[Power comes crawling to him on its knees like this— scant few minutes where an agile back bows high and powerful legs struggle for the chance to stretch a trembling centimeter wider (handfuls of undulating bucks from those same settled legs driving their bodies together again and again and again like a swelling plea): the feeling of velveteen skin squeezed slow between his fingers through a barrier of leather the most intoxicating coronation he's ever known. His second. His perfect, most depraved ascension. And he's so addicted to its lure that he can't stop.
Particularly when every touch they share isn't real.
Oh, tangible, yes, but the cup, the shallow slither of cold blood across that waiting tongue, his throbbing prick jabbing hard against a hole that can't dare take him with his trousers in the way, and Fenris' own handsome little instrument laid hard between his fingers, struggling to drool around cold jewelry— more and more and more— and nothing. Like drinking and always being parched. Like eating and never growing full, Astarion imbibes with a crooked, salivating grin even while he's mocked. Leaning closer (while he feels dull pressure tighten in the gaps between their bodies). Drawn like a moth to a waiting flame.
It begs the question of who's controlling whom.]
Growl all you want, little wolf.
[He knocks the cup aside with a tip of his own fingers. Profile hovering in its place above glossed lips. Dark lips, whose slick-hot glaze pools shallowly around small fangs. Eye teeth. Demure little eye teeth. Fenris' true fangs tucked away much deeper in that mouth.
Go on, he thinks, elated high along his neck. The hair there prickling with anticipation. Show me those teeth.]
I listened at your door when you thought you were alone. Heard you moaning in your sleep for decades on end. Gasping when you were busy fingering yourself or canting into your hand like you couldn't get enough, even after spending an evening with him. [Oh, him.] But you'd always say his name when you thought of your sire, wouldn't you?
[Like clockwork, even when all three had played together: Leto bouncing on their master's lap, and still— ]
You didn't like to say mine.
[That's how I knew.]
I am your husband. [How right Fenris is about that fact.] Your lord. Your only master.
I have you shackled in my bed and dragged you from your own. I have you dressed to suit my taste, still happily rutting against me just to slake that fire in your belly, spoiled as you've always been when it comes to being fed: opening your legs— your tight ingress— like a call for me to breed you.
[And I can give you that.]
I don't need to tame you— you're mine, Fenris.
[Two gloved fingers rise between them, a thin patina of oil glistening at their tips. Something he must've had pocketed or cleverly set aside just waiting for the shift in their transition, while his hips— the bruising weight of a muzzled, searching cock— massages defly at that hole.
Black leather moving closer towards Fenris' parted lips.
It's only once they're close that the scent of slick perfume might just scream out a warning blare cut from narrow familiarity: it's aphroditic. And potently so.]
I'm going to fuck you until your voice breaks alongside all that brittle pride. Until there is nothing left of what you are outside a pretty face drooling around a gag and a lifted ass hoping to be filled by the only touch that it remembers.
[Mine. Mine. Two fingers already closing in along the corners of that captive mouth.]
Your leash is in my hands. You've nowhere left to run to, my thoroughly despoiled bride. [White lace, black silk. Slow, creeping pressure sliding soft along those lips. Closer. Closer. A sawing back-and-forth without hard penetration: the prelude to mouthfucking, inevitable and near.]
And I promise: you and I are going to have so much fun throughout eternity together, seeing how long it takes to make both true.
no subject
Particularly when every touch they share isn't real.
Oh, tangible, yes, but the cup, the shallow slither of cold blood across that waiting tongue, his throbbing prick jabbing hard against a hole that can't dare take him with his trousers in the way, and Fenris' own handsome little instrument laid hard between his fingers, struggling to drool around cold jewelry— more and more and more— and nothing. Like drinking and always being parched. Like eating and never growing full, Astarion imbibes with a crooked, salivating grin even while he's mocked. Leaning closer (while he feels dull pressure tighten in the gaps between their bodies). Drawn like a moth to a waiting flame.
It begs the question of who's controlling whom.]
Growl all you want, little wolf.
[He knocks the cup aside with a tip of his own fingers. Profile hovering in its place above glossed lips. Dark lips, whose slick-hot glaze pools shallowly around small fangs. Eye teeth. Demure little eye teeth. Fenris' true fangs tucked away much deeper in that mouth.
Go on, he thinks, elated high along his neck. The hair there prickling with anticipation. Show me those teeth.]
I listened at your door when you thought you were alone. Heard you moaning in your sleep for decades on end. Gasping when you were busy fingering yourself or canting into your hand like you couldn't get enough, even after spending an evening with him. [Oh, him.] But you'd always say his name when you thought of your sire, wouldn't you?
[Like clockwork, even when all three had played together: Leto bouncing on their master's lap, and still— ]
You didn't like to say mine.
[That's how I knew.]
I am your husband. [How right Fenris is about that fact.] Your lord. Your only master.
I have you shackled in my bed and dragged you from your own. I have you dressed to suit my taste, still happily rutting against me just to slake that fire in your belly, spoiled as you've always been when it comes to being fed: opening your legs— your tight ingress— like a call for me to breed you.
[And I can give you that.]
I don't need to tame you— you're mine, Fenris.
[Two gloved fingers rise between them, a thin patina of oil glistening at their tips. Something he must've had pocketed or cleverly set aside just waiting for the shift in their transition, while his hips— the bruising weight of a muzzled, searching cock— massages defly at that hole.
Black leather moving closer towards Fenris' parted lips.
It's only once they're close that the scent of slick perfume might just scream out a warning blare cut from narrow familiarity: it's aphroditic. And potently so.]
I'm going to fuck you until your voice breaks alongside all that brittle pride. Until there is nothing left of what you are outside a pretty face drooling around a gag and a lifted ass hoping to be filled by the only touch that it remembers.
[Mine. Mine. Two fingers already closing in along the corners of that captive mouth.]
Your leash is in my hands. You've nowhere left to run to, my thoroughly despoiled bride. [White lace, black silk. Slow, creeping pressure sliding soft along those lips. Closer. Closer. A sawing back-and-forth without hard penetration: the prelude to mouthfucking, inevitable and near.]
And I promise: you and I are going to have so much fun throughout eternity together, seeing how long it takes to make both true.