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"Close your eyes."
Dio could never oblige such a request, even if it is from his lover. But to humor him, he closes them once he catches a glimpse of Vanilla Ice from the corner of his eye, as he comes around to stand in front of Dio's armchair by the fire.
"I hope you like it," Vanilla begins.
Not waiting for permission, Dio opens his eyes. He hadn't noticed it before, but Vanilla is wearing a skirt. A rather short one, the deep red material barely managing to reach his mid thigh. His usual waistcoat missing, the currant red of his leotard making his entire outfit matchy-matchy and almost cute, if it weren't on such an intimidating person as himself. The warm red brings out the warmth in his skin and hair and jewelry, and Dio has to admire it for a long moment.
"Why wouldn't I like it?" Dio finally asks, motioning for Vanilla to sit on his lap. He softens his voice to the tone that he knows Vanilla likes to hear, saying, "You look perfect, my love."
It amuses him that Vanilla chooses to sit sideways across his lap, his knees together. How proper, Dio thinks, toying with the hem of the skirt without conviction.
"I wasn't sure," Vanilla admits, eyes drifting to where Dio messes with the fabric. "I'm still not sure it... suits me. But if you like it."
"'Suits you'?" Dio repeats. "Why, because it's a tad feminine?"
Vanilla looks as though he wants to say something else, but then nods. "Precisely."
"As if it matters," Dio says. He leans in to kiss Vanilla's jaw, and then the spot where jaw meets ear. "You're breathtaking."
Vanilla's flushed cheeks are made my more obvious by the red of his outfit. He mutters a thank you before Dio kisses him, the gentle force he uses still enough to make Vanilla circle his arms around his shoulders. Dio murmurs more compliments against his skin as he skips over his neck and right to his exposed chest, brushing his hair over his shoulder. He doesn't trust himself to be so near a carotid now. He can still hear the steady march of his pulse, taunting him almost as much as Vanilla's shifting is — he must be doing it on purpose, Dio knows he must.
Dio brings his face back up to Vanilla's, occupying him with a kiss as he slips a hand under the skirt. With Vanilla's arms up, he can't push down his leotard, and so he settles for grabbing a handful of his ass instead.
Vanilla grunts into his mouth, his hand falling from Dio's shoulder to his tricep. He must admit that, although there are many complex things in the way of his phantom joy, it feels nice to have Vanilla squeeze the muscles there, admiring his strength with a hand running greedily over Dio's skin. He can picture now the times that Vanilla has compared him to a god, the thought making him feel warm despite his usual chill.
"Make yourself comfortable," Dio says once they part. It's much more of a command than anything else, and Vanilla promptly readjusts himself.
Dio is pleased to see the red skirt ride up his thighs as he does so, drinking in the sight of what he can see. His leotard covers what he would like to see, but patience is a virtue that Dio has thankfully learned. Vanilla shifts under his gaze, a careful hand lifting his chin up. It prompts a grin, and then a laugh.
"Am I not allowed to look?" Dio asks lightly.
Vanilla takes it as a positive response. "Not yet," he chides, leaning in for a kiss as he presses himself closer to Dio's chest.
The snarky reply makes whatever nerves had been sleeping inside of him spark to life. He gives Vanilla's ass a rough squeeze, free to do so now that they've changed position. Vanilla breathes in sharply, leaning back as if to question whether it was meant as a reward or something else. He's unable to get the words out before Dio catches him in another kiss. He adores when Vanilla uses a dominant attitude. It is never that confident, but he certainly has a streak. Something in his tender style of loving mixes with his sternness and makes it fulfilling in a way that Dio struggles to reciprocate.
His hands are firm where they feel Dio's body, the skin cool to the touch under Vanilla's palms that feel so hot, the difference producing a tingle wherever his hands trail. And they trail down, Vanilla scooting back to make room and splay them across Dio's chest, as if he's set on memorizing every contour of his body. Dio is sure that by now, he already has; his touches always seem like he is committing what he feels to memory, like Dio is a thing to be treasured and remembered fondly when he is alone. It is something that Dio wishes he could do without his silly charms and frills, something he wishes came as naturally to him as it does to his lover.
As his hands reach Dio's loose belt, Vanilla pauses to ask, "May I?"
Dio hums his approval, wanting to get back to their kiss. Vanilla dips his head, though, peppering affection across Dio's upper torso as he undoes his belt. He slips his hands into his trousers rather than taking them off, impatient to feel him. His eagerness is endearing, even if Dio would rather be even farther along than this.
But Vanilla presses his tongue flat against a nipple, runs his thumb over the right spot on Dio's cockhead, and his grievances are forgotten. Maybe if he weren't as stubborn, Dio would admit to how quickly he becomes putty in his lover's hands. After years of experience, Vanilla knows what makes him tick and knows just what to say; he says these things into the crook of his neck and into his ear between kisses, praising Dio as if it is the only thing he has ever wanted to do.
It must be part of the reason Dio appreciates him so. Vanilla knows how to make him feel desired, and not in the meaningless way that his subjects often achieve rather easily. Vanilla speaks into his jaw how much he adores him, Dio having no choice but to believe his words.
His voice is so genuine and heartfelt, so misplaced in the moment — how could he ever think he is lying? How could it be a lie as Vanilla tells him he is the only one that he needs?
Who would misread the room so badly only to make Dio feel like a god, but Vanilla Ice? Who would whisper as softly that Dio is his entire life?
It is what keeps their nights together, although rarely the same but never quite unique, interesting. Dio is conflicted between Vanilla's sweet words that toy with his heart and his hand busy with less sweet things that toy with his patience.
He has gotten so distracted that he has forgotten where his hands lay. He resumes kneading Vanilla's ass, delighting in the low hum it coaxes out of him. Managing to capture Vanilla in another kiss, he tries to hold his gaze but finds the intensity of it almost overwhelming. His eyes are soft and full of the usual love with which he looks upon Dio, but something else resides in them, something hungry that Dio is more familiar with. The mixture forces Dio to swallow a grunt.
He busies himself with kissing Vanilla's chin and jaw and collarbone, earning soft pants from the man. Seemingly in reward, Vanilla traces the tips of his fingers lightly over the veins of Dio's cock and draws a twitch from him, as if reminding Dio that he gave Vanilla a little more of the control. Dio sighs against his neck, scraping it with his teeth. It isn't hard enough to break the skin, but it makes his fangs inch down and Vanilla's grip tightens pleasantly.
"Dio," he breathes. "Will you bite me?"
He has asked so many times, but Dio refuses once again. "You know I can hardly stop myself," he reminds.
Vanilla outright whines, a pathetic sound that is music to Dio's ears. "I don't care. I would die for you."
"Vanilla," Dio warns, but it has no effect. If anything, it spurs Vanilla on, his thumb on the slit of his cock as his finger rubs the frenulum, as the pleasure will convince Dio to sink his teeth in and have a drink.
"Dio," he says, mimicking his tone in a move that's unusually bold. Dio is utterly amused by his sudden defiance, feeling his resolve wither away. "You've always said you'd give me anything I want, haven't you?"
He has always said that, hasn't he?
He can't very well have Vanilla upset, either, and he has already fed tonight — would it hurt to have a snack from such a willing participant? Vanilla tilts his head back as if waiting, as if knowing that Dio cannot deny him forever and certainly can't deny him when he does that with his wrist. He presses the tips of his teeth against Vanilla's neck, but backs off, hushing his complaint with a kiss.
"You think I can only bite your neck?" Dio asks.
"Oh," Vanilla says. "Where, then?"
"Anywhere I'd like," Dio lies with a grin. He has an idea, but telling Vanilla now would spoil the fun. The starving sensation of hunger eats at him more every second he waits, only half stifled by Vanilla's strokes. "Though I would prefer to do it in bed."
Vanilla agrees. It's comical how he smooths the skirt over his lap after he lays down on the satin sheets, despite the noticable raise in the fabric and how Dio parts his thighs almost immediately. A habit, Dio supposes, though he isn't sure when he could've formed it. Running his hands down Vanilla's thighs, he leans in to kiss him sweetly before guiding one of his legs to bend.
Dio slinks his way down Vanilla's body until he meets the edge of the skirt. He flips it back, spreading his thighs further apart to reach the vein he's seeking. The saphenous won't bleed as much as his neck would, although it will likely hurt a little more — the venom in his bite has further to travel before it makes any difference in how Vanilla feels.
Letting his fangs drop, he presses them into the flesh of Vanilla's upper thigh. He feels it tense, massaging what he can with his hands to relax him. Much like the rest of his body, the thick muscle and absence of fat in his legs pushes his veins to the surface; lines of tantalizing green show through his tawny skin, simply calling for Dio's fangs in the moment — it is undoubtedly one of the most attractive things about the man. He lavishes the skin with kisses, aiming to make the moment his teeth puncture it unrecognizable.
It fails. Vanilla makes a pained groan as the fangs pierce, but he doesn't request that Dio stop. Dio doesn't drink much; the vein offers little, anyways. He stays put long enough for the venom to course through to Vanilla's heart and into his circulation — he can tell from the change of his lover's voice and from the new taste on his own tongue.
He kisses the skin as he pulls back, lapping his tongue over whatever flecks of blood escaped his mouth. Trailing his lips up the comparable softness of his upper inner thigh, Vanilla moans, parting his thighs further.
"I want more," he pants. Dio glances up towards him and notices he's propped himself up on his forearms, eyes trained on Dio.
"I'll give you more, darling," he promises, voice knowing as he takes his affections up to the hem of Vanilla's leotard.
"No. Bites," he says. His voice is breathy, and Dio assumes his heart is beating just a little faster than it should. "I want more of... whatever is in it."
Dio doesn't pay it any attention as he continues to kiss over Vanilla's clothed cock, noting the wet spot on the fabric. "I know," he says. "It feels good, doesn't it?"
The bed shifts as Vanilla lays back down. "Yes," he says. "I feel hot."
"You will."
"And numb."
"You will," Dio repeats, moving to hover over him. The hazy, adoring expression in his eyes is innocent and sweet and Dio cannot help but smile down at him. "You certainly look pleased."
Vanilla huffs a short laugh. "It's so wonderful, Dio."
"It relaxes you," Dio says, lowering his voice to a calming, sultry tone.
"It's addictive."
It's Dio's turn to laugh. "Don't tell me you've got a fetish."
He turns his head silently and Dio chuckles. He readjusts himself to press his hips against Vanilla's, recapturing his attention as he rocks into him. The bite has made him sluggish, it seems, his arms wrapping around Dio's neck and pulling him in for a kiss.
Disrobing and prep passes with the usual teasing that Dio insists on. Vanilla begs each time, but tonight his voice carries more fervor as he asks Dio to replace his fingers, his words vulgar and desperate. Dio obliges, for despite all his vampiric charms, Vanilla is the irresistible one.
Vanilla moans when he is inside, his thighs half-heartedly hugging Dio's hips to keep them there. Dio begins with slow, shallow motions, taking the time to run his hands over Vanilla's well built torso.
He remembers the way he'd felt when Vanilla had done this, trying to put into his touch the same unadulterated need to know; to know his body, to sear into his memory the feeling of Vanilla's abdominals and his hips and his tightness around him. Vanilla's back arches beneath him and he assumes he must be doing something right. With a low groan, Vanilla asks for more, and Dio permits it to him.
Untouched but hard between them, he takes ahold of his cock and strokes it. Vanilla's hips, which had been meeting Dio's at a comparably slower pace and making what was a tender moment rather sloppy, begin to rut upward, wanting more of Dio's hand. Begging follows suit, jumbled and unhurried.
Dio loves it all; the feeling of Vanilla, the sound of his pleas, the drowsy pace they've set. He can only imagine from the bliss on his lover's face how nice it must feel for Vanilla, wishing he could feel some of the same euphoria from his own bite.
Vanilla takes his free hand and laces their fingers together. Dio shifts to pin his hand to the bed, his legs tensed with the effort to stay up on one arm. Vanilla seems to appreciates the deeper thrusts as Dio's legs shake and he collapses into him with each one, his eyes sliding shut to enjoy it.
Admiring him from above, Dio feels suddenly lucky that he gets to see such a sight. No one else will — perhaps — ever get to see Vanilla Ice, cold and impersonal and dark and intimidating Vanilla Ice, strewn out across the bed and melting into their hands. No one but Dio may have that, and he feels special.
Reluctantly moving his hand from Vanilla's cock, he leans in to muffle his quiet noises in a kiss that barely makes it to his mouth. Vanilla's free hand traces Dio's back and arm, traveling back to his shoulder to press his fingers in as Dio thrusts just right and he cries for more, right there, perfect, Dio, you're perfect.
Vanilla returns his kisses until he can no longer, lips parted with a steady flow of groans and nonsense. He is saying words, but they aren't distinctly any language, a curious mixture of English and something Dio doesn't know. It satisfies a deeply nestled part of him to know that he's wrecked such a put-together man as Vanilla Ice so thoroughly that he cannot even beg anymore.
The constant stream builds until Vanilla is asking Dio to touch him again, to bring him there, because of course only Dio knows how to really do it. It makes him feel special again, those words — only he knows. He feels them course throughout him, down his spine and into the twitch of his cock, as he squeezes Vanilla's hands and lets his own eyes close as he focuses on pleasing himself, too.
Vanilla is the first to break, his voice cracking in a way that tugs at Dio's heart. He grows impossibly tight, so warm and good, the sight of his cock giving a few twitches as he comes electrifying Dio's nerves. He can only last a little while longer before he feels the familiar tension rack his body and then release into a brief, pleasant buzz all over, letting out a heavy sigh. Vanilla is much happier to bask in the afterglow, eyes still closed, chest rising and falling in an attempt to catch his stolen breath.
He is just as sluggish and relaxed as Dio pulls him to his chest for a nap. It is too early to sleep, but Vanilla should rest after being drank from and exhausted so thoroughly. He curls into Dio's front, content to nuzzle his face into his chest and wrap his arms around his waist and fall against him, limp with fatigue.
"That was good," Vanilla praises quietly. "You're so good, Dio."
Dio raises a hand to pet his hair, which is mussed and tangled. "I know it was, my love," he says.
"I like it slow," he continues as if Dio hadn't spoken, rambling to himself more than him. "Feeling you... the bite... was like nothing else. I loved it. I love you, Dio."
He hopes the catch in his breath is not obvious when he hesitates.
"I love you, too, Vanilla Ice," he says, pressing his lips to the crown of his head.