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His chest heaved and fell in quick, rushed breaths. The corners of Zenos' mouth curled up in a sly, dangerous smile, cutting the tension between them, and he settled his foot flush against Bujira's flank.
Zenos came to straddle him then, trailing gauntleted fingers over Ame-no-Habakiri's hilt and blade as he sank down on one knee. Sunlight slashed across his face. Bujira couldn't look away; goosebumps dimpling the flesh of his arms at the sudden proximity. Sweat trickled down his throat, into the hollow of his collarbone, yet he shivered when Zenos tipped his head to the side and appraised him. Instead of hunting for escapes, Bujira remained frozen under that intense gaze.
"Gone docile in my absence already, have you?."
--
or the inherent eroticism of being entirely at your enemy's mercy.