[Francis shivers a little at the words, the way that he laughs softly. He likes the approval, and it warms the way that he smiles up at him. That sense of being just right appealing in a way he couldn't have put words to.
But it leaves him with a vague sense that he might be a little in over his head. It just happens that that's exactly where he wants to be-- Francis wants to drown a little bit.
Lucifer releases him and there's a shaky exhale on his lips as he nods, like he'd forgotten to breathe for a moment. And he does as he's told with a soft murmur of understanding.
It's not quite a striptease, but it's absolutely a show, putting his body on display. His top comes off slow and easy and he lets it drip off his fingertips to fall to the bed. He has to wriggle a little to get his pants off, leaving him just in a skimpy pair of black velvet underthings, already half-hard against the fabric.
His skin is far from perfect when you take away the clothes, but Francis isn't self-conscious about it. Burns like fingerprints over his hips and upper thighs, scattered low on his stomach. Newer ones layered over the older ones that are almost gone. Pink lines climb up the insides of his upper thighs, the lingering remains of cuts too even and copious to be anything but intentional.
His skin soft and pale so even the nearly-faded bruises still blossom prettily. He drags the panties off down his legs- the collar the only thing that he leaves on. Then he shifts back onto his knees with an arch of his back and a slow roll of his shoulders.
Blue eyes look up to Lucifer, a little flushed over his cheeks and the top of his chest. There's something about the way he watches him. Something about the way the moment feels.]
Better?
[It's mostly rhetorical, mostly teasing, but also- well, if Lucifer wants him quiet, he'd have to gag him. Or tell him to.]
no subject
But it leaves him with a vague sense that he might be a little in over his head. It just happens that that's exactly where he wants to be-- Francis wants to drown a little bit.
Lucifer releases him and there's a shaky exhale on his lips as he nods, like he'd forgotten to breathe for a moment. And he does as he's told with a soft murmur of understanding.
It's not quite a striptease, but it's absolutely a show, putting his body on display. His top comes off slow and easy and he lets it drip off his fingertips to fall to the bed. He has to wriggle a little to get his pants off, leaving him just in a skimpy pair of black velvet underthings, already half-hard against the fabric.
His skin is far from perfect when you take away the clothes, but Francis isn't self-conscious about it. Burns like fingerprints over his hips and upper thighs, scattered low on his stomach. Newer ones layered over the older ones that are almost gone. Pink lines climb up the insides of his upper thighs, the lingering remains of cuts too even and copious to be anything but intentional.
His skin soft and pale so even the nearly-faded bruises still blossom prettily. He drags the panties off down his legs- the collar the only thing that he leaves on. Then he shifts back onto his knees with an arch of his back and a slow roll of his shoulders.
Blue eyes look up to Lucifer, a little flushed over his cheeks and the top of his chest. There's something about the way he watches him. Something about the way the moment feels.]
Better?
[It's mostly rhetorical, mostly teasing, but also- well, if Lucifer wants him quiet, he'd have to gag him. Or tell him to.]