Not once. Not twice. Too many times to count before he feels light fabric rip— iron flooding through his senses, bitter and chalky and blunt, and they're both a little senseless aren't they? Neither one caring which blows hit (lies and obscured half-truths void of all their vital context; insults, swipes, digs, snarls, snaps— groping at anything in reach, and) the only thing that matters is that something lands inside their hateful fray, akin to animals warring over a single bone. Friction caught between their jaws, and it could be elation or concupiscence, avarice or hatred—
It soothes.
(Or: it roils.
Or: it aches, but it feels good.)
Fingers stroking over him while he keeps his prey well pinned, and if they're lamenting the fact that no hand comes down between them (no voice from the doorway, knowing and wearily-cut while it utters out they've failed), they can revel in that selfsame truth: martial law's the path to dominance now, both its coronet and vulgar chain. Deadened heart rammed against his throat while glassy fingers tease against his slit (his own twisted tight enough to cut within those laces), and were this just a battle on equal footing, they could play at that face-forwards for hours. Slipping the lead of their pain by testing prowess in all fairness, teeth and tongue and nails accompanying the rhythm of their hands while they stroke and stroke and stroke to see who's best. Who's weaker. Who wants it more— either victory or defeat.
The thing is, you see, Astarion wants to win.]
Oh you're showing me all right. [False breath collapsing in his lungs, delving into the base of his throat before slithering through crimson lips. Grin so wide it seems to split around the glimmer of his fangs, where pretense is unseated by the roll of his own spine, and the pressure nudged against marked palms.] Why don't you dig the knife in a little deeper and service me a little more fiercely....? I'm sure I'll learn my lesson, then.
[One part bluff. One part—
Oh.]
You're my bride after all. I want to see what your virgin little hole looks like stretched around my prick.
[Dig. Past the front of those unstrung trousers. Past supple heat trapped and left defenseless in pursuit of his assault, soft fingers skirting over the base of Fenris' scalding prick— feeling how it twitches in the rise towards his touch, almost begging for retaliating focus despite its master's whims— denying temptation by slipping lower still. Around velveteen contours that tuck heavily between soft thighs; up within their shadow, wrist cut against the waistband of coarse leather for just how far he's delved, utilizing the angle of his hold at his companion's throat in order to prevent rejection (without taking both hands back to break Astarion's hold— or at the very least abandoning his efforts to wring across his cock— ) the most Fenris could do like this is close his own thighs, and what good would that do, really? Those claws are already there by now, after all. Tapping slowly at the entrance to his cinch.
How unguarded you've left yourself, little wolf....]
Deny it all you want....once you get a taste, you'll be shivering again to be mounted with your back bowed and your head slung low in my grip.
Can you picture it, Fenris? [Fingers probing at him just to make him measure that heavily impending threat. Teasing with the very tips of his touch as he twists his head to bite that waiting throat (though in the struggle, it might be hard to reach— ) opening the way for feathered little pushes in. Out. In. Out. In. In. Pull— stretch (just the barest trace of slickness makes it rough and wholly forceful): dragging its bounds wide in little circles under the press of just one finger. This is what defines you. This is what I have. Spread wider for me. Lift your leg. Arch your back.]
no subject
Not once. Not twice. Too many times to count before he feels light fabric rip— iron flooding through his senses, bitter and chalky and blunt, and they're both a little senseless aren't they? Neither one caring which blows hit (lies and obscured half-truths void of all their vital context; insults, swipes, digs, snarls, snaps— groping at anything in reach, and) the only thing that matters is that something lands inside their hateful fray, akin to animals warring over a single bone. Friction caught between their jaws, and it could be elation or concupiscence, avarice or hatred—
It soothes.
(Or: it roils.
Or: it aches, but it feels good.)
Fingers stroking over him while he keeps his prey well pinned, and if they're lamenting the fact that no hand comes down between them (no voice from the doorway, knowing and wearily-cut while it utters out they've failed), they can revel in that selfsame truth: martial law's the path to dominance now, both its coronet and vulgar chain. Deadened heart rammed against his throat while glassy fingers tease against his slit (his own twisted tight enough to cut within those laces), and were this just a battle on equal footing, they could play at that face-forwards for hours. Slipping the lead of their pain by testing prowess in all fairness, teeth and tongue and nails accompanying the rhythm of their hands while they stroke and stroke and stroke to see who's best. Who's weaker. Who wants it more— either victory or defeat.
The thing is, you see, Astarion wants to win.]
Oh you're showing me all right. [False breath collapsing in his lungs, delving into the base of his throat before slithering through crimson lips. Grin so wide it seems to split around the glimmer of his fangs, where pretense is unseated by the roll of his own spine, and the pressure nudged against marked palms.] Why don't you dig the knife in a little deeper and service me a little more fiercely....? I'm sure I'll learn my lesson, then.
[One part bluff. One part—
Oh.]
You're my bride after all. I want to see what your virgin little hole looks like stretched around my prick.
[Dig. Past the front of those unstrung trousers. Past supple heat trapped and left defenseless in pursuit of his assault, soft fingers skirting over the base of Fenris' scalding prick— feeling how it twitches in the rise towards his touch, almost begging for retaliating focus despite its master's whims— denying temptation by slipping lower still. Around velveteen contours that tuck heavily between soft thighs; up within their shadow, wrist cut against the waistband of coarse leather for just how far he's delved, utilizing the angle of his hold at his companion's throat in order to prevent rejection (without taking both hands back to break Astarion's hold— or at the very least abandoning his efforts to wring across his cock— ) the most Fenris could do like this is close his own thighs, and what good would that do, really? Those claws are already there by now, after all. Tapping slowly at the entrance to his cinch.
How unguarded you've left yourself, little wolf....]
Deny it all you want....once you get a taste, you'll be shivering again to be mounted with your back bowed and your head slung low in my grip.
Can you picture it, Fenris? [Fingers probing at him just to make him measure that heavily impending threat. Teasing with the very tips of his touch as he twists his head to bite that waiting throat (though in the struggle, it might be hard to reach— ) opening the way for feathered little pushes in. Out. In. Out. In. In. Pull— stretch (just the barest trace of slickness makes it rough and wholly forceful): dragging its bounds wide in little circles under the press of just one finger. This is what defines you. This is what I have. Spread wider for me. Lift your leg. Arch your back.]
I promise you'll enjoy it when I break you in.