On those roaming fingers— so mild that it doesn't even begin to break skin, let alone bruise it. Astarion's viperish hastisement so contextually gentle that it lacks teeth of its own beyond the pointed edges of harsh fangs; yes, he's fussy still. Oh yes, he's resentful of necessity, and bitter about what he'll lose in the process of attending it— but even so.]
Don't you dare.
[Wretched sire so cherished beyond measure, how dare he make him consider the possibility of something so unthinkable (never mind that it was Astarion who'd brought it up to begin with); how dare you, precious thing. Outline of my heart. Mooring cage I'll never flee. How dare he even bring that up now, when everything tangible is wading through the gaps of lax entanglement, nested softly under the press of clothed thighs and shifted ankles: chest-to-chest in ways both awkwardly undignified and artistically bewitching— unafraid of how they might look to the outside world. Lax like animals in repose are almost boneless, an arm draped here or a leg there, faces close enough together that false breath pools.]
I ought to bite your pretty tongue out for that glibness.
Keep it as a souvenir. [A kiss as sharp as spiced wine finding its way to the supple center of those lips. He's always been more inclined to physicality than soothing chatter when it comes to all sincerity; keeping hold of Vakares' jaw to press it upright in his grip, tilting only so far as it takes to work a warming little path of bitemarks and bruises down the frontside of that unattended throat. Incandescent seconds involving the satisfying give of vulnerable skin caught between parted lips (and fangs, and the roiling tip of his tongue) passing as if they were weighted minutes.
Oh, never doubt Astarion loves his sire. But despite the hierarchy instilled in their kind by default, he isn't slavishly servile in regards to his maker (there is such merit to being firstsired; the boldness rooted in intimacy that'd once been only theirs decades ago, understood by no one else): while the world bows its head in varied deference— and Astarion does the same— behind closed doors, he can reach with despotic fingertips to grip his master by the reins, knowing that's his right. His luxury.
One that truly can't be shared, given the nature of its origin.]
What did he say to you?
[Asked in a lowered rumble as he climbs to straddle his beloved. Agile spine stretched long (his shirt still open, his legs almost painfully splayed to push snugly against his master's hips across that aging settee), his hand still holding fast.]
Knowing him, Fenris wasn't exactly clamoring for sex after news like that.
[Ergo: they must've talked, those two. The scent is too strong not to have been a recent exchange, though it doesn't reek of rutting. And you know, in Astarion's hawkish estimations, they did always seem the type for quiescent conversation. Gentle reassurance in the face of adversity, and all that.]
no subject
On those roaming fingers— so mild that it doesn't even begin to break skin, let alone bruise it. Astarion's viperish hastisement so contextually gentle that it lacks teeth of its own beyond the pointed edges of harsh fangs; yes, he's fussy still. Oh yes, he's resentful of necessity, and bitter about what he'll lose in the process of attending it— but even so.]
Don't you dare.
[Wretched sire so cherished beyond measure, how dare he make him consider the possibility of something so unthinkable (never mind that it was Astarion who'd brought it up to begin with); how dare you, precious thing. Outline of my heart. Mooring cage I'll never flee. How dare he even bring that up now, when everything tangible is wading through the gaps of lax entanglement, nested softly under the press of clothed thighs and shifted ankles: chest-to-chest in ways both awkwardly undignified and artistically bewitching— unafraid of how they might look to the outside world. Lax like animals in repose are almost boneless, an arm draped here or a leg there, faces close enough together that false breath pools.]
I ought to bite your pretty tongue out for that glibness.
Keep it as a souvenir. [A kiss as sharp as spiced wine finding its way to the supple center of those lips. He's always been more inclined to physicality than soothing chatter when it comes to all sincerity; keeping hold of Vakares' jaw to press it upright in his grip, tilting only so far as it takes to work a warming little path of bitemarks and bruises down the frontside of that unattended throat. Incandescent seconds involving the satisfying give of vulnerable skin caught between parted lips (and fangs, and the roiling tip of his tongue) passing as if they were weighted minutes.
Oh, never doubt Astarion loves his sire. But despite the hierarchy instilled in their kind by default, he isn't slavishly servile in regards to his maker (there is such merit to being firstsired; the boldness rooted in intimacy that'd once been only theirs decades ago, understood by no one else): while the world bows its head in varied deference— and Astarion does the same— behind closed doors, he can reach with despotic fingertips to grip his master by the reins, knowing that's his right. His luxury.
One that truly can't be shared, given the nature of its origin.]
What did he say to you?
[Asked in a lowered rumble as he climbs to straddle his beloved. Agile spine stretched long (his shirt still open, his legs almost painfully splayed to push snugly against his master's hips across that aging settee), his hand still holding fast.]
Knowing him, Fenris wasn't exactly clamoring for sex after news like that.
[Ergo: they must've talked, those two. The scent is too strong not to have been a recent exchange, though it doesn't reek of rutting. And you know, in Astarion's hawkish estimations, they did always seem the type for quiescent conversation. Gentle reassurance in the face of adversity, and all that.]