It's the first time Fenris has made it— anything. Real, even. Not since he had Astarion by the figurative neck and literal (panting) mouth did anything ever come close, swearing he'd have all of his given charge or none of him: no middle distance. No inbetween. All that tenderness long-forgotten now, all that vulnerability left twisting in the wind for weeks while they acted like it never happened, erasing the trackmarks of that first, tender little kiss. Brittle glass making up the whole of their proximity, uniquely far away from the cruel hounding they've enacted since.
No, if we are to do this is a different sort of commitment. It feels....broader, somehow. Uglier and less breakable.
More them, maybe.
Even if there's no indication of what this actually is (a fling? A rut? A kidnapping? An inevitable scandal involving a runaway heir, disappeared from his own home by a snatched-up slave); no definition to it outside fingerprints on jaws and dark-bruised thighs, the fact of the matter is— Astarion likes it. Something in his own pulse jumping as his lips pull into a wicked smile, its outline trapped inside the cage of smugness and pure want.]
Relax, old man.
[A test. A test when he shifts two fingers away from that striped chin and pushes them against (into) that mouth, phone tipped downwards by degrees.]
No one else will ever see them.
[Click— sings his phone, like the flick of a blade nicking thicker armor.
Angled lower, to where the tip of his cock meets bright tattoos through gauzy fabric.
—click.]
Besides, you're so pretty like this....
Sort of begs the question if it's what you looked like when I throatfucked you, doesn't it?
[Though there's always one way to find out.
(Grin twitching, toes shifting just to scoot himself higher up that narrow torso in a playful little threat that's not a threat— pale fingers pushing deeper.)]
no subject
It's the first time Fenris has made it— anything. Real, even. Not since he had Astarion by the figurative neck and literal (panting) mouth did anything ever come close, swearing he'd have all of his given charge or none of him: no middle distance. No inbetween. All that tenderness long-forgotten now, all that vulnerability left twisting in the wind for weeks while they acted like it never happened, erasing the trackmarks of that first, tender little kiss. Brittle glass making up the whole of their proximity, uniquely far away from the cruel hounding they've enacted since.
No, if we are to do this is a different sort of commitment. It feels....broader, somehow. Uglier and less breakable.
More them, maybe.
Even if there's no indication of what this actually is (a fling? A rut? A kidnapping? An inevitable scandal involving a runaway heir, disappeared from his own home by a snatched-up slave); no definition to it outside fingerprints on jaws and dark-bruised thighs, the fact of the matter is— Astarion likes it. Something in his own pulse jumping as his lips pull into a wicked smile, its outline trapped inside the cage of smugness and pure want.]
Relax, old man.
[A test. A test when he shifts two fingers away from that striped chin and pushes them against (into) that mouth, phone tipped downwards by degrees.]
No one else will ever see them.
[Click— sings his phone, like the flick of a blade nicking thicker armor.
Angled lower, to where the tip of his cock meets bright tattoos through gauzy fabric.
—click.]
Besides, you're so pretty like this....
Sort of begs the question if it's what you looked like when I throatfucked you, doesn't it?
[Though there's always one way to find out.
(Grin twitching, toes shifting just to scoot himself higher up that narrow torso in a playful little threat that's not a threat— pale fingers pushing deeper.)]