[As his fangs touch Set's throat, Liem is rigid with the effort of maintaining some semblance of control, keeping tight rein over himself as if by sheer force of will he could deny the effect that the taste of living blood always has on him. He releases not a single sound as he bites down, though a tremor runs through him, shaking loose a short, bitten-off breath, as the hot tang of iron blooms against his tongue.
It is the warm slide of Set's palms against his wrists that pulls a soft, wanting sound from him, muffled against the line of his neck. He is still too warm, still too alive; Liem can barely keep himself together as the impossible, inhuman vibrance living in the god's veins floods over him, nearly overwhelming even in that first moment.
It takes only a breath more for the flood overtaking him to drag him out to sea.
The touch of his mouth remains gentle, just barely. It is the touch of Liem's hands that suddenly turns hard, grasping at Set like a drowning man at a piece of driftwood, as he presses himself against him. He would be humiliated by the desperation ruling him, if he could feel anything else over the sudden, dizzying need pounding in his chest and his ears and the back of his throat. The blood sliding over his tongue assaults him with its otherness just as much as with its vivacity, but his lack quails and shrinks before it, to be replaced with a rush too intense to refuse.
In the face of it, he can only drink, having forgotten everything else.]
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It is the warm slide of Set's palms against his wrists that pulls a soft, wanting sound from him, muffled against the line of his neck. He is still too warm, still too alive; Liem can barely keep himself together as the impossible, inhuman vibrance living in the god's veins floods over him, nearly overwhelming even in that first moment.
It takes only a breath more for the flood overtaking him to drag him out to sea.
The touch of his mouth remains gentle, just barely. It is the touch of Liem's hands that suddenly turns hard, grasping at Set like a drowning man at a piece of driftwood, as he presses himself against him. He would be humiliated by the desperation ruling him, if he could feel anything else over the sudden, dizzying need pounding in his chest and his ears and the back of his throat. The blood sliding over his tongue assaults him with its otherness just as much as with its vivacity, but his lack quails and shrinks before it, to be replaced with a rush too intense to refuse.
In the face of it, he can only drink, having forgotten everything else.]