controllings | NEON REQUIEM

[ he closes his eyes so hard it's probably audible through even this device's capabilities. ]

You're a few years too late for that. But if you're not in a hurry...

[ he's not backing out. but he is an asshole. ]

[If he truly wasn't, he wouldn't be leaping on the heels of that statement, would he?]

I wouldn't dream of rushing you, or course. But seeing as we both happen to be awake anyway...

[There's a tension he can't fully diffuse, and everything comes out just a little too fast besides.]

[ it's that edge of desperation that keeps him from drawing it out. some kind of sympathy, maybe a little envy. as weird as the situation is, he can appreciate the cost of asking for help. especially from someone who's punched you in the face. ]

Alright. Where am I going?

[ because sorry Astarion, you're not coming to his apartment. ]

[Here's where he falters, where he hesitates. The imposition isn't the thing, it's the company.]

Well...

[Another pause. He's racking his brain. They need privacy, but not too much of it.]

I was expecting to come to you, but if you'd prefer... There's a quaint little park in West District. Plenty of shady spots to have a seat and a little... chat.

[ it seems they both have their reasons, and he's not about to ask... but that does complicate things. he weighs it just a breath, whether in public is riskier than the high probability of Joseph... ]

I think I know the one you mean. [ he'll still get a few clarifying details before he heads out, since he generally leaves his communication device at home. ]

Works for me. I'll meet you there in...half an hour? [ there's enough traffic all hours despite...everything. he'll catch a cab. ]

[Astarion provides a description of the particular spot he's thinking of, all dry facts and the kind of distracted focus that speaks to dredging details from an uncooperative frame of mind. But he doesn't let Sebastian go without a dip back into a lower register, something sultry about the way he tastes the syllables.]

I'll be waiting.

[The particular memorial bench Astarion directs Sebastian to is tucked into a little grove of trees that have overgrown the aesthetics of their positioning. Not enough to be immediately noticeable, given the devotion of the park's groundskeepers. But it's enough that the overly rigid distance between them has drifted a little, enough that their roots are tangling under the soil, coiling up out of it in ragged joints. Enough that their limbs mingle, the bright foliage still clinging to the branches mingling into a gloomy nighttime canopy.

The perfect spot for a vampire to set upon some unsuspecting prey.

But the prey that's coming isn't unsuspecting, and Astarion isn't setting himself upon anyone. He's been down that road. All it earned him was an empty stomach. No, Astarion is seated on that bench in plain view thirty minutes after the call ends, elbow set on the arm of it, and fingers drumming idly against the chin that nearly meets his hand. He's leaned on that elbow, sagged into the bench. His posture is bored, but his legs are folded and ankles crossed under the seat in order to ward away the restless bouncing they want to take up.

His gaze, his thoughts, are entirely elsewhere. Stewing in the knowledge that there is something's very, very wrong about how hungry he is. In those first nights when he'd crept into camp with his companions. In the knowledge that if he plays this wrong it will mean a stake between his ribs.

Clucking his tongue, Astarion pushes the thought away and sits up straighter, folding his hands idly over his lap after idly smoothing his trousers over his legs. Nothing for it, is there? He can't think when it feels like his empty veins are rubbing together. A drink, though, a drink will quell these rattling thoughts, and then he'll be able to get to the bottom of this.

Tapping his heal against the dagger in his boot for the third time since he sat down, Astarion finally refocuses on his surroundings, red eyes casting over the night around him.]

[ Sebastian has no earthly idea why he's doing this, why he's heading out in a way that feels much too like sneaking, with a quick note scribbled on a post-it and left somewhere that Joseph is bound to see but not immediately, but he is. He...sure is. And if he would take a moment to be honest with himself, he'd know exactly why he's doing this. Maybe later.

Comm device left at home, but clear enough instructions to get him where he's going (and a tip left to a taxi driver that felt more like a thanks for not dumping him in an alley than anything) find him at a park familiar in passing and little more. It's probably beautiful in a certain light.

Autumn has left in a chill in the air, but not enough to bite, not quite enough to cloud his breath, but enough he's dressed for the potential with a light jacket, everything he's wearing in various shades of brown, aside from the blue henley. Casual, comfortable, unarmed. Might as well be naked.

It's easy enough to spot the bench he's looking for and he shakes his head as one last weak attempt to question himself goes unheeded and dismissed, and he at least has the decency to scuff a step or two as he approaches. He wouldn't normally consider himself subtle, but he has a pretty good idea what Astarion might be capable of when startled. Better to announce himself.

He hadn't wasted any time, might be a couple minutes late through very little fault of his own, but Astarion being there ahead of him means he has no further time to reconsider, which is just as well. He'd prefer not to. If anything, he's actually a little surprised the man—vampire?—he should ask about the ears, actually—didn't jump him after all. He half expected it, and might have just gone with it. But he appreciates the civility of this incredibly strange situation.

So, now what? ]

Sorry I'm late. [ “I didn't want to come” would be a lie, actually, but he wouldn't blame Astarion for inferring it. He'd also argue he's not late, but it's moot, now.

He continues standing just long enough it begins to feel awkward before he finally takes a seat, invited to or otherwise. ]

So...come here often? [ Someone somewhere would not mind if Astarion killed him. ]

There's no need for that. [It's easy and automatic, because there's truly no need for apologies, not when Sebastian is responding to a request to meet in a park in the middle of the night. Not when he has to curl his hands into fists and press them against his thighs to keep himself still while the other man hesitates to sit.

His lips purse, and he drags his eyes to the trees around him.

It lends a certain genuine surprise to the guffaw, at the question. And there's a certain honesty in Astarion's response.]

Yes and no. [Not that he's about to spell out that the park is decidedly not in the yes category. Still, his gaze swivels back to Sebastian, lingers on the other man's face, before he slowly pivots on the bench, pulling one leg up to fold between them, a hand curled around his ankle. The other arm drapes over the back of the bench.]

Do you have a preference? [Not even a tick later, almost on top of the question.] For where I bite you, I mean. I usually prefer the neck. It's faster. But I understand if you'd rather I picked somewhere less intimate.

[Did that sound manic? He lids his eyes, chin tipping up in thought, and then impulsively adds the much more suggestive.] Or more intimate.

[ Between the chill in the air and the strange nature of the evening, it takes Sebastian a little too long to realize exactly how off this feels. And even then, it's not like he has much to go on, his previous...encounters...with Astarion being of a much less intentional nature, on his part, but there's definitely an energy here tonight that he should probably take a moment to address. ]

Not sure I trust your teeth anywhere more intimate.

[ So of course he doesn't address it. But he does intend to keep things on track...whatever kind of wreck this is about to be. ]

Neck, I guess. How...?

[ He makes a broad, vague gesture to his own throat and torso as he sort of turns away and turns back toward Astarion. He'd prefer not to have the man attached to his back, frankly, but that certainly leaves still more intimate options. ]

[The flash of those teeth is as sudden and bright as a laugh, clear bemusement in the curl of his mouth that's slow enough to fade. Somehow, he refrains from chuckling. But only just.]

Oh, don't worry, darling. Since it's your first time, I'll be gentle...

[His tone softens far too deliberately, and Astarion pats one of Sebastian's knees before he shifts on the bench, rising enough to swing the other leg up over Sebastian's lap to straddle his waist. The hand that he sets on the detective's shoulder is cursory, without imparting weight or grip. There's no lack of grace in the motion, and Astarion seats himself easily in Sebastian's lap like a cat slipping into a favorite spot.]

That is, unless you want me to do otherwise.

[Whatever frenetic energy that had woven through his words seems to settle, easing out of his posture as he leans into the man he's caging in, his head tipping to the side and chin bowing to tease proximity, but not to make connection. Not yet.]

It will hurt a little, but I daresay you might enjoy it.

[ Sebastian's jaw is tensing as he swallows hard, as he takes the breath to attempt some futile way of telling Astarion to knock it off with the flirting, even though frankly he knew what he was getting into. Or at least should have. But before he can manage, the man is in his lap and he's taking a breath like a soft gasp of surprise, instead, frozen for all of a moment before his hands are on Astarion's thighs, like he can't decide if he's holding him at bay or keeping him right where he wants him.

He's still deciding as Astarion speaks again, and huffs out a breath, rolling his eyes in a silent prayer. ]

Promises, promises.

[ He squeezes Astarion's thighs in his grip, both hands, like a warning. Or maybe just a test. All he can think is that there was a time he'd have been more concerned about this. A time he would've been enjoying it less...instead of enjoying it at all. He swallows again, mouth dry. ]

Should've known you like to play with your food.

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.]

[ 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. ]

[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.

NEON REQUIEM | INBOX

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject