I happened to be there when you said it. [Astarion rumbles back around the narrow divides between their fangs— his tenor the most patchwork assortment of sarcasm (first), petty spite (second), and last, albeit immeasurably far from least: arousal. Avarice. Need. Acrimonious lust. The rest of his honeyed nature left out in the open like a steel trap, all but begging his companion to come closer towards the gleam of inevitable danger.
The next push down across those crooked fingers (the next febrile pump upwards from them) such a violent collision, the sound of skin-on-skin unremittingly echoing throughout an otherwise empty room: pounding tempo wet-slick and richly audible, while friction punctuates for them what neither would readily admit to if asked— oh, they might be growling into the heart of one another's mouths, but there's no chain left to bind them. There's no mote that keeps them from pulling back too far.
(They could stop, if they wanted to.)]
—Little wolf.
[The only thing pulling is the pressure swollen tight around spread knuckles. The only thing rising is the feverflare strain of his own cock caught beneath his thumb and fore, and the uncut bloom of blistering urgency laced across the edges of his sight, darker and deeper by the second. Their sire gone for the moment. They've been left to wait on his command, but his command only required them to stay. And they are, in technical truth— they are— his slender thighs still tucked tight around lithe hips in the exact same spot they'd perched in just before the door behind them shut. His trousers striving to bite into his skin for tension, their grasp a rolling thing: high and tight as he ruts himself with whorish fluidity (forward, forward, forward— undulating with a series of swift bucks that push him deeper into the catch of Fenris' thickened crown, let alone slip over him; what a sight it has to be, perched on all fours atop glimpses of dusky skin, fucked into and spread and bent low as if he feeds upon his packmate's ruthlessness), slackened so he can feel the sting of restored sensation slither up between his legs. He rolls his shoulders forward until his body eclipses Fenris' own entirely. He cranes his neck until it aches. He chases lips with the sinful urge to bite down—
And none of it is a retreat.
In a way, there's almost more risk involved like this. Unsupervised, what they enact becomes a game of patience. A test of will. (Don't come before he returns. Don't exclude the one that bid you start to begin with, tsk tsk— ) Then again, maybe it's all subterfuge: red light green light played out with the highest stakes imaginable, as far as their own hierarchy goes. After all, whoever's left looking the instigator when Vakares returns is likely going to be the one inevitably pinned for all their play.
And their sire isn't like the other vampiric lords, but still.
Neither of them want to ruin his farewell. The last few days they have to spend together— even Astarion won't bite the way he could (or would, under any other given circumstances).
But—
(But)
What harm is there in just a little more entanglement? If they couch themselves....
Oh, if they're careful. (Vakares could be gone for hours— or minutes.) Desire too blinding to ignore when he's more possessed of incense than sense, groaning and snarling into the bow of Fenris' lips, signing each kiss like a declaration of ownership whilst the figurative cat's away.]
Ridiculous little fledgling cinch.
[His hold twists with sudden intensity— thumb tucked tight over the tip of Fenris' cock, until even beading arousal's forced back down into its den.]
Whining about pet names when you could just be whining for a good breeding.
no subject
I happened to be there when you said it. [Astarion rumbles back around the narrow divides between their fangs— his tenor the most patchwork assortment of sarcasm (first), petty spite (second), and last, albeit immeasurably far from least: arousal. Avarice. Need. Acrimonious lust. The rest of his honeyed nature left out in the open like a steel trap, all but begging his companion to come closer towards the gleam of inevitable danger.
The next push down across those crooked fingers (the next febrile pump upwards from them) such a violent collision, the sound of skin-on-skin unremittingly echoing throughout an otherwise empty room: pounding tempo wet-slick and richly audible, while friction punctuates for them what neither would readily admit to if asked— oh, they might be growling into the heart of one another's mouths, but there's no chain left to bind them. There's no mote that keeps them from pulling back too far.
(They could stop, if they wanted to.)]
—Little wolf.
[The only thing pulling is the pressure swollen tight around spread knuckles. The only thing rising is the feverflare strain of his own cock caught beneath his thumb and fore, and the uncut bloom of blistering urgency laced across the edges of his sight, darker and deeper by the second. Their sire gone for the moment. They've been left to wait on his command, but his command only required them to stay. And they are, in technical truth— they are— his slender thighs still tucked tight around lithe hips in the exact same spot they'd perched in just before the door behind them shut. His trousers striving to bite into his skin for tension, their grasp a rolling thing: high and tight as he ruts himself with whorish fluidity (forward, forward, forward— undulating with a series of swift bucks that push him deeper into the catch of Fenris' thickened crown, let alone slip over him; what a sight it has to be, perched on all fours atop glimpses of dusky skin, fucked into and spread and bent low as if he feeds upon his packmate's ruthlessness), slackened so he can feel the sting of restored sensation slither up between his legs. He rolls his shoulders forward until his body eclipses Fenris' own entirely. He cranes his neck until it aches. He chases lips with the sinful urge to bite down—
And none of it is a retreat.
In a way, there's almost more risk involved like this. Unsupervised, what they enact becomes a game of patience. A test of will. (Don't come before he returns. Don't exclude the one that bid you start to begin with, tsk tsk— ) Then again, maybe it's all subterfuge: red light green light played out with the highest stakes imaginable, as far as their own hierarchy goes. After all, whoever's left looking the instigator when Vakares returns is likely going to be the one inevitably pinned for all their play.
And their sire isn't like the other vampiric lords, but still.
Neither of them want to ruin his farewell. The last few days they have to spend together— even Astarion won't bite the way he could (or would, under any other given circumstances).
But—
(But)
What harm is there in just a little more entanglement? If they couch themselves....
Oh, if they're careful. (Vakares could be gone for hours— or minutes.) Desire too blinding to ignore when he's more possessed of incense than sense, groaning and snarling into the bow of Fenris' lips, signing each kiss like a declaration of ownership whilst the figurative cat's away.]
Ridiculous little fledgling cinch.
[His hold twists with sudden intensity— thumb tucked tight over the tip of Fenris' cock, until even beading arousal's forced back down into its den.]
Whining about pet names when you could just be whining for a good breeding.