Sin's song doesn't falter but there is a note of breathlessness about it as Athelstan licks his fingertip. Sin pumps it slowly before withdrawing. He slides the finger down Athelstan's chin, his throat and onto his chest, leaving damp trails that stand out against the warm air.

He draws patterns then, ancient mystic symbols that light up Athelstan's sensitised nerves. Twice, three times he returns to Athelstan's mouth, his fingers skimming the rims of Athelstan's nipples, the bisecting lines of his chest, the soft trail of fine hair that leads to the waistband of his jeans.