[Eridanus' own hardened expression falters as he watches Lucius. They had been like two animals—heads lowered, hackles raised in one moment—and then the next, it was as if the displeasure of their conversation had never occurred. His own ears unpin from the sides of his head (he hadn't even realized they had laid flat against his skull), as Lucius slides from his own seat and into his lap instead.

As naturally as breathing, Eridanus snakes a hand around his Eternal's hip, pulling him into his body. His own pleased, melodic purr fills the space of silence between words, and he leans towards his Eternal with unfurling desire. He's about to shove his mouth to Lucius' neck before the felid is gone from his lap just as soon as he'd arrived.

Like a whisper on the wind, Lucius is ever-unreachable.]

When I am made to work for what I truly desire, all else will pale in comparison. [Eridanus huffs back as he watches the dancing form of his lover claim his own chair once more.] Not that I particularly dislike the thought, of course. The saying of "practice makes perfect" exists for a reason.

[He leans back in his chair, the very picture of a king who sits lazily on his throne, as his intense gaze levels at Lucius.] But you must pick something, if we are to wager. Why not invite other tortures upon me? Surely there are some we've yet to enjoy together.