Work Text:
Lucian loves the feeling of Shauntal’s quill on his skin.
Her handwriting in general is beautiful, even when she’s frantically writing down scattered notes. It’s like dark, rich syrup he could drink off the page.
But it’s especially wonderful on his skin. The quill is sharp enough to sting in a pleasurable way, but without using his blood as ink. Her cursive letters spread across him like ivy, be they drafts for poetry, musings on her devotion to him, stream of consciousness. From his chest to his ankles, he devotes his body to their mutual, peaceful, personal kind of pleasure.