auds

Chloe’s the first to pipe up. His excitement is contagious, oozing out of his words like the faint sounds of birdsong seeping through the window cracks in the early morning. “I read about it in a little booklet from some tropical islands! Apparently the locals there will get something they call ‘sun tattoos!’”

“Yup! You apply some sunscreen in a specific pattern, and then when you’re done laying out in the sun, you’ll have a pattern of untanned skin!” Rutile affirms. He holds up his arm to you, and true to his word, he’s drawn on various flowers, a smiley face that looks strikingly similar to Mitile, and other pretty patterns. 

You have an inkling Chloe was the one to draw them on. Rutile’s art tends to be more… avant-garde, so to say.

“We even modeled some after the lily mark we all have,” Heathcliff shyly offers. When you step closer to him to get a better look at the place he gestures on his body, he lets out a shaky laugh from the sudden proximity. You take a quick glimpse and give an approving nod.

“Looks like I’ll have to come back and get a look when you three are all done later!” You remark enthusiastically. 

You didn’t think it was possible for Chloe to brighten any further, but he somehow does. “Of course! I can’t wait to show you all of our pretty marks!” 

“You'll be the first to see! We’ll even let you touch, if you’d like!” Rutile playfully tacks on. He winks when you pretend to swoon.

Heathcliff looks like he wants to bury his head in his hands at Rutile’s bold offer. “...Only if it’s Master Sage. I don’t know if I can let anyone else touch me so casually…”

CHLOE COLLINS

“Can I touch?”

The question feels so much more loaded than you had intended, and the effect it has on sweet, bubbly Chloe is enough to make you flush with shame too. He’d been so eager to show you his new marks, acquired after many hours of strategically baking in the sun, that he had practically shepherded you into his room and thrown his clothes off before common sense regained its hold on him.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone break down into apologies faster. Lucky for him, you’re more than willing to let it slide, and besides, you were curious about seeing the new sun tattoos he was so excited about. 

His round cheeks turn into the same color as his lush pink hair, but he nods, his eyes brimming with anticipation. His patterns of choice are emblematic of his newfound family: an overflowing wineglass for Shylock, the moon for Murr, and a bird in flight for Rustica. There’s a mimicry of the midnight black Sage’s lily next to them, and your heart fills with warmth at the sight. He considers you as one of his loved ones, and like a moth drawn to flickering flame, your fingertips gravitate towards the new lily. 

The outline of the new lily is brushed a florid crimson, bathed abundantly in sun. When your fingers brush gently over the silhouette, Chloe gives an audible gasp. You flinch back—did your touch somehow hurt him?

“Oh-,” realization seeps across Chloe’s face, and another generous blush takes over his face, “-I didn’t mean to scare you, Master Sage. It’s just… This whole thing feels so intimate. I know I’m the one that said it was okay to touch me, but I think you’re the first person to… to touch me like this. While I’m… shirtless and all nervous.”

You blink owlishly, and this time, the implication makes your heart do a somersault. Heat explodes in your face, and you can barely meet his gaze. Chloe gives a squeal and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just meant that- I can’t help but get nervous around you, Master Sage! I didn’t mean anything untowardly! I would never!” He gives an embarrassed groan before burying his head in his hands. A second passes in silence, then another. Amusement pricks at the sides of your face, and you can’t help yourself any longer.

When you burst into laughter, Chloe slowly lifts his head. His curious amethyst eyes find yours, all crinkled up at how flummoxed the two of you have gotten over nothing, and after realizing that you could never truly hate him despite his social blunders, he offers up a sheepish smile too. 

“They’re so pretty…,” you murmur. You press your fingers over the tanned pictures sprawled out over his skin again. The warmth of his body, the stress as he unconsciously tenses up and flexes part of his muscles, the blood rushing hot at work inside his veins: you can all feel them thrumming with so much vivacity under the pads of your fingers. 

You lift your eyes to meet his, and only then do you notice why Chloe had gotten so flustered to begin with. You two are so close to each other, your contact minimal but close enough where if either of you wanted it, you could be touching each other so much more. Your throat tightens as desire worms in your stomach.

“So pretty.” You’re unable to stop yourself from repeating your words. When Chloe looks back at you with his big, innocent doe eyes, you’re no longer sure if you’re describing his tattoos or him as a whole.

RUTILE FLORES

“Can I touch?”

Rutile casually drags his loose linen shirt over his head with a deep exhale, almost as if the very act of ridding his clothes fills with relief. You’d expect nothing less out of the idyllic Southern wizard: he doesn’t make a big show out of it in an attempt to seduce you or anything. You asked him something, and he’s taking the steps needed to get there.

But still, a tinge of shyness worms its way through your chest at the expanse of his bare back. His blond hair just barely brushes the tops of his shoulders when he shakes his head, earrings swinging in arcs through the air with the motion. His shoulders themselves are sun-kissed, and the sunscreen patterns he and his friends have drawn on run rampant all over his torso. You can tell which ones are his by the squiggly lines that are unmistakably drawn with his confident yet unconventional hand, and when he lifts his arm like an offering to you, your hand reaches forward in a magnetic tug. 

His green eyes stay locked onto your trembling fingertips as they press into his skin. It feels reverent, the way he doesn’t shy away from letting your hands wander over his flesh. You feel almost greedy, going from gingerly pressing the pads of your fingers against the tanned patterns to fully grasping at his forearms and biceps with both hands.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” He’s the first to break the mounting silence, the impenetrable spike in temperature that grips the inside of your throat. As if he can read your mind, the ends of his mouth tip up into an affectionate smile. “I couldn’t stop staring at them once we were done. I’m glad someone else appreciates them just as much as I do.”

His voice is hushed. It’s at times like this you have to remind yourself that there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to the pacifistic, altruistic Southern wizards. A deep streak of passion is engraved in each and every one of them. Venture too far with your guard down, and you might find yourself drowning. Or at least, that’s how you feel right now. His body heat radiates off of you, and your mouth goes dry, throat constricting as an infernal want careens through each and every one of your straining veins. 

You want to say something in response, comment on how it’s great that he’s cultivating friendships with other wizards across the manor. It’s what you should say, the respectable thing as the Sage. But right now, with him peering into your eyes with a look that reads more like a tempting invitation more than anything else, the Sage dissolves.

It’s just you. You, with him, laid out bare under your grasp.

“Works of art, really. I think the fact that they’ll disappear with time makes me want to appreciate them so much more,” he murmurs softly, for your ears only. The ambiguity makes your head spin in the best way possible, and all subtlety on your end goes flying out the window with reckless abandon. You don’t trust yourself to speak, not if you want to at least retain the façade of temperance that you’ve fought to establish, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to dive headfirst into whatever flavor of hedonism Rutile’s quite literally placing into your hands.

You squeeze his arms greedily, your hands tingling when you can feel the soft, warm flesh morphing into the contours of your knuckles and palms. 

There’s an amused lilt in his next exhale when he opens his mouth to speak again. “See? I knew you had an eye for fine things too, Master Sage. So… won’t you admire them with me?”

HEATHCLIFF BLANCHETT

“Can I touch?”

A delicate flush stretches across his pale cheeks, and Heathcliff gives a ghost of a nod—one so quick and faint that if you knew him any less, you would have thought it was a trick of your eye. But his hands are firm and don’t shake at all when he undoes the intricate buttons on his shirt, and when it falls to a heap of fabric on the floor, you’re greeted with the untouched expanse of his newfound tanned skin and the untanned patterns that skate across his chest like wandering ivy.

His throat bobs when your curious fingertips brush against the gentle panes of his chest and shoulders. You don’t ever want to be cruel to Heathcliff, but even you have to admit that you get a bit of a kick out of setting him on edge. It’s in the way his eyes cloud over when you drag a fingernail over the blurred edge of a tanned silhouette, the way his pink lips part slightly in an all-too-sensual exhale when you press down, the way his voice wobbles when he chokes out, “...Master Sage-”

“Yes, Heathcliff?” You pause. You lift your gaze from wandering shamelessly over his body to his eyes. You control your blinking, not wanting to let go of whatever electric tension is running over between the two of you. In contrast, his vision seems to be swimming, the vibrant blue of his irises melting like a pool of trembling ocean waves under your heat.

“I’ve never had someone… see me like this before. I’m a little… shy,” he confesses breathlessly. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin when you walk your fingers up the curve of his biceps and land them on his shoulder with a spin for a flourish.

“Do you want me to stop? If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll back off,” you reply back, “You’re allowed to refuse me whenever you want, you know. You don’t have to indulge you because I’m the Sage.”

Heathcliff shakes his head. Blond strands fly across his forehead, contrasting perfectly against the heavy flush that keeps dyeing his face. It’s as if he’s somehow gotten tipsy, but you both know that he’s too lucid to even make that excuse. He hasn’t had a drop of alcohol, and even if he wanted it, Nero and Shylock would wave him off as too young. “I don’t want you to stop. Please keep going,” he whispers quickly, the words pushed out of his mouth as if he’s afraid that his own courage will fail if he hesitates any longer. “I wouldn’t do this with anyone, but… you aren’t just anyone. I hope you understand.”

You crack a smile that feels too innocent for what’s happening, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If he allowed you to, you’d swallow him whole until not even a bone remained. You can’t help him. Something about him strokes your appetite just right, and with each mouthful he allows you to taste, you grow so much more insatiable. 

But in a way, maybe he’s aware of that push and pull. It’s why he keeps indulging you bit by bit, fiending for this game of chase, the pursuit that keeps both of you on your toes. After all, it would be so novel for him, the sheltered golden boy of the Blanchett Mansion, one of the respected Sage’s wizards, doing all kinds of illicit things together with the Master Sage…

“Of course I understand.” Your response comes out so easily, a confession with your real intentions sewn discreetly into the hems. Your fingers trace up the side of his neck, and his throat bobs when he swallows thickly.

You greedily fill up the watery reflection in his eyes. And with a satisfied smile, he acquiesces to your touch and lets his eyelids flutter shut.

Chloe’s the first to pipe up. His excitement is contagious, oozing out of his words like the faint sounds of birdsong seeping through the window cracks in the early morning. “I read about it in a little booklet from some tropical islands! Apparently the locals there will get something they call ‘sun tattoos!’”

“Yup! You apply some sunscreen in a specific pattern, and then when you’re done laying out in the sun, you’ll have a pattern of untanned skin!” Rutile affirms. He holds up his arm to you, and true to his word, he’s drawn on various flowers, a smiley face that looks strikingly similar to Mitile, and other pretty patterns. 

You have an inkling Chloe was the one to draw them on. Rutile’s art tends to be more… avant-garde, so to say.

“We even modeled some after the lily mark we all have,” Heathcliff shyly offers. When you step closer to him to get a better look at the place he gestures on his body, he lets out a shaky laugh from the sudden proximity. You take a quick glimpse and give an approving nod.

“Looks like I’ll have to come back and get a look when you three are all done later!” You remark enthusiastically. 

You didn’t think it was possible for Chloe to brighten any further, but he somehow does. “Of course! I can’t wait to show you all of our pretty marks!” 

“You'll be the first to see! We’ll even let you touch, if you’d like!” Rutile playfully tacks on. He winks when you pretend to swoon.

Heathcliff looks like he wants to bury his head in his hands at Rutile’s bold offer. “...Only if it’s Master Sage. I don’t know if I can let anyone else touch me so casually…”

CHLOE COLLINS

“Can I touch?”

The question feels so much more loaded than you had intended, and the effect it has on sweet, bubbly Chloe is enough to make you flush with shame too. He’d been so eager to show you his new marks, acquired after many hours of strategically baking in the sun, that he had practically shepherded you into his room and thrown his clothes off before common sense regained its hold on him.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone break down into apologies faster. Lucky for him, you’re more than willing to let it slide, and besides, you were curious about seeing the new sun tattoos he was so excited about. 

His round cheeks turn into the same color as his lush pink hair, but he nods, his eyes brimming with anticipation. His patterns of choice are emblematic of his newfound family: an overflowing wineglass for Shylock, the moon for Murr, and a bird in flight for Rustica. There’s a mimicry of the midnight black Sage’s lily next to them, and your heart fills with warmth at the sight. He considers you as one of his loved ones, and like a moth drawn to flickering flame, your fingertips gravitate towards the new lily. 

The outline of the new lily is brushed a florid crimson, bathed abundantly in sun. When your fingers brush gently over the silhouette, Chloe gives an audible gasp. You flinch back—did your touch somehow hurt him?

“Oh-,” realization seeps across Chloe’s face, and another generous blush takes over his face, “-I didn’t mean to scare you, Master Sage. It’s just… This whole thing feels so intimate. I know I’m the one that said it was okay to touch me, but I think you’re the first person to… to touch me like this. While I’m… shirtless and all nervous.”

You blink owlishly, and this time, the implication makes your heart do a somersault. Heat explodes in your face, and you can barely meet his gaze. Chloe gives a squeal and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just meant that- I can’t help but get nervous around you, Master Sage! I didn’t mean anything untowardly! I would never!” He gives an embarrassed groan before burying his head in his hands. A second passes in silence, then another. Amusement pricks at the sides of your face, and you can’t help yourself any longer.

When you burst into laughter, Chloe slowly lifts his head. His curious amethyst eyes find yours, all crinkled up at how flummoxed the two of you have gotten over nothing, and after realizing that you could never truly hate him despite his social blunders, he offers up a sheepish smile too. 

“They’re so pretty…,” you murmur. You press your fingers over the tanned pictures sprawled out over his skin again. The warmth of his body, the stress as he unconsciously tenses up and flexes part of his muscles, the blood rushing hot at work inside his veins: you can all feel them thrumming with so much vivacity under the pads of your fingers. 

You lift your eyes to meet his, and only then do you notice why Chloe had gotten so flustered to begin with. You two are so close to each other, your contact minimal but close enough where if either of you wanted it, you could be touching each other so much more. Your throat tightens as desire worms in your stomach.

“So pretty.” You’re unable to stop yourself from repeating your words. When Chloe looks back at you with his big, innocent doe eyes, you’re no longer sure if you’re describing his tattoos or him as a whole.

RUTILE FLORES

“Can I touch?”

Rutile casually drags his loose linen shirt over his head with a deep exhale, almost as if the very act of ridding his clothes fills with relief. You’d expect nothing less out of the idyllic Southern wizard: he doesn’t make a big show out of it in an attempt to seduce you or anything. You asked him something, and he’s taking the steps needed to get there.

But still, a tinge of shyness worms its way through your chest at the expanse of his bare back. His blond hair just barely brushes the tops of his shoulders when he shakes his head, earrings swinging in arcs through the air with the motion. His shoulders themselves are sun-kissed, and the sunscreen patterns he and his friends have drawn on run rampant all over his torso. You can tell which ones are his by the squiggly lines that are unmistakably drawn with his confident yet unconventional hand, and when he lifts his arm like an offering to you, your hand reaches forward in a magnetic tug. 

His green eyes stay locked onto your trembling fingertips as they press into his skin. It feels reverent, the way he doesn’t shy away from letting your hands wander over his flesh. You feel almost greedy, going from gingerly pressing the pads of your fingers against the tanned patterns to fully grasping at his forearms and biceps with both hands.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” He’s the first to break the mounting silence, the impenetrable spike in temperature that grips the inside of your throat. As if he can read your mind, the ends of his mouth tip up into an affectionate smile. “I couldn’t stop staring at them once we were done. I’m glad someone else appreciates them just as much as I do.”

His voice is hushed. It’s at times like this you have to remind yourself that there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to the pacifistic, altruistic Southern wizards. A deep streak of passion is engraved in each and every one of them. Venture too far with your guard down, and you might find yourself drowning. Or at least, that’s how you feel right now. His body heat radiates off of you, and your mouth goes dry, throat constricting as an infernal want careens through each and every one of your straining veins. 

You want to say something in response, comment on how it’s great that he’s cultivating friendships with other wizards across the manor. It’s what you should say, the respectable thing as the Sage. But right now, with him peering into your eyes with a look that reads more like a tempting invitation more than anything else, the Sage dissolves.

It’s just you. You, with him, laid out bare under your grasp.

“Works of art, really. I think the fact that they’ll disappear with time makes me want to appreciate them so much more,” he murmurs softly, for your ears only. The ambiguity makes your head spin in the best way possible, and all subtlety on your end goes flying out the window with reckless abandon. You don’t trust yourself to speak, not if you want to at least retain the façade of temperance that you’ve fought to establish, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to dive headfirst into whatever flavor of hedonism Rutile’s quite literally placing into your hands.

You squeeze his arms greedily, your hands tingling when you can feel the soft, warm flesh morphing into the contours of your knuckles and palms. 

There’s an amused lilt in his next exhale when he opens his mouth to speak again. “See? I knew you had an eye for fine things too, Master Sage. So… won’t you admire them with me?”

HEATHCLIFF BLANCHETT

“Can I touch?”

A delicate flush stretches across his pale cheeks, and Heathcliff gives a ghost of a nod—one so quick and faint that if you knew him any less, you would have thought it was a trick of your eye. But his hands are firm and don’t shake at all when he undoes the intricate buttons on his shirt, and when it falls to a heap of fabric on the floor, you’re greeted with the untouched expanse of his newfound tanned skin and the untanned patterns that skate across his chest like wandering ivy.

His throat bobs when your curious fingertips brush against the gentle panes of his chest and shoulders. You don’t ever want to be cruel to Heathcliff, but even you have to admit that you get a bit of a kick out of setting him on edge. It’s in the way his eyes cloud over when you drag a fingernail over the blurred edge of a tanned silhouette, the way his pink lips part slightly in an all-too-sensual exhale when you press down, the way his voice wobbles when he chokes out, “...Master Sage-”

“Yes, Heathcliff?” You pause. You lift your gaze from wandering shamelessly over his body to his eyes. You control your blinking, not wanting to let go of whatever electric tension is running over between the two of you. In contrast, his vision seems to be swimming, the vibrant blue of his irises melting like a pool of trembling ocean waves under your heat.

“I’ve never had someone… see me like this before. I’m a little… shy,” he confesses breathlessly. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin when you walk your fingers up the curve of his biceps and land them on his shoulder with a spin for a flourish.

“Do you want me to stop? If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll back off,” you reply back, “You’re allowed to refuse me whenever you want, you know. You don’t have to indulge you because I’m the Sage.”

Heathcliff shakes his head. Blond strands fly across his forehead, contrasting perfectly against the heavy flush that keeps dyeing his face. It’s as if he’s somehow gotten tipsy, but you both know that he’s too lucid to even make that excuse. He hasn’t had a drop of alcohol, and even if he wanted it, Nero and Shylock would wave him off as too young. “I don’t want you to stop. Please keep going,” he whispers quickly, the words pushed out of his mouth as if he’s afraid that his own courage will fail if he hesitates any longer. “I wouldn’t do this with anyone, but… you aren’t just anyone. I hope you understand.”

You crack a smile that feels too innocent for what’s happening, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If he allowed you to, you’d swallow him whole until not even a bone remained. You can’t help him. Something about him strokes your appetite just right, and with each mouthful he allows you to taste, you grow so much more insatiable. 

But in a way, maybe he’s aware of that push and pull. It’s why he keeps indulging you bit by bit, fiending for this game of chase, the pursuit that keeps both of you on your toes. After all, it would be so novel for him, the sheltered golden boy of the Blanchett Mansion, one of the respected Sage’s wizards, doing all kinds of illicit things together with the Master Sage…

“Of course I understand.” Your response comes out so easily, a confession with your real intentions sewn discreetly into the hems. Your fingers trace up the side of his neck, and his throat bobs when he swallows thickly.

You greedily fill up the watery reflection in his eyes. And with a satisfied smile, he acquiesces to your touch and lets his eyelids flutter shut.

Chloe’s the first to pipe up. His excitement is contagious, oozing out of his words like the faint sounds of birdsong seeping through the window cracks in the early morning. “I read about it in a little booklet from some tropical islands! Apparently the locals there will get something they call ‘sun tattoos!’”

“Yup! You apply some sunscreen in a specific pattern, and then when you’re done laying out in the sun, you’ll have a pattern of untanned skin!” Rutile affirms. He holds up his arm to you, and true to his word, he’s drawn on various flowers, a smiley face that looks strikingly similar to Mitile, and other pretty patterns. 

You have an inkling Chloe was the one to draw them on. Rutile’s art tends to be more… avant-garde, so to say.

“We even modeled some after the lily mark we all have,” Heathcliff shyly offers. When you step closer to him to get a better look at the place he gestures on his body, he lets out a shaky laugh from the sudden proximity. You take a quick glimpse and give an approving nod.

“Looks like I’ll have to come back and get a look when you three are all done later!” You remark enthusiastically. 

You didn’t think it was possible for Chloe to brighten any further, but he somehow does. “Of course! I can’t wait to show you all of our pretty marks!” 

“You'll be the first to see! We’ll even let you touch, if you’d like!” Rutile playfully tacks on. He winks when you pretend to swoon.

Heathcliff looks like he wants to bury his head in his hands at Rutile’s bold offer. “...Only if it’s Master Sage. I don’t know if I can let anyone else touch me so casually…”

CHLOE COLLINS

“Can I touch?”

The question feels so much more loaded than you had intended, and the effect it has on sweet, bubbly Chloe is enough to make you flush with shame too. He’d been so eager to show you his new marks, acquired after many hours of strategically baking in the sun, that he had practically shepherded you into his room and thrown his clothes off before common sense regained its hold on him.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone break down into apologies faster. Lucky for him, you’re more than willing to let it slide, and besides, you were curious about seeing the new sun tattoos he was so excited about. 

His round cheeks turn into the same color as his lush pink hair, but he nods, his eyes brimming with anticipation. His patterns of choice are emblematic of his newfound family: an overflowing wineglass for Shylock, the moon for Murr, and a bird in flight for Rustica. There’s a mimicry of the midnight black Sage’s lily next to them, and your heart fills with warmth at the sight. He considers you as one of his loved ones, and like a moth drawn to flickering flame, your fingertips gravitate towards the new lily. 

The outline of the new lily is brushed a florid crimson, bathed abundantly in sun. When your fingers brush gently over the silhouette, Chloe gives an audible gasp. You flinch back—did your touch somehow hurt him?

“Oh-,” realization seeps across Chloe’s face, and another generous blush takes over his face, “-I didn’t mean to scare you, Master Sage. It’s just… This whole thing feels so intimate. I know I’m the one that said it was okay to touch me, but I think you’re the first person to… to touch me like this. While I’m… shirtless and all nervous.”

You blink owlishly, and this time, the implication makes your heart do a somersault. Heat explodes in your face, and you can barely meet his gaze. Chloe gives a squeal and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just meant that- I can’t help but get nervous around you, Master Sage! I didn’t mean anything untowardly! I would never!” He gives an embarrassed groan before burying his head in his hands. A second passes in silence, then another. Amusement pricks at the sides of your face, and you can’t help yourself any longer.

When you burst into laughter, Chloe slowly lifts his head. His curious amethyst eyes find yours, all crinkled up at how flummoxed the two of you have gotten over nothing, and after realizing that you could never truly hate him despite his social blunders, he offers up a sheepish smile too. 

“They’re so pretty…,” you murmur. You press your fingers over the tanned pictures sprawled out over his skin again. The warmth of his body, the stress as he unconsciously tenses up and flexes part of his muscles, the blood rushing hot at work inside his veins: you can all feel them thrumming with so much vivacity under the pads of your fingers. 

You lift your eyes to meet his, and only then do you notice why Chloe had gotten so flustered to begin with. You two are so close to each other, your contact minimal but close enough where if either of you wanted it, you could be touching each other so much more. Your throat tightens as desire worms in your stomach.

“So pretty.” You’re unable to stop yourself from repeating your words. When Chloe looks back at you with his big, innocent doe eyes, you’re no longer sure if you’re describing his tattoos or him as a whole.

RUTILE FLORES

“Can I touch?”

Rutile casually drags his loose linen shirt over his head with a deep exhale, almost as if the very act of ridding his clothes fills with relief. You’d expect nothing less out of the idyllic Southern wizard: he doesn’t make a big show out of it in an attempt to seduce you or anything. You asked him something, and he’s taking the steps needed to get there.

But still, a tinge of shyness worms its way through your chest at the expanse of his bare back. His blond hair just barely brushes the tops of his shoulders when he shakes his head, earrings swinging in arcs through the air with the motion. His shoulders themselves are sun-kissed, and the sunscreen patterns he and his friends have drawn on run rampant all over his torso. You can tell which ones are his by the squiggly lines that are unmistakably drawn with his confident yet unconventional hand, and when he lifts his arm like an offering to you, your hand reaches forward in a magnetic tug. 

His green eyes stay locked onto your trembling fingertips as they press into his skin. It feels reverent, the way he doesn’t shy away from letting your hands wander over his flesh. You feel almost greedy, going from gingerly pressing the pads of your fingers against the tanned patterns to fully grasping at his forearms and biceps with both hands.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” He’s the first to break the mounting silence, the impenetrable spike in temperature that grips the inside of your throat. As if he can read your mind, the ends of his mouth tip up into an affectionate smile. “I couldn’t stop staring at them once we were done. I’m glad someone else appreciates them just as much as I do.”

His voice is hushed. It’s at times like this you have to remind yourself that there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to the pacifistic, altruistic Southern wizards. A deep streak of passion is engraved in each and every one of them. Venture too far with your guard down, and you might find yourself drowning. Or at least, that’s how you feel right now. His body heat radiates off of you, and your mouth goes dry, throat constricting as an infernal want careens through each and every one of your straining veins. 

You want to say something in response, comment on how it’s great that he’s cultivating friendships with other wizards across the manor. It’s what you should say, the respectable thing as the Sage. But right now, with him peering into your eyes with a look that reads more like a tempting invitation more than anything else, the Sage dissolves.

It’s just you. You, with him, laid out bare under your grasp.

“Works of art, really. I think the fact that they’ll disappear with time makes me want to appreciate them so much more,” he murmurs softly, for your ears only. The ambiguity makes your head spin in the best way possible, and all subtlety on your end goes flying out the window with reckless abandon. You don’t trust yourself to speak, not if you want to at least retain the façade of temperance that you’ve fought to establish, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to dive headfirst into whatever flavor of hedonism Rutile’s quite literally placing into your hands.

You squeeze his arms greedily, your hands tingling when you can feel the soft, warm flesh morphing into the contours of your knuckles and palms. 

There’s an amused lilt in his next exhale when he opens his mouth to speak again. “See? I knew you had an eye for fine things too, Master Sage. So… won’t you admire them with me?”

HEATHCLIFF BLANCHETT

“Can I touch?”

A delicate flush stretches across his pale cheeks, and Heathcliff gives a ghost of a nod—one so quick and faint that if you knew him any less, you would have thought it was a trick of your eye. But his hands are firm and don’t shake at all when he undoes the intricate buttons on his shirt, and when it falls to a heap of fabric on the floor, you’re greeted with the untouched expanse of his newfound tanned skin and the untanned patterns that skate across his chest like wandering ivy.

His throat bobs when your curious fingertips brush against the gentle panes of his chest and shoulders. You don’t ever want to be cruel to Heathcliff, but even you have to admit that you get a bit of a kick out of setting him on edge. It’s in the way his eyes cloud over when you drag a fingernail over the blurred edge of a tanned silhouette, the way his pink lips part slightly in an all-too-sensual exhale when you press down, the way his voice wobbles when he chokes out, “...Master Sage-”

“Yes, Heathcliff?” You pause. You lift your gaze from wandering shamelessly over his body to his eyes. You control your blinking, not wanting to let go of whatever electric tension is running over between the two of you. In contrast, his vision seems to be swimming, the vibrant blue of his irises melting like a pool of trembling ocean waves under your heat.

“I’ve never had someone… see me like this before. I’m a little… shy,” he confesses breathlessly. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin when you walk your fingers up the curve of his biceps and land them on his shoulder with a spin for a flourish.

“Do you want me to stop? If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll back off,” you reply back, “You’re allowed to refuse me whenever you want, you know. You don’t have to indulge you because I’m the Sage.”

Heathcliff shakes his head. Blond strands fly across his forehead, contrasting perfectly against the heavy flush that keeps dyeing his face. It’s as if he’s somehow gotten tipsy, but you both know that he’s too lucid to even make that excuse. He hasn’t had a drop of alcohol, and even if he wanted it, Nero and Shylock would wave him off as too young. “I don’t want you to stop. Please keep going,” he whispers quickly, the words pushed out of his mouth as if he’s afraid that his own courage will fail if he hesitates any longer. “I wouldn’t do this with anyone, but… you aren’t just anyone. I hope you understand.”

You crack a smile that feels too innocent for what’s happening, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If he allowed you to, you’d swallow him whole until not even a bone remained. You can’t help him. Something about him strokes your appetite just right, and with each mouthful he allows you to taste, you grow so much more insatiable. 

But in a way, maybe he’s aware of that push and pull. It’s why he keeps indulging you bit by bit, fiending for this game of chase, the pursuit that keeps both of you on your toes. After all, it would be so novel for him, the sheltered golden boy of the Blanchett Mansion, one of the respected Sage’s wizards, doing all kinds of illicit things together with the Master Sage…

“Of course I understand.” Your response comes out so easily, a confession with your real intentions sewn discreetly into the hems. Your fingers trace up the side of his neck, and his throat bobs when he swallows thickly.

You greedily fill up the watery reflection in his eyes. And with a satisfied smile, he acquiesces to your touch and lets his eyelids flutter shut.

Earlier that day, Elias had texted you in the middle of class.

Emergency. Could you come to my room ASAP?

It sounded innocent enough, you supposed.

Well—not entirely innocent, considering who it came from. Still, if he truly needed you, maybe something had happened with Shion. Maybe he was sick. Maybe something was wrong.

You hadn’t given yourself much time to consider the possibilities. Just to be safe, you stopped by the general store to pick up some tea and medicine. Thankfully, Dionysia was on the way, and hopefully Elias wouldn’t be too far gone by the time you reached his door.

And after a quick knock and hearing his approval to enter, you stepped inside.

…Only to discover that he was perfectly fine. More than fine, actually.

He sat comfortably in his chair with a cup of his usual dark roast coffee in hand, casually beckoning you closer. The moment he set the cup down and stood to greet you, however, it felt as though you’d already fallen into his trap.

“You’re just… closer than usual today,” you murmured, instinctively avoiding his gaze. Something about the glint in his dark blue eyes only made your face feel warmer.

“Isn’t this what dear lovers do?” he whispered, his lips brushing near your ear. “Bask in each other’s warmth?” His arms tightened around your waist as he spoke.

“!! I thought you were sick. What’s going on?” you pouted, and there it was, the expression you’d always make when he was in trouble — he loved it. “I even brought you medicine…”

That earned you one of those closed eye smiles you could never resist. Unfortunately, he looked beautiful when he smiled like that. Especially this close.

“Is it so terrible to crave my lover’s attention?” he asked dramatically. “You wound me, my love.”

“That’s not—wah?!” A yelp escaped you as you suddenly found yourself lifted off the ground. Before you knew it, he was carrying you toward the bed.

“Elias…!” You pushed against his chest as if it would get you anywhere. Ghoul strength, right?

A small yawn escaped him.

“Mmhm?” he hummed. “Won’t you nap with me? I’m quite tired this afternoon from working so hard.”

“You’re impossible…” you groaned as he carefully lowered you onto the sheets, your legs already beginning to intertwine with his. Though, you couldn’t lie to yourself, it was surprisingly comfortable. “You just had coffee. How can you be tired?”

Elias hummed, exhaling softly beside your ear.

“It seems your presence has made me drowsy once again.” The man chuckled when he heard the soft yawn that escaped your mouth, tilting his head just enough to bury his face against your neck.

You couldn’t bring yourself to reply. True or not, matching the rhythm of his breathing had already made you forget about class altogether—something that would definitely come back to bite you later.