30. scars

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“Quinn.” He stepped closer, offering the hilt of the knife to Daliquinn. “Make me yours.”

The elf's expression flickered between dark displeasure and allured fantasy; Daimd could see his attention drawn to the knife. He spoke with carefully steady inflection. “You are mine, beast

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addendum.

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The first cut had been an accident: an errant, idle swing of the sword gone wide. Quinn had stopped dead at Daimd's sudden cry of pain, and stared at the crimson welling up beneath his palm. Daimd raised the bloodied fingers to his lips and then purred, throaty and deep, “Mark me.”

Daliquinn stared, and continued to stare, as Daimd peeled off his clothing to stand naked in the twilight. Then he spread his hands to his sides in gentle submission and offered again, “Make me yours.”

“You're always mine.” Daliquinn hissed, taking off in a sudden frenzied flurry of motion.

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He marked the skin at his fingertips. At Daliquinn's beautiful, slim hips and his perfect, elegant neck. He worked carefully and precisely, making invocation over each shape as it came to be, private and sacred. “The world will see you are the sun to me,” He rumbled deep, doing his utmost to ignore the weight of his cock swaying in his breeches, “The center of my universe, fitting in my hands and my teeth. Here, here, and here.” He touched each place with the knife, with his probing fingers, with his tongue and promise.

He couldn't bring himself to marr the blood elf's marble chest. Beneath the feverish devotion, terror lurked, anxious fear of Quinn taking sick for all the reasons why this tradition had died out in the first place. But above and beneath that, love and lust and need and desire and devotion burned unchecked and unrestrained, not to be governed by such things as logic and reason.

He was in love, due always to be, and here he was demonstrating it, and their union was slicked with sweat and blood.