[Isaac doesn't mind - or rather, he doesn't care, only dimly aware of Hector moving to bracket his body while he skims his nose along that bare stretch of stomach, peppering it with suckling kisses. Drunk as much on wine as on the smell of soap and him battering his senses. He stops to rest his head against him a moment, hot cheek against hotter stomach, feeling the swell of his breath. He curves his hands around his ribs.]

Have your fairy fetch a candle. [He insists in a sleepy drawl, sighing into him.] ...And oil, perhaps, to spoil you with. Yours will not be a body like any other.

[Then, as if a thought occurs to him, he lifts his head to look him straight in the eyes through his messy fringe.] I should like to better see you, and relish every last inch of your flesh.