The tip of his tongue finds the edge of his own canine, darkening the allure of his own fading chuckle. It’s almost remarkable in a way, that for two hundred years of torture, the only scars he’d been forced to keep are those that comprise the sonnet across his back, bared to the mattress rather than his striking partner. He isn’t self-conscious, not even about that, reclined across bedding once more in a lazy arrangement of artfully lithe musculature, one arm tucked behind his head.
Those constellations do indeed draw his eye, how could they not, vibrant as they are in their patterns— but he does not cherish their existence, only the man that dwells beneath.
“Do they hurt you?”
Priorities first. Vital ones, not to be disregarded.
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The tip of his tongue finds the edge of his own canine, darkening the allure of his own fading chuckle. It’s almost remarkable in a way, that for two hundred years of torture, the only scars he’d been forced to keep are those that comprise the sonnet across his back, bared to the mattress rather than his striking partner. He isn’t self-conscious, not even about that, reclined across bedding once more in a lazy arrangement of artfully lithe musculature, one arm tucked behind his head.
Those constellations do indeed draw his eye, how could they not, vibrant as they are in their patterns— but he does not cherish their existence, only the man that dwells beneath.
“Do they hurt you?”
Priorities first. Vital ones, not to be disregarded.
“Is it uncomfortable?”