Bramblepoint [M] The Night Comes Down like Heaven

wine blossomed beautiful and rapturous on senmut's tongue. such tastes reminded the former scribe of how very far he had ascended. such heights made a fall headlong, and one fatal.

but as machiavelli's moonbeam eyes found him in a purring caress, the prince felt as though their minds moved in similar manners — too sweet, the lacquered denial and sidestep of what smouldered between erpa-ha and fellahin.

alongside the gracefulness of the other, senmut felt as though he himself was ardent with a clunkier nature. and so he only allowed himself to be compelled once more by the gleam of a slender foreleg, the roundedness of the gossamer shoulder;

"you may, machiavelli." there was almost eagerness in senmut for it. tonight he was neither prince nor priest, but only a man. 

behind the kohl and sacred robe of state, beneath the morning praise to Ra and the fierce loyalty he bore the kingdom of akashingo, the man who was senmut remained shy, reticent, and perhaps even slightly scandalized by the wash of nightglow over them both and the slight new flush of intoxication which pulsed vaguely in his blood.

"what will you feed me tonight?" senmut teased softly, though hunger was quite far from his mind, snared delightfully as he was by those contemplative eyes.