Well you certainly don't bore me, if that's what you're wondering....
[Awash with blazing vigor coaxed up from keener embers: Vakares' physical response (dilated eyes, bated breath; hands that waver in their focus) the kindling that sparks beneath his words— and every visual it depicts in the lightless pith of his own tack. Shadows pooled around the image of a cock fit snug into its sheathe, with slick glimmers of glistening oil and precome flickering like starlight over vulnerable skin that wrings at its own bridle. His prick tipped skywards as it leaks, bouncing between buckled arms that brace his pistoning hips— neither hand touching— please the only thing on his lips between the constant slap of skin-on-skin. Percussion fit for desperation, when each beat's quicker than the last. Please come— please come so that I can come— touch me, sire— maker— lover—
Oh, love.
One who knows just how to rein him in when he's gone too far. No blunt pressure or cruder force applied through the sort of crass manipulation the other lords employ (it's easy to tell a slave to rut or a thrall to obey— it might even be easy to make them want it by rewarding them like a sotted hound: a couple of treats or a pat on the head the closest thing to careworn coaxing. But Vakares? Oh, no. When he herds them away from their worst instincts it might damned well be through learned knowledge of their needs, but he isn't some mastermind at work plotting moves across a board with a few expendable pawns, just a clever thing in love; easing off the worst of his consorts' pain or ambition. Their wants or their maddened streaks of mouthing lust.
In other words: it's no crime to be canny the way their sire is canny, where even his absent mind runs hot with mastery's keenest breath.)
His thighs sting from the biting pressure of his trousers and their straddled tension, muscles no doubt bruising when he rocks himself forwards into it (cold air cut across his exposed curves, wholly unguarded against clawed fingers or a waiting prick), but— ]
How could I ever resist?
[An answer to all things, that. Laid out sharp through the hollow rumble in his throat, hitching before it stops— (slick like those fingertips, pulled away from in one little roll of movement)— and speared fully on thick ardor in the very next beat.
To the hilt.
To the lurid flush.
Friction just a measure for how deep he runs inside the tightest narrows, bumping hot against malleable walls (no one else to reach between them, dulling down its blistering intensity: each twitch finding a corresponding pulse of entrenched force, left to right, forward and back, digging in as he arches forwards) into— fuck— ]
—you are mine....
[Through the grit of his teeth and the ache in his jaw: his. Through the unnfixed and unanchored movements outside the drag of rigid satisfaction rocked harsh against the figurative grain; his hips rolling before they work up into a steady rhythm evoking the exact images from before.
(Vakares was his from the moment he'd bitten him, and he always will be.)
Pact sealed by thready gasps and shuttling rhythms (writ by snaring snaps of rapid movement rather than trite words), hunched over well-braced palms.]
Don't you dare forget it just for shutting your pretty eyes.
no subject
[Awash with blazing vigor coaxed up from keener embers: Vakares' physical response (dilated eyes, bated breath; hands that waver in their focus) the kindling that sparks beneath his words— and every visual it depicts in the lightless pith of his own tack. Shadows pooled around the image of a cock fit snug into its sheathe, with slick glimmers of glistening oil and precome flickering like starlight over vulnerable skin that wrings at its own bridle. His prick tipped skywards as it leaks, bouncing between buckled arms that brace his pistoning hips— neither hand touching— please the only thing on his lips between the constant slap of skin-on-skin. Percussion fit for desperation, when each beat's quicker than the last. Please come— please come so that I can come— touch me, sire— maker— lover—
Oh, love.
One who knows just how to rein him in when he's gone too far. No blunt pressure or cruder force applied through the sort of crass manipulation the other lords employ (it's easy to tell a slave to rut or a thrall to obey— it might even be easy to make them want it by rewarding them like a sotted hound: a couple of treats or a pat on the head the closest thing to careworn coaxing. But Vakares? Oh, no. When he herds them away from their worst instincts it might damned well be through learned knowledge of their needs, but he isn't some mastermind at work plotting moves across a board with a few expendable pawns, just a clever thing in love; easing off the worst of his consorts' pain or ambition. Their wants or their maddened streaks of mouthing lust.
In other words: it's no crime to be canny the way their sire is canny, where even his absent mind runs hot with mastery's keenest breath.)
His thighs sting from the biting pressure of his trousers and their straddled tension, muscles no doubt bruising when he rocks himself forwards into it (cold air cut across his exposed curves, wholly unguarded against clawed fingers or a waiting prick), but— ]
How could I ever resist?
[An answer to all things, that. Laid out sharp through the hollow rumble in his throat, hitching before it stops— (slick like those fingertips, pulled away from in one little roll of movement)— and speared fully on thick ardor in the very next beat.
To the hilt.
To the lurid flush.
Friction just a measure for how deep he runs inside the tightest narrows, bumping hot against malleable walls (no one else to reach between them, dulling down its blistering intensity: each twitch finding a corresponding pulse of entrenched force, left to right, forward and back, digging in as he arches forwards) into— fuck— ]
—you are mine....
[Through the grit of his teeth and the ache in his jaw: his. Through the unnfixed and unanchored movements outside the drag of rigid satisfaction rocked harsh against the figurative grain; his hips rolling before they work up into a steady rhythm evoking the exact images from before.
(Vakares was his from the moment he'd bitten him, and he always will be.)
Pact sealed by thready gasps and shuttling rhythms (writ by snaring snaps of rapid movement rather than trite words), hunched over well-braced palms.]
Don't you dare forget it just for shutting your pretty eyes.