[It's too much (it's not enough). It's too much (and it's nothing, it's nothing). An endless ebb and flow, a torturous rhythm that never, ever works in Astarion's favor. He'd meant to cow him, make him beg, plead, cry, shriek (so shrilly that the other retained guests could hear him from their beds and lent-out coffins)—
(Fangs puncture flesh.
(Or:) they scrape.
(Or:) they threaten to, and it's only the briars that dig in far enough to pry up red.)
—now, though? Now Astarion still intends to, but at a pace all his own, on his own monstrous terms. His master's muzzle hanging loosely from the empty space his shoulders should be taking up, unlatched. Rinsed clean of all pointless propriety; obligation only in the marrow of his aching teeth.]
Oh, wail. [He hisses darkly, shoving back against the soft scratch of ravenous canines through the collar at his throat, feeling it punch into the soft skin of his neck as it catches against brief intrusion that can't last. (Spite. Spite. Call it by name with every gruesome shove. Every ensuing twist where his muscles bunch into corded ripples under silk, supporting the whole of their weights— their vulgar, voiceless wants. Taxation brimming with envied hate: let it cut them both, but let it hurt Fenris more.) No such thing as action lacking cost under diplomacy this cruel; the leg hooked around his spine the meridian that violatingly shackles them together, moreso than chains or tethers or bloodied stripes swiped sweetly over waiting lips before a gathered crowd. Oil and water have nothing on the way they reject-to-rush-back-in with hardly a second left for equilibrium that isn't overblown, roiling and violent. There's false breath on his neck. Jaws pushed tight against the grate that separates them while lithe hips lift and rut and grind. Tackiness flooded into white, squeezed tighter into black.
You can have what you want, greedy thing.
His promise. His belated vows. Have it all. Glut yourself. Feast until it hurts. You baying, feral, onanistic thing that never belonged in these halls. His hands. His heart. My bed. My bed. (Stay in my bed.) Unable to move as the noose of their entanglement narrows into a swifter tug of lacework that tangles faster than it unspools. Empty glass clattering to the floor with a shattering snap as the slave beside them starts. Silk tears; fingers and their attached claws pull, culminating in a single yank so rampageous that the bedframe jostles underneath them. Lace torn (defenses torn). Tanned skin livid in the shadow of friction burns like tiger stripes; thighs awash in them beneath torn stockings and vacant space, twitching wetly around smooth stone. Twitching harder to be seen.
It'll hurt you most of all.
Two pale fingers spread that much farther into the cusion of dense muscle. His well-braced palm flexes backwards til it aches, forcing those cheeks out wider while he ducks his chin, fangs clicking to meet their counterparts (or skin, or lips, or tongue). Sucking in snarls, snapping out mirroring growls of his own. Tiresome nuisance. Beautiful prize. Beloved. Beloved— conquest. Trophy. Whore. Bride. I want you. I loathe you. I need you. I despise you. And no matter what ceremony swears of love or lifted duty, nights like these do always end in theft.
And he's no better, saintliness emptied from his silhouette long before Vakares found him.
He's no better.
He—
—spreads his touch that much wider.
Aligns his hips and drags against the grain until the supple map around warm stone begins to part.
And with a single nudge— his blunted crest already fit flush to where it needs to be— fights to shove his way in beside that heavy toy.]
no subject
(Fangs puncture flesh.
(Or:) they scrape.
(Or:) they threaten to, and it's only the briars that dig in far enough to pry up red.)
—now, though? Now Astarion still intends to, but at a pace all his own, on his own monstrous terms. His master's muzzle hanging loosely from the empty space his shoulders should be taking up, unlatched. Rinsed clean of all pointless propriety; obligation only in the marrow of his aching teeth.]
Oh, wail. [He hisses darkly, shoving back against the soft scratch of ravenous canines through the collar at his throat, feeling it punch into the soft skin of his neck as it catches against brief intrusion that can't last. (Spite. Spite. Call it by name with every gruesome shove. Every ensuing twist where his muscles bunch into corded ripples under silk, supporting the whole of their weights— their vulgar, voiceless wants. Taxation brimming with envied hate: let it cut them both, but let it hurt Fenris more.) No such thing as action lacking cost under diplomacy this cruel; the leg hooked around his spine the meridian that violatingly shackles them together, moreso than chains or tethers or bloodied stripes swiped sweetly over waiting lips before a gathered crowd. Oil and water have nothing on the way they reject-to-rush-back-in with hardly a second left for equilibrium that isn't overblown, roiling and violent. There's false breath on his neck. Jaws pushed tight against the grate that separates them while lithe hips lift and rut and grind. Tackiness flooded into white, squeezed tighter into black.
You can have what you want, greedy thing.
His promise. His belated vows. Have it all. Glut yourself. Feast until it hurts. You baying, feral, onanistic thing that never belonged in these halls. His hands. His heart. My bed. My bed. (Stay in my bed.) Unable to move as the noose of their entanglement narrows into a swifter tug of lacework that tangles faster than it unspools. Empty glass clattering to the floor with a shattering snap as the slave beside them starts. Silk tears; fingers and their attached claws pull, culminating in a single yank so rampageous that the bedframe jostles underneath them. Lace torn (defenses torn). Tanned skin livid in the shadow of friction burns like tiger stripes; thighs awash in them beneath torn stockings and vacant space, twitching wetly around smooth stone. Twitching harder to be seen.
It'll hurt you most of all.
Two pale fingers spread that much farther into the cusion of dense muscle. His well-braced palm flexes backwards til it aches, forcing those cheeks out wider while he ducks his chin, fangs clicking to meet their counterparts (or skin, or lips, or tongue). Sucking in snarls, snapping out mirroring growls of his own. Tiresome nuisance. Beautiful prize. Beloved. Beloved— conquest. Trophy. Whore. Bride. I want you. I loathe you. I need you. I despise you. And no matter what ceremony swears of love or lifted duty, nights like these do always end in theft.
And he's no better, saintliness emptied from his silhouette long before Vakares found him.
He's no better.
He—
—spreads his touch that much wider.
Aligns his hips and drags against the grain until the supple map around warm stone begins to part.
And with a single nudge— his blunted crest already fit flush to where it needs to be— fights to shove his way in beside that heavy toy.]
Have what you're after and wail.