Mending Bruises, But Not the Heart

The pain lingered, but it dulled like a far-off whisper, his body surrendering to the miracle woven by the mage’s skilled hands. A low, throaty hum escaped him.

Alright, as you wish. Deyran lifted the white sheet, the cool fabric sliding away to reveal his body—a living canvas of color and form. As he turned to retrieve his gear, his perfect assets, and many scars were exposed, accentuated by the subtle flex of his muscles. Scars flickered in the light, each one screamed to battles fought and pleasures indulged. He wore them with pride, a series of victories and mistakes that made him who he was—an exquisite piece of art

The garments he wore hung loosely, deliberately unfastened in places, teasing the imagination. A few items lay carelessly forgotten in the corner. Deyran smirked, confidence surging through him like a tidal wave.

'Going out with such a handsome guy—better take him somewhere nice,' he thought, a predatory glint igniting in his eyes as they roamed over Alaric, savoring every detail. His lips curled into a sultry smile, stretching wide. Ready? Let’s go! His voice dripped with playful authority, hands rubbing together in eager anticipation.

Oh! And leave that there, he added, a mischievous sparkle dancing in his eye as he pointed to his belt left near the bed.

I’ll grab it later—