[He doesn't answer at first. Sweet platitudes and clever words, oh, such things belong to the creature who reigns over this coven. The wearied diplomat, the overworked Duke— he'll have his turn soon enough, whispering sweet words of adoration to his darling firstsired.
But he's a creature of instinct now: his fingers still wrapped loosely around one narrow wrist, thumb stroking gently as he returns each of those nuzzles. Mine, their foreheads bumping together as his lips drift over the the curve of a pale cheek. A soft chin. Lips swollen and sore from overuse, and all the while his hips still pump inwards shallowly. Pearl streaks down the length of his prick, viscous droplets slowly drooling down to puddle on ancient wood as Vakares slides his lips down. Mine, the mindless mouthing of a predator finally at ease— though not thoughtlessly so. It's no mistake his mouth settles just atop those twin scars he'd given his beloved so many years ago.
(This will hurt, he had whispered to the wounded thing in his arms, until it won't. I promise you it will ease, little one. Just take a deep breath, his fingers smoothing through curls clotted with dried blood even as his fangs ached with phantom longing. It would take nothing to make him yours, that awful little voice had whispered to him. He's too weak to fight, and no one will dare intervene— take him. Strip him down and rut into him like the mewling prey he is. Fuck him from both ends and listen to him scream around the press of your cock. Flip him over and sink your teeth into his neck; promise him that you'll turn him and make him earn it, and when you've had your fun, drain the last bits of blood out of him and throw the corpse into the canal until he rots beyond recognition—
And the trick has never been that he doesn't desire such things.
The trick is knowing how to store it all up until he needs it.)
They aren't done. Even now, as the focus slowly returns to his ruby gaze, he can feel his hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Astarion feels too good in his arms, lithe limbs and cool skin; he just feels so delicious wrapped so tight around his prick, tight and hot and perfect. Mine, he thinks again, and his gaze is still a blackened thing as he stares up at his consort. His hips still pump in deep, hungry to claim every inch of that tight little cinch, and never mind how many times he's done it before, for it's never enough. It's not enough, that ugly part of him whispers, not when this time tomorrow he'll be in someone else's bed—
Enough. One last lick to those scars before he speaks.]
Mm, I have not forgotten, no. But I tell you this: I have not begun to charm you, little one.
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But he's a creature of instinct now: his fingers still wrapped loosely around one narrow wrist, thumb stroking gently as he returns each of those nuzzles. Mine, their foreheads bumping together as his lips drift over the the curve of a pale cheek. A soft chin. Lips swollen and sore from overuse, and all the while his hips still pump inwards shallowly. Pearl streaks down the length of his prick, viscous droplets slowly drooling down to puddle on ancient wood as Vakares slides his lips down. Mine, the mindless mouthing of a predator finally at ease— though not thoughtlessly so. It's no mistake his mouth settles just atop those twin scars he'd given his beloved so many years ago.
(This will hurt, he had whispered to the wounded thing in his arms, until it won't. I promise you it will ease, little one. Just take a deep breath, his fingers smoothing through curls clotted with dried blood even as his fangs ached with phantom longing. It would take nothing to make him yours, that awful little voice had whispered to him. He's too weak to fight, and no one will dare intervene— take him. Strip him down and rut into him like the mewling prey he is. Fuck him from both ends and listen to him scream around the press of your cock. Flip him over and sink your teeth into his neck; promise him that you'll turn him and make him earn it, and when you've had your fun, drain the last bits of blood out of him and throw the corpse into the canal until he rots beyond recognition—
And the trick has never been that he doesn't desire such things.
The trick is knowing how to store it all up until he needs it.)
They aren't done. Even now, as the focus slowly returns to his ruby gaze, he can feel his hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Astarion feels too good in his arms, lithe limbs and cool skin; he just feels so delicious wrapped so tight around his prick, tight and hot and perfect. Mine, he thinks again, and his gaze is still a blackened thing as he stares up at his consort. His hips still pump in deep, hungry to claim every inch of that tight little cinch, and never mind how many times he's done it before, for it's never enough. It's not enough, that ugly part of him whispers, not when this time tomorrow he'll be in someone else's bed—
Enough. One last lick to those scars before he speaks.]
Mm, I have not forgotten, no. But I tell you this: I have not begun to charm you, little one.