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Summary
His hands are firebrands, fingers the lit end of a cigar. When he touches your skin, you hear the sizzle of your flesh burning away, and the pop of it cauterising under his blistering heat. He seals a little part of himself in the wounds he wrought: buries them deep in your dermis until they leak into your bloodstream.
There is no victory in this.
And yet—
"Fuck me, captain—"
—you just can't help yourself sometimes.
Series
- Part 2 of caught