[ Iβm sure you donβt make a habit of doing anything nicely sits on the tip of his tongue, stalled by the touch to his leg. Itβs as if Astarion is designed to ruin his capacity for intelligent thought. The fresh wound at his thigh pangs, a reminder of all he would let this man do, if he dared to want it. ]
[ clearing his throat, ] Thatβs quite the line. [ A little delighted, maybe, that Astarion is bothering to use it on him, when heβs already so deeply entangled. His voice lifts in interest, ] Do I taste sweet, or is it my blood that has all the flavour?
[ When his tongue darts over his lower lip, something metallic lingers. He wonders, finally, whether Astarion may have bloodied his face, in his rush (!) to kiss him. Wetting his free hand, he cups his own jaw to dampen his beard, a pink droplet circling his wrist before it runs down his arm. ]
no subject
[ clearing his throat, ] Thatβs quite the line. [ A little delighted, maybe, that Astarion is bothering to use it on him, when heβs already so deeply entangled. His voice lifts in interest, ] Do I taste sweet, or is it my blood that has all the flavour?
[ When his tongue darts over his lower lip, something metallic lingers. He wonders, finally, whether Astarion may have bloodied his face, in his rush (!) to kiss him. Wetting his free hand, he cups his own jaw to dampen his beard, a pink droplet circling his wrist before it runs down his arm. ]