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Liem Talbott

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Liem's mindscape is dark; quiet; contemplative. Any feelings or sensations that Liem doesn't intentionally project himself seem distant, as though echoing from a far-off room. Following any given sense to its source is bafflingly difficult.

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[Liem is a little bemused to see, when he turns around with the cup and saucer in his hands, that Set is still in possession of the cushion he'd liberated from one of the sitting room chairs. The man displays just the sort of unabashed familiarity with Liem's home that he'd seemed to take with him on their first meeting, when Set had probed so brashly into his background, and into his space. If he recognizes Liem's desire for privacy, for distance from those around him, he hasn't thus far deigned to indulge it. Perhaps it is the divinity in him; the gods have their hands in everything, after all.

He recalls also that Set had been drinking on that first occasion, in Highstorm's public baths, so his admission comes as a surprise to Liem. Though his steady expression doesn't falter, he regards his guest for an uncertain moment before he speaks.]

That is not something I expected to have in common with you. Set, Lord of the Dark Desert.

[Did the gods not sup on the offerings made to them by their faithful? Perhaps a god of violence would not care for such pedestrian fare, but it is a shock to hear that something so mundane could turn his stomach.

Though more shocking is such a god's concern for manners as a houseguest, however limited it might be.]

Perhaps I am a poor host, then, since I have nothing else to offer guests. You are the only one yet to have found your way to my door.

[ Dark desert, he mouths. That's a new one. A different sort of familiarity with his domains, but one that is not untrue to say the least. Set cradles the small pillow he's taken along with him, head tipped to one side — eyes distant, brows slackened. It's as calm, as neutral as he's capable of appearing; the perpetual crease between his brow lessened, as Liem speaks of something that they share. A thin thread that binds man to divine, and Set thinks: Is this understanding someone? Perhaps not. He still struggles.

He does gesture, to the cup that Liem has brought down. ]

I only meant to spare you the song and dance of procuring what goes with tea. I do drink.

[ As Liem is correct, Set had been drinking ( copiously ) in the baths they had shared at first meeting. On the Isles, he had supped on wine and other drink, and rarely was easy to observe putting anything solid into his mouth. It was odd, it felt terrible within him, and he was deeply particular about the things he wanted to eat in the first place, when he actually had to. ]

It is that, [ for a moment, he draws the edge of the pillow up and towards his mouth. Briefly hiding behind it as he considers what he shares; it is difficult, to admit anything to others, for fear of them using even the most innocuous of facts against him in the future. It's habit, now. Opening to someone means allowing them to know things that could be used to harm, and he is — he is so poor, at seeing betrayal before it is upon him. ] Before I became this, I never needed to and I, do not like the way it feels to eat.

[ A step closer, and he fetches up against Liem's counter. Against Liem himself, the side of his arm light against the line of the priest's shoulder. So tactile, when he controls the sensation. ]

You are the same, though. What manner of illness overcomes you?

[Liem still does not know what to think of this strange man, who moves with strength of both body and purpose, who claims the mantle of the divine, but who is fallible in such mortal ways. He has ever shown the limits of his understanding with his greed for more of it, has proven susceptible to trickery that used his own hunger to blind him. His cleverness and his mercenary nature do not seem so inscrutable to Liem's mortal eyes, nor does Set's wariness when speaking of himself seem unfamiliar; Liem wonders if this is a revelation, or just his own arrogance and failure of imagination as a mortal man. It is normal for people to seek a mirror of themselves in the divine.

Still, the stillness that seizes him when Set steps closer is the normal, mundane stillness of a very private man whose space is being casually invaded while he's in his own kitchen. His brows crease in a slight frown as he looks warily up at Set, trying not to notice the heat of him through the fabric covering his shoulder.]

Food such as civilized people eat does not agree with me. It is like ash in my mouth, and it often goes down kicking and screaming.

[He cannot quite help the terseness in his tone, built up over many a year of priests and physicians attempting to sort out his diet. Often, in his younger years, he had been ill because of the failure or outright refusal of his guardians to feed him things he could actually tolerate. Understanding had been a rarity.]

Time spent in the sun makes it worse — but I simply fare better at some times than at others.

[ He's just a weird guy, Liem. Don't worry about it. ]

I believe I may understand.

[ Never will he say such a thing directly, he feels. Understanding between gods and immortals is one thing, but between mortals and gods? It is an endless struggle for him, wrought of his desire to live up to the expectations of his wife; Nephthys was gone, eradicated with the world, but he had an opportunity to bring her back and make her manifest. He was less interested in her, however much he loved her, and more focused on the well-being of their child, in the end. Yet, she had whispered words of harmony and empathy, urged him to embrace the complexity of mortal life and rejoice in experiencing it.

How easy for the goddess of peace to say such a thing, for she was readily beloved by her humans for so long. The most Set knows of, is the sobbing cries of a mother pleading with his wife to sate the god of war's ire and allow her child to return home from the borders intact and healthy. A quick offering of grain, of incense, for a swift and decisive war. Understanding was meant to be mutual, and what he tries to offer to those of Kenos is often — readily rejected, or misunderstood. But this?

This, he thinks he can do. Perhaps it is why he clings to their shared misfortunes with food. ]

The smell of certain foods nauseates me. Meat, especially. Solids are — entirely disagreeable, though if I must eat for my health, I like... tomatoes, and greens. And fruit. The taste of it is always new to me. Sometimes, overwhelming. A mouthful of ash, you say. Utterly foreign, to me.

[ Sensory overload, at the best of times and immediate illness, at others. ]

Why does the sun affect you so? For someone who has chosen the side of the light, it seems you could have done better for your health in Highstorm. Does your faith ask you to suffer for it?

[It is still strange to Liem that Set, the self-proclaimed hedonist, was unused to the experience of eating before now. Food has always held little temptation to Liem, unsatisfying as it is to his palate, but he would not have expected a god fond of excess to scorn the pleasure of food when he seems perfectly happy with drink. And yet, he cannot deny Set's oddly familiar relationship with solid edibles. If anything, the god's aversion to them sounds more intense even than his own. It is mainly the lingering effects of having food in his body that causes Liem so much grief; he at least doesn't tend to suffer from the mere smell, assuming he's not ill to begin with.

Though his expression remains wary, Liem raises a brow at the other man.]

Suffering is inherent to life.

[For mortals, he means: those still living in the material plane. There will always be hardships to overcome, just as life holds its own pleasures as well. He has long since stopped trying to steer the path of his own life by either star. Abadar's light is just as bright, and far steadier.]

If I wished only to tend my earthly needs, I would turn my face to Zenith, with its congregation of blood-drinkers. But even if Lady Yima could pull my patron from oblivion — which she has said she cannot presently do — she could not bring with him all that he guards and all that he has built. I will not consider my own temporary comfort to be of greater importance than the First Vault itself.

[He pauses; flicks his gaze away from Set's. This is a topic he prefers to avoid speaking of — one that has caused him lifetimes' worth of hardship, and has been met only rarely with understanding. Even if all the god has for him is indifference, though, he will accept it for the opportunity to be acknowledged, in even the smallest part. And surely a being like Set doesn't harbour the revulsions of a normal, mortal person.]

My ailment is my father's legacy. He was one of their kind: a vampire, a hunter of men, fearing only the sun. I have his eyes and his appetites, for all that I am a living man.

[ Congregation of blood-drinkers? Oh! Those entities.

Being one of the Meridian-aligned who still routinely enters ( and passes through ) Highstorm, despite the rising arrogance he finds in the citizens when they interact with him, he has plenty of knowledge about the surface culture, and some knowledge of the sub-cultures within. Liem's father is a vampire, vampires — he now assumes, require blood as their main source of food. The blood-drinkers of Highstorm, are vampires. Ones very much unlike Liem, who abstains from such things? How curious. ]

Uaa.

[ The sound he makes is one of wonder. A man who has just been exposed to something wholeheartedly new and who finds distinct delight in it. Set is a hedonist by make and nature, and information is something he also immerses himself in, as readily as the heat of a body or the long pull of alcohol from a bottle. The information about the extent of Yima's ability, he also carries with him now; perhaps, she might not be able to pull his child from the darkness, for Anubis had become — Anubis had been forced to become —

He forces himself not to think on that, with his host standing right before him.

Set is a man of easy contradictions. One who is revolted by physical contact, but one who initiates it without heed of others' propriety; it it, in fact, more of a dominance thing than a necessity, that he is the one to control movement and contact, before anyone else tries to dominate over him. So, as he take a hand from the embroidery of the pillow, it is only to rest it — harsh-fingered, to the sleeve of Liem's shirt. ]

Then. Your ailment could be resolved, were you to balance your diet?

[ There is more nuance to the question than Liem might realize.

It means something to him, too. Not just that Liem has shared it, but that — perhaps their experiences are similar. ]

Are you in pain now? Do you not have someone you trust to aid you?

[Liem is not expecting the expression of wonder at his reluctant admission, nor the sudden, intent question that follows the clutch at his sleeve. His grip on the porcelain in his hands suddenly becomes not just tight, but unaccountably restless. He doesn't know what to do with this level of investment — at least, investment that doesn't come pre-weighted with shame and obligation.]

Of course not. Who would I insult with such a request?

[It slips out of him, aghast, before he can think better of it. What self-respecting person would be truly happy to let him sup on their veins just to indulge his unsavoury wants? There had been a couple of people since he was ripped from his world who had been willing — who had invited it, even — but in his worse moments, he doubts that either of them really had much self-respect to draw on.

The hint of bruised violet returns to his cheeks, but this time it's motivated entirely by shame. He forces himself to hold Set's gaze regardless, his expression stubborn.]

It does not matter. I do not need such indulgences to attend to my duties. Abadar does not require me to suffer for my devotion, but I would rather suffer than shame myself by living as a parasite on the blood of my peers.

[ Insult? Shame? A parasite? ]

Liem Talbott.

[ The name escapes him, the closest Set may come to a gasp of shock. Or, perhaps, empathetic horror. It is breathless, a faint admonishment not for the fact that part of Liem's very nature requires such a thing, but that he - is ashamed of it. That he is stricken by his own self, in ways that. That. Set feels, too. The sensation of his stomach growling, the feeling of chewing solid food - most mortals find it rote, to eat and dine and complete the circle of digestion ( he will not think of it, cannot; as he oddly is not impacted by it? ) - but, to the former god? It is a shameful experience. It is horrifying, to him.

He feels wrong, when his body demands nutrients he has never needed before. When it weakens without them, when he must finally eat materials that then - they, just. He cannot keep them down, and the cycle of humiliation begins again. ]

You are not a parasite.

[ Perhaps that is why, in this moment, he feels as close to Liem as could possibly be. There is still a rift between them, a vast number of things that make them so very different, but this is - this one thing is. ]

I do not think of you as parasitical for your needs. I think you have yet to find a way to achieve symbiotic balance, between someone who may wish to take care of you - and, how you might take care of them. And while I am an easy man to insult, in this regard... you could never. I, [ he breathes out, small and shy: ] cannot bear the shame of my own body's needs, my own fledgling mortalities. I believe, that I can understand you.

[Of all the things Set might have said to him, in the face of his shame and his self-disgust, Liem does not expect the words that reach his ears. It's not as if he has only ever been spurned for his abnormality. He has known other people in the past who have not had any fear of him, and those who have insisted that he need not revile what is natural for his body — people who did not understand, who could not understand, his inability to reconcile Liem the blood-drinker with Liem the man. People who failed to grasp his despair at being unable to wrest such a simple part of his being within his own control, or his fear that his obsessive compulsion to drink — innate to him, and yet disturbingly foreign, something he can't accept as his own — would only run rampant over him if he ever allowed himself to feed it.

But the assertion that someone should wish to take care of him is too much to bear. Because it is degrading, to capitulate to his thirst and his pain and his weakness. It is something that should be beneath him — perhaps as a body's demand for food would be beneath the divine — and yet, he has been forced again and again to endure it — and worse, to enjoy it; to be unable even to maintain his own dignity in caring for the needs of his flesh. He does not want to care for such a thing — and it shames him terribly to think of someone else doing so for him.

The stiff line of his shoulders sags, defeated, as he lowers his gaze from Set's — to his mouth, his jaw. His neck.]

I would suffer mine in solitude if I could. But even that, I cannot do.

[At least Set needs not endure witnesses to his humiliation. There is another reason why Liem prefers not to drink from anyone he knows; if he must suffer someone to watch him — to feel him drink, he would rather it be someone he will never see again.

He closes his eyes, as if against that particular thought.]

What offering would suffice for the blood of a god?

[ Maybe, he understands Liem Talbott more than most. The shame and degradation of self he feels, when his stomach demands food? It is unbearable, and so he gives to drink, to illicit substances that diminish his body's newfound appetite. He ignores the burst of strange un-hunger that has awoken within his very soul, craving something he has not the word for, upon the night that a demon revealed to him the thing he found most appetizing. ]

If only I was still perfect, and if only you could be.

[ Mortals were imperfect, they flowed freely across time and space, given boundless opportunity to change themselves, to adjust their fate and become what they dreamed of. A god was a static existence, a narrow set of boundaries that ran deeply - not far. To some, Set's words might be infinitely cruel - to bring up perfection of body, the nebulous and unattainable thing that it was, could be perceived as an intentional slight. An insult. Yet, he says it anyways. Liem might understand the meaning.

Slowly, he sets aside his thefted item. Slowly, he pushes his hand down firmly, across the back of Liem's wrist, until the burning heat of his own body can be felt through any number of layers of clothing. He does not grasp nor pull on the priest, simply lingering as a pressure, an undeniable thing of diminished power and wounded dignity. ]

Aah, there is the separation of matters. As a god, it is practically my duty to attend to you in your own's temporary absence. [ He'll give Liem that, and Abadar, too. ] I ask for dedications of violence from Hayame and Dimitri. That they call on my name when they do harm to others, and I accept them unconditionally for it. You already have a god in your heart, so I do not wish to defile what you and he share.

[ So, he thinks. What could be worth his blood? ]

- knowing that your need shames you, your offering ought to shame me.

[In its own way, Set's lament is strangely comforting. Yes; the intangible promise of perfection was what bought Liem's loyalty to Abadar's church, just as it had for many others. An impossible goal for mortal men and women, but within the realm of Utopia, where reality spun like an immense and flawless clockwork, that wish could be granted. As painful as it has ever been for Liem to suffer the demands of his mortal body, there is still some measure of comfort in the knowledge that perfection is equally beyond the grasp of his human peers — and equally attainable for him as it is for any of Abadar's other mortal servants, once they are admitted to his realm.

After all, all mortals die eventually. He's just obliged to wait longer than others.

Slowly, deliberately, Liem sets down the porcelain in his hands, so he can brace his palm flat against the counter behind him. It is cool; solid. A necessary anchor against the incessant heat of Set's skin.]

What—

[Liem's eyes flick wide beneath frowning brows, fix hard on the god's face. His voice is soft with disbelief.]

Would you shoulder the burdens of every forsaken man and woman here? I have promised nothing to you, nor any of your family. You have no duty to me.

[When he had first encountered Set, naked and brazen in Highstorm's baths, he had thought he had no shame at all. To discover now how wrong he was brings Liem no joy at all.]

Ask of me what you will, and if it is mine to give, you will receive it.

[ It continues to elude him that Liem is aware of some aspects of the Ennead, of the pantheon of gods he was kin to and presided over humanity alongside. The bonds of blood did not truly matter at the heart of all things, but the bonds humans had forged to one another that defined their relationship to the world had invaded the rank and file of eternal, boundless beings. Marriage, progeny, superiority and inferiority — Ra had said as much at his trial, that Nephthys had not truly been unfaithful to him, because it was not divine to be wedded in the first place. Laying claim to one another was perverted. It would ruin them.

So, he wonders what Liem knows. Innately, he knows that it is truth — there is no 'other' to Set. He is all that he was, is and will be, drawn forth from the vast primordial sea of consciousness at given moments. Contradictions are not contradictions to the Ennead, nor to him. To know he is perceived another way is not, to him, wrongful. It is merely one more aspect of his fathomless existence, never a lie, never something he will avoid. Fate is absolute, to an absolute being. ]

Is that what you think I am doing? I failed in that duty long, long ago.

[ Brutally ensured that he did, in fact. ]

— I suppose, I would ask you for your services as a priest. Not as my priest, just as a priest. An advisor, of sorts. Maybe, a translator? I do not speak to mortals skillfully, and never have. Not like my siblings do.

[ It is a terribly isolating thing, to be incapable of understanding. Every moment of his life lent itself to being highly independent, peerless, and lacking in empathy. ]

[It is a relief when Set relents, and demands something from Liem that he can actually offer without guilt. He does not know Set the man well — he does not particularly even like him, much as he respects his decisiveness and his dedication — but he has no desire to make their relationship something that causes him shame. He has been the object of such to too many people to wish to cause Set shame with his offering, any more than he would with his association, or with the act of drinking his blood. Regardless of his own feelings about his body's cravings, it is not the kind of equality he wishes to enforce in their deal.

He does not ask what failure Set speaks of. Liem's knowledge of Osirion's ancient pantheon is a broad but shallow thing; that there would be things about Set that he doesn't know would be unsurprising even if he had confidence that this was the same god written of in ancient Osirian scripture. And ultimately, the history of a foreign deity is not Liem's business.]

That I can provide, if it is your wish.

[He says it a bit warily. It is strange: the thought of being advisor to a divinity. He should not be surprised by now; Set is clearly not all-knowing, and he obviously values information. Liem had just been under the — perhaps mistaken — impression that he interacted with others in such a brash, graceless way because he did not care to do otherwise.]

Insight into the motives and manners of others; diplomacy with those whose goals are different from yours. These are things I have experience with — though I should admit that although I received a priest's education, I did not often practise as such. I have been Abadar's fist more often than his tongue.

I said as much, did I not?

[ That temper of his burns a little, simply stoked by the way Liem says 'if'. As though Set has not stated what he will have from him as plainly and directly as possible, in their commonly-shared tongue. He knows he sucks at communication; he has a hard time understanding why people need to know what he is doing, why he is doing it, and then — of all things! why they need to participate in the decision-making process on his behalf. They ask him 'why' and 'how', and he knows the whys, he knows the hows. Conveying them is hard.

Having been independent and isolated for so long, he does not truly understand why he must answer to anyone. ]

Some of the others [ Meridians, he means. ] do not appreciate my candor, nor methods. And I do not understand why they cannot accept that what I do will benefit us all. I do not work day-to-day, I think far in advance. They demand answer of me that I try to give, but are not good enough. That is where I need someone like you, with more patience than me. The last individual I ever answered to was someone who understood me without question. He never asked why I did something, he simply trusted that my intentions were on behalf of our kingdom.

[ And, uh. He'd killed Osiris, so. Watch it Meris????? ]

[It is easy enough to see why someone like Set would benefit from some patient, diplomatic advice. He certainly acts like a man unused to negotiation; in a way, his temper reminds Liem of Hayame, who acts decisively and has little patience to explain things that seem obvious to her. He knows that Hayame was a warrior first and foremost back in her world, and one who had little need for a persuasive tongue, given that her value as chattel was found in her loyalty, skill and power, not in her opinions.

Set’s background could surely not be more unlike hers, but perhaps their similarities speak more loudly than their differences.]

If you are to benefit from my advice, [Liem points out with a murmur, one eyebrow raised,] you will still need patience.

[Whether Liem is advisor or translator, Set will need the patience to involve him in his business, and explain himself to Liem, at least enough for the priest to understand his own needs and the context for his communication. Otherwise, how will he be able to give informed advice, and most especially, how will he be able to provide advice that Set is actually willing to act on?

… but it’s possible that he’s just stalling, because negotiation is a much more comfortable space for Liem than one in which Set’s blood is on his lips.]

[ He will still need patience? Liem, you do not understand.

Set thinks that he is incredibly patient, for a god. It is simply that the priest he is asking for social cues and aid is better at being patient, because he is not. It is a status thing, rather than a capability thing. The tempestuous nature of the god of war is deeply in conflict with any sort of toleration of anyone or anything that he cannot force into compliance or submission. Ergo, Liem is necessary. Because his fellow Meridian's keep telling him "oh set, you gotta' play nice(r) with us, share the sandbox" and it's really irksome! ]

— we will work on it.

[ That is all he can offer. No promise can come from him, not without him being beholden to it. And a promise that went against his nature was practically a knife being taken to a beautiful, tightly-woven tapestry — it could damage the very crux of his being. It could cause his unmaking. ]

You will benefit, regardless of my level of patience. Come now, I will not hesitate to bleed for you.

[The answer that Set gives him is as good as any Liem could have hoped to receive from him. Certainly it is more permissive than one he might ordinarily have expected for the borderline-impertinent remark he’d offered — perhaps especially given the war god’s temper. We will work on it.

Good. Liem isn’t afraid of work.

Set’s follow-up makes him more uneasy, for all that he’s already agreed to the other half of this bargain. Much as he wishes that drinking the man’s blood could be entirely transactional, there has always been an inherent vulnerability for him in this kind of intimacy, more so than for others. Anticipation skitters in his chest, uncomfortably eager. His mouth feels very dry.]

Very well. Since it is your wish.

[His eyes flick over Set, from his face and down, then back again, restless and feverishly intent. There is really nowhere safe to look, considering the desert god’s manner of dress. He is indecent with exposed skin coyly hiding lush veins, and all of it in inviting places. How did he let this man into his kitchen looking like this? If any of his neighbours saw him receive his guest, they must have formed interesting notions about the purpose of his visit.

Because it is easiest, and because it does not require him to drink with his face in Set’s full view, he leans forward until his neatly-garbed chest brushes the god’s, tilting his mouth with a soft breath toward the pulse at the side of his throat. Cool fingertips alight on his bare waist like perching birds.

Set’s heartbeat drums loud against his ears; the heat of his skin burns beneath his hand. It scorches his lips, too, when he brushes them tentatively over his pulse. Too hot; too alive. He smells like sun-baked desert, but he feels like flesh and blood: too good to resist.

So Liem presses his teeth to Set’s throat, sharp points pricking pale flesh — and he doesn’t resist at all.]

[ For Matsui, he had lain his arm upon a table and allowed the strange creature to literally cut into his flesh and examine his blood. For Liem, shedding blood in order to support his ally in a time of need is a practical matter, one they have an agreed-upon exchange for. Briefly, he thinks about the men of Egypt, the ones who had descended into madness and taboo, who had tried to offer him the blood, the flesh, the soul of a loyal priestess of his own sister — and the revulsion he had felt, then. What must it be like, to genuinely require such nourishment?

He cannot stand meat, nor blood, the scent of them turns his stomach and the taste of them cause him anguish, illness. Liem's issue is that of shame, of an internalized war with his own self, the result of his upbringing — and so, as Liem draws near, Set leans along the counter and opens his posture. Not entirely inviting, but accepting; Liem's skin is cool, where his fingers brush along Set's bare waist, where the god is a simmering furnace of sun-warmth and bitter flame. ]

Mm — [ The scratch of tooth-tip over his throat brings with it a moment of realization, that Liem is being far more gentle with him than the last person who had bitten him — and that it is because Liem needs this. He moves his hands, from where they have seized at the edge of the counter, and takes Liem's wrists into his palms. His fingers find the edge of Liem's shirtsleeves, one or two sneaking up into the dark space, higher on his forearms. Warm, and oddly intensive.

He tips his head a little, hair falling away from the line of his bare shoulder, to open the length of his throat up a little more. ]

[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.]

[ Their hands clutch at one another, Liem's cool and Set's fever-warm, as a mouth works at his throat to draw in what is needed. To drink from a god — Set does not pretend it is not likely different from having the same from a mortal, he does not know what he tastes like ( the thought of putting flesh or blood to his own tongue fills him with a sickening flip of distress — ), but it must be pleasing to Liem. Or, Liem is just that hungry. Really, the scraps of his pride force him to think that it must be the former.

In the way that the soft, wanting sound is driven from Liem, one also follows from Set. A sigh, the exhalation of tension as the burst of sharp sensation at his throat begins to dwindle into a dull ache, the presence of teeth in his throat filling him with a warmth he cannot begin to recognize. It feels — not good, as if the experience were pleasant, but there is a pleasure in it. In being devoured, in being wanted enough that the priest gives in to those humiliating needs of his.

He drops his head back, leaning himself heavily along the counter as he curls his fingers against the bare skin of Liem's wrists, a steady metronome of stroking fingers and wordless, murmured encouragement. The god's posture is open, fearless of what is happening ( perhaps, he should learn to be more protective of himself, perhaps he should guard himself better — ). ]

[It takes a long moment for Liem to realize when it is no longer hunger that fuels the desperation burning in him. He is so caught up in the scorching, whirling need to have more of Set — more of the pulse drumming against his tongue, more of that feverish body beneath his hands, more of that more-than-human blood soaking his senses — that he misses the slide of one hunger into another, fails to realize when his thirst for blood becomes simple greed for the pleasure of indulgence.

But then, they are difficult wants to separate.

It is just that Set is so very warm, and his hands so insistent in their steady encouragement. There is a sense about him, something to do with the scent of burning sand and the way his presence fills up the tidy kitchen, that seems otherworldly — but the body that Liem clutches against his own feels human. Most importantly, as Liem pulls back just enough to drag in an unsteady breath, sliding a palm up Set's flank, he feels alive. Too alive for Liem to want to let go of, even if his need for blood has subsided.

He is indulgent, when he drags his tongue up Set's neck, over the bleeding marks left by his teeth. Pleasure dances along his spine, and he is dangerously tempted to dip his mouth back to that pale throat to see just how far that pleasure will take him. His fingers trace a restless caress against Set's skin, almost warm now thanks to the heat coming off his body. Perhaps if he lingers a little longer…]

Set. [He breathes the name against the damp, bitten skin of his neck.] I… I need you to leave.

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cw just some body dysmorphia + eating disorder chat, in case

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