[It's Astarion who settles first. Astarion, who plays the game of doting favorite so much better than Fenris does; who surely never feels that instinctive spark of bitter defiance that always follows an order, no matter who issues it or why. It's Astarion who melts, his hips gently rocking upwards as he settles beneath Vakares' firm grasp— and so it's Astarion, collared and leashed and dragged back into obedience once more, who parts his lips and allows Fenris to slip his tongue into his mouth. Slick and hot, his tongue still coated with come, and yet there isn't a single hint of vengeful fangs ready to strike.
(That's happened before, you know. Bloody mouths and torn tongues, and oh, how disappointed their sire was as his consorts miserably healed).
And for a time, there's nothing but sweetly slick noises. False breath an overheated exhale between them as Fenris takes control of the kiss: slow pushes and eager pulls growing deeper and deeper the longer Vakares keeps them at it. Slow, their master warns more than once, and Fenris is trying— but he's so desperately hungry for him. For this beastly little consort, this cruel counterpart whose tongue tangles so sweetly with his own, oh, he wants him so badly. He wants to escalate it, throwing him back down against the bed and pinning his arms over his head, pale body stretched out beneath him as he rides him— their cocks pinned together and stroked, Astarion's tongue sliding sweetly against Fenris' cock instead of his lips, Fenris' hungry moans growing louder against Astarion's lips, anything, anything—
And then there will be a little scold. Aht, not yet, Vakares dragging him gently back by the hair, pulling him from the kiss. Watching him pant with open eagerness, spit smeared on his lips and his eyes dark with desire locked only on Astarion. And then it begins again.
Until he's dizzy with lust. Until his cock is leaking again, droplets of precome smearing against his belly, his prick so hard he wants to scream for it. Overwhelming and unending, lust consuming him and his attention focused only forward, desperate desire making him little more than a bundle of needy instincts— oh, gods, he can't even fantasize about it anymore. Top or bottom, submissive or dominant, he knows only that he needs more: more than just the sensual slide of their tongues against one another. More than faint rocks of hips or the subtle grind of his prick against shuddering skin, oh, god, please.
Again, he's drawn back. Vakares' fingers are so tight against the back of his neck, keeping him still as he stares longingly at Astarion. His eyes are unfocused, spit smearing over his swollen lips; desire makes his gaze dark, but he doesn't lunge away from the mindful grip of Vakares' hand.
'Better,' their sire murmurs. One thumb runs affectionately up the curve of Astarion's neck, stroking him as he looks between his consorts. It matters little whether or not he heard their play of before, for he knows them both well enough to know the shape, even if not the specifics. They are not so subtle as they think they are, his little brats— and while there are days that vexes him, it at least works out now.
Vakares leans in, nuzzling fondly against Astarion's cheek. Hello, my love, a kiss pressed to his cheek, his ear— and then, his voice low and rough against his ear: 'If you want him to ride you, Astarion, ask him for it. Tell him what you want, and how you long for it. Or . . . let him take you. Either way: I want to hear you ask nicely.'
Not beg. Not the drooling, open-mouthed pleas that Astarion had demanded of Fenris before, humiliating and cruel— but something smaller. Softer. Please, please, come ride me—
Or don't. He will not pretend to be disappointed if Astarion refuses, for he does so love watching them tangle together, kissing and writhing hungrily.]
me SHRIEKING b/c i KNOW I SENT THIS LAST NIGHT OH MY GOD DW
(That's happened before, you know. Bloody mouths and torn tongues, and oh, how disappointed their sire was as his consorts miserably healed).
And for a time, there's nothing but sweetly slick noises. False breath an overheated exhale between them as Fenris takes control of the kiss: slow pushes and eager pulls growing deeper and deeper the longer Vakares keeps them at it. Slow, their master warns more than once, and Fenris is trying— but he's so desperately hungry for him. For this beastly little consort, this cruel counterpart whose tongue tangles so sweetly with his own, oh, he wants him so badly. He wants to escalate it, throwing him back down against the bed and pinning his arms over his head, pale body stretched out beneath him as he rides him— their cocks pinned together and stroked, Astarion's tongue sliding sweetly against Fenris' cock instead of his lips, Fenris' hungry moans growing louder against Astarion's lips, anything, anything—
And then there will be a little scold. Aht, not yet, Vakares dragging him gently back by the hair, pulling him from the kiss. Watching him pant with open eagerness, spit smeared on his lips and his eyes dark with desire locked only on Astarion. And then it begins again.
Until he's dizzy with lust. Until his cock is leaking again, droplets of precome smearing against his belly, his prick so hard he wants to scream for it. Overwhelming and unending, lust consuming him and his attention focused only forward, desperate desire making him little more than a bundle of needy instincts— oh, gods, he can't even fantasize about it anymore. Top or bottom, submissive or dominant, he knows only that he needs more: more than just the sensual slide of their tongues against one another. More than faint rocks of hips or the subtle grind of his prick against shuddering skin, oh, god, please.
Again, he's drawn back. Vakares' fingers are so tight against the back of his neck, keeping him still as he stares longingly at Astarion. His eyes are unfocused, spit smearing over his swollen lips; desire makes his gaze dark, but he doesn't lunge away from the mindful grip of Vakares' hand.
'Better,' their sire murmurs. One thumb runs affectionately up the curve of Astarion's neck, stroking him as he looks between his consorts. It matters little whether or not he heard their play of before, for he knows them both well enough to know the shape, even if not the specifics. They are not so subtle as they think they are, his little brats— and while there are days that vexes him, it at least works out now.
Vakares leans in, nuzzling fondly against Astarion's cheek. Hello, my love, a kiss pressed to his cheek, his ear— and then, his voice low and rough against his ear: 'If you want him to ride you, Astarion, ask him for it. Tell him what you want, and how you long for it. Or . . . let him take you. Either way: I want to hear you ask nicely.'
Not beg. Not the drooling, open-mouthed pleas that Astarion had demanded of Fenris before, humiliating and cruel— but something smaller. Softer. Please, please, come ride me—
Or don't. He will not pretend to be disappointed if Astarion refuses, for he does so love watching them tangle together, kissing and writhing hungrily.]