CLOSED

[baddragoon]

Who: Estinien and Astarion
Where: Astarion's apartment
When: April start
What: F is for friends who do stuff together.

Warnings: blood drinking. knowing me, this will probably become nsfw



continuation from this thread

[ Fortunately enough, Estinien's not two days out in the middle of nowhere this time so he's able to keep his word and arrive at the stated time and place. By which he means that he can be found knocking on Astarion's window at 8pm, crouched on a sliver of window ledge without a care in the world.

And with nothing in particular that needed accomplishing today except refuelling and other, miscellaneous errands, the intervening hours did give him time to think. Even he is able to notice the difference in their interactions now that Astarion has done away with his pretences. If he didn't know better he might think that Astarion was concerned.

Perhaps he does not know better. ]

Astarion, open up.

Comments

[sanguineus]

[ Estinien wouldn't be wrong—it's a rare thing that Astarion feels the need to be genuine or honest with someone. But breaking off their previous arrangement (that Estinien didn't even realize he had been entered into) had been strangely freeing. Confusing, at first, but it finally forced Astarion to look at the other elf in a new light.

And so here they are, Estinien throwing yet another curve ball and Astarion still not even know what the game of baseball even is. Why this man continues to do these sort of generous things just to do them is bewildering but becoming interesting rather than simply concerning. Because Estinien doesn't have an ulterior motive. And people like this are rare.

That he knows more than one feels impossible, yet here they are.

Of course, Astarion should have known the man wouldn't use the front door. He looks up from his embroidery towards the window with a blink of surprise before it shifts into a look of bemusement. Shaking his head, he sets the cloth and needle aside and goes to push open the window. ]

You're worse than the cats that prowl this place.

[ He says as if there aren't empty tuna cans somewhere in the trash that belong to him.

But he moves aside all the same. ]

[baddragoon]

[ Estinien offers him a one-shouldered shrug as he clinbs down into the apartment proper. It's not the first time he's been likened to a stray cat and it likely won't be the last. ]

Cats are noble creatures.

[ i.e. he'll take that as a compliment, thank you.

He pulls free his lance and leans it up against the wall by the window, and then manoeuvres his way through the room, tail tucked in close, until he can find somewhere to sit. Spies the embroidery that Astarion is clearly in the middle of, and lets out a considering sound. ]

I had not realised your skill with a needle.

[sanguineus]

[ Astarion raises a brow at that, unconvinced, but it seems like a rather...Estinien response all the same. ]

Clearly our cats run in different circles.

[ While the motel accommodations are garish and minimal at best, Astarion has done what he can with the space. Unsurprisingly, he's taken the liberty of hanging various fabrics and curtains as well as a change of sheets and excessive pillows to try and create a more luxurious atmosphere, in various hues of reds, purples, and blues. Where the overhead light is lacking, he has found a somewhat charming lamp with a colorful glass lampshade placed near the bed. Rugs have been placed about to make up for the old carpeting.

A surprising collection of books sits on the floor near the bed, while a less surprising stack of VHS tapes sit near his prized television. The kitchenette is mostly used for further storage, although an empty bottle of wine sits in the sink with several glasses placed in the drying rack. An old radio sits on the counter nearby, quietly playing David Bowie.

It's an ugly building, cheap. But he's made it his room. It's his sanctuary.

Astarion closes the window behind Estinien and pulls the curtain shut. It's night, no need to share what light he has in here with the rest of the world. ]

Hm? [ He looks over to the bed where he had been working on the collar of a shirt. ] Ah, well you know how good I am with my hands.

[ He raises a brow with a smirk as he wiggles his fingers. But he goes over to pick up the project, smoothing out the collar to show a delicately patterned vine and floral out of golden thread. ]

The fashion here can be...questionable at times. I find a few personal touches can elevate an otherwise drab garment.

[baddragoon]

[ Estinien, having never given any thought to fashion—here or anywhere else, for that matter—and having never used the word drab in his entire life, can only nod. Sure, he'll accept that into his world view.

He can say that Astarion possess a deft hand at it. While weaving has never been his wheelhouse, he still has faint memories of his parents and the clothing they made. Mostly knitted, but his mother did have a box of needle and thread she'd break out on occasion. ]

A steady hand.

[ Which is absolutely a compliment. ]

Where do you want me?

[ But he would not be Estinien if he didn't immediately get down to business. ]

[sanguineus]

[ And he will take it as such, not least of all because Estinien isn't known to mince words or offer platitudes. Not that Astarion should care too much what Estinien thinks but, he's finding that he does. At least a little.

The question draws back to the true purpose of this visit. Funny, after all their dalliances, it is only now that he even allows Estinien in what he truly considers his person space. This room.

Astarion folds the shirt up and sets it on the bedside table over some of the books. ]

Where you are is fine, though I have a more important question for you.

[ He turns to walk over where the other elf is sitting in the old armchair, one that had been beautiful at one point if not for the faded fabric and frayed edges. (Some, notably, have been more recently repaired.) ]

Where do you want to be bitten?

[baddragoon]

[ Estinien gives the question serious thought, and then decides he might as well admit his ignorance. All he knows about the body is how best to maim it. He would assume that drinking blood requires something else. ]

On my star, vampires are mere stories. The things I am aware of may not be at all relevant here. Not my neck. [ added, in case that might be a possibility. ] Otherwise, you may choose wherever you wish.

[sanguineus]

Mere stories? [ He tuts. ] I'm envious.

[ A vampire who is not a fan of vamipres.

The neck is not only a possibility, but a preference. It's a good bit of simple instinct on Astarion's part, but it's also one of the easiest places to get the blood flowing. He can recall the taste of the other man's skin there underneath his tongue, how he'd imagined biting down several times before in the throes of passion. Just a taste.

Luckily, it's not the only one. Red eyes move from Estinien's long and admittedly tantalizing neck and instead down the length of his arm. ]

Your wrist, then, may be the easiest.

[baddragoon]

[ Both of his brows twitch upwards at the glib response. A vampire not all too fond of his fate despite the presumed power this... affliction affords him. Then again, in the stories, it's possible to force vampirism onto someone. Perhaps this was Astarion's fate.

A question, but not an important one at this moment. At Astarion's offer of the wrist, Estinien nods and undoes the catches on his right gauntlet, letting it fall to the ground. He then shoves the sleeve of his top up until his entire forearm is bare and then presents it to Astarion. There is zero hesitation in his actions. Not for the prospect of pain, and not for the threat of being left vulnerable. ]

You may keep going until you have had enough or I tell you to stop.

[ The implication here being that if Estinien tells Astarion to stop he will stop. If he does not he will be made to. ]

[sanguineus]

[ Astarion watches the mechanisms of his gauntlet unfold with some open fascination. Fashion is his passion, of course, but there is something inherently beautiful, almost alluring in the way it can be removed. He's not an expert in armor, but someone clearly took the time to mix aesthetics with practicality.

He'd like to try that himself some time. But he knows better than to push it. That Estinien offers this at all does make Astarion wonder exactly where he stands with the other man. "Friends", yes, but friends don't do this by necessity. He supposes he could simply ask, but he isn't sure he'd know what to do with the answer.

Estinien seems so sure of himself. But they so often do the first time, not fully realizing what they're signing up for...

Instead, Astarion kneels beside the arm chair so that Estinien can rest his elbow on it and Astarion can lean on it as well. He becomes aware of the sharpness of his own teeth as he turns that wrist towards him and watches the skin flex across muscle and—more importantly—veins. ]

Just say the word...

[ He is reasonably confident in his own ability to stop now that he has had practice, but the thrill of getting to feed as he's meant to never dies. Astarion rests his own hand on Estinien's lower arm. He can hear Estinien's heartbeat, practically see that pulse of life underneath his flesh. It calls to him. Instinct.

Astarion leans in, inhaling through his nose to let the scent of musk and blood fill his lungs before he opens his mouth. He hovers only a moment before biting down. His fangs pierce the skin easily and quickly. Eyelids flutter shut as the blood begins to flow, cool lips creating a seal of skin to skin. He doesn't want to waste a drop. ]

[baddragoon]

[ He'd thought it would begin with a sharp pain. A brief pinch as the teeth puncture his skin, and then whatever else there was left to follow would follow. Instead there is the punch of Astarion's teeth into the flesh of his wrist, and then like ink spilled into water the pain spreads, rippling out from where Astarion has sealed his mouth around the wound until his whole arm is hot with it. Estinien clenches his fist experimentally and fresh pain blooms there, a burst like overripe fruit. Astarion continues to feed.

It's grounding, in a way, the pain. It always is. Drags Estinien into his body until the touch of the very air around him is a pressure on his skin. His senses sharpen. Everything about him sharpens. A honed edge. A blade. His gaze narrows down to Astarion at his feet. The spines on his tail bristle, rising and falling like ripples in the water. He tongues the teeth in his mouth and cuts it on the edge of one, a drop in the ocean that is the ache in his arm. Astarion continues to feed.

Estinien clenches his fist again, just to feel it, and remembers Astarion's mouth on him as they fucked. Many people find it quite pleasurable he had said. Estinien wonders what would have happened if Astarion had bitten down then.

Astarion continues to feed. ]