Poetry, of the French, German, and English varieties, was once Marius' sole companion during long nights of translation. He knows it intimately well, one could argue. Right now, though, he struggles just to keep his thoughts from mirroring the small, incoherent noises escaping him at the sensation of Rat's lips moving down his neck and shoulders.

"There is love, I hear his tongue," he manages after a few moments of trying to catch his breath. He moves to nose at the side of Rat's cheek, beginning to return the favor as his lips press slowly down his face.

"There his charming nest doth lay," he murmurs in between kisses as deliberate and wanting as the other man's. "There he sleeps the night away." He can't keep himself from leaning forward, kissing messily as he continues his path down Rat's neck. "There he sports along the day and doth among our branches play."