That's not the baying whimper of complete surrender that he's owed (yet his lifeless lungs bristle with inflamed desire as he feels the vampire beneath him squirm hopelessly beneath his claws, taken to absently sucking in breath for fun rather than purpose)— and true, Astarion loves submission, but he'll take hopeless ire any day of the week: more than stunning enough payment as it crawls its way up the agile curvature of a spine bowed helplessly in his shadow. Thumb brushing idly at white hair in the most spiteful imitation of their master's praising touch.
A reward befitting that obedience.]
I don't need to wait. [In perfect unison: how his voice (thicker than blood, thicker than curdling lust itself) slithers into a single twitching ear, while his cock slips that much deeper— plush warmth wrapped enviably tight around his restless tip. Where each ensuing angle taken by way of outright undulating degrees (degrees that never stop canting— never stop shifting from left to right or up and down— violating every inch they touch with glossing swaths of dribbling precome), is never far enough inwards to enforce that final, necessary little pop of claiming satisfaction (the one defined in the border between his blunted crest and thickrun shaft), instead merely rubbed against the brim of Fenris' narrow stretch without end. The very cuspis of more intermingling with not enough. Never enough.]
I know it'll be me.
[He doesn't (he does— he doesn't— certainty slipping through his grasp each time he tries to nail it down, oily and unregenerate. Truthfully beneath it all: he doesn't— ) but they're both toying with fantasy right now, aren't they?
And a world in which he gets what he wants appeals to him like nothing else.]
You do too, don't you?
[(Mine. Already you're mine.)]
So let's make this our trial run, shall we? [Another set of shallow pumps— quick, quick, slow— teasing the difference between fucking and being bred, fluidity laid sweetly in his spurring hips when all his prey can do is whine.] I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle.
[It isn't a request. He isn't asking for permission. Whether Fenris fights or relents, the threat of being shoved to the floor and made esteemed high cocksleeve for his new master is practically force-fed between his fangs as surely as said bit and bridle: something to break this unruly creature so receptive to his touch and so defiant of it, too.]
Now.
As I said before, little wolf.
Beg.
[A yank against those wisps of moonstruck hair. A hateful tug to— ]
1/2
That's not the baying whimper of complete surrender that he's owed (yet his lifeless lungs bristle with inflamed desire as he feels the vampire beneath him squirm hopelessly beneath his claws, taken to absently sucking in breath for fun rather than purpose)— and true, Astarion loves submission, but he'll take hopeless ire any day of the week: more than stunning enough payment as it crawls its way up the agile curvature of a spine bowed helplessly in his shadow. Thumb brushing idly at white hair in the most spiteful imitation of their master's praising touch.
A reward befitting that obedience.]
I don't need to wait. [In perfect unison: how his voice (thicker than blood, thicker than curdling lust itself) slithers into a single twitching ear, while his cock slips that much deeper— plush warmth wrapped enviably tight around his restless tip. Where each ensuing angle taken by way of outright undulating degrees (degrees that never stop canting— never stop shifting from left to right or up and down— violating every inch they touch with glossing swaths of dribbling precome), is never far enough inwards to enforce that final, necessary little pop of claiming satisfaction (the one defined in the border between his blunted crest and thickrun shaft), instead merely rubbed against the brim of Fenris' narrow stretch without end. The very cuspis of more intermingling with not enough. Never enough.]
I know it'll be me.
[He doesn't (he does— he doesn't— certainty slipping through his grasp each time he tries to nail it down, oily and unregenerate. Truthfully beneath it all: he doesn't— ) but they're both toying with fantasy right now, aren't they?
And a world in which he gets what he wants appeals to him like nothing else.]
You do too, don't you?
[(Mine. Already you're mine.)]
So let's make this our trial run, shall we? [Another set of shallow pumps— quick, quick, slow— teasing the difference between fucking and being bred, fluidity laid sweetly in his spurring hips when all his prey can do is whine.] I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle.
[It isn't a request. He isn't asking for permission. Whether Fenris fights or relents, the threat of being shoved to the floor and made esteemed high cocksleeve for his new master is practically force-fed between his fangs as surely as said bit and bridle: something to break this unruly creature so receptive to his touch and so defiant of it, too.]
Now.
As I said before, little wolf.
Beg.
[A yank against those wisps of moonstruck hair. A hateful tug to— ]