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[controllings]

ᒪᕮᗩᐯᕮ ᗩ ᗰᕮSSᗩGᕮ
| ꭲꭼх​ꭲ | ꭺꮯꭲꮖꮻɴ | ꮩꮻꮖꮯꭼ |

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[blooddrive]

I do like to play, yes... [It's practically purred, even as he pointedly shifts to get more comfortable in the lap he's treating as his throne. Even as his dominant hand slides up the curve of a shoulder, palming over the length of Sebastian's neck before the ends of his fingers stray into the detective's hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. His chin tips up and his grin is just as smug as the ruby red irises peeking out from between his lashes.

His other hand slides down from Sebastian's shoulder, cupping his pec and squeezing once before his grip departs.]

You've got good instincts, [he continues, his head tipping to the side, nose nudging against the taller man's jaw as his palm insinuates into the curve of Sebastian's neck, thumb scraping his chin.

His knees cinch tighter as he pushes up on them, trapping the thighs he's perched on, only encouraged by the hands that hold him.]

Hold on tight, [Astarion murmurs into warm skin, bottom lip catching brief and wet and warm as his mouth opens. The hand that had groped Sebastian's chest now finding purchase on a bicep.

And then he latches, and it's twin shards of ice lancing into flesh, the powerful clamp of his jaw and the completely enthralled curl of his nails into skin. The pull of blood isn't elegant or savoring, it's voracious. He doesn't lap or sip or take what wells of it's own accord. He drains with singular intent.

It isn't long at all before something numb and cold begins to trickle into the mix. For Sebastian, at least. The warmth flooding the vampire is quite the opposite. Nor is it long before Astarion pushes even further into the body he's perched over, his legs clamp harder, his fingers fisting in hair and cloth, the moan trapped in his throat, rumbling out of his chest, an unbridled thing, lusty and low.]

[controllings]

[ It wouldn't be the first time that food metaphors crossed his mind: good enough to eat, a devouring kiss, hunger, thirst... but it's the first time it's quite this literal. He's not afraid, though he probably should be, but that doesn't stop his heart from beating just a little harder from the instinctive knowledge this isn't strictly natural for him to be willing prey. It's certainly not from the way Astarion's looking at him or touching him or damn near purring against his neck.

He lets Astarion talk because there's very little stopping him, he's suspecting, and he's not exactly keen to delay the experience. Still not in a hurry, but the longer he has to think about this the harder it is to quell the warning bells threatening to become shrill sirens. And still he grunts what's almost a laugh at being told to hold on tight, so he does, all the moreso, even though his grip was already rather unyielding.

Sebastian has...a few too many memories of being bitten, of being bled, in ways that were clearly intended to kill him painfully and effectively...

This is not one of those.

This is sharp, crisp, shockingly cold as a knife's edge until the blood begins to attempt to pool only to pass between teeth and lips and it's a head rush, of a kind. He knows the signs of blood loss all too intimately, can feel his head spinning, the strange, warning coldness beginning in his extremities. The air in his lungs escapes him as the man in his lap apparently abandons any remaining pretense.

His grip loosens, though whether it's from the the need to release the tension in his fingers alone or some other loss of strength, he's not sure. He's not really thinking that hard about it. Or about anything.

Astarion moans and Sebastian sighs and shivers and slides his hands up the other man's thighs to his hips and tries to hold on.

God, he's going to have a hell of a hangover. ]

[blooddrive]

[What was that stupid poem he'd heard the other day? Something about 'eternity in an hour?' It's not quite that. For Astarion, at least, the head rush is so immediate, the delicious tinge of copper, the hint of whiskey, the satiation of a pit that's tunneled itself through to the core of him, that he can't help but be carried off in the moment. Warmth tingles through his limbs and life slides down his throat, and strong, articulate fingers shiver as they climb his hips.

Ultimately, there's nothing more enticing in that moment.

Dully, however, he detects that loosening grip, he hears that racing heart. Distnantly, Astarion registers the life he's drawing from.

It snaps into focus with a strangled note of disappointment. Astarion stills, before carefully prying open his jaw to release his fangs, though both lips purse against the wounds for a moment. He's no fledgling, didn't make the mistake of piercing the carotid or the jugular, but that doesn't mean he's cavalier about the blood loss. He draws back only when he's sure it won't gush free on it's own.

And then his eyes, lidded as they are, seek details, pouring over Sebastian's face for signs he's gone too far, for shock or loss of consciousness. He's dealt with both. But there is a certainly dreamy quality to that look that lingers, a palpable temptation to resume, to drain every last drop, despite everything.]

That was... [His voice is still too low. The implication too obvious.] Amazing.