[ So close to the cord of his spine, the dagger ends of those beautiful, glittering claws set sparks down its length, the prickle of danger beneath his skin too sweet a call for Lucius to ignore. He rises, his own palms dragging a greedy path up the length of Eridanus' corded thighs and sculpted stomach as he goes, and with his seat left behind him, Lucius squeezes tight against his consort's broader shape just the same. ]
I didn't ask about yearning, dear Archmage, [ he says, and the words would almost sound offended if not for the tremble of a laugh that ghosts them. One hand settles around the small of Eridanus' back, and the other above his chest—above the rune carved into his flesh, hidden from sight only by the fabric of that buttoned shirt. ] Yearning is nothing compared to the way thoughts of you consumed my mind.
[ The words for it are almost beyond him, that giddy infatuation that had left him to daydream of gifts and painters and heated prose penned in Eridanus' own hand. As if that exchange were minutes past instead of months, his blood races with it anew, the chain only barely held by Eridanus' dutiful presence at his side giving way to the bottomless hunger of his obsession once more. ]
That moment you told me that to feel the everlasting anguish of my armor would be a delight — I could think of no one else. There is no one else — no one else in ten-thousand years of life who has said to me what you have. To find a man unmatched in the depths of his heart's depravity— [ His voice gives way to a laugh, breathless and intoxicated with something far deeper than moonshine. ] You are a precious stone buried among endless slate, a single golden treasure among billions upon billions of counterfeits. Or do you believe I would even think to have a sword made for just any rabble who asks to duel me?
[ With those last words, a cheeky grin cuts his lips—even as the flush of infatuation rises to his cheeks. ]
no subject
I didn't ask about yearning, dear Archmage, [ he says, and the words would almost sound offended if not for the tremble of a laugh that ghosts them. One hand settles around the small of Eridanus' back, and the other above his chest—above the rune carved into his flesh, hidden from sight only by the fabric of that buttoned shirt. ] Yearning is nothing compared to the way thoughts of you consumed my mind.
[ The words for it are almost beyond him, that giddy infatuation that had left him to daydream of gifts and painters and heated prose penned in Eridanus' own hand. As if that exchange were minutes past instead of months, his blood races with it anew, the chain only barely held by Eridanus' dutiful presence at his side giving way to the bottomless hunger of his obsession once more. ]
That moment you told me that to feel the everlasting anguish of my armor would be a delight — I could think of no one else. There is no one else — no one else in ten-thousand years of life who has said to me what you have. To find a man unmatched in the depths of his heart's depravity— [ His voice gives way to a laugh, breathless and intoxicated with something far deeper than moonshine. ] You are a precious stone buried among endless slate, a single golden treasure among billions upon billions of counterfeits. Or do you believe I would even think to have a sword made for just any rabble who asks to duel me?
[ With those last words, a cheeky grin cuts his lips—even as the flush of infatuation rises to his cheeks. ]