A/N: hello everyone ^^ This story has no plot, it is just a subjective description with a hint of yaoi in it for those who like. I realized that this so-called story is pointless but I would like you to answer a simple question:

After reading this story, did you want to screw Leon until complete exhaustion? ^^

If not, and that probably will be the case, how can I improve the description?

Thanks in advance XD and enjoy :)

Warning: OOC Cloud...

My Mystery Man

The annoying peep of birds was what brought me from my unconscious state into the world of the living. I breathed in deeply but did not move a muscle. First rule when you woke up not knowing where you might be is to still pretend slumber until you gather enough information about your surrounding area.

That brought me back to the birds. The sound was only slightly muffled so I guess I was inside. Inside what, I didn't know yet. I was feeling pleasantly warm and despite the fact that my lids were closed it wasn't pitch black but that strange colour of deep orange exactly like when you're staring at the sun with your eyes closed.

I was feeling comfy, I didn't often have the occasion to lay on something that soft. It was definitly a bed with clean sheets that were faintly smelling of...something clean. The kind of washing product Aerith would use.

Conclusion about all that: I was lying in a bed next to a window probably in a house situated in a remote place (there was no city like noises, just those freaking birds).

It clearly wasn't a hostile environment but there was still something negative about all that (because there is always a snag), it was the incredible soreness and the burning feeling in my stomach that made me realize that I didn't just entered Heaven.

What do you want? There is no rest for the brave.

Enough analysing of the surrounding area for now. Even if I were in danger, I'm in no state to protect myself. I tried to open my eyes and I realized that they were sore too.

When my eyes finally adjusted to the blinding light, I looked around me and he was the first thing I saw.

Only a dark silhouette at the beginning, his shape became clearer after some seconds. He was moving silently, so silently I couldn't even hear the rustling of his clothes nor could I hear his footsteps; It made him seem very light too because his shoes were the same kind as mine: black combat boots, the heavy kind. He had the grace of a feline, of an elegant panther wandering around.

I looked up a little to examine the rest. His pants were black, probably a solid fabric, with three straps on his right thigh. His belt was keeping his pants firmly on his slim hips; it seemed to be a heavy belt too, made of studded leather with two parts reunited at the front by a grey buckle that made it look like he had two belts instead of one.

The white wife-beater he was wearing let me see his muscled but still rather slim arms. His skin was smooth and of a creamy color. It was unusual to see a skin so pale with that kind of weather: it was sunny and unbearably hot most of the time with the occasional storm. The creamy color reminded me of the furtive look I got when I saw a mother breast-feeding her baby, it gave me the feeling that I was seeing a private part of his anatomy I shouldn't see which was ludicrous anyway: it was only his arms.

His shoulders were not particularly wide and he was approximately the same height as me. A touch of silver caught my attention and I thought he probably was wearing a necklace or some sort of chain.

It was only then that I realized what he was doing: he was cooking something, disposing things I couldn't see clearly on a tray. I could smell the faint aroma of soup though and hear him cutting an apple in slices; being a trained warrior, I can recognize any sound coming from a blade.

When he walked to gather something from a cupboard I could hear throughout the silence of the room the faint tinkling of bells. I didn't know where it was coming from, probably from his belt. My eyes looked back at said accessory and I saw his hips moving making the belts tinkling very faintly.

I might have missed half my blood and laid half dead on that bed, it didn't prevent me from thinking that the sight of that guy's hips was deeply erotic.

I looked up when he turned around and his eyes fell on mine. He hadn't realized I was awake and I took advantage of the few seconds of his surprise to analyse his face as thoroughly as I did his body.

The first thing I saw, despite the chocolate bangs that were covering his eyes and a rather big part of his face, contributing to that mysterious aura he possessed, was the reddish scar that went from the left side of his forehead to the underside of his right eye. It was a clean cut, straight and neat, probably made by a knife or any other weapon with a blade. It seemed rather deep though, deep enough to leave a scar that would never completely fade and it must have hurt like a bitch.

Despite that scar that was more than noticeable, it did not disfigure his face at all, it only helped making it quainter. And really, could any type of scar make that face ugly?

The stranger, who was probably my savior, began walking towards me with the tray in his hands. He still hadn't say a thing; neither did I, but usually you would think that the guy who saved me from bleeding to death by bandaging the huge hole in my stomach and who brought me back to his house putting me in what was probably his bed would at least show some emotion to the fact that I finally woke up by saying something like "hey, you awake!" and smiling a little, no?

No. He just walked towards me, put the tray down on his little bedside table and sat cautiously (and for that I was grateful) on the bed. I could touch his thigh with my hand by just stretching a little. Even when he was near me, I still couldn't hear anything from him. No deep breath, no bone cracking, nothing. I absently thought that he would be an incredible assassin. He was looking at me closely, probably looking for any sign of pain or something. Asking if I were alright would probably be too ordinary for my mysterious guy. He looked at my eyes closely, probably checking if my pupils were dilated or something. I noticed that he didn't seem perturbed, mesmerized or even scared (yes, that happened) by the unusual color of my eyes. Fucking mako will follow me everywhere; I should be grateful though, I was still alive thanks to it.

While he was examining me, (he actually put a hand on my forehead to check for a fever!) I pursued my analyse of his face. He seemed rather young now that I could see his face closely and the necklace he was wearing seemed to be the head of a lion. Pretty cool in my opinion, chain around a creamy neck like his always excited me. The skin on his face seemed a little more tanned than his arms; he was probably covering himself from head to toe to not get hit by the sun anywhere but on his face.

His nose was straight, his features fine but sharp, his lips slightly rosy and full, his eyebrows were set in a straight line giving him a determined look and his eyes were blue. A very clear blue, like the reflection of water in the morning light surrounded by eyelashes so long and thick, any woman would die to have them. I thought that his unblinking eyes were deeply calming; I could stare at him for hours, the world's meaning probably hidden beneath those clear sapphire gems.

Since the pretty-boy did not seem to be a great conversationalist, I took upon myself to break the ice. After all, I was the one in need of answers.

"Where...am I?" I asked in a voice that looked more like the whisper of a dying rat than anything else.

Instead of answering with words, Mystery-Man just turned his head towards the window. Reluctantly, I turned my head from his more than pleasant face and I recognized the landscape. The battle against those freaking monsters happened in the forest near the meadow. Ah, and there was the little river I lost half my blood in. Mystery-Man must live around here and probably had retrieved my bleeding body back at his home. Yes, I know where I am now. Pretty much.

When I looked back at pretty-boy, he was patiently waiting for me to recognize the landscape and was holding a glass of water. When I eyed the water with envy, he delicately put a hand behind my head (I'm still wondering how a guy who looks so tough could be so quiet and delicate) and made me drink the water with his other hand. Slowly, patiently, until I was satisfied.

He then took the tray and put it in front of him and began to make me drink the soup. I was rather hungry, so I didn't need to be told twice. It was finished quickly, and he then made me eat the apple slices. I'm pretty sure I could have eaten by myself but I let his delicate hands with his pale and long fingers feed me. It was nice being taken care of... I even touched one of his fingers with the tip of my tongue 'by mistake' but he didn't show any sign of noticing it.

He obviously wasn't the expressive kind of guy.

After I was finished, he took the tray away. I followed his moves closely and I finally asked a question that he would be compelled to talk to answer.

"What's your name?"

I was happy my voice actually sounded like my voice this time.

He turned back his head, chocolate bangs moving accordingly. The light coming from the window reflected on his hair making some patches of it a brilliant red. He hadn't probably cut his hair in ages but the cut was stylish in some sort of original way. Two heavy locks were siding his pretty face with smaller locks of inegal sizes falling on his forehead. The rest was longer and rather spiked at the end but not enough to point towards the sky...like mine.

He still had not answer my question. He heard me though and now he seemed to be looking for something. He found it obviously and he brought a notebook and a pen, scribbling something in it. He walked back towards me and showed me the notebook he had written in.

It was at that precise moment that I realized something, why it was so quiet, why he didn't talk. I felt rather dumb not realizing it sooner, but I'm blaming the blood loss here. Reading his name on the notebook that he was still holding for me so that I could read it, I understood that he just couldn't talk.

Leon...

His writing was just like him: unusual, sharp, elegant and complicated. The capital L was a proof of it.

Oh well, I don't mind that slight handicap. I know what they say about the quiet ones anyway. Now if he could just turn back and walk a little? I would like to see that ass and hips in motion one more time.

Ah...perverted thoughts! I'm still blaming the blood loss.