[Astarion will never know his taste gives him away.
Vampire Lord of Baldur's Gate. Merciless enough to devour his own twin just to stake his claim. Coronated heir drenched in the black gleam of his inheritance— whose blood tastes of fetid ash. Milk-bland, absent nothingness. Not even distinct enough to wear sourness or rot, beneath the glory of his master he doesn't reek—
He's nothing.
And in the spirit of Leira's greatest treasure: mirror mazes only work until you know their trick. Bristling fur doesn't fool what's already learned better. Eye-marks. Striping. Mimicry. Bright colors and thorny barbs. He's done everything he can to be a nightmare wreathed in power insurmountable.
It's punctured with a set of narrow canines, like it was paper all along.]
Ah— chht!!! You insolent, ungrateful little cur—
[His lips peel in a snarling flash of white, his other hand having dropped its prize just to raise high in a threat that means to become more; impending strike already flattening his palm.
He stops before he ever does.
A flare of his nostrils. A scowl like hateful ire hitching just to twist over its own heels at the sight of all that drool: crowned by swollen lips wrapped tight around his knuckles and the bone-white sheen of wetted fangs run red only at their tips. Two overly brilliant eyes set just above hot luster, flickering, darting savagely in place— narrow pupils barely fixed, making Fenris the picture of a wild dog clutching at a bone for how it starves; mad with the idea of more filling its belly. So hungry it'd attack itself for one more bite.
Flesh is flesh is flesh (Astarion would know).
His own scowl goes flatter than a drawn line against the grain of his own choice in roiling response. Angry still. Seething still. But determined now: sudden just to hook his buried fingers down around the back of Fenris' tongue into his greedy throat, using it like an anchored fishhook— turning all that willful wildness into a muzzle fit to beak him in if he won't dare let go, and that's to say nothing for the way Astarion lurches forward on his knees, arching himself over his own consort just to slam their hips together (braced by his spare palm; the ache apparent when it almost bends too far in softer bedding), clothing be damned as a barricade.
Again, his hips drive home.
Again, again, again.
No penetration no matter how much force saturates its stride, wet cloth scraping against soft, pliable skin— battering the edges of Fenris' tight hole just before it rubs with cruel abandon, ravaging its mark with violating discomfort before the next thrust drives it home.
It doesn't matter that it stings his senses. That his vision flares hot-white before ebbing into static stars: his voice a brutal snarl when he yanks his buried fingers closer— dragging Fenris with it in the image of a wolfdog with its collar jerked to choking. Chastised from the inside out.]
Let. Go.
[Fangs or mouth completely, he doesn't care. It's a call to return to obedience, closer than before, and with the threat (the deglutible promise) of a fuck kept from Fenris' reach until he settles, though gods know with the way Astarion's punishing his body now, even sweet docility won't make that reward nice.
(But he'll have a cock in him to scream and writhe around, won't he— and really, isn't that the thing to hope for?)]
Now.
[Again, again, again— those brutal snaps don't stop. A tug of war gone vulgar: let go.]
no subject
Vampire Lord of Baldur's Gate. Merciless enough to devour his own twin just to stake his claim. Coronated heir drenched in the black gleam of his inheritance— whose blood tastes of fetid ash. Milk-bland, absent nothingness. Not even distinct enough to wear sourness or rot, beneath the glory of his master he doesn't reek—
He's nothing.
And in the spirit of Leira's greatest treasure: mirror mazes only work until you know their trick. Bristling fur doesn't fool what's already learned better. Eye-marks. Striping. Mimicry. Bright colors and thorny barbs. He's done everything he can to be a nightmare wreathed in power insurmountable.
It's punctured with a set of narrow canines, like it was paper all along.]
Ah— chht!!! You insolent, ungrateful little cur—
[His lips peel in a snarling flash of white, his other hand having dropped its prize just to raise high in a threat that means to become more; impending strike already flattening his palm.
He stops before he ever does.
A flare of his nostrils. A scowl like hateful ire hitching just to twist over its own heels at the sight of all that drool: crowned by swollen lips wrapped tight around his knuckles and the bone-white sheen of wetted fangs run red only at their tips. Two overly brilliant eyes set just above hot luster, flickering, darting savagely in place— narrow pupils barely fixed, making Fenris the picture of a wild dog clutching at a bone for how it starves; mad with the idea of more filling its belly. So hungry it'd attack itself for one more bite.
Flesh is flesh is flesh (Astarion would know).
His own scowl goes flatter than a drawn line against the grain of his own choice in roiling response. Angry still. Seething still. But determined now: sudden just to hook his buried fingers down around the back of Fenris' tongue into his greedy throat, using it like an anchored fishhook— turning all that willful wildness into a muzzle fit to beak him in if he won't dare let go, and that's to say nothing for the way Astarion lurches forward on his knees, arching himself over his own consort just to slam their hips together (braced by his spare palm; the ache apparent when it almost bends too far in softer bedding), clothing be damned as a barricade.
Again, his hips drive home.
Again, again, again.
No penetration no matter how much force saturates its stride, wet cloth scraping against soft, pliable skin— battering the edges of Fenris' tight hole just before it rubs with cruel abandon, ravaging its mark with violating discomfort before the next thrust drives it home.
It doesn't matter that it stings his senses. That his vision flares hot-white before ebbing into static stars: his voice a brutal snarl when he yanks his buried fingers closer— dragging Fenris with it in the image of a wolfdog with its collar jerked to choking. Chastised from the inside out.]
Let. Go.
[Fangs or mouth completely, he doesn't care. It's a call to return to obedience, closer than before, and with the threat (the deglutible promise) of a fuck kept from Fenris' reach until he settles, though gods know with the way Astarion's punishing his body now, even sweet docility won't make that reward nice.
(But he'll have a cock in him to scream and writhe around, won't he— and really, isn't that the thing to hope for?)]
Now.
[Again, again, again— those brutal snaps don't stop. A tug of war gone vulgar: let go.]