Jedao wobbles happily in whatever direction he's nudged. He could pull himself together, if he had to. Surely. I'm a sniper, says an instinct that isn't his, at all. My hands never shake.
But he doesn't have to, and it's glorious. He'll collapse or curl up or sprawl more-or-less wherever Astarion puts him; he's basically high as a kite on his own pain right now.
Astarion carefully lowers them down onto a sofa, large and plush enough to provide support without applying too much pressure on anything sore. Jedao is directed to, at the very least, not put his entire weight on his back. The Mage Hand is pressed into service to bring a bottle of water, but Astarion isn't going to try to make him drink or position himself in a particular way or - to do anything. All he needs is to rest and bask and not think, and Astarion can breathe deeply in the strange scent of his blood, absorb his shivers of pain and pleasure.
Jedao does drink the water. It won't actually rehydrate him but it makes his throat feel less dry, and also gives himself something to do with his mouth, which are his only real concerns at the moment. He ends up sort of sideways draped on Astarion's shoulder, legs tucked up underneath him, making soft little sighs and squeaks as he settles.
The sounds are maddening, truly. For all that he smells odd and his blood
is probably quite bad for him, Astarion wants nothing more than to pin him
down and sink his teeth into his throat, to rut against him, to indulge
like some mindless animal. But he can also see how that might be a very
short route to never being invited back here, and he wants that much more.
He calms. Takes deep breaths, strokes Jedao's hair in a slow rhythm, and
lets him take all the time he needs.
It's a while: not that he needs the time to decompress, exactly, but that he's so absolutely content, so delightedly satisfied, that he just drifts and basks in the easy, golden feeling for a long time.
"You really are marvelous," Jedao says softly, without moving an inch, when he's finally thinking in complete sentences again. "That was - exactly what I needed, today. Is there - anything else you'd like?"
"Not that you haven't already given me," he murmurs. His erection is
subsiding, his hunger no longer quite so acute, and he doesn't really
understand that someone on his side of these affairs might need some
looking after.
"Okay," Jedao answers, nuzzling a little against Astarion's shoulder. "But just so you know, you're allowed. You're so damn good to me. I want you to feel - taken care of, too. If you want that."
"Pampered," Astarion murmurs, sounding amused by the idea more than
anything else. "You said. I still don't really know what that would look
like, but trust me when I say that I do not feel deprived with you."
"When I'm on the other side of things I'm very needy afterward," Jedao admits. "I have to know I've...done well, that I'm still wanted. But it's not the same for everyone."
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Jedao wobbles happily in whatever direction he's nudged. He could pull himself together, if he had to. Surely. I'm a sniper, says an instinct that isn't his, at all. My hands never shake.
But he doesn't have to, and it's glorious. He'll collapse or curl up or sprawl more-or-less wherever Astarion puts him; he's basically high as a kite on his own pain right now.
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Astarion carefully lowers them down onto a sofa, large and plush enough to provide support without applying too much pressure on anything sore. Jedao is directed to, at the very least, not put his entire weight on his back. The Mage Hand is pressed into service to bring a bottle of water, but Astarion isn't going to try to make him drink or position himself in a particular way or - to do anything. All he needs is to rest and bask and not think, and Astarion can breathe deeply in the strange scent of his blood, absorb his shivers of pain and pleasure.
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The sounds are maddening, truly. For all that he smells odd and his blood is probably quite bad for him, Astarion wants nothing more than to pin him down and sink his teeth into his throat, to rut against him, to indulge like some mindless animal. But he can also see how that might be a very short route to never being invited back here, and he wants that much more.
He calms. Takes deep breaths, strokes Jedao's hair in a slow rhythm, and lets him take all the time he needs.
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"You really are marvelous," Jedao says softly, without moving an inch, when he's finally thinking in complete sentences again. "That was - exactly what I needed, today. Is there - anything else you'd like?"
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"Not that you haven't already given me," he murmurs. His erection is subsiding, his hunger no longer quite so acute, and he doesn't really understand that someone on his side of these affairs might need some looking after.
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"Pampered," Astarion murmurs, sounding amused by the idea more than anything else. "You said. I still don't really know what that would look like, but trust me when I say that I do not feel deprived with you."
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"Ah, I see. No, I can't say I've ever had that kind of issue."
He always assumes he's not really wanted, except for whatever service he can offer. Extremely cunning!
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"Ah, yes. Because doing this is so relentlessly selfless," he chuckles - then sobers, slightly. "...Thank you."
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