He crackles to the touch, flesh decidedly humming with unbridled energies. The lightning revenant, amused by your tentative ministrations, trails an armor-clad finger down your neck, eliciting a shiver.
“What’s wrong, Grand Magus?” he inquires, craning that long neck of his and gazing approximately in your direction. “Can’t handle the load?”

You don the heavy rubber gloves you prepared for this very occasion, huffing with mock indignation. “Preposterous,” you mutter, experimentally placing a hand on his bare shoulder. A faint, but not entirely unpleasant tingling sensation blossoms forth at your touch, and you smile beneath your mask. Tinker’s calculations were on point, after all.

Carefully you run your palms along his lithe, luminescent form, memorizing what you can through the thick material protecting your woefully conductive body. His breath hitches as you reach his clavicle, and you almost ponder whether he even needs to breathe before discarding the thought entirely. Dwelling on such things would surely lead to insanity. You instead take note of his utter stillness, trembling only occasionally at your touch. This gives you pause, and you awkwardly ask if everything is quite alright. He responds by grabbing your wrist and guiding it southerly. Ah.

You’d help him disrobe, but for all your knowledge, you haven’t the foggiest idea of how his garments work. You settle for fidgeting nervously and drinking in every inch of revealed skin. His toned abdomen transitions seamlessly into pure lightning, arcing wildly beneath his stomach. A small part of you is disappointed by the lack of… familiar terrain, but you are altogether itching to make this work, despite both involved parties refusing to remove their respective headpieces.

You trace the ever-shifting patterns on his flesh, pulse quickening. He’s truly a sight to behold, quivering and sighing contentedly at your fingertips, and you’re quite pleased with yourself when you gently tweak his nipple, inducing a wanton moan. He cants his hips in your direction, and again you find yourself forsaking your well-being in the name of curiosity: you delve a hand into the vortex below his waist.

The tingling intensifies into a loud thrum of power, and the overseer of the Narrow Maze shudders with a startled cry. You eye him carefully for signs of discomfort, but the way he’s desperately wriggling in place, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, betrays no such thing. Intrigued, you splay your fingers inside him, feeling around. You find purchase with a buzzing sort of what can only be described as pressure, growing steadily as the moments tick by. He’s genuinely writhing now, the lights in his visor flickering sporadically, and even the ever-present hiss of raw electricity cannot drown out his frenzied, pleasured groans. The energies assaulting your hand intensify until it’s nigh unbearable, yet you remain resolute, and soon enough he arches his back with a howl.

The next thing you know, there’s a white-hot flash of searing pain, and the ground at your feet is scorched black. Distantly you hear Razor calling your name, and the air around you smells like burning.

You wake up in the healer’s tent. Everything hurts. At some point a familiar helmet peeks inside, and you’re greeted with a deluge of heartfelt groveling. You manage a pained chuckle, wheezing out your assurances that everything will be fine.

After all, it is not so easy to kill a Magus.