A good fuck, first and foremost. Possessed of a thick cock with an unrelenting temperament and length enough to split whatever he pierces— and proud of his merits in that regard, so easily knowing that he'll never be replaced: for no one serves Vakares the way that he serves Vakares. No one can part thighs until they tremble the way that he does. No one can coax mewls from freshly bitten lips (oh he sees you duck your head, little wolf) the way that he can. No one else can nestle into the feverish cusp of vulnerable need and instantly push just right against pliant, shuddering, fretful little confines— sparking up fulgent sensation like raked embers.
The very thing he knows drives Fenris to tightening right now, even though he isn't watching him to check ( —ah, but there's a thought for later, perhaps: getting him flustered and soaked through with all his ardor— drool and precome both— then push those agile legs back with both hands just to see him spread, thinking he's about to be well fed.
And then breathe on that tight little hole, the one bared just for him.
Watching it tense. Tighten. Entreat Astarion for his sadistic touch as if he could be swayed so easily by anything belonging to this whelp. Oh, he'll make him beg, this time. He'll lick and tease and brush idly over that glossy little measure without plunging in until it all but breaks him, and pride becomes an afterthought: unnecessary and unneeded compared to the primal bliss of being used.) Satisfaction already curled low within the dark pit of his stomach. Contentment pooling underneath the narrow bracket of his ribs. Deciding now to mount him only when he's spent and useless, if only so that he can spend his time staring down at the measure of his own rucked-up handiwork.
Hm.
Maybe their sire was right after all. Maybe they can reconcile— for a time. A short, pleasant, transient time. Maybe, he thinks—
But of course, that was what he'd thought before Fenris opened his mouth.
And just like that, everything beforehand vanishes. Suddenly he isn't thinking— let alone about sweet denouements and rising thirst. Suddenly he doesn't care anymore, at least not half as much as he hears the incessant clamor of words squeezed out through self-smug fangs: pretend it's him— pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
Old man.
His knee lifts.
It's not gradual. It's not part of another bit of movement— no. His knee lifts so that he can slam it down across his counterpart's forearm, wrenching himself forwards until those digging fingers are yanked free in a single wetted little twist (pressure jolts within his belly, and he doesn't care—) his free hand snagging the clasp of that pretty leather collar and with cruelty unbound, drives Fenris face down against the floor.
There: one tan leg swiftly kicked out wide— (there: the other in mirrored twin— ) leaving the younger vampire sprawled flat with his face and body flush against cold marble, his clothing in scrappish tatters: humiliatingly obscene for how he's been made spread-eagled from the waist down, with Astarion perched on his knees between them. That thick cock heavily tapping at the centerline dividing lush curves right down their suddenly unguarded middle, bobbing for every shift in weight while he makes certain there won't be any wriggling free.
Because there won't be.
(Not now. Not anymore.)]
Thank you for that generous offer, my dear, beloved mate.
[The last word curdles on his tongue. So cloying that it nearly bleeds enmity over red-stained lips.
He rocks his hips just once— the crown of his cruel length butting briefly against a cinch that threatens to spread under hardly any coaxing whatsoever (just like its master). It's a simple tap. A push. He barely levers himself at all, and he can feel how tension melts each time he closes in— ]
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A good fuck, first and foremost. Possessed of a thick cock with an unrelenting temperament and length enough to split whatever he pierces— and proud of his merits in that regard, so easily knowing that he'll never be replaced: for no one serves Vakares the way that he serves Vakares. No one can part thighs until they tremble the way that he does. No one can coax mewls from freshly bitten lips (oh he sees you duck your head, little wolf) the way that he can. No one else can nestle into the feverish cusp of vulnerable need and instantly push just right against pliant, shuddering, fretful little confines— sparking up fulgent sensation like raked embers.
The very thing he knows drives Fenris to tightening right now, even though he isn't watching him to check ( —ah, but there's a thought for later, perhaps: getting him flustered and soaked through with all his ardor— drool and precome both— then push those agile legs back with both hands just to see him spread, thinking he's about to be well fed.
And then breathe on that tight little hole, the one bared just for him.
Watching it tense. Tighten. Entreat Astarion for his sadistic touch as if he could be swayed so easily by anything belonging to this whelp. Oh, he'll make him beg, this time. He'll lick and tease and brush idly over that glossy little measure without plunging in until it all but breaks him, and pride becomes an afterthought: unnecessary and unneeded compared to the primal bliss of being used.) Satisfaction already curled low within the dark pit of his stomach. Contentment pooling underneath the narrow bracket of his ribs. Deciding now to mount him only when he's spent and useless, if only so that he can spend his time staring down at the measure of his own rucked-up handiwork.
Hm.
Maybe their sire was right after all. Maybe they can reconcile— for a time. A short, pleasant, transient time. Maybe, he thinks—
But of course, that was what he'd thought before Fenris opened his mouth.
And just like that, everything beforehand vanishes. Suddenly he isn't thinking— let alone about sweet denouements and rising thirst. Suddenly he doesn't care anymore, at least not half as much as he hears the incessant clamor of words squeezed out through self-smug fangs: pretend it's him— pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
Old man.
His knee lifts.
It's not gradual. It's not part of another bit of movement— no. His knee lifts so that he can slam it down across his counterpart's forearm, wrenching himself forwards until those digging fingers are yanked free in a single wetted little twist (pressure jolts within his belly, and he doesn't care—) his free hand snagging the clasp of that pretty leather collar and with cruelty unbound, drives Fenris face down against the floor.
There: one tan leg swiftly kicked out wide— (there: the other in mirrored twin— ) leaving the younger vampire sprawled flat with his face and body flush against cold marble, his clothing in scrappish tatters: humiliatingly obscene for how he's been made spread-eagled from the waist down, with Astarion perched on his knees between them. That thick cock heavily tapping at the centerline dividing lush curves right down their suddenly unguarded middle, bobbing for every shift in weight while he makes certain there won't be any wriggling free.
Because there won't be.
(Not now. Not anymore.)]
Thank you for that generous offer, my dear, beloved mate.
[The last word curdles on his tongue. So cloying that it nearly bleeds enmity over red-stained lips.
He rocks his hips just once— the crown of his cruel length butting briefly against a cinch that threatens to spread under hardly any coaxing whatsoever (just like its master). It's a simple tap. A push. He barely levers himself at all, and he can feel how tension melts each time he closes in— ]