Soup (Thefreudianslip)
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"Trace each mark," Egg said between presses of his warm, eager mouth along the line of D'Artagnan's jaw as he wriggled out of his trousers, his woolen, bloody-red jerkin, "And I will tell you from whence or whom it came."
Magma pooled below his navel. He decided in a glorious stroke of golden sagacity that he would trace each indent, each welt, each proffered mark with his lips, his tongue.
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A small silhouette stood in the din and ice, bundled in a thick cloak, its fur trim bristled by the wind, and a face obscured by many layers of tightly wound scarves. Couldn’t have been more than five fulms by Pierrault’s estimation, a wonder the little thing didn’t blow off with the gales.
He'd soon wish it had.