Meaning that they face each other when that command sinks in (rather than the bliss of Vakares' tongue, or lips, or waiting throat) in full: a pair of crimson eyes locked fully on the other set— and even a blind man might sense the silent moment of internal resentment laid down across the distance for how Vakares utters the words 'what you discussed'. Oh, well done, Fenris. So if there's a time to tattle or a time to confess, arguably it's now, for come a few unsteady beats of silent staring or fumbling of hands later, Vakares will have his answer anyway.
But Fenris is right, admittedly.
The deception wasn't a misstep, it was necessary; they both would've done the same— the only difference being that Fenris was the one to smartly speak up first.
And he's right about one more thing, too, evident in the rounding of an expression that'd been sharper than the tips of both their claws: it's only their sire that matters. Only these few moments spent with him before they have to find their own ways to self-soothe the emptiness of open space and brittle silence. The lack of his voice, his touch, his comforting silhouette praising them for the smallest job well done.
There's no chance of noncooperation anymore.
His shoulders roll. His head ducks downwards with the same weightless sense of agility as before: all of his coiled prowess funneled down into a languid, hungry kiss nestled inches above the stiff rise of their sire's waiting cock. They stroke it in unison as he wraps his cool fingers through the sturdiness of Fenris' own, more vulgar slickness driven to the back of his companion's throat (his lips, his chin— ) through a tongue that forces wanton compliance with popping smacks of lurid contact— occasionally letting some small dribbles of crystal-clear spit fall from their open mouths across Vakares' waiting prick. Felt soon enough in the seams between each shuttling pump from intertwined grips, its rhythm broken in the very next beat once Astarion takes both of his own hands and wraps them tight around the back of Fenris' head: claws latching to the roots.
—and forces his companion's well-primed mouth down to the very base of their master's upheld swell.]
no subject
Meaning that they face each other when that command sinks in (rather than the bliss of Vakares' tongue, or lips, or waiting throat) in full: a pair of crimson eyes locked fully on the other set— and even a blind man might sense the silent moment of internal resentment laid down across the distance for how Vakares utters the words 'what you discussed'. Oh, well done, Fenris. So if there's a time to tattle or a time to confess, arguably it's now, for come a few unsteady beats of silent staring or fumbling of hands later, Vakares will have his answer anyway.
But Fenris is right, admittedly.
The deception wasn't a misstep, it was necessary; they both would've done the same— the only difference being that Fenris was the one to smartly speak up first.
And he's right about one more thing, too, evident in the rounding of an expression that'd been sharper than the tips of both their claws: it's only their sire that matters. Only these few moments spent with him before they have to find their own ways to self-soothe the emptiness of open space and brittle silence. The lack of his voice, his touch, his comforting silhouette praising them for the smallest job well done.
There's no chance of noncooperation anymore.
His shoulders roll. His head ducks downwards with the same weightless sense of agility as before: all of his coiled prowess funneled down into a languid, hungry kiss nestled inches above the stiff rise of their sire's waiting cock. They stroke it in unison as he wraps his cool fingers through the sturdiness of Fenris' own, more vulgar slickness driven to the back of his companion's throat (his lips, his chin— ) through a tongue that forces wanton compliance with popping smacks of lurid contact— occasionally letting some small dribbles of crystal-clear spit fall from their open mouths across Vakares' waiting prick. Felt soon enough in the seams between each shuttling pump from intertwined grips, its rhythm broken in the very next beat once Astarion takes both of his own hands and wraps them tight around the back of Fenris' head: claws latching to the roots.
—and forces his companion's well-primed mouth down to the very base of their master's upheld swell.]