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He is a creature culpable of many unfixable crimes, called by necessity from a world screaming for a remedy. Cures are a rarity, found only in- a mere graze of his hand to help them find peace. He breathes, detecting what others are too dull to perceive. The certainty of his mission is the few comforts he is afforded, the knowledge that the only way is forward.
He is no beastial thing, truly, despite what they may think he is a man of propriety. Of science. Oh, though he is guilty, he holds it close this remorse or regret that has so led to this isolation of self. It is a gnawing terrible thing that only his assistant seems to alleviate with her melancholic humors.
He is not a creature with a penchant for reminiscing, his thoughts are resinous, consuming and tar-like, liable to drag through repeating loops. It is during these times where she soothes his agitation, a balm to the soul.
She leaves him humbled, his assistant, tender and sweet, this budding healer who thaws him with a touch. It is fascinating in an academic sense, as though her caress does not buzz within him, flayed down to his marrow by the warmth of it. Providing a new lens to view the world, an introduction to the unseen.
He finds himself hungry for more, greedy and starving.
The body is familiar terrain, a heart that thundered, all tissue and organs under his purview. He should not toy with her, winding the cord taut, tighter. Inexplicably lured by her, all his attention easily captured, and yet, and yet, it is beyond rare, to be the focus of such intentions as desire. He should know better, the ages past let him view the ritual of seduction unobstructed.
Not often is he distracted from his cause, it would be too easy to harm her, he must be careful. He is always careful, he must be.
He must be gentle with his assistant, who bruises so easily under his strength. They are precious, minuscule next to him with bones that would crumple like tinsel at too rough a touch. She brings it out of him too easily, a predatory inclination not suited to a healer. A physician does not growl gutturally, yet vibrancy flowers within his form. Chemical reactions, inhuman with the desperate need to defend what he has claimed.
Because he had laid claim had he not? None had come this close, this situation is foreign, titillating beyond belief. Who would dare hold him with such eagerness? She would, does. His assistant, his panacea, his alone.
Oh, ma chérie. Dearest, who doesn't wilt under his touch. Ma moitié. His other half.
Curious, eager. She did not deserve mistreatment, the world knew more cruelty than not to inflict suffering upon such a compassionate personage. With her influence, the roar in his head quiets until it is only him, present within the debaucherous moment. Never has he touched another with such intent, flesh sparking with sensitivity.
Finding her in the darkness, grinding on his thigh, against him, all desperation and pheromones. Oh, such flattery! The trembling of muscles, the biological craving she can't hide. Liquid heat against him, hips rolling with desperation. If she asked he could give, would, though he knows better than to submit these nonsensical instincts. Urges. Cravings.
It demands he hold her, hide her from view of the cameras and jailors, coveted and locked within his grasp. Away from the vultures behind the glass, picking apart reactions like carrion from a corpse, those cretins who did not deserve to witness the feverish glean to her expression.
He pulls her close desperately, to touch, to forget and feel her softness again under his palms as they rut against one another. The fervour in his movement grows when she whimpers, her hands gripping his own and twining together, his heart thrills when she guides their joined hands down. The bed creaks beneath them, he is panting hotly against the sheets and when he dares glance at where she directs he finds his gloves are anointed with the slick sheen of her body.
A shuddering breath, "Relax my dear." Whispered, near pleading, it is unnatural for him to beg, yet in this he finds himself weakened. "Relax." They are caged birds, exotic, yet he swallows her down every way he can, any that he is allowed, shields her with his body and finds himself unspeakably grateful by her indulgence.
"You're marvelous mon cherie-" An involuntary trill erupts from his throat from the sudden tightness around his fingers, the slick responsiveness from his words. Heart thundering, he pulses from base to tip, throbbing from the too tight clutch of her body around his gloves, the fantasy of sliding within.
She pushes her face against his shoulder as he works, nuzzling with plantintive sounds as little teeth dig into his shoulder, biting as he presses deeper. The dull pressure against his hide delivers shockwaves of heat. Grunting, jaw clenching as his legs shake, a growl rumbling in his chest.
His other hand reaches without thought, winding around her throat to feel her pulse thunder wildly. The whining keen she gives in response causes his grip to tighten, her face reddens with such a sudden and violent flush, magnificent. Irresistible he thinks as he flexes his hand, leaving her gasping with trembling relief.
He wants, viscerally, illogically, moving with monstrous hunger and-
Awakes suddenly, the lurch to consciousness startles him, consumed with an unease and shock he can't fathom explaining. A rattle consumes his throat as the confusion settles into his mind before fading with understanding. He blinks, coming back to himself as the last vestiges of slumber fade.
In reality she sleeps next to him, his assistant clutches at him and curls tightly into his side, relaxed and blameless, unknowing of his own perversion.
The bed creaks as he leaves her to sit at his desk. Time passes, for awhile he simply stares at the dried ink inside his journal thoughtlessly, dazed. He has not dreamt in a long, long time. He assures himself that it means nothing, these fantasies are mere tricks of the subconscious. It is a distraction. No distractions. There can be no distractions.
He returns to writing.