[Astarion pointedly asserts through fangs that've been gritted by the heady grinding of their hips (not angered: incensed), his eyes reduced to lidded sits, brimming with arousal left unchecked.
An exhale thicker than blood sliding from his throat on the next pull forwards, grip fastened by the pricking tips of his claws— counterweight to the way Vakares pulls him in against the arching of his spine; the feeling of exhaustive constriction running rich along his inner thighs, each new burst of sensation more bewitching than the last (settee grousing loudly underneath their shifting balance, too old to endure too much too quickly, making this a languid march towards their own hedonistic effulgence).]
And where those thoughts of yours have been roaming without me nearby to guide them.
[Not to mention his fingers, his hands— his heart. Oh, there's no great unmasked truth involved in revealing that he thinks about Vakares all too often when they aren't together, unable to swallow down the sleepless twitch of paranoia skittering within his skull; unable to stop pining for the maker he's without. And yet in this case?
It's just a bluff.
A predictable, believable lie.
He was thinking of Fenris, actually. His secondary shadow. His purported twin amongst the flock. The only other soul capable of completely consuming that much of his mind— and a rival to their master's claim on his waking thoughts, though Astarion could never in his wildest dreams even begin to see what ire has to do with fond obsession. No, there's nothing there to pick over, he asserts to the emptiness of his own mind in addition to the open air with his breathless denial.
(If one rejects anything long enough, it might well become the truth.)]
I'll never understand what it is you two adore so bloody much about the past, anyway. [That much alone is true, though it comes with a delving slip of pale fingers past the barrier of Vakares' lips— smoothly gliding over the channel of his tongue for a few exploratory beats. A mask for the way he then pushes back against the hold across his hips (oh, but the feeling of those palms rucking against his trousers), slow in sinking down towards his sire's shadowed legs.
Lower. Lower....
Catching lacework in the outline of his teeth.]
It isn't memory that can suck your cock, you know....
no subject
[Astarion pointedly asserts through fangs that've been gritted by the heady grinding of their hips (not angered: incensed), his eyes reduced to lidded sits, brimming with arousal left unchecked.
An exhale thicker than blood sliding from his throat on the next pull forwards, grip fastened by the pricking tips of his claws— counterweight to the way Vakares pulls him in against the arching of his spine; the feeling of exhaustive constriction running rich along his inner thighs, each new burst of sensation more bewitching than the last (settee grousing loudly underneath their shifting balance, too old to endure too much too quickly, making this a languid march towards their own hedonistic effulgence).]
And where those thoughts of yours have been roaming without me nearby to guide them.
[Not to mention his fingers, his hands— his heart. Oh, there's no great unmasked truth involved in revealing that he thinks about Vakares all too often when they aren't together, unable to swallow down the sleepless twitch of paranoia skittering within his skull; unable to stop pining for the maker he's without. And yet in this case?
It's just a bluff.
A predictable, believable lie.
He was thinking of Fenris, actually. His secondary shadow. His purported twin amongst the flock. The only other soul capable of completely consuming that much of his mind— and a rival to their master's claim on his waking thoughts, though Astarion could never in his wildest dreams even begin to see what ire has to do with fond obsession. No, there's nothing there to pick over, he asserts to the emptiness of his own mind in addition to the open air with his breathless denial.
(If one rejects anything long enough, it might well become the truth.)]
I'll never understand what it is you two adore so bloody much about the past, anyway. [That much alone is true, though it comes with a delving slip of pale fingers past the barrier of Vakares' lips— smoothly gliding over the channel of his tongue for a few exploratory beats. A mask for the way he then pushes back against the hold across his hips (oh, but the feeling of those palms rucking against his trousers), slow in sinking down towards his sire's shadowed legs.
Lower. Lower....
Catching lacework in the outline of his teeth.]
It isn't memory that can suck your cock, you know....