"If it makes no odds to you, I'd rather you did," Astarion murmurs. "I do
so like to hear you."
He moves the blade to his chest, the press still feather-light, but
crueller now - twisting, the tip of the blade sliding under the skin as
much as through it.
no subject
"If it makes no odds to you, I'd rather you did," Astarion murmurs. "I do so like to hear you."
He moves the blade to his chest, the press still feather-light, but crueller now - twisting, the tip of the blade sliding under the skin as much as through it.