[Ah, so it does work well, that pinning pressure: trying to swallow, to speak— to suck in air of any sort or exhale in the slightest— all of it cracks where Fenris has him, keeping him held fast, his own claws planted against skin in a threat that doesn't quite match its catalyst.]
—will I, now....?
[It's better than chatting, isn't it? Better than thinking. Being angry, being nasty, being cruel. When everything's a flaring burst of overwrought emotion (the likes of which no mortal could ever sustain without weeping nigh on end), it's at least a mercy knowing the smallest ripple of fresh sensation can wipe clean the slate of all their scars.
At least for a little while.]
I don't need gossip to make you— look like the bitch you are, dressed up in a silk ruff like a joke.
[His grin twisted high, his fangs leading when he hisses (serpentine— pricked forwards). Cruelty the shine within his stare, and that much brighter by the second.] They'll laugh you out of court by the end of the week.
[Hiss. Hiss.
Death by a thousand little whispers such an appealing prospect, but when in the clutches of a brute—
His claws wrench. In half a blink, he's snapped his arms down into the fault lines of that hold— the whipcrack start to a countering offensive carved from vicious lunges and powerful swipes: elder strength a boon in moments such as these (feel it in every strike, little wolf— ) until the mirror's on its side. The parallel complete. A haggard slam defining shattered seconds when Fenris' own body's rammed against the wall and his throat is savagely pinned to the point of pain.
Hooked talons anchored into stone. Lips brought close enough to kiss, breath pooling in the bow of bloodstained mouths.
The true face of their joining.]
Do you want to know what our master said about you?
[Tongue to his canines, his own blood wrapped around its tip; grin like a wildfire. Like a knife. Like a start.] The things he whispered to me when you weren't around to hear them, riding my cock just to find a little succor....
[It's a crude imitation, his voice. Even so:]
He needs you, Astarion.
If he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed. Such a young thing. Such a hopeless thing, yet I love him all the same.
[Fingers tugging at light lacework, opening the front of Fenris' trousers with probing demand, cool against little glimpses of skin— threatening to take. His every lie stitched in deep.
Come here. Come here.]
I'll shelter you. I'll be your new master. I'll do my duty just like he asked....
And keep you safe by putting a fresh muzzle on that pretty mouth of yours.
no subject
[Ah, so it does work well, that pinning pressure: trying to swallow, to speak— to suck in air of any sort or exhale in the slightest— all of it cracks where Fenris has him, keeping him held fast, his own claws planted against skin in a threat that doesn't quite match its catalyst.]
—will I, now....?
[It's better than chatting, isn't it? Better than thinking. Being angry, being nasty, being cruel. When everything's a flaring burst of overwrought emotion (the likes of which no mortal could ever sustain without weeping nigh on end), it's at least a mercy knowing the smallest ripple of fresh sensation can wipe clean the slate of all their scars.
At least for a little while.]
I don't need gossip to make you— look like the bitch you are, dressed up in a silk ruff like a joke.
[His grin twisted high, his fangs leading when he hisses (serpentine— pricked forwards). Cruelty the shine within his stare, and that much brighter by the second.] They'll laugh you out of court by the end of the week.
[Hiss. Hiss.
Death by a thousand little whispers such an appealing prospect, but when in the clutches of a brute—
His claws wrench. In half a blink, he's snapped his arms down into the fault lines of that hold— the whipcrack start to a countering offensive carved from vicious lunges and powerful swipes: elder strength a boon in moments such as these (feel it in every strike, little wolf— ) until the mirror's on its side. The parallel complete. A haggard slam defining shattered seconds when Fenris' own body's rammed against the wall and his throat is savagely pinned to the point of pain.
Hooked talons anchored into stone. Lips brought close enough to kiss, breath pooling in the bow of bloodstained mouths.
The true face of their joining.]
Do you want to know what our master said about you?
[Tongue to his canines, his own blood wrapped around its tip; grin like a wildfire. Like a knife. Like a start.] The things he whispered to me when you weren't around to hear them, riding my cock just to find a little succor....
[It's a crude imitation, his voice. Even so:]
He needs you, Astarion.
If he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed. Such a young thing. Such a hopeless thing, yet I love him all the same.
[Fingers tugging at light lacework, opening the front of Fenris' trousers with probing demand, cool against little glimpses of skin— threatening to take. His every lie stitched in deep.
Come here. Come here.]
I'll shelter you. I'll be your new master. I'll do my duty just like he asked....
And keep you safe by putting a fresh muzzle on that pretty mouth of yours.