Hearing Anel list his hurts, Atticus felt a tight, vicious ache wrap around his chest. Stupid, the boy had wanted to be hurt. It wasn’t wrong. He felt the bite on his lip again, lightly with his tongue tip – he’d been bothering it too much and the sweet ache was turning bitter. He really should leave it alone.<br/><br/>He turned away from the youth and went to his bed, kneeling to drag out a lockbox from beneath it. It was three foot long, two foot deep and one foot tall, metal encased with leather and rather scuffed and battered. He unlocked it was a small key in his pocket, and lifted the lid. On the very top was a mask, black and elegant, wing-like protrusions flaring back and up, and a pagan symbol of fertility and power cresting the brow. Atticus tossed it distractedly onto his bed, his attention on the vials and jars that had accumulated over time.<br/><br/>“I don’t, no. The others don’t... attract the same clientele as you.” He cast a glance over to the boy, then smirked at the casually sexual pose. His blue gaze moved of its own volition over the slender leg. Oh, he knew how to tempt. Atticus’ voice was deeper than a moment before, more velvet. “You enjoy pain, don’t you? Yes, you are special. You are very...” He trailed off, and shook his head. “...distracting.” He finished, turning back to his box and picking out a few bottles of ointments. “This has Arnica and St. John’s Wart. And the scent is not overpowering or unpleasant. It should help with small cuts and bruises. This has bear grease, and... hum, are you planning on taking another client today? This one is... pungent. It helps burns not scar, though.”<br/>