[Even now (even after his bridling encouragement), without disobedience in their hearts, the pair play rough. The signs as plain as shuttered daylight warming fastened sills, easily detected. After all: he is not blind (and they might be well-loved, his most cherished fledgling gemstones, but they are not discreet.
Yet in watching all the telltale signs from his perch, Vakares reasserts to his own self that he cannot dictate their every movement, even when he sees them circling the edge of harsh emotion. So long as the risk of conflict remains low, they're better off tempering themselves— lest they start believing cohabitation can only exist at the end of his fingertips. (Again, that silent affirmation fed to no one but himself: they're going to have to learn to see each other;) There's no forcing them to perceive their priceless outlines with his eyes— and one can't claim to love something with a hand wrapped tight around its throat.
Well.
Not always.
It is beautiful, anyway. Their sparring (both upon his bed and within emptier corridors alike). The countless ways they interpose and melt like warmed sugar after raging for incalculably longer than most other creatures would ever willingly tolerate even amongst kin, longing for the other's touch where otherwise they would battle perceived slights like wildcats: Astarion drawn down into an angle so bowing that he could be strung from wrist to tail with agile ease, moonstone slantlines peeking out beyond a stretch of sunset limbs and a set of shoulders that ripple with fine muscle as they arch— and roll— and sink as if gorging himself on prey (the thought amusing only if not for the fact that Vakares imagines that perhaps there is a spark of prey drive thriving in that hungering approach: the barks and whines and whimpers— the squirming thrashes that rock back into his waiting jaws— mm. His adored hunter always did have such an affinity for the fight.)
And yet—
Perhaps they've rubbed off on him (in so many ways, in fact).
That everpresent sense of impatience without absolute control, foreign to Vakares yet second nature to them, now tentatively adopted for himself. Hefted between his fingers to grasp the weight of its merit while something in their tempo surges back and forth between that well-enamored pair. Kept tucked (and pinched) between thumbprint and forefinger when— again— the air splits with yet another fruitless cry for release.
Laid bare the second he wraps his palms (slides them, more like) across the span of Fenris' hips, unwarned. (Perhaps the vampire will know it's coming anyway: they are sensitively tuned creatures. Alight and alert and endlessly sharp.) No move made whatsoever to interrupt his consort's play— in that, he keeps his promise: it's not interference, nor overt policing of their behavior. Fenris is free to play however he wishes, and it's true, Vakares himself enjoys the baiting sport of edging them to orgasm in so very many ways.
Let that same rule extend, then.
When all Vakares aims for is to satisfy his own desires through the act of pulling his lover's hips higher without disturbing him from his meal— soon graced by the bluntest pressure of a cock slid between the exposed span of those malleable cheeks (gripped in the very same way he grips Astarion in turn, forming a mirroring array: Vakares to Fenris, Fenris fiercely to Astarion), there's no reason why the other two should stop. Certainly not even when their sire adjusts his kneeling posture (widening his knees, the bed shifting not solely for Astarion's lossy dismay, now)— and begins levering his weight against that waiting hole.
Slow. Inching. Pressure like a trap: pressing forwards, forwards, forwards— insisting that with every glimpse of movement the inevitable will come, so long as Fenris stays caught within its grasp. Cornered by pale thighs. Cornered by encroaching hips and the subtle prickle of his sire's claws against his skin.
Tension built around that lurid crown, Fenris' hole such tight resistance as it finally starts to give.]
no subject
Yet in watching all the telltale signs from his perch, Vakares reasserts to his own self that he cannot dictate their every movement, even when he sees them circling the edge of harsh emotion. So long as the risk of conflict remains low, they're better off tempering themselves— lest they start believing cohabitation can only exist at the end of his fingertips. (Again, that silent affirmation fed to no one but himself: they're going to have to learn to see each other;) There's no forcing them to perceive their priceless outlines with his eyes— and one can't claim to love something with a hand wrapped tight around its throat.
Well.
Not always.
It is beautiful, anyway. Their sparring (both upon his bed and within emptier corridors alike). The countless ways they interpose and melt like warmed sugar after raging for incalculably longer than most other creatures would ever willingly tolerate even amongst kin, longing for the other's touch where otherwise they would battle perceived slights like wildcats: Astarion drawn down into an angle so bowing that he could be strung from wrist to tail with agile ease, moonstone slantlines peeking out beyond a stretch of sunset limbs and a set of shoulders that ripple with fine muscle as they arch— and roll— and sink as if gorging himself on prey (the thought amusing only if not for the fact that Vakares imagines that perhaps there is a spark of prey drive thriving in that hungering approach: the barks and whines and whimpers— the squirming thrashes that rock back into his waiting jaws— mm. His adored hunter always did have such an affinity for the fight.)
And yet—
Perhaps they've rubbed off on him (in so many ways, in fact).
That everpresent sense of impatience without absolute control, foreign to Vakares yet second nature to them, now tentatively adopted for himself. Hefted between his fingers to grasp the weight of its merit while something in their tempo surges back and forth between that well-enamored pair. Kept tucked (and pinched) between thumbprint and forefinger when— again— the air splits with yet another fruitless cry for release.
Laid bare the second he wraps his palms (slides them, more like) across the span of Fenris' hips, unwarned. (Perhaps the vampire will know it's coming anyway: they are sensitively tuned creatures. Alight and alert and endlessly sharp.) No move made whatsoever to interrupt his consort's play— in that, he keeps his promise: it's not interference, nor overt policing of their behavior. Fenris is free to play however he wishes, and it's true, Vakares himself enjoys the baiting sport of edging them to orgasm in so very many ways.
Let that same rule extend, then.
When all Vakares aims for is to satisfy his own desires through the act of pulling his lover's hips higher without disturbing him from his meal— soon graced by the bluntest pressure of a cock slid between the exposed span of those malleable cheeks (gripped in the very same way he grips Astarion in turn, forming a mirroring array: Vakares to Fenris, Fenris fiercely to Astarion), there's no reason why the other two should stop. Certainly not even when their sire adjusts his kneeling posture (widening his knees, the bed shifting not solely for Astarion's lossy dismay, now)— and begins levering his weight against that waiting hole.
Slow. Inching. Pressure like a trap: pressing forwards, forwards, forwards— insisting that with every glimpse of movement the inevitable will come, so long as Fenris stays caught within its grasp. Cornered by pale thighs. Cornered by encroaching hips and the subtle prickle of his sire's claws against his skin.
Tension built around that lurid crown, Fenris' hole such tight resistance as it finally starts to give.]