[ That's the only go-ahead he needs. Astarion drags the dagger down until it catches on Iorveth's—Gale's—shirt. He loves this shirt, but it has to go. Gale can just cast Mending on it later; Astarion will say it was an accident, and they'll both know he's lying. The blade runs through the thin, silky fabric like butter, exposing Iorveth's torso in all its tanned glory.
Canvas revealed, he gets to painting, pressing the very tip of his knife just underneath Iorveth's clavicle, only light enough to break the skin and little more. He opens his mouth to say something snappy, but the smell of Iorveth's freshly drawn blood fills his nostrils, ruby red beading on his skin. On impulse, he dips his head down, tongue laving over the spot until there's nothing left but a faint red mark.
His fangs graze against the skin there, digging into Iorveth's flesh enough to make indents but not enough to make him bleed further. He stays there for a long moment, arguing with the animal instinct screaming at him to bite down; to do so would end playtime too soon, and so with notable difficulty, he draws back. ]
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Canvas revealed, he gets to painting, pressing the very tip of his knife just underneath Iorveth's clavicle, only light enough to break the skin and little more. He opens his mouth to say something snappy, but the smell of Iorveth's freshly drawn blood fills his nostrils, ruby red beading on his skin. On impulse, he dips his head down, tongue laving over the spot until there's nothing left but a faint red mark.
His fangs graze against the skin there, digging into Iorveth's flesh enough to make indents but not enough to make him bleed further. He stays there for a long moment, arguing with the animal instinct screaming at him to bite down; to do so would end playtime too soon, and so with notable difficulty, he draws back. ]