😏
Give my muse a hickey
Lysandre knows this feeling well -- it's an unmistakable one: skin being sucked between strong lips, teeth grazing, biting, pulling. Meant to break blood vessels, turn his skin pink and red and purple and yellow and green. Meant to leave a mark of possession.
It makes him angry.
The larger man snarls; his large hand latches on to the back of Grimsley's head like talons, yanking him away from his neck. "How dare you mar my skin like this?" Whether this is play viciousness or genuine animosity is unclear. These lines do often blur, with him. Lysandre's grip tightens into the sleek dark hair and his voice hisses, low, sharp, "Disgusting."
Grimsley's jaw is tugged open, and Lysandre runs his thumb across each pointed teeth. "Beautiful teeth. Such a shame you would use them so sinfully."
And those same hands that have been grabbing at Grimsley shove him down and away. "Never attempt to mark me again. I will not tolerate the attempted scarring of perfection."