[Oh, never, never. Never, not his Astarion nor the way he belongs to his starlit boy— and it isn't because of this. It isn't because he takes a cock well (so well, and the lurid moan that sounds as tight, slick heat envelops Vakares to the hilt is far too loud as it echoes hoarsely down the hall). It isn't because he's so very clever in bed, coyly proposing new games or showing just how well he can handle a fuck (and it had taken Vakares so very long to realize that his consort thought he needed to be so inventive to keep his sire's attention— oh, darling boy, as if he ever needed to be anything but himself). When he goes to his slumber, he won't dream of all the lewd ways his consort has kept his bed warm, no.
He'll dream of his eyes, just as they right now. Crimson sparkled with darker flecks, narrowed in focus and yet eagerly triumphant, as smug as any kitten who just caught his first mouse. His voice, purring low in satisfaction even as his thighs shake for how much he enjoys this; the curve of his cheek and the scent of him thick in the air, as all the he ruts and grinds and bounces atop his prick, half-sated from being filled alone.
I love you, Vakares thinks and does not say. There's no room for it, not right now— but still, as his hands settle on Astarion's hips and darts his head up to catch his beloved in a swift kiss, he thinks it. I love you, I love you, I love you, so fiercely and so achingly that he has reconsidered his slumber too many times to count. I love you, and it is unlike any love he has ever had before; it is wholly different and separate than what he has with Fenris, and all the stronger for it. I love you, every bit, emphasized over and over the steady pump of his hips upwards, cock daggering in and out of his consort's slick hole. I love you for all that you are and more—]
Ah—
[— and for this, too.
For the goading taunt in Astarion's voice, yes. For the way he ruts so eagerly, his hole cinching so tight with rhythmic glee as his cock bounces between them, thick and swollen and untouched. But most of all: for the way he ignites a blaze unlike any other within his sire, coaxing him past all those centuries of self-control.
Before he realizes what he's doing, there's the sound of fabric shredding and seams ripping apart; in the next moment Astarion's trousers lie in tatters around him, thighs springing free even as he keeps up his bouncing rhythm. His hands lock around his hips, his eyes flicking down to drink in the frankly lurid sight of his cock bouncing between them, thickened hang flushed darkly in desire— and then up to that pretty face again, their eyes locking for one brief bursting second before Vakares surges up.
Mine, he thinks, or maybe it's yours, the two tangling up together in ouroborosian desire as his palms cup plush curves and he stands, yanking Astarion in close. His fingers dig in cruelly, spreading his consort open with vulgar intent (and he wishes he could see it: the sight of Astarion suspended in midair, spread open and speared atop a thick prick, oil dripping around the rim of his swollen hole) as he crosses the room in two strides and slams the elf against the wall.
There. There, his hips bearing Astarion's weight as his hands wrap around slender wrists, pinning him against the wall with cock and fingers and lips— a searing kiss, his tongue thrusting forward as he fucks into him. Hard and hot and fast, and every slap of skin against skin serves as echo for all of those words: I love you, you're mine, I'm yours, I will see you filled with my claim and mewling for my touch all because you said you wished it, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—]
no subject
[Oh, never, never. Never, not his Astarion nor the way he belongs to his starlit boy— and it isn't because of this. It isn't because he takes a cock well (so well, and the lurid moan that sounds as tight, slick heat envelops Vakares to the hilt is far too loud as it echoes hoarsely down the hall). It isn't because he's so very clever in bed, coyly proposing new games or showing just how well he can handle a fuck (and it had taken Vakares so very long to realize that his consort thought he needed to be so inventive to keep his sire's attention— oh, darling boy, as if he ever needed to be anything but himself). When he goes to his slumber, he won't dream of all the lewd ways his consort has kept his bed warm, no.
He'll dream of his eyes, just as they right now. Crimson sparkled with darker flecks, narrowed in focus and yet eagerly triumphant, as smug as any kitten who just caught his first mouse. His voice, purring low in satisfaction even as his thighs shake for how much he enjoys this; the curve of his cheek and the scent of him thick in the air, as all the he ruts and grinds and bounces atop his prick, half-sated from being filled alone.
I love you, Vakares thinks and does not say. There's no room for it, not right now— but still, as his hands settle on Astarion's hips and darts his head up to catch his beloved in a swift kiss, he thinks it. I love you, I love you, I love you, so fiercely and so achingly that he has reconsidered his slumber too many times to count. I love you, and it is unlike any love he has ever had before; it is wholly different and separate than what he has with Fenris, and all the stronger for it. I love you, every bit, emphasized over and over the steady pump of his hips upwards, cock daggering in and out of his consort's slick hole. I love you for all that you are and more—]
Ah—
[— and for this, too.
For the goading taunt in Astarion's voice, yes. For the way he ruts so eagerly, his hole cinching so tight with rhythmic glee as his cock bounces between them, thick and swollen and untouched. But most of all: for the way he ignites a blaze unlike any other within his sire, coaxing him past all those centuries of self-control.
Before he realizes what he's doing, there's the sound of fabric shredding and seams ripping apart; in the next moment Astarion's trousers lie in tatters around him, thighs springing free even as he keeps up his bouncing rhythm. His hands lock around his hips, his eyes flicking down to drink in the frankly lurid sight of his cock bouncing between them, thickened hang flushed darkly in desire— and then up to that pretty face again, their eyes locking for one brief bursting second before Vakares surges up.
Mine, he thinks, or maybe it's yours, the two tangling up together in ouroborosian desire as his palms cup plush curves and he stands, yanking Astarion in close. His fingers dig in cruelly, spreading his consort open with vulgar intent (and he wishes he could see it: the sight of Astarion suspended in midair, spread open and speared atop a thick prick, oil dripping around the rim of his swollen hole) as he crosses the room in two strides and slams the elf against the wall.
There. There, his hips bearing Astarion's weight as his hands wrap around slender wrists, pinning him against the wall with cock and fingers and lips— a searing kiss, his tongue thrusting forward as he fucks into him. Hard and hot and fast, and every slap of skin against skin serves as echo for all of those words: I love you, you're mine, I'm yours, I will see you filled with my claim and mewling for my touch all because you said you wished it, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—]