The eroticism of sensory deprivation

AUGH, DRIVEL. The last line hurts me so much, because it's still not right. >_<

Silver and Blaine being unrepentantly fluffy, which doesn't happen as often as it ought to. They're too busy being full of angst and vomit most of the time. Dumbasses. (This was so much harder to write than it should have been. I'm going to have to write angst and vomit next to make up for it. *dies*)
-----

Cool fingers stirred him out of a post-coital doze as they traced over a set blue-black lines on his thigh. Silverlock's breath of soft laughter stirred Blaine's hair; he captured the errant hand in his own. "You like that one, don't you?"

"Mm. It's one of my favorites. Obscene." Blaine tilted his head to meet Silverlock's eyes. He smiled "Much like the rest of you."

"I strive at all times for consistency." He placed a kiss in Blaine's palm and released it. The tattoo in question was obscene, if one knew how to read it. Most of the patterns scrawled across his skin were perverse and obscene in some way; the tattoos were one of his primary power sources, after all.

To Blaine, they were poison, and the irony of that was not lost on either of them.

He touched Blaine's shoulder, sliding his fingers over shiny whorls of scar tissue. The other man's skin was warm beneath his hands. "This one," he said, rubbing his thumb across a dark, crescent shaped stretch of skin. "This one is my favorite."

"It's no different than the rest of them." Blaine muttered, turning his face to hide the blush creeping across his nose.

Skin told stories; his own detailed a narrative nearly a hundred years in the making. He could have read anyone else's skin with a single touch, but Blaine was a closed book to him in many ways. He was cut off from his magic out of necessity, and without it, his hands were blind.

Fortunately, the loss of once sense only served to sharpen those remaining. Silverlock smiled as he traced the edges of the scar first with his fingers, then with his tongue. Blaine's pleased laughter rang in his ears.

Skin told stories; this one was written in a language he couldn't understand, but he found himself learning the words to it anyway, expanding his vocabulary with every trembling touch.