Had Malachi never been touched like this before in his life?  This thought was not surprising, or hard to fit into what Arthur already knew of the man.  Malachi carved his own skin and had his father help him do so before killing him, grew up with a so-called mother that tried to get rid of him, was stabbed in his leg and still called a broken heart worse pain.

Above all that still, he was a priest.  Of course no one had bothered to look at him and see him, even the obvious.

But that was okay.  Arthur would relish in his beautiful, genuine reactions to this treatment.  He would enjoy every second, every sound and tremble and twitch and gratitude with skin deep modesty.

He should pluck Malachi's out of his skull and dissect them, or keep them in a jar.  Arthur wanted to be under that dark gaze forever.

Slowly, Arthur trailed kisses from Malachi's hungry lips across his face.  Up to his cheeks and eyes and forehead, tender and careful.  Lower, and Arthur grew more starved.  He nipped and tasted up and down his neck and further until he reached bandages.

How could something of his own intention come back and ruin his plans like this?  The only reason Arthur didn't tear them away right then was because he was running out of gauze.

"Where?" he asked Malachi, looking back up to his face.  Arthur's hands dragged down his body to his hips, and back up again to his shoulders.  "Show me where else."