[Astarion barely has it in him to play coy the way he wants to. Too dumbstruck to be defensive or overtly miserable right now while the buzzing high of orgasm is pulsing thickly through chilled veins: his half-stirred mind caught between the glorious echo of plump cheeks being slapped down eagerly over a pearl-streaked prick to the tune of wild moaning and the sight of his master rumbling praise that— for the first time— felt shared: he can still hear constant hum of 'good boy, there's my good boy' lingering over and over and over again, and you know, it could've been for either of them. Both of them.
In fact, it probably was.
Tangled up in tattered silk sheets like this, he can feel his ankle crossed beneath the tangle of Vakares' and Fenris' legs, his body curled over one high hip into their space— and he doesn't care to differentiate this time; he understands himself better than anyone, after all. All his vitriolic fuss, all the acrid pettiness sharper than gunpowder smoke— it'll come later. There's no rush.
And that's why it sounds so ridiculously paper thin, his purring little croon of a whisper:]
No one could take your place. [Which— all right yes, while true, it's more performative pandering than actual conversation.
It draws a smooth chuckle from their sire at the very least, who then looks to Fenris for a beat without speaking. (And you know, suddenly, for the first time, seeing them look at each other like that right there in that shallow little twist of turned focus, it hits Astarion like a shard of ice against his ribs, lurching low into his gut: an afterthought. A nightmarish little impossibility clawing its way up into the light against all odds.
2/2
In fact, it probably was.
Tangled up in tattered silk sheets like this, he can feel his ankle crossed beneath the tangle of Vakares' and Fenris' legs, his body curled over one high hip into their space— and he doesn't care to differentiate this time; he understands himself better than anyone, after all. All his vitriolic fuss, all the acrid pettiness sharper than gunpowder smoke— it'll come later. There's no rush.
And that's why it sounds so ridiculously paper thin, his purring little croon of a whisper:]
No one could take your place. [Which— all right yes, while true, it's more performative pandering than actual conversation.
It draws a smooth chuckle from their sire at the very least, who then looks to Fenris for a beat without speaking. (And you know, suddenly, for the first time, seeing them look at each other like that right there in that shallow little twist of turned focus, it hits Astarion like a shard of ice against his ribs, lurching low into his gut: an afterthought. A nightmarish little impossibility clawing its way up into the light against all odds.
Oh. Maybe it will be Fenris.]