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"Stay put," Burakh said. "I'll get the laudanum."
As if Daniil could move. Burakh had practically carried Daniil across the river to the lair. He'd deposited him onto a slab of cold stone and hurried off somewhere to his left.
Since when did bandits carry firearms?
Burakh approached at his side with two bottles in hand. Daniil's vision swam.
No, it had been his own revolver. He'd been trying to fight the bandit off of him when he'd heard the gunshot and seen his vision explode in red. It must have gone off accidentally.
"Laudanum," he heard Burakh say and felt a hand cupping his head and pulling him up enough to swallow the vile liquid. "And Zürkh tincture, for the blood loss," an even more disgusting sip. "Drink it all." Something in Burakh's voice, deep and commanding, compelled him to finish the bottle even through the horrible taste, like mould and dirt, filthy. Burakh laid him back down.
Daniil gasped at the glint of scissors in Burakh's hand, shaken with the delirious image of Burakh taking the scissors to his stomach and cutting him open like fabric. He even heard it, the muffled rasp of wet fabric being cut and had to raise himself back up to see better – to make sure Burakh wasn't exposing his viscera. He caught a glimpse of Burakh cutting his trouser leg open below the tourniquet that Burakh had applied hastily after cutting the bandit's throat open.
Burakh's bloody hand reached out, splattering red all over Daniil's waistcoat and shirt. His palm met the ball of Daniil's shoulder and shoved him back down. "Stay put, I said," he bit out.
Daniil felt a jolt in his gut at Burakh's hand on him, his looming bulk and piercing eyes.
Burakh pulled back, wiping his hands on a cloth and reaching for a clear glass bottle – Oh, that was the antiseptic, wasn't it, oh, this was going to hurt.
Daniil didn't hear himself but felt his throat working around his strained yell, his jaw aching as he fought to keep it in. His leg felt like it was being burned off, but there was a release in the pain too – it happening by Burakh's hand felt significant, like he was burning off some of the rot in him.
Those hands on him again, pressing his hips down onto the table. "Stay," another growl from Burakh. Daniil blinked his eyes open. Backlit in the lamplight, brow furrowed and jaw clenched, splattered with blood, he looked every bit the mythical saviour Daniil supposed his Kin saw him as. Descended from the heavens to grant him salvation, though that was Daniil's Abrahamic bias at work, wasn't it, looking up towards the sky instead of down to the earth –
The laudanum was quick.
Burakh's hand clamped around Daniil's wrist that he now realised he'd been reaching out with, pressing it back down forcefully. "Do I have to tie you up?" Burakh gritted through his teeth.
"Please," Daniil found himself sighing, eyes rolling back and closing. With rough rope or soft leather, Daniil didn't care, Burakh could decide. What a delight it would be, to be held down and contained, tugged into place with firm hands, to be bent and pulled however Burakh saw fit.
Burakh's hand left his wrist and Daniil focused on keeping it down. He was not an obedient man by nature, but something in Burakh, right here and now, coaxed out of him an instinct to heel and bow. It's not as if he hadn't realised his attraction before – he'd been well aware of it ever since he first laid eyes on the man – but getting to be actually handled by him was leagues above a passing thought in a crowded room.
"Open your mouth," he heard Burakh say and he could not help his moan, his excited panting, the anticipation that an opening brought, the implication of being filled. The wound in his thigh throbbed. He panted.
Burakh shoved something in his mouth. It was not flesh, but it was warm and smelled of Burakh, felt organic and alive on his tongue.
"No, bite down on it," Burakh said, pulling what Daniil now realised was a strip of leather taut between his teeth with a snap. Daniil bit down. It must be one of the belts Burakh had all over his outfit, Daniil thought, feeling dizzy, blearily opening his eyes to check.
His thoughts came to a halt at the sight of the tongs in Burakh's hand. That's right. Surgery. He was going to hurt soon, worse than this, worse than the antiseptic, worse even than getting shot – Though he had the laudanum to help him along, oh, the laudanum thrumming in his veins, dulling his senses, the sharp edges of his mind.
What use were sharp edges when he could float in this?
"Bite," Burakh said.
He entered into Daniil confidently. Daniil bit down his scream. The pain roiled through him in waves, red hot and blinding. It felt never ending, the agony, the ecstasy of Burakh inside him, searching for the right angle, until finally, finally the tongs caught on the bullet and –
Daniil screamed, moaned, panted, cried, shook like a leaf as Burakh pulled the bullet out.
"T-thank you," he lisped around the leather still in his mouth, muffled and broken. Burakh pulled the strap of leather out. Daniil blinked his eyes open, vision swimming, looking up at Burakh the deity haloed in lamplight, babbling, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Burakh gritted out, back hunched, avoiding his eyes. Daniil blinked and then Burakh had a needle in one hand, thread in the other. "Now stay still while I stitch you up."
The sutures were another penetration, Daniil supposed, in his swimming mind. The needle pricked his skin again and again, pulled it tight and formed his body into something different, something changed. It would scar, he thought, delirious with the joy of it, the thought of carrying this moment with him until his death, if it ever came. The thought bloomed in his chest, burning brighter until it was almost blinding, the intensity of it, the pleasure of having had Burakh inside him.
Artemy got up after finishing bandaging Dankovsky's leg to find him passed out in the pool of his own blood. The tremor that Artemy had been keeping at bay while operating finally ran through his body and settled into his hands. He emerged from his state of focus blink by blink, taking stock of his surroundings for the first time since he started, repulsed at the shameful state he found himself in, throbbing and desperate for release.
There was not going to be release. Artemy was going to get up, shake this off and clean off the blood. It trickled onto the floor like the shame onto his shoulders.