[That is something Rogue had never felt fully comfortable with, his innate possessiveness, his need to declare something as his and hold it closely.
He strokes Leto's cheeks with his thumbs, searching for the thin line of his dagger's blade. Probably already gone, but he simply thirsts to have left some mark.
He kisses those lips to taste the awe, and bites the lower sharply, to bruise, to leave another mark no matter how briefly.]
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He strokes Leto's cheeks with his thumbs, searching for the thin line of his dagger's blade. Probably already gone, but he simply thirsts to have left some mark.
He kisses those lips to taste the awe, and bites the lower sharply, to bruise, to leave another mark no matter how briefly.]
Mine.