[It's a roughened noise: a panting exhale that can't decide if it wants to be a moan or a rueful laugh. Both, maybe. A moan for the sight of Astarion on his knees, his eyes so dark as he stares up at his sire; lips stretched pliantly around the base of his prick, suckling eagerly in worshipful devotion even as his darkened gaze promises nothing but mischief. And a moan for how bloody good he is at this— gods, and Vakares ducks his head, his lips thinning as tension wracks through his slender frame. Every eager swallow sends sparks shooting through his veins, heat pulsing through him as his prick sinks so deep into narrow, hot confines. His hips shift experimentally, rolling forward and pulling back by mere centimeters; it's worth it to see slick flesh slowly rock in and out of Astarion's mouth.
And for a moment, the instinct rises in him. Vicious and beastly, a snarling demanding desire that nearly overcomes him for how intense it is. Blackened lust and vampiric arrogance tangle together, and all Vakares wants in that moment is to be mean. The fantasy sears itself in his mind so vividly; without thinking he tightens his grip in Astarion's hair, his gaze gone black as he looks down at him.
He wants to fuck him, you see. Yank him by the hair and keep him on his knees while Vakares fucks his mouth with vicious hunger. He wants to watch as his consort's eyes water and roll back; he wants to see that fierce need for attention finally sated, Astarion moaning thickly as his mouth is taken. He wants to hear sated moans turn into wet whimpers and pleas, his hand shoved between his legs and all of him thrashing and fighting uselessly, caught between desperate desire and an instinctive need to flee. He wants to see Astarion pushed to the brink, to the very limit of lust; he wants to claim him over and over, spilling into his belly until he outright drools come. Until his eyes are hazy and he sways with exhaustion, a little slut neatly broken, compliant and eager only for his master's taste.
And the trouble is: Vakares could have that.
Not just as bedsport. Not just as a playful little game that they can call off whenever they please. He could ruin his consort tonight, and no one would stop him.
Control yourself.
One long, slow breath.]
Good boy.
[He could ruin him, yes. He could enact that fantasy. He could do so many things— but then, he thinks, he would not have this. His doting consort, his immortal beloved . . . his wicked little darling, and Vakares' hand drops, palm cupping his cheek for a few adoring seconds.]
So your plan to stave off my rest is to become my cockwarmer for the next century . . . perhaps you have learned enough patience for such a feat.
[It's low. Rumbled and roughened, his fangs biting at his lip as he settles into this pleasure.]
You were such an eager thing at the start . . . mm, don't touch yourself, [he adds almost absently.] When you come, it will be at my hand, impaled upon my cock, your legs spread and your expression all mine to drink in.
[He's quiet for a little while, then. Content to do nothing more than drink in the sight and sensation of Astarion kneeling before him, fingers stroking slowly through his hair. But then, softly:]
no subject
[It's a roughened noise: a panting exhale that can't decide if it wants to be a moan or a rueful laugh. Both, maybe. A moan for the sight of Astarion on his knees, his eyes so dark as he stares up at his sire; lips stretched pliantly around the base of his prick, suckling eagerly in worshipful devotion even as his darkened gaze promises nothing but mischief. And a moan for how bloody good he is at this— gods, and Vakares ducks his head, his lips thinning as tension wracks through his slender frame. Every eager swallow sends sparks shooting through his veins, heat pulsing through him as his prick sinks so deep into narrow, hot confines. His hips shift experimentally, rolling forward and pulling back by mere centimeters; it's worth it to see slick flesh slowly rock in and out of Astarion's mouth.
And for a moment, the instinct rises in him. Vicious and beastly, a snarling demanding desire that nearly overcomes him for how intense it is. Blackened lust and vampiric arrogance tangle together, and all Vakares wants in that moment is to be mean. The fantasy sears itself in his mind so vividly; without thinking he tightens his grip in Astarion's hair, his gaze gone black as he looks down at him.
He wants to fuck him, you see. Yank him by the hair and keep him on his knees while Vakares fucks his mouth with vicious hunger. He wants to watch as his consort's eyes water and roll back; he wants to see that fierce need for attention finally sated, Astarion moaning thickly as his mouth is taken. He wants to hear sated moans turn into wet whimpers and pleas, his hand shoved between his legs and all of him thrashing and fighting uselessly, caught between desperate desire and an instinctive need to flee. He wants to see Astarion pushed to the brink, to the very limit of lust; he wants to claim him over and over, spilling into his belly until he outright drools come. Until his eyes are hazy and he sways with exhaustion, a little slut neatly broken, compliant and eager only for his master's taste.
And the trouble is: Vakares could have that.
Not just as bedsport. Not just as a playful little game that they can call off whenever they please. He could ruin his consort tonight, and no one would stop him.
Control yourself.
One long, slow breath.]
Good boy.
[He could ruin him, yes. He could enact that fantasy. He could do so many things— but then, he thinks, he would not have this. His doting consort, his immortal beloved . . . his wicked little darling, and Vakares' hand drops, palm cupping his cheek for a few adoring seconds.]
So your plan to stave off my rest is to become my cockwarmer for the next century . . . perhaps you have learned enough patience for such a feat.
[It's low. Rumbled and roughened, his fangs biting at his lip as he settles into this pleasure.]
You were such an eager thing at the start . . . mm, don't touch yourself, [he adds almost absently.] When you come, it will be at my hand, impaled upon my cock, your legs spread and your expression all mine to drink in.
[He's quiet for a little while, then. Content to do nothing more than drink in the sight and sensation of Astarion kneeling before him, fingers stroking slowly through his hair. But then, softly:]
Precious thing . . . you mean the world to me.