Arum strips off his clothes slowly, letting each piece in turn fall to the ground into a puddle of silk. Underneath, the scales glisten with an ethereal luster, almost opalescent.

Damien dares to let his eyes wander, sliding down the long expanse of Lord Arum’s body and up again, lingering on the strange musculature of his chest, the curve of his waist, the parting of his thighs. His body is smooth there, the scales interrupted by a slit so fine it’s nearly invisible.

And he’s coming closer.

Damien swallows, all too aware that he’s overdressed. He should strip down, but the thought unnerves him. He feels inadequate, hopelessly awkward and clumsy before such grace and poise.

When Arum reaches out to untie the laces on his shirt, Damien almost stops him. But no, that would be a-- a tragedy.

He sways, and a pair of strong arms steady his shoulders while the others continue working at his shirt.

“Are you going to swoon already, Honeysuckle?”

“I admit, the thought had occurred to me.”

Arum’s hands pause on the shirt, now hanging open over Damien’s bare chest. “If you would rather we stop--”

“No,” Damien says too quickly, and is face reddens. He’s all too aware that he sounds foolish and overeager. “Please, I-- I implore you. Continue.”

“So formal.” Arum’s rattles become a low, pleased chuckle. “I could get used to that.” 

Is that what Arum likes? Or would it simply come across as silly and absurd? But... it’s worth a try, isn’t it? 

He lowers his voice and his chin, looking up at Arum through his lashes. “If that is what my lord desires.” 

For a moment he worries that he’s overdoing it by playing coy, but there’s denying the look of satisfaction on Arum’s face, the widening of his eyes, the flick of his tongue.

He steps closer, his tail curling around Damien’s thighs, and he plucks at Damien’s shirt between two claws. “I want you to take this off.”

It’s somehow easier to peel the fabric away. There’s no need to overthink, no need to gauge what may or may not be appropriate. Simply Arum’s order and his obedience.

He lets the shirt drop at his side, all too aware of the bead of sweat sliding between his shoulder blades, the cool air on his exposed skin, and Arum’s keen violet eyes drinking him in.

“Shall I... ah... continue?” he asks.

Arum considers for a moment, but his answer is decisive. “No. Let me look at you properly.” 

A sinewy hand cradles Damien’s jaw. Another trails delicately down shoulder to examine his bicep, a third traces the curve of a pectoral and hesitates over a nipple, a fourth sweeps over his side where ribs give way to the more slender part of his waist.

Arum’s head is bowed, his frill lose over his shoulders, his eyes roving over bare skin. 

Damien feels oddly like a horse being inspected before purchase, every detail of his body sized up and measured and examined. A part of him wonders if he should find it demeaning, but he can’t help a thrill. He stands straighter and flexes his abdomen as much as he can, and he’s gratified with the ghost of a smile on Arum’s thin lips. 

“Now,” Arum says, his breath hot on Damien’s shoulder. “Now you can continue.” His hands haven’t left Damien’s body; they just retreat to his shoulders and sides while Damien loosens his belt and unfastens the ties holding his pants in place. Before he can take them off, a pair of clawed hands slide down his hips, dragging the fabric down with them. Another hand glides along the plane of his back, settling on the swell of his ass.

A single claw, thin and sharp as the point of a blade, follows the crease of his thigh. Damien’s breath hitches; he’s all too aware of the power of those claws, the sensitive skin, the delicate anatomy there. 

“I love hearing your heart pound,” Arum murmurs.

“I am at your mercy, my lord.” Damien swallows back the thrill and the fear. “I-- I implore you to be gentle with me.”

Sir Damien couldn’t possibly discuss the event– not without enough blushing and stammering to render him incoherent– but if he could somehow articulate it, he would say it began by accident.

It’s an innocent gesture, truly, left over from the way he would weave his fingers through Rilla’s hair when they were alone together. Arum has no hair to speak of, but the habit persists, and Damien’s fingers drift over the edges of his frill. It’s an odd bit of anatomy, wrapped close around his neck like a cowl, or perhaps a headscarf. It’s wound so tightly that Damien could almost believe that it isn’t there at all, if he didn’t know better.

His fingers glide lower, tracing the edge of the frill where it covers Lord Arum’s shoulders. The contrast is more obvious here: on Arum’s chest, his scales are broad and flat, like plates of armor; on his frill, they’re so fine as to be barely more than texture underneath his fingertips, the membrane so thin that he can feel the pumping of blood through his veins.

Curiously he slides his fingers close, measuring the width of the frill between his fingertips– it’s as thin and supple as lambskin. He barely has the chance to consider the thought when he makes another observation: Arum has gone perfectly still. His every muscle is rigid and taut, his tail coiled, all four of his hands clawed in the grass. He isn’t even breathing.

Instantly Damien withdraws his hand, swept up by sudden horror.

“I apologize,” he says quickly. “I didn’t intend to–” He isn’t even sure what he’s done. Was the touch painful? Offensive? Indecent? He knows his behavior was improper, but he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know how to ask– all he has is an absolute certainty that he’s done something terribly wrong, and–

Lord Arum lets out a very long, unsteady rattle. “No, honeysuckle. It’s… fine.” That one word is laden with meaning, but Damien’s mind is racing too fast to translate it.

“If I’ve hurt you–”

“You haven’t hurt me. Surprised, perhaps.” One of his hands unclenches with a deliberate slowness. “No one has touched me there in… a very long time.” 

Damien’s face heats as he starts to understand. “If– if what I did was improper–”

“There’s nothing proper about us,” Arum mutters. “Go ahead and continue, if you want. I’m not about to stop you.”

As replies go, it’s frustratingly vague, but Damien knows him well enough by now to glean a little bit of meaning: Arum has an opinion on the matter, but he’s too proud to put it into words. He’d much rather endure whatever Damien elects to do, no matter how uncomfortable it might make him.

But Damien also knows by now how to draw an answer out of him.

“My lord.” His voice is low, his tone reverent. “What would you have me do?”

Arum watches him in silence for a long moment, caught in Damien’s stare. There’s indecision in those violet eyes– but there’s also want.

Finally he averts his gaze. “Touch me again,” he says regally. “The way you did before.”

This time Damien reaches out with deliberate intention. His fingertips glide, feather light, over the edge of the frill. It’s looser now, the membrane not wrapped so tightly around Arum’s throat.

He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening. He never really considered what might be an– an erogenous zone for someone like Arum, but he understands the look on Arum’s face as he slips his fingers underneath the frill. Those violet eyes are half-lidded and unfocused, his mouth hangs just slightly agape, and he’s breathing harder than he rightfully should.

Experimentally Damien slides his hand higher, and he’s met with a sharp rasp of breath. He freezes. “Was that too much?”

It takes Arum a moment to collect himself. “I didn’t say to stop.”

Emboldened, Damien draws closer and brings his other hand to join the first, and he’s gratified by the shuddering breath he receives in response. The frill is loose and pliant over his hands, less wrapped than it is draped over him. Underneath, the scales that line Lord Arum’s throat are soft and smooth, almost perfectly shielded from the outside world. The absence of touch must leave them sensitive, because he’s breathing harder as Damien explores.

“Your hands are–” He makes a sound between a gasp and a hiss. “–very soft, honeysuckle.”

Damien could tell him otherwise– his hands are well callused from years of training– but he’s too caught up in the rapture on Arum’s face. In an act of impulse, he climbs closer, throwing his leg over Arum’s thigh until he’s straddling his lap. The position is unseemly, but in that moment, he can’t bring himself to care. Nothing matters but the look on Arum’s face and the stuttering sounds of his breathing and the race of a heartbeat just under his fingertips.

He’s learning the contours of Arum’s throat like the strings of an instrument, and with every stroke he’s crafting a symphony: touch him here, and the panting becomes a gasp. There, and the gasps turn to whimpers. Like so, and the whimpers rise into keens.

The frill is hanging freely now, all tension gone, and it parts over his throat like a curtain. Damien presses his lips to the tender flesh there, kissing him with all the reverence he deserves.

Arum’s tail coils around Damien’s thighs. Two hands clutch at his shoulders, pulling him closer. A third arm wraps his waist. The fourth caresses his neck, his claws tracing delicate lines with such care that it sends chills down Damien’s spine. A thigh rises underneath him, and he rocks frantically against it, desperate for some relief from the ache inside him. He can feel a hardness answering his own, hidden by layers of clothes, and he’s caught by the urge to pull away the cloth– but in this moment, uncovering him feels like blasphemy.

Besides, how could he dream of pulling his hands away when Arum is so close– so close– so–