This is exactly what he needs right now. Not to think or talk, just feel.
There's light, and heat, and the soft give of the mattress under him, and he's not alone.
John is warm and vital against the cool of his own body, kissing him and kissing him; he's reaching up to get him out of his clothes as if he's offended by the fact of him wearing them.
There's nothing supernatural about his hands going to his own clothing to help Astarion with what he's doing there, or with how he yanks it off and tosses it... wherever. But once it's gone, his hands are getting back in Astarion's hair and getting a handful of his ass to keep kissing him.
"Tell me how you want me," he whispers, between desperate kisses, while
he's working his way out of his own clothes as well as John's. "I want to
know what I can do for you, darling."
And as nice as it is when John seems not to have a preference, when he just
wants to be with him in whatever configuration, sometimes Astarion can't
help but crave a little more specificity.
He knows what he wants but he's never asked for it before. Not from Astarion, not from any of his adoring 'subjects'. There had only been a few who knew, who'd give it to him, who felt safe.
And he's killed them because they weren't. He'd killed them both and he'd kill them again if he had to. Fuck. Ignoring that and moving on.
"Tear me up, babe," he hears his mouth saying, almost like a man possessed. And isn't he just? "Rip me to pieces and let my blood sink into your skin. Hurt me and kiss me and make me bleed."
John asks for blood and Astarion groans, arousal surging through him like something violent and desperate.
Yes. Yes, he can do that.
He kisses him again, then bites him high on his throat. Really bites. What he leaves isn't the normal two neat marks but a full ring of deep indentations, punctuated by two ragged holes. He doesn't linger to sample his blood - there'll be plenty of opportunities for that - but just keeps going. Bites again at the curve of his shoulder, twice at one pectoral, savaging him greedily.
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no subject
This is exactly what he needs right now. Not to think or talk, just feel.
There's light, and heat, and the soft give of the mattress under him, and he's not alone.
John is warm and vital against the cool of his own body, kissing him and kissing him; he's reaching up to get him out of his clothes as if he's offended by the fact of him wearing them.
no subject
There's nothing supernatural about his hands going to his own clothing to help Astarion with what he's doing there, or with how he yanks it off and tosses it... wherever. But once it's gone, his hands are getting back in Astarion's hair and getting a handful of his ass to keep kissing him.
no subject
"Tell me how you want me," he whispers, between desperate kisses, while he's working his way out of his own clothes as well as John's. "I want to know what I can do for you, darling."
And as nice as it is when John seems not to have a preference, when he just wants to be with him in whatever configuration, sometimes Astarion can't help but crave a little more specificity.
no subject
And he's killed them because they weren't. He'd killed them both and he'd kill them again if he had to. Fuck. Ignoring that and moving on.
"Tear me up, babe," he hears his mouth saying, almost like a man possessed. And isn't he just? "Rip me to pieces and let my blood sink into your skin. Hurt me and kiss me and make me bleed."
no subject
John asks for blood and Astarion groans, arousal surging through him like something violent and desperate.
Yes. Yes, he can do that.
He kisses him again, then bites him high on his throat. Really bites. What he leaves isn't the normal two neat marks but a full ring of deep indentations, punctuated by two ragged holes. He doesn't linger to sample his blood - there'll be plenty of opportunities for that - but just keeps going. Bites again at the curve of his shoulder, twice at one pectoral, savaging him greedily.