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[sterngaze]

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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[sterngaze]

[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.]

[redsoil]

[ 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. ]

[sterngaze]

[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.]

[redsoil]

[ 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 — ). ]

[sterngaze]

[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.