Oh, he could see it. He didn't need to smell it, though he could do that quite well, too. The thrumming pulse of Lotte's blood was so palpable, quick, where it rose to the surface and coloured her skin. Even so close, her features unfocused and hazy in his sight, Alastor could see that.
When she moved away, the glimpse was all the better. Intense, vibrant, the flush of her cheeks nearly matching the crown of her hair. "Haven't I?" His voice was a purring trill of elation, a thrum that matched the heat of her face. Oh, Alastor had been content. Perhaps never so much (or at least never greater) than now.
He straightened up again, sat at attention with his foot tapping lightly against the floorboards, while Lotte moved to the basement. The basement was a source of curiosity to him; his only real knowledge of it was that his shadow had deemed it Safe, for all the more that meant. With rapt attention and a hearty dose of amusement, he watched Lotte pull her belongings up from the depths underground. He would have loved to go down there himself but, well. That wouldn't be any more polite than rifling through the witch's dresser drawers.
"And how," he said, rising from the table. He took another cigarette from the case inside his vest as he crossed the room and crouched, sharp-kneed and long-limbed by the edge of the hole, looked down into the dark. "Say, what do you use this blood for?" She'd asked him, hadn't she? It was only fair. The flame on his fingertips sparked to life and a white plume of smoke unfurled into the gaping opening to the cellar.
no subject
Oh, he could see it. He didn't need to smell it, though he could do that quite well, too. The thrumming pulse of Lotte's blood was so palpable, quick, where it rose to the surface and coloured her skin. Even so close, her features unfocused and hazy in his sight, Alastor could see that.
When she moved away, the glimpse was all the better. Intense, vibrant, the flush of her cheeks nearly matching the crown of her hair. "Haven't I?" His voice was a purring trill of elation, a thrum that matched the heat of her face. Oh, Alastor had been content. Perhaps never so much (or at least never greater) than now.
He straightened up again, sat at attention with his foot tapping lightly against the floorboards, while Lotte moved to the basement. The basement was a source of curiosity to him; his only real knowledge of it was that his shadow had deemed it Safe, for all the more that meant. With rapt attention and a hearty dose of amusement, he watched Lotte pull her belongings up from the depths underground. He would have loved to go down there himself but, well. That wouldn't be any more polite than rifling through the witch's dresser drawers.
"And how," he said, rising from the table. He took another cigarette from the case inside his vest as he crossed the room and crouched, sharp-kneed and long-limbed by the edge of the hole, looked down into the dark. "Say, what do you use this blood for?" She'd asked him, hadn't she? It was only fair. The flame on his fingertips sparked to life and a white plume of smoke unfurled into the gaping opening to the cellar.