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“Don’t stop on my behalf.” Yet Wriothesley’s mouth turns to the slope of Neuvillette’s neck, to press kisses to a scatter of scales. The hollow of his throat, and down to the give of collarbones. There, he bites, gently, before leaving a suckled mark into pale flesh. “Tell me more.”
Neuvillette's soliloquies on foreign waters be damned; Wriothesley would much rather sample Natlan’s waters from his skin. From the backs of teeth and tongue.
- In need of a vacation, Neuvillette and Wriothesley visit Natlan's famed hot springs.
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