Universal, that truth. And not defiant in nature— for defiance alone insists there's something that might somehow change in the act of baring teeth, and in this case (like steel, like water): there isn't. Instead it's a great deal more directly related to alchemical response than all that, defined by preset laws. To nature, some might say. Hot, cold. Oil, water. Spark, tinder. Nature insisting that when two opposing extremes meet— even cordially— that it's inescapably charged.
That Astarion is charged here and now, even richly laden with his beloved's mellisonant approval and slow scuffs across his cheek, in being asked to be generous.
Want really is such a heady thing, though.
Living in the gap left behind by mouths that aren't still met. In the lines of glistening spit (and paler pearl) strung between them like beadwork, emphasizing every last shudder they succumb to once their tongues hang panting and untouched between the reddened measure of their parted lips. Frustration warring with desire in an atmospheric shift, and all of it punctuated by how smooth thighs still squeeze (and brush— oh how damningly they brush against him each time one of them moves in that ensnaring hold) across his hips— their heavy cocks dripping filthily as they bump together, making it impossible to tell which of them is more hungry for the other.
It is nature.
Nature versus want.
....and Astarion has so much room for want.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he tracks first. There, the focal point when he can't be sure if he's bending or outright breaking into this hedonistic little dance: his empty hands wrapped around both of Fenris' wrists– thumbs pinned tight over fine bones— breakable bones. Holding their silhouettes fast to each other even as their master holds them too. His heart heavier than stone as his own ribs rise and fall and his mouth tastes salt-bitter just along the very back of his tongue where it delves into his throat. Too out of practice in sincerity to wield it like he should, and far too maddened with need to care all that much how he might sound while his cock throbs and his mind reels.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he still tracks first. Vakares' grip.
And he knows it won't be there much longer.]
I want [he starts shallowly, causing the glazing sheen across his lips to run] I want to know what he—
[Talk to him, his adored urges. Lust-brimmed eyes lifting just to meet their twin.]
I want to know what you want from me. [And isn't that the naked truth of it all, always.] I want to hear you fight to say it as I coerce you into inescapable enticement by making that wicked little stretch of yours sing under pressure, narrating every last word even as it happens. I want to hear you....whine out how much you're aching to ride or be ridden....so that when I watch you squirm, and moan and bargain in my grasp— with your lover's eyes upon you—
[Vakares must know what comes next, for there's a warning little squeeze that prevents Astarion from instinctively mouthing out like the mewling little spread-legged whore in heat you are.]
I'll know it's because you're enjoying what I give you.
DW YOU SON OF A BITCH
Universal, that truth. And not defiant in nature— for defiance alone insists there's something that might somehow change in the act of baring teeth, and in this case (like steel, like water): there isn't. Instead it's a great deal more directly related to alchemical response than all that, defined by preset laws. To nature, some might say. Hot, cold. Oil, water. Spark, tinder. Nature insisting that when two opposing extremes meet— even cordially— that it's inescapably charged.
That Astarion is charged here and now, even richly laden with his beloved's mellisonant approval and slow scuffs across his cheek, in being asked to be generous.
Want really is such a heady thing, though.
Living in the gap left behind by mouths that aren't still met. In the lines of glistening spit (and paler pearl) strung between them like beadwork, emphasizing every last shudder they succumb to once their tongues hang panting and untouched between the reddened measure of their parted lips. Frustration warring with desire in an atmospheric shift, and all of it punctuated by how smooth thighs still squeeze (and brush— oh how damningly they brush against him each time one of them moves in that ensnaring hold) across his hips— their heavy cocks dripping filthily as they bump together, making it impossible to tell which of them is more hungry for the other.
It is nature.
Nature versus want.
....and Astarion has so much room for want.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he tracks first. There, the focal point when he can't be sure if he's bending or outright breaking into this hedonistic little dance: his empty hands wrapped around both of Fenris' wrists– thumbs pinned tight over fine bones— breakable bones. Holding their silhouettes fast to each other even as their master holds them too. His heart heavier than stone as his own ribs rise and fall and his mouth tastes salt-bitter just along the very back of his tongue where it delves into his throat. Too out of practice in sincerity to wield it like he should, and far too maddened with need to care all that much how he might sound while his cock throbs and his mind reels.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he still tracks first. Vakares' grip.
And he knows it won't be there much longer.]
I want [he starts shallowly, causing the glazing sheen across his lips to run] I want to know what he—
[Talk to him, his adored urges. Lust-brimmed eyes lifting just to meet their twin.]
I want to know what you want from me. [And isn't that the naked truth of it all, always.] I want to hear you fight to say it as I coerce you into inescapable enticement by making that wicked little stretch of yours sing under pressure, narrating every last word even as it happens. I want to hear you....whine out how much you're aching to ride or be ridden....so that when I watch you squirm, and moan and bargain in my grasp— with your lover's eyes upon you—
[Vakares must know what comes next, for there's a warning little squeeze that prevents Astarion from instinctively mouthing out like the mewling little spread-legged whore in heat you are.]
I'll know it's because you're enjoying what I give you.
[What Astarion gives him— no other.]