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corvo’s love is devotion, desperation, the need to have a purpose, to be led. he kisses his mark, whispering breathless thanks against the raised skin. the ritual is calming. the god mentions it once, the hint of a smile on his lips and corvo’s face burns. he doesn't stop.
on sleepless nights when depthless eyes plague his thoughts, he wonders if his pale skin is as soft as it looks. he imagines touching him, nothing more than a chaste gesture. in his dreams the outsider takes a scarred hand in his own (soft, corvo muses) and presses it to his face. corvo runs a calloused thumb over his lips and along the curve of his cheek, soft. he wakes to the smell of brine.
he thinks himself a pitiful man. he loves a heretical god as if jessamine was not taken from him months ago, as if emily should not be his sole concern at every waking moment until she is safe and they have paid. it does little to keep the thoughts of pale skin and dark eyes away.
the outsider sees all that was and will be and corvo knows he sees him. he sees every little thing he does for the sake of the god and the sake of himself, but he doesn't say a word. not a single chiding remark. not once does he poke or pull at him and at times that is worse than any ridicule. it makes him feel silly and unimportant and it is shame that pools in his stomach not pleasure when he thinks of him. he resigns himself to end his infatuation, but, ah, how the world toys with him.
of course there are hints of affection from the god, small things, barely noticeable, but they still send corvo reeling. a gaze that lingers too long, the tug of a smile at the corners of his lips, a faint touch on his shoulder, mornings where he wakes and the smell of the ocean is strong and a cold hand caresses his cheek but it’s gone before it truly registers. corvo thinks these the tricks of a desperate man’s mind.
the outsider’s love is fascination, amusement, pity for this broken man who yet remains driven. he watches him closely, every path is laid bare for him to see and yet corvo surprises him at every turn.
corvo does not want for himself. the adoration in his eyes is plain to see but it remains unspoken. he knows very well the outsider sees it all; the dreams (that aren’t always dreams, no matter what corvo tells himself), the rituals (endearing, at the very least), the prayers (he kneels before the shrines like a sinner laying bare his heart and the outsider decides he likes him like that), and yet nothing is said. the urge to tease is always there, but he is kinder than that, and corvo will work up the nerve one of these days.
he speaks his name like he’s chastising a child. corvo, corvo, dear corvo. the name rolls off his tongue in a way that is far too pleasing, though what concerns him more is the sound of his own on the other’s lips.
on sleepless nights when depthless eyes plague his thoughts, corvo wonders if his pale skin is as soft as it looks and he imagines touching him in ways far less chaste. he presses the mark to his lips and breathes his name like a prayer, the love and devotion more prevalent here than at any shrine.
the outsider could tease and ridicule, corvo has given him that power, but he feels no need and it is odd. he has had many disciples love him so and he felt little more than vague annoyance at their antics. corvo is different, yes, fascinating, but he craves the man’s adoration as he craves his god’s praise. he sees him and feels a hint of fondness, resisting the urge to push the hair from his face as he sleeps or trace the line of his brow with pale fingers. it’s unbecoming.