[Meetings pass quickly when you're a newly coronated thing.
That's a saving grace Astarion doesn't overlook, at least, considering half the remaining guests leftover from the ceremony are busy trying to prove they accurately remember his name, while the other half won't stop asking about his given husband—
Consort, he toothily corrects each time, enjoying the ripple of hushed gossip that fans outwards through the din (is he really defying his old sire? Does that make this a usurpation? Is Astarion the only one in charge of all the covens now?) nothing answered in the aftermath, as he'd gifted them the most wicked treat (read: distraction) of a live meal— something Vakares hadn't permitted in decades— and true enough, it's forgotten after that: curried favor doing wonders to ensure no one says another word about it.
At least not to his face.
His return is late.
He has a few droplets of leftover blood still swimming in his chalice when he opens the doors to his bedchamber, turning it within his grasp.]
Sleep well? [Comes a honeyed purr dislodged sweetly from the base of his throat, before—
Oh.
That wretched spawn from before is still loitering around.]
Get out.
[His flattened grumble sees the slave up onto his feet quicker than a whip to flesh— limber young frame hurrying past on lurching footfalls to aim one last look over his shoulder towards the figure on the bed.
That map of once-tanned skin.
Dark lace.
Thin strands of threaded chain hanging heavily from pearl beading.
Corruption must have been the theme, because if last night was their high wedding, this is the aftermath of that claim: the lurid sight of still-pierced nipples taut and risen under sheer lines of shadowed silk. Pitch black fabric thinner than dragonfly wings, stitched together in patterning that barely seems to cover any of the vulgar landmarks clothing's typically meant to hide. It bunches where it's pulled between dusky thighs lined in vivid blue— so narrow when it wrinkles that demulcent curves peek in swells beyond dark edges, and the soft, jewelry-laden hang of a prone cock lies in full, delightful view beneath a mask of transparent lace. Its subdued breadth glistening with oil from root to tantalizing tip. Thick and malleable and right there for devouring.
He looks tired, his rutted bride.
And when Astarion moves to sit, he slithers just between those legs. Heavy glass raised up and drawn within a few inches of Fenris' lips.
—and stopped.
With his gloved little finger, he slides its very tip under the gossamer hemlines covering that tender little prick. Hooking his finger into all that pretty stitchwork, and leaving it stock-still right where it'd initially settled: a wickedly suspended pause where one movement— even the slightest wriggle in any direction— will send the whole of Fenris' vulnerable cock spilling hotly into view. Wetted and flush for the smallest of touches, delicate decorations jingling in a little outcry for attention.
The way a whore slips wide soft lips. Pulls at a drooling cinch. The way a broodbitch pants in season, hunkered to the floor and crawling— tail raised high in invitation.
That's the implication. That's what's weighed against a cup filled with a single cut's worth of blood.]
I brought you a gift.
[He hums, his lips curbed upwards at their corners. He smells of iron and lilac.] Because you were missed at the party, and I know I was such a brute last night.
[Starved thing. What won't he do for a drop of precious blood by now?
Astarion clicking his tongue like calling an animal to drink.]
2/2
That's a saving grace Astarion doesn't overlook, at least, considering half the remaining guests leftover from the ceremony are busy trying to prove they accurately remember his name, while the other half won't stop asking about his given husband—
Consort, he toothily corrects each time, enjoying the ripple of hushed gossip that fans outwards through the din (is he really defying his old sire? Does that make this a usurpation? Is Astarion the only one in charge of all the covens now?) nothing answered in the aftermath, as he'd gifted them the most wicked treat (read: distraction) of a live meal— something Vakares hadn't permitted in decades— and true enough, it's forgotten after that: curried favor doing wonders to ensure no one says another word about it.
At least not to his face.
His return is late.
He has a few droplets of leftover blood still swimming in his chalice when he opens the doors to his bedchamber, turning it within his grasp.]
Sleep well? [Comes a honeyed purr dislodged sweetly from the base of his throat, before—
Oh.
That wretched spawn from before is still loitering around.]
Get out.
[His flattened grumble sees the slave up onto his feet quicker than a whip to flesh— limber young frame hurrying past on lurching footfalls to aim one last look over his shoulder towards the figure on the bed.
That map of once-tanned skin.
Dark lace.
Thin strands of threaded chain hanging heavily from pearl beading.
Corruption must have been the theme, because if last night was their high wedding, this is the aftermath of that claim: the lurid sight of still-pierced nipples taut and risen under sheer lines of shadowed silk. Pitch black fabric thinner than dragonfly wings, stitched together in patterning that barely seems to cover any of the vulgar landmarks clothing's typically meant to hide. It bunches where it's pulled between dusky thighs lined in vivid blue— so narrow when it wrinkles that demulcent curves peek in swells beyond dark edges, and the soft, jewelry-laden hang of a prone cock lies in full, delightful view beneath a mask of transparent lace. Its subdued breadth glistening with oil from root to tantalizing tip. Thick and malleable and right there for devouring.
He looks tired, his rutted bride.
And when Astarion moves to sit, he slithers just between those legs. Heavy glass raised up and drawn within a few inches of Fenris' lips.
—and stopped.
With his gloved little finger, he slides its very tip under the gossamer hemlines covering that tender little prick. Hooking his finger into all that pretty stitchwork, and leaving it stock-still right where it'd initially settled: a wickedly suspended pause where one movement— even the slightest wriggle in any direction— will send the whole of Fenris' vulnerable cock spilling hotly into view. Wetted and flush for the smallest of touches, delicate decorations jingling in a little outcry for attention.
The way a whore slips wide soft lips. Pulls at a drooling cinch. The way a broodbitch pants in season, hunkered to the floor and crawling— tail raised high in invitation.
That's the implication. That's what's weighed against a cup filled with a single cut's worth of blood.]
I brought you a gift.
[He hums, his lips curbed upwards at their corners. He smells of iron and lilac.] Because you were missed at the party, and I know I was such a brute last night.
[Starved thing. What won't he do for a drop of precious blood by now?
Astarion clicking his tongue like calling an animal to drink.]
Do you want it, sweetheart?
Come on then, show me just how much.