[ Another hissed breath, as Astarion laps at his thumb. Not disgusted, then, or repulsed by the acrid taste of the rot inside him, if his drooping eyes and eager tongue are any indication. Relief floods him. Heat pools in his gut. He feels so unbelievably hot, even with Astarionโs cool lips on his fingers.
And he thinks about โ droppinh his hand to his lap, parting his rucked up robes to find relief โ absolutely not. Inappropriate. Unwelcome, to be sure, even with Astarionโs parted lips seemingly begging for more. Gale leans forward, pupils blown out. Driven by desire, not intelligence, when he slicks two fingers, pushing them into the plush on Astarionโs mouth. A light press against his tongue. A stray touch at the tip of one fang. ]
[ voice rough, ] How is it? [ The touch. His ichorous blood. He doesnโt know. ]
no subject
And he thinks about โ droppinh his hand to his lap, parting his rucked up robes to find relief โ absolutely not. Inappropriate. Unwelcome, to be sure, even with Astarionโs parted lips seemingly begging for more. Gale leans forward, pupils blown out. Driven by desire, not intelligence, when he slicks two fingers, pushing them into the plush on Astarionโs mouth. A light press against his tongue. A stray touch at the tip of one fang. ]
[ voice rough, ] How is it? [ The touch. His ichorous blood. He doesnโt know. ]