[Question posed through capitulation, there is no part of him that resists save for it— and even then, it's mild. Fond. The tone of a protectorate whose wards sit prettily in their bedsites, even as the bolts to their quarters hang unlocked. In that band of narrow seconds he finds himself unstrung as his own lacework, flattened beneath Fenris' attention and coaxed into peerless comfort.
Fenris guiding Vakares.... and Vakares guiding Astarion, soon enough.
His left hand persuading the latter into a pretty lifted straddle (taking nothing of that ample cock between his lips rather than stroking it between his fingers), true to given suggestion— his right hand coursing low in familiar channels through the pale tangles of Fenris' hair, appreciatively stimulating. He touches them both in unison, for he needs to feel them both beneath his filed claws. To ground the promise that this moment will come again after his eyes have shut— and opened.
But trust that does not mean he will be passive in this intimacy, either.]
I have been exhausted by our kin and their vindictive squabbles. How they can set aside nothing, even when lavishly upheld. [By feasting, by music, by extravagancies the world would envy if it knew what happens here behind these walls— and still they bicker and vie as if it all meant nothing.] If I desire anything tonight, it is to know I am not abandoning you to the wolves.
That I've left you something in my place.
[His eyes are dry; he's far from weeping or fretting, not in need of coddled comfort. Still, though, there's a distance to his pensiveness. Thoughtfulness that removes him from the immediacy of blade-sharp arousal (his stare drifting faintly shut under the pressure of that lap while the backs of his knuckles drifting along Astarion's innermost thigh).] Perform for me what you discussed—
[Spoken before he maneuvers the latter of the pair once more with steadfast palms: redirecting that straddled splay around the other way as simply as turning a lantern in its fixture; a centerpiece atop an already prepared table. A fact that would remain true even if Astarion wasn't already eagerly lifting his own hips in the hopes of finding his most velvet stretches of sensitivity graced by the gift of their master's tongue.
(Drawing out one more quirk of Vakares' expression, tugging itself into a smile that neither inheritor will see.)]
no subject
[Question posed through capitulation, there is no part of him that resists save for it— and even then, it's mild. Fond. The tone of a protectorate whose wards sit prettily in their bedsites, even as the bolts to their quarters hang unlocked. In that band of narrow seconds he finds himself unstrung as his own lacework, flattened beneath Fenris' attention and coaxed into peerless comfort.
Fenris guiding Vakares.... and Vakares guiding Astarion, soon enough.
His left hand persuading the latter into a pretty lifted straddle (taking nothing of that ample cock between his lips rather than stroking it between his fingers), true to given suggestion— his right hand coursing low in familiar channels through the pale tangles of Fenris' hair, appreciatively stimulating. He touches them both in unison, for he needs to feel them both beneath his filed claws. To ground the promise that this moment will come again after his eyes have shut— and opened.
But trust that does not mean he will be passive in this intimacy, either.]
I have been exhausted by our kin and their vindictive squabbles. How they can set aside nothing, even when lavishly upheld. [By feasting, by music, by extravagancies the world would envy if it knew what happens here behind these walls— and still they bicker and vie as if it all meant nothing.] If I desire anything tonight, it is to know I am not abandoning you to the wolves.
That I've left you something in my place.
[His eyes are dry; he's far from weeping or fretting, not in need of coddled comfort. Still, though, there's a distance to his pensiveness. Thoughtfulness that removes him from the immediacy of blade-sharp arousal (his stare drifting faintly shut under the pressure of that lap while the backs of his knuckles drifting along Astarion's innermost thigh).] Perform for me what you discussed—
[Spoken before he maneuvers the latter of the pair once more with steadfast palms: redirecting that straddled splay around the other way as simply as turning a lantern in its fixture; a centerpiece atop an already prepared table. A fact that would remain true even if Astarion wasn't already eagerly lifting his own hips in the hopes of finding his most velvet stretches of sensitivity graced by the gift of their master's tongue.
(Drawing out one more quirk of Vakares' expression, tugging itself into a smile that neither inheritor will see.)]
Upon each other.