard and his loins ache despite feeling like the rest of his body is dying. "I wanted it to go away."

"I know,” repeats the mercenary.

"It's not me."

"I know."

It is unnerving, but strangely irritating. The man's neutral gaze somehow sharpens his awareness and annoyance. The whole room feels like an electric wire. Edgar burns with both unwanted lust and rage.

"You don't,” he hisses. “You don't know anything. You can't even imagine how I possibly feel."

This time, the mercenary doesn't answer. He is watching him silently, not moving for a moment. It's like being scolded by some old, unwavering governess. These dark eyes are not angry at all. More like he feels sorry for Edgar's weakness. The rage burns stronger in Edgar's stomach. What right does the mercenary have to be disappointed in him? It's not like the drug could enhance his superior qualities of character or finesse.

„Fuck you,“ Edgar relieves himself quietly and when Naib doesn’t lose his patience, he runs a hand through his hair in delayed embarrassment. It's hardly the first time he’s in such a situation. One would think he'd be able to control himself by now.

„I’m just… Really tense," he says. It’s as close to an apology as he will get.

„It’s alright.“

The tone of his voice is conciliatory. Edgar envies his ability to forgive so quickly, though it's probably also the stupidest and most naive tendency he's observed in the veteran so far. He has to count to ten to calm himself enough to accept that he actually needs the man's help right now, and that Naib's words aren't just platitudes meant to insult him more than placate him.

"What now?" he asks after a while, not even knowing he wants to know the answer.

"I'll jerk you off a few times. You can sleep if you want. I'll take care of it."

"No. I don't want to." He can't handle waking up and not knowing what was done to his body. Not again.

"Many would fall asleep already."

"I won't." Can't.

"Considering how tired you must be, you are doing great."

It's probably compliment of a sort. Edgar doesn't know. Naib doesn't bother with further explanation. Without any word, he reaches under the bed and from somewhere in his crumpled clothes, he pulls out an old military canteen and hands it to Edgar. 

The thing is heavy, made of dark leather, stout and well-worn. Edgar doesn't remember ever seeing that on Naib, nor in games nor outside them. He measures the flask with suspicion.

“What is it?" he wonders aloud. Another drug? Is it poisoned? A slight metal odour surrounds the canteen, perhaps it’s liquor? Not that he would need to get drunk on the top of everything. He doesn't think alcohol or any opiate would do him much good at the moment. Unless the aphrodisiac could be also vomited out in a common way. 

The mercenary sighs, taking the bottle back from Edgar’s hesitating hands.

"It's water," he explains and it's clear he would rather put it in more crude way like It's goddamn water, just drink it you fucking ho. Then he unscrews the top and presses it to his lips.

He takes a deep gulp to demonstrate the safety of the canteen content. To be honest, it's not very reassuring because Edgar has already seen Naib sovereignly drink cantharidin that evening, so his instinct for self-preservation is proven to be minimal. Unfortunately, he suddenly starts to realize how parched his mouth is. He reckons he can't be too picky. When the mercenary hands him the canteen back, he takes it gratefully and this time he doesn't question it.

The cold water is like a salve for his flaming, sore throat and he swallows it eagerly. He even didn't realise how thirty he was. With a satisfied sigh he puts the bottle down, not caring he spilled some water on his jaw and chest. He wouldn't even notice if Naib didn't lean closer.

"Don't waste," he says. Then, before Edgar can open his mouth in question, Naib puts his mouth on his chin and collarbone, lapping the drops of water with his tongue. When Edgar doesn't resist, he moves down to his breast, teeth brushing over his nipple.

"Ah," Edgar exhales stupidly, mostly aroused despite his better judgement. "That's gross."

Naib doesn't really smile, but his eyes betray the sentiment. "It's better than wasting it."

Feeling suddenly inspired, Edgar brings the bottle to his mouth again.

"I think you are just a pervert, Mr. Subedar,” he snorts, not caring if it sounds cocky. 

With that he takes a large gulp of water into his mouth and pushes Naib in his back, straddling his muscular torso with his legs. He doesn't even have to make the mercenary open his mouth. It falls apart pliantly the moment he bows to it. A pervert Indeed.

When he lets the water out of his mouth straight to Naib's, the mercenary laps it eagerly. It's so disgusting, Edgar can't help himself but feel amused.

He finishes the last drop by claiming Naib's lips with his own. Surprisingly, the Gurkha's lips are still pleasantly cool. Edgar feels like kissing the softest snow. His cock twitches again and he knows the minutes of clarity he’s experiencing will be soon replaced by another wave of consuming heat and exhausting need. He cannot tell how much of it he can withstand.

"We should go on. Do me again."

Swiftly, he pushes his hand between them and wraps his fist around the man’s cock. To his irrational disappointment he finds out the man already went soft. Under him, the man snorts.

"Yeah, unfortunately I didn't actually doze myself, which I am coming to regret," the mercenary states the obvious. "Should I suck you off?"

Knowing where his cock had just been, Edgar shudders involuntarily.

"No. that's filthy and repulsive."

While he's not the kissing type, he'd rather keep his options open for the rest of the evening.

"Hm," hums the mercenary. His calloused fingers run gently up and down Edgar’s thigh. It doesn't feel bad. "Has anyone ever eaten you out?"

He stares blankly, his brain halting at the question. Then he nods, still not believing that the mercenary would offer something like that. Especially when he has just refused a blowjob over it being quite gross considering their situation. He had the pleasure to get familiar with the act in the past, though. One or two times and some he does not remember with any great amount of clarity. Not that he particularly sought it out, but some men had specific fetishes. 

At Edgar’s answering shrug, Naib stops caressing him to look up in another question.

"Would you like it again?"

This time, Edgar wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I'm dirty."

"I know."

"Gross,” he squints. What else could he expect from a soldier. Certainly not a passion for sanitation. 

And yet, so far, Naib didn't seem like a freak, contrary to what Edgar had expected. He was actually surprisingly subtle. Maybe even this suggestion is just misplaced empathy on his part?

"If you are afraid to get stuck inside me, I think you will find me pliant enough,” he suggests carefully, after a long consideration. “With all that shit circling through my veins I can hardly hope to resist anything."

“I don't want to hurt you,” replies Naib simply and Edgar’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Why do you care?"

"Do you like to be hurt?"

Edgar begins to notice that Naib is fond of probing questions. An interesting trait in someone whose job requires him to ask no questions. He is not going to give him a direct answer. 

"I heal slowly,” he says. It’s the truth after all. 

The man shrugs as if it were enough, "It will feel good. I can clean you first."

What a headache.
Edgar tries to think rationally, but since they started, he has been feeling like receiving a lobotomy. His brain cannot process anything, because all the blood in his body is currently concerned with making his cock twitch like crazy. Compared to him, Naib looks virtually unaffected by anything that has happened during the last hour or so. He hates him for it. He hates that he just made the mercenary cum and he still looks like it never happened.

“Whatever,” he says finally, resigning his dignity. After all, it will not be the first time he has been so demeaned. If that's something that the mercenary requires along with his payment, it’s an equitable exchange, after all.

 

He does not allow Naib to clean him. Despite being dizzy with fatigue, he still manages enough coordination to wipe off the most necessary dirt. A wet cloth is not a proper bath, but it is still a relief to remove all the sweat and other fluids. By the time he's done, the toxin-induced hotness in his body is back in full effect. He doesn't even struggle when Naib quite casually throws him back into the pillows. He dares to drag Edgar by his leg, down to the pillows. It’s somehow a slow gesture. So gentle that he actually allows it. 

Stupidly, Edgar stares into the ceiling as Naib spreads his legs and settles between them. He grabs a pillow and forces it under Edgar's hips, making his legs bend at the knee; Into a position that is uncomfortably vulnerable. Edgar bites his cheeks. The man is so stupidly strong compared to him. Something in Edgar’s mind tells him that he should struggle, as the mercenary lifts his hips. But the truth is that it would not change anything. He’s too weak. He’s always been. There is nothing he can do but lie there and let the mercenary do what he wants with him. He's just too tired to do anything, too tired to fight back. In times like this, it is better to just yield.
Suddenly, he finds himself wishing, not for the first time that night, that the ordeal was over.

“You should just… fuck me. As hard as you can.” He doesn’t really know why he says it, but he believes it.

“I’m not into that.”

Naib’s face remains unreadable. Edgar looks down at him with a question.

“Aren’t you happy to be above someone like me? Don’t you hold any grudge against British nobles?”

“I can separate people from the reason for my resentment.”

“I can’t,” he admits, not sure why. “I hate all men the same.”

“Do you hate me?”

He thinks about it. About Naib’s behaviour so far. He was anything but indecent. Considering the circumstances, Edgar could probably not ask for more of him. He wasn’t exactly an exemplary servant, that was true, but despite what Edgar was telling himself, that wasn’t really their relationship, was it? Naib did far more things in an evening than his job description would require. You could even say that he did not act like someone who was primarily concerned with money. It's hard to admit, but somewhere deep in his wildest thoughts Edgar would say Naib acted like a friend.

“Not at the moment. I cannot promise you that I will not hate you later, though.”

"Even if I'm nice to you?"

Normally, he would have laughed at such a question. Nice. What's a nice man but an impostor? Edgar's suspiciousness immediately delivers some mocking criticisms. When he refuses to reward Naib’s galanty, why should the mercenary bother with being nice? Why shouldn't he just throw Edgar face down the pillow and fuck him open, when the outcome would be the same?

He might have expected that Naib was just putting on airs and trying to act nice for some ulterior motive. Some of his thoughts nag at him that perhaps he should expect a knife in his back in the next few moments. But in the context of the evening and everything that has happened, Edgar refuses to believe it. Naib is a truly honest man. It's likely that his question is sincere as well.

"Even if you are...nice."

Something back in his mind, he hoped to kill ages ago, wants to tell Naib he's sorry for it. For not being able to reward his care as he probably deserves. He makes sure to quickly suffocate these thoughts with rational ones. He doesn't own the mercenary anything but some heavy pouch. It is a trade after all.

Naib nods with understanding and does not comment it further. He turns all his attention to the fleeting kisses on Edgar's inner thigh instead.
It's so confusing. Everything about the man is confusing to Edgar. He wants to insult him, demand an explanation why he keeps forgiving things that shouldn't be dismissed. Especially when he absolutely has power to force Edgar to do anything he wants, and no one would even punish him for it. 

He reaches between Edgar’s legs with the other hand and strokes his damp, heated perineum until he makes Edgar's breath catch. Only then does he bow his head down, his tongue leaving Edgar’s tight to slide lower. He tears out a tense groan from Edgar’s lungs when he slips his tongue inside his rim, sucking and lapping, as if his life depended on it.

It feels good. Despite Edgar's expectations or his previous experiences. Perhaps he remembers it wrong, or it is the work of the drug, he doesn't know. It gets quite hard to think as Naib's tongue wets his hole while his hand caresses his thighs, so dangerously close to his leaking cock. He's so hard his cock is curved up against his belly, dripping onto his belly button. It’s astounding there is still something left in him.

The mercenary’s hands feel like fire burning on his skin, and he cannot stop the shudder, as the mercenary's fingers trace his cock. Edgar shudders with over-sensitivity. His cock is rubbed so raw it hurts and every touch burns. He is losing himself, feeling himself slip away. He wants to say something, to ask for something, but his tongue is just not obeying him. Naib’s tongue is on him, inside him, everywhere. 

He hears someone moan. Loud and unashamed like an overpriced slut in a high-end brothel that is paid for a show more than for a sincerity and of course it is him. Who else would that be. He wants to crawl out of his body as well as never leave it and just stay eternity in this unholy pleasure, boiling in his own lust until he finally dies.

Naib’s hand leaves his cock to brush against his entrance. It is hard to tell if Naib really lubed him up, because his fingers are so warm and they slip so smoothly inside him, Edgar loses the remaining will to think. His walls clench to the intruder, but he doesn't push him away, they seem to welcome him. This must have been what the drug wanted all along, Edgar thinks, and then his entire world goes black as Naib presses his fingers directly against his prostate.

It all comes down in pain and pleasure. So much of them all at once. He feels like he is impaled on Naib’s fingers. Edgar arches his back, he screams and he’s so, so hard. He doesn’t cum. He can't. His cock hurts too much. But he knows he’s going to come. He knows he has no strength left to stop it. In the end, the orgasm is a slow burn, rather than a sharp, painful one. Edgar writhes on the bed, groaning into the pillows. His body spasms with pleasure, spasms with pain. And he can’t even do anything about it, because he can’t see anything, he can’t hear anything, he can’t feel anything but the overwhelming, electrifying tension of coming undone.

 

He probably passes out. He doesn't know.

"You can't sleep," someone says. It feels like it is him and it is not. Everything is dark and the pillows are so comfortable.

"You can't sleep yet."

"I don't sleep," he responds instinctively with a hand over his eyes. "I just need a moment."

He cannot say how long that moment will be, but then he realises he doesn't care. He's too tired. His head is heavy as if it was filled with stones, so he lets go, falling back on the soft pillows.

He remembers these Arabian stories. Fairy tales. They were quite popular when he was younger. They were records of stories by an Arabian princess, so they say. She created thousands of stories to entertain her husband on nights. Every night he would come, and she told him a new tale, but never finished it until another night. That's why he had to always come back. She was trying to postpone… what was she trying to postpone?

"Don't sleep."

He knows the story, why cannot he remember? It was something obvious. He feels like he is on the precipice of tears, but he doesn’t know why. 

"Edgar."

There are hands on his head, stroking his cheeks and forehead. A touch so gentle that he cannot recall when was the last time he felt something similar.
Someone is touching him.

His head spins as if he is on a boat. He is drunk, he realises. That's bad, he shouldn't drink so much. It never ends well. What would his master think? Ah, he would find it funny, right.

Sarai—

The touches don't stop. They never stop. His master's hands are on him, undefinable, undeniable. Uncoordinated, he tries to push them away, desperately.

"No…" he tries, weak as always. "I don't want– no…"

It comes all of a sudden. It was years since he last felt it, but he never forgot. How could he. He is well too familiar with this feeling, the sudden tightness of his throat, the swell of his nostrils, the heart that speeds up in a terrific promise of the lack of precious oxygen.

His body is on the verge of panic, it always is. It's afraid he's going to die like this, with throat closed and breath ways clogging- But he won't. He tries to force his body to relax. It was frightening the first time. And a few following ones. But he will not die of this, it is just his body panicking.

“Valden.”

No, not drunk, it is poison.

The air is sucked out of his lungs and he knows that he will shiver uncontrollably for a minute, but it is all just panic. They never let him die. Fucking a corpse is not in their interest. Or at least wasn't so far. Who knows what the fuck these damn militant idiots - or whoever came up with this stupid drug - intended. Who the fuck would mix anaesthetics with poison? Who the fuck would want people to decide between being raped or bleeding out in their sleep? Who would do this to him? 

You will piss blood in two hours, Naib said. So did his captives, didn’t they? He said so. He also said by then it was already too late.
Edgar chokes. Was he really that terrible that someone in the fucking manor would wish he had died in a pool of bloody piss? Does he deserve such a humiliating death-

“VALDEN!”

His eyes finally snap open. There is a dull light in the room, but it is too faint to be a lantern. It is in fact, the moon. Everything smells like sex. He is shaking, muscles cramping in uncontrollable spasms. Tears are openly running down his cheek and his lungs stopped accepting oxygen ages ago, and he doesn't even notice until Naib quickly pushes his knees up and shoulders down.

"Breath."

He dares to sound calm. Composed even. Edgar wonders what would happen if he tried to elbow the mercenary’s throat but doesn't even have the strength to complain about being ordered around. Only a high, breathless sigh comes out of his mouth. It’s not exactly a laugh, but it’s also not a cry.

"That's easier said than done," he retorts sarcastically.

"Breath," repeats the mercenary without acknowledging Edgar's complaints. "To your belly."

"I can't."

He is not sure what he refers to, but his voice is as weak and pitiful as his whole being. A new wave of tears starts to accumulate under his eyelids. He bites his lips and doesn't let them out. 

"You can. Come on." With that, a strong hand presses under Edgar's stomach, while the other supports his legs. Although there is no force in it, the heat of two skins touching is as demanding as the mercenary's voice. "Breath. As if you want to push my hand away."

“This is stupid." Tiring. Humiliating. Edgar hates it.

"Do it."

He wishes the mercenary had at least a common decency to adverse his gaze when he sees a man recused to an utter shit, but he clearly cannot expect any comradeship from the veteran. After all, what else could someone like Edgar be to him, but the spoiled son of a rich man. He can hardly be expected to play with the boys in full field. 

There is no room for any discussion in Naib's voice, so he is forced to grit his teeth and exceptionally obey the order. The first breath he takes hurts like being stabbed in the chest, as if someone broke Edgar’s ribs and forced them to poke inside his lungs. He lets out a shaky exhale, the nails desperately digging into the sheets.

"Slowly."

Edgar has to clench his teeth because yes, he fucking would, if he could. He wants to scratch the mercenary's eyes out for that stupid advice and the patronising tone.

However, the next breath reaches the stomach as it should. So does the second. It takes hours, or perhaps only one minute, Edgar doesn’t know. It surely seems like an eternity. He is caught between the mattress, Naib’s careful eyes, and warm hands that burn through his skin to his already overheated body, leaving a trail of sticky and moist sweat that will slowly cool into a gross crust.

Finally, Edgar is calm enough to be disgusted.

"Good." Naib's hand raises along with Edgar's belly. "Great job, kid."

"Stop calling me a kid," Edgar tells him, relieved to find out that his voice is once again steady. "I am not that young."

"You seem pretty young to me," the mercenary shrugs. He watches Edgar for a moment. 

“Sorry,” he says after a moment, sorrowful. "It's my fault."

"How could this possibly be your fault?” Edgar snorts, bemused. “You didn’t drug me. Stop overestimating yourself."

The man watches him for a while, considering. "I freaked you out. I shouldn't have. This situation is manageable. You are not out of control."

Edgar laughs. It’s a cynical, ugly sound. "You are patronising me."

"I'm honest,” replies the mercenary simply. “You are doing much better than the majority of people drugged with this.”

"You are just trying to appeal to my hubris."

"I want you to feel safe. And not powerless."

It does not sound like a lie. Edgar is beginning to feel that Naib is too stupid to lie. Despite his disgust, sentiment creeps into his mind. He makes a conscious effort to breathe deeply.

"Why would you do such a thing?" he asks, and the man replies as if it were the easiest thing in the world to answer.

"Because I'm not so much of a bastard to let you suffer."

Edgar shakes his head. "You don't like me. You have no reason to like me, why would you do this."

"It is not about sympathies, it is just the right thing to do. I never let down my comrades."

Ridiculous. He wants to say to Naib’s face that they are absolutely not comrades. Comradeship is about equality. This place is fucked up - this situation is fucked up and he doesn’t know what exactly they have, but it’s not fucking equality. They can't be equal. Not even here in manor because Edgar's skin is still hot and sensitive, his cock still hard and aching. Because he is fucking drugged and he pays the mercenary to be here.

They might be chest to chest, mouth to mouth. Skin to skin. They can both pretend so politely that there is no drug, no money, no outside force that makes them do it. That it is somehow of their own volition or fucking camaraderie. But that’s fucking bullshit. 

The truth is, outside the manor, he would never let himself be fucked by a Ghurka. He would probably never even speak to one. And Naib would reciprocate the sentiment. They are too far from each other. Although he literally feels the man’s cock against his tight. 

“Maybe I should just die,” he says quietly. “It'd be better.”

"For fuck's sake,” spits out Naib. “Where is your will to live?!"

"Why should I have any?!” he shouts back, putting everything he has left in the outburst. “Don’t you think the world would be better off without me?!”

With a hiss, Naib frowns at him, "Listen to yourself, goddammit! You speak like an idiot. No one is dying before me." 

“Perhaps I am an idiot,” Edgar mimics Naib’s previous statement. “Why does it matter to you?”

The mercenary shakes his head furiously. “How about you? If you die, who is going to find the guy who did this to you?”

It is a wretched thing, but Edgar finds himself wanting to laugh, if only out of despair. 

“Don’t tell me you won’t be the one avenging my lost dignity,” he mocks the man. “Where did that heroism of yours go?”

“If you want me to snap their neck, I’ll do it.” Naib snaps back, although considerably calmer. “It seems more merciful than letting you handle them yourself."

It makes Edgar groan offended, “Do you believe I am a sadist?”

“I believe you are capable of much unpleasantness.”

This time, Edgar really laughs. Naib outstretches his hand, pushing a familiar canteen to Edgar’s mouth, tilting it a bit.

“Drink it,” he says and Edgar obeys without thinking. He gratefully swallows the last remaining water. It works like a wonder to his burning nerves.

“I was….. Mean to you,” he says when he finishes what’s left in the bottle and he sure as hell hopes that the man will remember this moment because Edgar is not going to repeat the apology any time soon. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t mean it,” says the mercenary, quite naively. He probably sees Edgar’s contempt for the fact that his rudeness was forgiven because he continues. “If I didn’t know you don’t mean your insults most of the time, I would let you bleed out.”

"How can you know that I didn't mean it? You are way too naive for someone who was in the army as a secondary member."

“I can recognise the assholes that are actually dangerous. But you are like little mutts. They all bark and never bite.”

“Small breeds are usually hell spawns. I’m pretty sure they bite.”

“They are aggressive just because they are frightened all the time. Who can blame them. It’s not their fault that people fucked them up.”

The remark is so casual that it makes Edgar's heart skip a beat. He wants to ask if he talked when he passed out or how much Naib actually knows, but he doesn’t want to know an answer. He raises himself nervously on his elbows. The mercenary is watching him.

Edgar shifts away from him, just a bit. “What are you starring at?” 

It takes him a long time to realise what Naib is planning and when he finally gets the purpose of a gentle tugging and twisting in the back of his head, he has no time to react. His hair, free of the ribbon, falls like a waterfall down to his shoulders, as severe as heavy as water mass, and likely fatal because Naib is looking at him as if he just witnessed the doomsday. The end of all things.

He hopes the man doesn’t even think of calling him pretty. It would completely ruin the mood. Not that there was any to begin with.

There is no option to stop this foolishness now, so he settles for reciprocation. A vendetta of a kind. Naib's own hair is tied with nothing but a simple tie. It's simple to take it off and even simpler to tangle fingers in the surprisingly soft hair. He wonders how the mercenary would react if he were the one being praised. Would he be able to take a compliment, if meant honestly? Some silly part in Edgar responsible for countless idiocies wants him to say it try. Do you know you are gorgeous? Like Strangford Apollo?

Idiotic. Utterly idiotic.

Edgar clenches Naib's hair in his fists and pulls his face closer for another kiss, not thinking about anything at that moment. It feels good. Amazing even. But then everything they do will feel great, the drug has made it so. It is a wonder that Naib still bothers with decorum; he must be aware of the drug's specifics. 

“We are not finished, are we?” he asks, and Naib sighs.

“I suppose we are not,” he says and it’s clear he would rather do anything at this point but fucking, but then, Edgar figures that makes them two. “I could just use my hands?”

Edgar shakes his head at the suggestion. Well, sorry, he wants to say. Men usually find it thrilling, when they see me choke. But he brushes it off. He’s so tired, so utterly spent that all he can do is fall asleep, but the idea of any more friction on his already raw cock makes him cringe. Fortunately, the mercenary gets the hint.

“Try not to fall asleep, alright? I need you to stay focused. If I do anything that’s gonna hurt, you tell me.”

“Ridiculous,” he says weakly, having no strength left to come up with some more imaginative answer.

He spreads his legs temptingly, in hope to encourage at least some spark of passion in the man. He looks good like this, and he knows it. Fortunately, Naib doesn’t tell him. Edgar hates when men keep stating the obvious and expect him to be happy for it. Naib is no fool, he is sure of that by now. Men of action don’t bother with empty words. He strokes the side of Naib’s calf with the side of his bare foot, encouragingly. 

"How do you want it?" the mercenary asks, and Edgar has to control himself, so he will not blink stupidly. 

At least the mercenary is not delusional enough to ask Edgar if he wants this, in general. He is drugged, hard as hell, leaking for the last twenty minutes and if he doesn’t get milked out of his brain he will die. One must figure that that must be enough of an approval.

"It doesn't matter," he says, figuring that it is actually true. He has no preference in this matter. Never even thought about it. 

He knows what preferences other men have and how good he looks in a certain position, but in the end it did not make any difference.

Sometimes he thinks about how Sarai liked him with his back turned. Funny how he always talked about decency and face to face honesty, and then fucked him quite unceremoniously like a dog. Edgar always thought it was undignified. Everything about the man was a scam.
There were others with different preferences. Ones that could be considered good men by the standards of society. Men with simple desires. But Edgar needs to get rid of these memories. He doesn't want to think about anything. 

Even before they took off their clothes, he already knew that Gurkha would like him on his back as if watching his face would make it less sinful. He is surprisingly sentimental for a war criminal.

"Let me on the top," he tells the man after a long consideration. He is still not sure if that is something he actually wants to do, but it seems like the most logical step.

Naib nods, helping Edgar to sit on his lap. Swiftly, he rearranges Edgar's legs around his sides, into an almost comfortable position. Edgar doesn't know if he is ready to admit it, even to himself. But as Naib's calloused fingers wander down his lean hip and cheek, he feels comfort that is not entirely the fault of that goddamn drug. His hands find the man's hair, and pulls him into a kiss, as he feels his cock slowly hardening against his ass. He groans into the mercenary’s mouth, biting his lower lip to keep the sound from escaping. 

“Now,” he says. He wants it. He needs it. “Now, Naib.”

For a fleeting moment there is a sting, something he expected, but no pain follows. 

“That’s it,” he says, as he feels Naib’s hand squeezing his own cock as he slides himself all the way in. Naib’s size is not - big. He’s certainly not the largest man Edgar ever took. Not by far. But he feels nice. 

The man is surprisingly obedient. No, he has been obedient for the entire night. Now, he is surprisingly patient. Perhaps it is because he has already had an orgasm that night, but then, Edgar had countless of them. Naib pushes inside gently, slowly, as if it were all the time in the world. In a normal situation, it would actually be quite boring. 

What follows is not much of a sex, but a weird mix of sensations. The pain in his cock, the heat of his body, the dizziness of his head, are slow to fade away, so even when he feels Naib twitching inside him, he still feels as if he were miles and miles away. Then Naib starts thrusting, slowly at first, so he can get used to it, but Edgar is already pushing back on him, not yet taking his pleasure, but more eager to get it over with.

With his cock raging hard against his stomach and his hole desperate for more, Edgar’s breath catches in his throat, and he doesn’t even feel it when he starts to whimper. Naib’s lips are on his, kissing him. His tongue is in his mouth. It feels like drowning. It feels like coming back to life. It's not enough, it’s not enough, it’s never enough. He is all sore, but he will never be able to get enough of this pleasure.

"Fuck me," he pleads, unable to think straight anymore. "Fuck me, fuck me, harder, deeper, anything—"

"Shit," Naib answers, and perhaps that mouthful of drug he supposedly spat out affected him a little bit after all. He speeds up and it hurts, but Edgar doesn't even think of begging him to stop. "Fucking shit, Edgar."

He sounds like he is losing himself. Finally. Edgar feels like they are finally close to each other. Murderers. Criminals. Who else could find compassion for each other than killers? He kisses back and runs his hands up and down Naib's back, feeling the muscles shifting under the smooth skin. He can feel the heat of Naib’s body, the way his muscles move. He can feel his breath. He can feel his heartbeat. Maddening pleasure, he sends sparking through his body. He’s so close now, so close now. He can feel it. He can’t stand it 

“I will cum again,” Edgar announces weakly, but his words are ignored. 

Perhaps he wasn’t even heard. He can feel it all the same. Naib’s movements are rapid, desperate, but so good that it is almost unbearable. He can’t hold back anymore. His cock feels almost painfully hard, so incredibly hard. He feels wrung out. Edgar’s head is spinning, heart pounding loud in his chest. His lungs feel like they are going to combust. He wonders if he can actually die of exhaustion. His whole body jerks and he presses his head on Naib’s shoulder. It is not much, barely a token, but he feels the mercenary's heart beating against his chest and for a moment he can pretend that it is enough.

“Cum in me,” he begs, knowing he will pass out soon. He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands slip down, his fingers digging into Naib’s shoulder blades. “Cum in me, so I can remember.”

He feels Naib gasp in the response. His cock twitches inside Edgar, and just thinking about it makes him even harder and his breath hits. Then the darkness takes over.

---

He sits naked in the middle of a dark bedroom, coming to himself completely disoriented. He doesn't know how many times he came, or when the last round was. 

The sweat is already cooling on his shoulders. It must have been a while then. His dick is still half hard, but at least it is not aching red rod anymore. He looks around the room, finding no clues about the time, nor witnesses that could tell him what terrible sodomy occured in the past hours.

His eyes fall on the motionless body beside him.

“Now, you are the one sleeping,” he accuses and is surprised that despite the impossible weariness his voice remains unshaken.

It seems that adrenaline has finally run out and the drug in his veins is finally beginning to fade, because he feels his body slowly—very, very slowly—cooling. He is soft too. But he has been through the last two orgasms. A curious thing Naib’s fingers showed him. He is so sore, so exhausted, so utterly spent that he has probably overstepped all the limits his body had. He already hates the ache he's going to suffer tomorrow.

Naib next to him looks finished, too. He is sprawled on the bed, his hands resting on the two other pillows and his eyes closed as if he’s just resting. If Edgar hadn’t seen him cum what he assumes to be just a short time ago, he would think that the other man is in a deep sleep for hours by now.

“No,” replies the mercenary, not bothering to open his eyes. “Certainly not.”

Edgar lies down, relaxing on his back. The mattress is comforting, although it is drenched in sweat and other things, utterly disgusting. But in his current state, he would probably be able to fall asleep on bare stone without much difficulty. He will deal with the mess in the morning.

Lazily, he turns his head to face the mercenary. For a quiet moment, he watches how his dark chest rises and falls with regular and even breaths and his skin glistens of sweat and sex and... There is still some cum on him, staining his belly, arm, and thigh.

“We are both filthy.”

The man hums in agreement, and for a moment it doesn’t seem like Edgar will be able to get any other reaction from him anytime soon. Then the man suddenly stands up as if he hadn't been in a semi-coma a second before. Edgar frowns.

"Don't even think about smoking," he murmurs, eyes already so heavy they are closing against his will.  Reaching for equilibrium. "I'm gonna murder you if you do so."

The only answer he gets is an amused snort and more shuffles as the man sits back on the bed. Edgar doesn't need to look up to know he is being watched, the heaviness of being gazed upon is familiar enough. He would not take a mercenary, out of all people, to be a sentimental fuck, but again, he misjudged many things tonight. With a little, resigned sigh he buries his head into a pillow, as if covering at least one ear, deafening it, could help him escape the reality.

“I am out of danger, am I?”

“I think so,” the mercenary answers. “If you think you are not and wish to continue, we can figure something out.”

“No, I’m done for. So is my ass,” he admits. And since he’s on it, he adds, ”You are quite a decent lover, I must say. “

Naib’s chuckle in response is a husky, foreign sound that Edgar wants to hear again and again. He hates that he cannot control his reactions. He hates that he needs it so much. He hates that Naib decided to break all his boundaries he had left until tonight.

But most of all, he hates that he just can’t hate it. He hoped that this phase of life was already behind him.

A hand brushes his hair and he expects to be praised now. To be told what a good boy is he, how nicely he takes it, that he was born for it or something similarly idiotic. Perhaps slapped on his ass. He has a peculiar ability to attract the kind of men who like to banter after getting their sacks empty. As if they needed to pour salt into the wounds before they finally fuck off and leave him to his fate. As if there was anything to be said.

"Wanna clean up?"

Huh?

"Just let me sleep."

"I can help you if you want. At least you won't sleep in all this mess."

The offer is as alluring as threatening, but Edgar doubts that any provisory clean up would actually save him from sleeping in his own mess considering the state of the sheets. Not finding any strength to answer, he simply groans in dismissal, taking the previously discarded wash cloth from Naib. It's a wonder there is still some clean part of it left.

The mercenary's gaze doesn't leave him.

"Please tell me, at least someone helped you clean up before."

Maybe. Probably? It's hard to think like this. In the end, he makes a weak shrug with his shoulders, not bothering to actually raise them up.

"How would I know?"

He realises the implication of the statement in the moment it leaves his mouth. It makes him mentally curse himself. He doesn't even have to look at Naib to know that he is giving him those semi-raised eyebrows that he has witnessed countless times throughout the night. 

He’d rather kill himself than have the mercenary pity him.

He sighs, resigned, "No, mean– My teacher definitely did it a few times. I simply prefer to do it myself."

 

The slanted eyes look particularly unimpressed when they are framed by scowling eyebrows. For a while it looks like the soldier will meddle in the matter, but eventually he just lies back down on the bed.

"Your stamina is impressive,” he says, and Edgar scoffs.

"Not really, I would give up after two times at best. It was mostly the drug and you that kept me going."

"That's not what I mean. Being still coherent after getting dosed like a breeding mare and everything is rare. You'd be tough to interrogate."

What a tactless, off-hand joke Edgar snorts. But he supposes he could not expect anything less from the mercenary. For some reason, it makes him feel at ease. It’s nice to know there might be some humour in the mystery, although cynical. 

„I will take it as a compliment,” he replies, not as dry as he could be. “However, I've probably just built some resistance at this point."

If there is a little smile on the mercenary's face, he pretends not to see it. It's for both their sakes, if he ignores the fact an orgasm took away the characteristic sharpness of Naib’s jaw, making him look softer than usual. That the black eyes are pretty when they smile. He would never think of Naib as a gentle man, honest yes, gentle never, but there he was. Staring at him with a softness that shouldn’t belong to a killer for hire. When he speaks, it also sounds soft. But then, the last thing Edgar needs tonight is to discover that the solider for hire is actually quite a handsome man.

Fortunately, the slight tilt of Naib’s lips is quickly replaced by seriousness.

"How do you feel?"

A breathless laugh forces its way out of Edgar’s lungs, because his back hurts like hell, his head. More importantly, he is currently trying to get as much cum out of himself, and one cannot really be discrete during that, so how can he feel, really. He shoots a irritated look at the man, but Naib, of course, is having none of it.

"You should be alright, but I would rather stay here in case you have some side effects."

Edgar sighs, too tired to fight for once. "I feel like shit, honestly. But I guess I will see in the morning."

"Do you want me to stay?"

The offer sounds sincere. It is obvious that he is trying not to overstep Edgar’s boundaries. It is ridiculous that he feels like there are any after all they have been through together.

When he sees Edgar’s expression, he adds, "If you want me to leave, I can, but I'd prefer to make sure you are alive tomorrow."

A weak but sour voice back in Edgar’s mind feels the need to remind him how much he wished that someone would stay with him through the night. How much he was scared of falling asleep and never waking up. Of dying alone.

Stupid thoughts of a weak kid.

“You want to make sure your paycheck doesn't die with me, don’t you?”

It makes Naib frown, this time for real. “I have no use for money here.”

”You would be the first mercenary in history to decline payment for his services.”

“I didn’t decline anything,” says Naib and then, after a moment he continues. “Can you make a transcontinental transfer?”

“To Burma?” Edgar asks casually.
That is where most the Gurkha bases are these days anyway. Of course, he would never admit aloud that he is familiar with the imperial politics.

“Kathmandu.”

So, the mercenary’s loyalty doesn’t lie in his mother base after all. For some reason, it makes Edgar feel warmer. As if he still hopes there is something alright in the world.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Six. At least they were the last time I was in contact with them.”

It doesn't sound like a lie. Edgar doesn't know much about the current economic situation of Nepal but can imagine that the war did not leave them in wealth. Six siblings. Along with parents and, Edgar assumes, grandparents if they still live. It sounds like a plausible reason for a man to let himself be hunted over and over again for money.

They say that Gurkhas don't fear anything, not even death. Edgar knows it is not true. He has seen Naib frightened, terrified to the point that his dark skin turned ashen. He had heard him scream like a girl on one memorable occasion, courtesy of Jack, but he has never seen Naib back off, or surrender. Previously, he suspected the mercenary was just terribly stubborn, possibly suffering from self-destructive tendencies and a terrible case of hero complex, but clearly he is one of a few people in the manor who are not here for selfish reasons.

It makes him a good man. Better than Edgar, for sure. 

“You saved my life tonight and you keep doing so in matches. I will make it worth your time.”

He knows that Naib will ask for a reasonable price. Not modest, of course, but he is not a man for bargaining. Whatever sum he sets, Edgar is going to double it and it won’t be out of pity. It is his father's money anyway. He thinks it is only fitting if it helps some children for a change.

Naib does not bother to answer with anything more than acknowledging grunt, and Edgar supposes he has to accept that. However, what he finds unacceptable is the fact that the man found himself with a wooden stool and brought it beside the bed.

Feeling more tired than he has ever been, Edgar sighs, "Are you seriously going to sit here, staring at me the whole night? That's quite creepy."

"If I make you uncomfortable, I will leave."

It does not sound like a threat or an offense taken.

"Just lay down," he says, and it is mostly a plea because he resigned on commands a long time ago. After some reconsideration, he adds, "But if you cuddle me, I will stab you. And I will keep stabbing you until there is no blood left in your body."

This time, the mercenary really smiles. "Fair."

"You don't have to stay awake just because of me. Get some sleep."

"Don't worry about me, I can take a nap after breakfast. I have no match until the day after tomorrow."

If there are more Naib Subedars in Nepal, Edgar does not wonder why the country has never been colonised.

He is really handsome like this. Relaxed and soft. Edgar would never allow himself such a sentiment when in the right set of mind, but he figures being drugged, poisoned, and fucked into an oblivion gives him some peace.

"Hm. I want to ask you something."

"What's it?"

"Who do you sleep with?"

Naib scoffs. "I'm not answering that."

It hardly matters. Edgar has his guesses anyway.

„You are a surprisingly good lover. Tell them to be happy to have you. Otherwise, I am considering stealing you."

With that he rolls over, finally inviting well-deserved darkness. 

"There are people here who would be kind to you," he hears. "Kinder than me."

He doesn't have strength to make up any sassy answer before the darkness takes him. He just thinks that from all the people he has ever met, Naib surely seems the kindest.

Notes:

As for the tags: The rape does not technically occur between Naib and Edgar. The consent is, however, very dubious. Edgar is drugged with a a fictional date rape drug that forces people to fuck solely for pornographic reasons.

Edgar numerous times mentions having sex with his teacher and possibly other men, sometimes under influence of aphrodisiacs or drugs. There is a heavily implied a past date rape, but that's open to interpretation. Naib is implied to be forced to rape people affected by this drug in the past.
The age difference between Edgar and Naib is mentioned a few times, with Naib referring to Edgar as 'a kid.' However, they are both adult men since I'm sticking with their canon ages. Their differences come from their experiences more than their ages.
Also, while no actual slur appears, Edgar is very mean to Naib. I mean, not mentioning how racist Victorian society was to... generally everyone? Not on my watch.

Many of the mentioned beliefs regarding drugs and date rape during 19th century England come from Pamela Donovan’s book Drink Spiking and Predatory Drugging. The drug Edgar is dozed with is based on actual period accurate date rape drug, but it would never work the way this fic describes. In fact the mixture of cantharidin and chloral would be most likely fatal. Cantharidin itself was rarely used during the time period because of its mortal rate. The spice mentioned - raʾs al-ḥānūt - actually exists and there are some versions that contain cantharidin.

If I remember correctly, Edgar was often sick as a child. It is possible he would actually have a certain resistance against opiates and anesthetics. Unfortunately exposure to opiates makes people resistant even to modern anesthesia.

 
This was meant to be oneshot, like 3k words, but I suppose Edgar is just too fun to write. Or I can't write porn like a normal person.
I also realized that I'm writting Naib with black eyes, even though he has different buttons in the game. Fuck canon, I'll probably never write a Nepali person looking anything but Nepali. What am I, Marvel writter? I don't think so.