[ There it is, the calm that comes with a slowed pulse and lidded gaze. He drags his hand through Astarion’s hair, untangling any knots, fingers straying to soothe the concentrated line of his brow and brush his temple, too tender for what they’re playing at. As if Astarion is the one giving and not taking, tonight.
Gods, the sound he makes — felt more than heard — vibrating against his skin. ]
Good. [ Slung low and even. It’s been days since Astarion fed from him, and only the occasional graze has robbed him of blood since. He can take it. Quieter — ] Perfect. [ His hand cradles against Astarion’s skull, an encouraging push. ] Keep going, Astarion.
[ Under the twin pressures of Astarion’s hand at his back and nails digging into his thigh, his back arches (seeking something he can’t have), hips hitching as much as they can, in Astarion’s firm grip. ]
no subject
Gods, the sound he makes — felt more than heard — vibrating against his skin. ]
Good. [ Slung low and even. It’s been days since Astarion fed from him, and only the occasional graze has robbed him of blood since. He can take it. Quieter — ] Perfect. [ His hand cradles against Astarion’s skull, an encouraging push. ] Keep going, Astarion.
[ Under the twin pressures of Astarion’s hand at his back and nails digging into his thigh, his back arches (seeking something he can’t have), hips hitching as much as they can, in Astarion’s firm grip. ]