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Summary
“Mage.” He growls out. His knees press against the wooden slats of her floor, the air charged with something running between them.
The woman of his affections looks down lazily at him, bright, crystalline eyes glimmering with mirth at the sight of him kneeling humbly before her. Him, of all people!
All because of this damned mage. She drove him crazy on good days, but on bad days, when she decided to wear damn stockings, she drove him batshit insane.
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OR: scaramouche goes feral for mona wearing stockings.
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