It's his grip upon the wheel. His white-knuckled fingers that scream for him to let go. (To hold on tighter than he has before.) This vulgar event horizon's already seized them in its maw, and no amount of refusal keeps them from the snap-pop shattering of their own senses; even if he's lucky enough in the alternating pitch dive between awareness and oblivion to hear warning signs before it slams into him again (that endless ringing in his ears, a muted swell of vacant pressure like hot glass set down on frigid stone, readying to burst), the second he's struck, he's ruined— scattered to the corners of his skin, a phantom beast rasping through synapse wounds. His collar choking him. His gloves chafing him.
His hips pumping the way an animal ruts its wanted mate (its next squalling, pinned-down meal— oh, wail— ) Panting and drooling just to tremble, consumed from the inside out.
If he's lucky, he'll glimpse the edge of savage sublimation in any which way it comes to overblown senses: reveling in the feeling of his cock violating tight-cinched little spaces; his fingers rammed thick against the back of Fenris' mewling throat, barely able to cry out without gagging on reflexive pressure— more likely to keep suckling, keep choking in the search for a broodwhore's satiety— both ends of him well and truly used far beyond their limit....and still pushed to endure more. And more. And more.
(Every luching gush of bottled pressure fights for space beside its peers. Every thrust of pumping fingers fights for what there's no more room to take.)
Vampires know avarice, after all.
(The ugly kind; the kind with barbs; the kind that doesn't sleep; the kind that makes you faintly sick for devouring more than your share— before you lick your lips and feed again.)
Impulse control, not so much.
They never make it to their coffins.
Years from now, a Duchess will suggest over clotted tarts that the ambitious Lord Astarion killed his lover that first night for fucking him harder than even undead creatures were ever meant to take: masking his mistake by replacing the young vampire with a purchased lookalike.
In truth, though very much a gossipmongering little lie designed for trouble, it won't be far off from reality's filthy cast: hours (or possibly full days later) the bed's as soaked to the core as they are within it— his upturned palm pushed beneath his consort's thigh, raising it shamelessly high where it drapes over him, their bodies still stuck fast. It aches if he's careless, true, but he doesn't dare move for at least a few acclimating beats of near awareness, sugar-glazed slickness the first thing he feels each time he recklessly considers doing anything but motionlessly sucking in air.
Instead, slung low and dark across his virgin quarry (oh, not so much anymore, is he....?) Astarion loosely dedicates himself to thinking.
Musing.
Tomorrow he'll teach his bride to stay, beg, roll over, sit pretty: train him up like any true vampire should. Keep him heeled at his side. He can't bear the thought of letting anyone else see him unless they're together.
And there's a notion worth exploring (or is that just coital exhaustion talking?) Fenris really would look so beautiful in a cage. Bound with his arms to his ankles. Gagged with fine jewelry and left to wait with his legs spread, his hole still leaking bubbling rivulets of molten come. Meant to ask for the nominal mercy of being tended to.
One arm moves abruptly lower, his gloved hand catching the innermost droplets of overspilling gloss. The ones that well around that subdued cinch. Slow. Dragging.
Pretty thing, Astarion mutters listlessly, and it's too void of clarity to be a statement.
Just a fact.
Pearling sheen bright atop dark leather hemlines, pushed against the malleable give of fuck-red lips.]
Open.
[His demand all night—
Or is it day, now? His mind so addled with smoke and the scent of sex he can't think straight. Otensibly drunk, and more than willing to remain that way for as long as he can put off being called to bicker with high court.]
no subject
It's his grip upon the wheel. His white-knuckled fingers that scream for him to let go. (To hold on tighter than he has before.) This vulgar event horizon's already seized them in its maw, and no amount of refusal keeps them from the snap-pop shattering of their own senses; even if he's lucky enough in the alternating pitch dive between awareness and oblivion to hear warning signs before it slams into him again (that endless ringing in his ears, a muted swell of vacant pressure like hot glass set down on frigid stone, readying to burst), the second he's struck, he's ruined— scattered to the corners of his skin, a phantom beast rasping through synapse wounds. His collar choking him. His gloves chafing him.
His hips pumping the way an animal ruts its wanted mate (its next squalling, pinned-down meal— oh, wail— ) Panting and drooling just to tremble, consumed from the inside out.
If he's lucky, he'll glimpse the edge of savage sublimation in any which way it comes to overblown senses: reveling in the feeling of his cock violating tight-cinched little spaces; his fingers rammed thick against the back of Fenris' mewling throat, barely able to cry out without gagging on reflexive pressure— more likely to keep suckling, keep choking in the search for a broodwhore's satiety— both ends of him well and truly used far beyond their limit....and still pushed to endure more. And more. And more.
(Every luching gush of bottled pressure fights for space beside its peers. Every thrust of pumping fingers fights for what there's no more room to take.)
Vampires know avarice, after all.
(The ugly kind; the kind with barbs; the kind that doesn't sleep; the kind that makes you faintly sick for devouring more than your share— before you lick your lips and feed again.)
Impulse control, not so much.
They never make it to their coffins.
Years from now, a Duchess will suggest over clotted tarts that the ambitious Lord Astarion killed his lover that first night for fucking him harder than even undead creatures were ever meant to take: masking his mistake by replacing the young vampire with a purchased lookalike.
In truth, though very much a gossipmongering little lie designed for trouble, it won't be far off from reality's filthy cast: hours (or possibly full days later) the bed's as soaked to the core as they are within it— his upturned palm pushed beneath his consort's thigh, raising it shamelessly high where it drapes over him, their bodies still stuck fast. It aches if he's careless, true, but he doesn't dare move for at least a few acclimating beats of near awareness, sugar-glazed slickness the first thing he feels each time he recklessly considers doing anything but motionlessly sucking in air.
Instead, slung low and dark across his virgin quarry (oh, not so much anymore, is he....?) Astarion loosely dedicates himself to thinking.
Musing.
Tomorrow he'll teach his bride to stay, beg, roll over, sit pretty: train him up like any true vampire should. Keep him heeled at his side. He can't bear the thought of letting anyone else see him unless they're together.
And there's a notion worth exploring (or is that just coital exhaustion talking?) Fenris really would look so beautiful in a cage. Bound with his arms to his ankles. Gagged with fine jewelry and left to wait with his legs spread, his hole still leaking bubbling rivulets of molten come. Meant to ask for the nominal mercy of being tended to.
One arm moves abruptly lower, his gloved hand catching the innermost droplets of overspilling gloss. The ones that well around that subdued cinch. Slow. Dragging.
Pretty thing, Astarion mutters listlessly, and it's too void of clarity to be a statement.
Just a fact.
Pearling sheen bright atop dark leather hemlines, pushed against the malleable give of fuck-red lips.]
Open.
[His demand all night—
Or is it day, now? His mind so addled with smoke and the scent of sex he can't think straight. Otensibly drunk, and more than willing to remain that way for as long as he can put off being called to bicker with high court.]