Of the Flesh
Lucivar shuddered to near breaking, wings spreading taut and every nerve crying out with the biting ecstasy of it, lost in supple skin and heated muscle and familiar flesh.
Spent, he fell hard, but Daemon held, held as he always did.
Lucivar kissed him, trying to steal back some of his breath, perhaps looking for more than this empty game they played.
"Daemon," He trembled, "You are madness."
"What did you expect from the Sadist, brother?" Daemon's smile was seduction coated in ice.
"Nothing less," Lucivar replied, licking the blood from his lips and rolling off the bed. "Nothing less."