#bendwill

Or maybe he did. It was the feeling coming from his targets whenever he'd seduce them. The feeling he knew they felt before he took them to bed and sliced their throats. It wasn't very often he was on the other side of it, and in fact, it had been years since he had. Brynjolf of the Thieves Guild, and they both had been so very young. Despite his experience with the rest of it, the feelings part was something Ásgeirr was quite inexperienced with. The rest of it? He was good at. So that's what makes him move — maybe with the rest, the part he lacked would come. Miraak is talking, but he stopped paying attention long ago. He makes one fluid motion as he leans forward, moves his mask just enough from his face, and without any hesitation, kisses him.

Seeing @bendwill would have been surprising if Ásgeirr didn’t expect he could do something like this — materializing into the mortal realm had to be more difficult, or at least more tedious than traveling to another sort of abstract plane of existence. His lips pull back, baring his teeth as he stares at Miraak, trying to decide how to best approach this. If all else fails, he can just wake up.

“&– -  How often it is that you prove decision against your usage as my host...... beyond a temporary necessity..... the correct one.” // @bendwill liked for a starter!

@bendwill ⊱ 1 (bonus: they are in a library)

▐║  ♛  ┊  𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃  𝐍𝐎𝐓  𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐒𝐎  𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇,  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐀𝐑𝐄.  High  Hrothgar's  library  is  a  sacred  place,  often  traversed  daily  by  the  Greybeards  themselves.  All  of  these  ancient  tomes  around  them,  many  of  them  holy  texts,  it  almost  feels  sacrilegious  to  engage  in  something  so  carnal  in  their  presence.  And  then  there  is  the  risk  of  discovery,  knowing  that  at  any  moment,  one  of  the  monks  may  enter  and  find  them  in  their  coil  amidst  the  shelves.  So  why,  then,  does  that  make  it  all  the  more  exciting?  Perhaps  the  rush  of  blood  and  lust  has  truly  overridden  all  common  sensibility,  decorum  abandoned  as  she  encourages  every  stray  touch.  She'd  known  all  along  how  this  would  end  the  moment  she  felt  his  body  press  into  hers;  it's  only  a  game  to  pretend  otherwise,  her  false  innocence  countered  by  the  devilish  gleam  in  her  eyes.

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It smacks around the tiles. It peals on down the halls.

Gale looks to this fury, his blistering, biting words howling high past the shelves, and the pretty painted glass lies gleaming all about them. It's a good a guess as any who will pick them up.

But maybe! Maybe in time, Gale, familiar with his breaks, will. He had pressed too longly perhaps, complacent as he's become with their fortuitous...something. He would see him as a friend, two rapacious little scholars with a hankering for spells, and he had nearly forgotten that he had never been invited. Or asked for. Right. Eyes widening, Gale, finally realizing, is all an interloper.

But that can't be right, can it?

" No sweets? Mmm, that explains the miasma of abject misery hanging around your person."