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His master’s research facility was the most extravagant, run-down building Raven had ever seen, rivaling even the awe-inspiring sight of the Holy Land’s splendorous ruins. Lit up by the archaicity of candles and the glow of machinery alike, the building was filled from end to end with various curiosities; a few scrolls laid on his master’s desk, some spread out for evaluation, some bundled up to wait for the moths to nibble them away.
The room was dim and gilded, windowless, surrounded on all sides by the low hum of enginery. Even now, with his fingers settled over a console, Raven couldn’t help but contemplate how the advancements of technology continued to elude him, regardless of how much time had passed since his initial contact with the Gear Maker. And yet, despite its sleek design, there had been something almost pastoral about the apparatus his master had ascended into, arms suspended by wires in a way that was reminiscent of the Crucifixion in Raven’s mind.
The monitor beeped. The device, which had been running for the past few days, had concluded the remaining processes. Raven scanned the read-outs, groping the adjacent wall for a switch and setting the perimeter alight in blinding white. Raven screwed his eyes shut against the light. From within the empty tomb, the Gear Maker emerged into the world with a wet thud into silence.
Raven was well-aware of the risks his master’s age reversal method entailed: That Man had stressed the importance of hippocampal data backups in the event his memories became damaged during the process. For a brief moment, Raven wondered if their worst-case scenario had come to pass, recalling that the terminal had recorded a disturbance in brain waves about three days in.
If he had to get to know That Man all over again, then so be it.
The crease between Raven’s brows deepened. Finally, he asked, low, “how is it, the condition of your body?”
“I feel well,” That Man croaked, voice catching in his throat like a teenage boy struggling through the ups and downs of puberty. “It would appear the procedure was successfully completed. Thank you, Raven.”
Traitorously, his heartbeat stuttered. “Aye. Shall I bring your vestments?”
“I can fetch them myself,” his master responded, making for the ascent and missing a step along the way. Abruptly, he pushed to catch himself, hand clasping over Raven’s wrist in a jerked movement.
“Your Holiness,” a tiny, raw noise pushed past Raven’s lips. “Are you alright?”
“S-Sorry,” That Man’s eyes widened in dismay. “Look at me, tripping over my own feet like an idiot. My fine motor skills could use some work, but I’m fine. Ah, is that going to bruise…?”
That Man stepped closer, hand reaching for his underling’s wrist again, fingers fluttering over the damage in question and stilling for only the briefest of moments. Raven looked away, tensing at the unexpected contact. He shifted. “I’ve had worse.”
His master stared for a long moment, expression inscrutable. Then, he nodded and let go.
I’ve had worse, Raven repeated to himself, pressing over the swell of a developing bruise pulsing underneath his skin. He probed at the edges, at the unfamiliar sharpness there, with his lips. So then, why have I managed to convince myself that this ache is real?
Regenerating broken capillaries was an easy enough task, a process that would make it as though the bruise had never appeared in the first place—and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the faint finger marks his master had left on his skin.
His Holiness possessed powers beyond the realm of imagination—wasn’t that the reason Raven continued to serve him, even now?—and he couldn’t help but long to be on the receiving end of that. Not that such a perversion would come to pass, of course; the Gear Maker had a strange habit of collecting broken individuals and piecing them back together, and he would never annul the toils of his work by hurting Raven, no matter how nicely he may ask.
Raven lay in the dark, holding the softness of his cock in his injured hand. There was nothing wrong with fantasizing about things that would never happen. Memory tightened his fingers. His cock thickened inside the curl of them. There was much, after all, to desire.
He stroked himself a little, head tilted back in prayer while thinking only of sin, of his master pressing down on the openings of a self-inflicted wound. Raven thought of being stabbed, the feeling of it—his fingers twisting inside himself didn't feel like that at all, but it was a good idea to go in dry. If he hadn’t, it wouldn't have felt like much of anything at all.
It would hurt, and—That Man was capable of so much worse.
Raven came with a hiss between clenched teeth, pressing his bruised wrist to his mouth and his tongue against the blemished flesh.
In the aftermath, he found himself lying stiffly, motionless. He would rid himself of the bruise later, lest it piqued his master’s curiosity.