[ he hates himself a little for how his heart hammers in his chest; gellert's hands feel like brands on his hips, his mouth scalding where it goes. he can't breathe for the want of him. he wants to come away with bruises, with the shape of gellert's mouth marking his skin, renewed again and again until it scars. it's sick. he's sick to still need him so much, even with grief and anger and fear coiling tight and ugly in his chest.

his sister will be dead soon. gellert will begin a war, and he still thinks he can make some sort of difference here.

a shiver bolts down his spine as teeth graze his jaw, and his fingers tighten in the older man's hair until it pulls, nails scraping his scalp, digging in against the top of his spine. ]

Save you? [ he sucks in a heated breath, palm slipping around to gellert's front, twisting in his shirt to pull him in even closer, if possible. ] One saves the helpless, the harmless, the injured and deserving. One does not save a creature the likes of which you've made yourself. We'll see what I can do with you in the days to come, though.