#darum

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.”