What a familiar stumble, a familiar sight: the splay of opalescent hair, paler now except in the prismatic catch of firelight. The molten movement of violet as it rakes his form, vermilion wandering in languorous perusal in return. The catch of breath in his throat at chime of laughter, like musical peals of a most brilliant instrument. One he takes pleasure in hearing intimately, dipping his form down to leave Merlin bereft of space save for his hand as it maps the gentle ripples of Gilgamesh’s abdomen.
True to Merlin’s quest, he earns a rumble of appreciation deep in the throat of supernal monarch. Sage King finds chases lips once more, nestling himself between Merlin’s legs. ❝ Have I ever? ❞ Teasing in turn, or perhaps it is more akin to a display of natural arrogance he possesses; a haughtiness displayed in every confident movement, even, as hips roll against other in accentuation.
Fingers tug knots of shawl loose in practiced precision, nose coaxing Merlin’s head back against the bed’s embrace so that Gilgamesh might mouth against his throat once more, pinching skin between his teeth in telltale mark before gently sucking the skin about his proffered wound. And still, fingers could never work quickly enough — he will hardly ever understand it, how the magus could adventure about in such clothing.
It draws him away enough to huff again, nostrils flaring in a discontent voiced often enough between their nightly escapades. ❝ You wear far too many layers. ❞
When he welcomes other unto self it is gladly, other finding home against him with barest of motions earning a breathy sigh. His body sings for the other, craves him as surely one might a drug, and he finds no shame in such. He, a creature of lust, of depravity, or reckless and desperate want which is wholly directed toward Gilgamesh for better or worse. That it is welcomed and reciprocated, well, all the better at the end of the day.
“No,” he chimes, appreciation for sound he earns himself from other man before he is pressed back into easy submission. There was something to be said for one who knew their desires and had no shame in claiming them, mark branded upon his neck deftly and as surely as they always were. That Merlin could simply heal the hurt was a matter never dealt, instead allowing mouth to work against him as he shifted himself at the pleasure which sought to mount. Which wished, desperately, for Gilgamesh and all it was he had to offer.
No, this man had never disappointed. By his very nature he could not, for divinity would always hold such illustrious appeal to the demonic. His mere existence was satisfaction enough, alluring and heady as he laughed once more with cant of hips in search of something. Anything.
“So remove them.” Fingers reach, curling into hem of Gilgamesh’s pants and drawing him closer, bringing bodies surely in alignment. Just as other was demanding so too was Merlin, reaching thereafter with tenderest caress of cheek. “Please.” Is reedy request, unashamed in the want which edged melodic tones.