It shows on his face, even if he says nothing. It shows in the eyes that dilate for the view that they take in, thickly coating brightness shining over a pale pink tongue— barely any milky gloss left to spare. It shows in the way his exhausted, drowsy prick has the briefest moment of stirring in the deep before he winces (and shifts with a jagged shudder, and stills— too late to keep another pulse of heavy ardor from trickling out around the edges of their mergered state), abuse the testament to glory. Chafed and swollen and stretched and sore and raw and chapped and blissfully subdued, all.
So yes, he considers it, some vestigial part of himself existing only when the kerosinic blanket of Astarion the vampire dissolves, swallowing once and feeling dryness knock inside his throat. Feeling more than that beneath his ribs, elusive and at war. Poor thing. Poor obedient thing.
And he almost feels his own lips loving.
And he almost lifts his arm.
And he almost— almost—
snap—
The door behind them opens.
And heralded by a twisting doorknob, the world comes rushing back towards them through the sound of hurried footfalls. That same spawn from before scurrying to his master's side to mutter something hushed about guests and stalling hospitalities— and in that breath Astarion remembers who he is. Who the creature held beneath him is, and all that stunning beauty represents.
He rises (and it kills him, you know, the suffering act of working to dislodge himself, leaving beckoning heat behind), he washes, he dresses— drinking blood from an overfull cup so that beneath the black thorns of his collar, every wound is healed.
He forgets it on the dressing table when he leaves, not ever offering it to that starving catamite kept shackled in his bed.
A lean hound obeys more.]
Keep him chained when you have him washed.
I want him in something more presentable for tonight— [the spawn beside him fighting to keep up with his pace, hunkered posture leaving them at eye level.] Something exotic.
No— not just that.
[Whether by blood or by movement, he's rousing. His thoughts are clearing.]
Make sure that it's obscene.
[The door shuts soon after that dismissive order, and at last, for the first time in an eternity, Fenris is alone.]
no subject
It shows on his face, even if he says nothing. It shows in the eyes that dilate for the view that they take in, thickly coating brightness shining over a pale pink tongue— barely any milky gloss left to spare. It shows in the way his exhausted, drowsy prick has the briefest moment of stirring in the deep before he winces (and shifts with a jagged shudder, and stills— too late to keep another pulse of heavy ardor from trickling out around the edges of their mergered state), abuse the testament to glory. Chafed and swollen and stretched and sore and raw and chapped and blissfully subdued, all.
So yes, he considers it, some vestigial part of himself existing only when the kerosinic blanket of Astarion the vampire dissolves, swallowing once and feeling dryness knock inside his throat. Feeling more than that beneath his ribs, elusive and at war. Poor thing. Poor obedient thing.
And he almost feels his own lips loving.
And he almost lifts his arm.
And he almost— almost—
snap—
The door behind them opens.
And heralded by a twisting doorknob, the world comes rushing back towards them through the sound of hurried footfalls. That same spawn from before scurrying to his master's side to mutter something hushed about guests and stalling hospitalities— and in that breath Astarion remembers who he is. Who the creature held beneath him is, and all that stunning beauty represents.
He rises (and it kills him, you know, the suffering act of working to dislodge himself, leaving beckoning heat behind), he washes, he dresses— drinking blood from an overfull cup so that beneath the black thorns of his collar, every wound is healed.
He forgets it on the dressing table when he leaves, not ever offering it to that starving catamite kept shackled in his bed.
A lean hound obeys more.]
Keep him chained when you have him washed.
I want him in something more presentable for tonight— [the spawn beside him fighting to keep up with his pace, hunkered posture leaving them at eye level.] Something exotic.
No— not just that.
[Whether by blood or by movement, he's rousing. His thoughts are clearing.]
Make sure that it's obscene.
[The door shuts soon after that dismissive order, and at last, for the first time in an eternity, Fenris is alone.]