[As if he minds. As if he isn't preening over each and every word, smirking down at his notebook as heat flares in the pit of his stomach. Each incident flits through his mind in a hazy amalgam of keen sensation and disjointed memory: Astarion sprawled out beneath him, pale and perfect, trembling in overstimulated desire and mewling out Leto's name between pleas for mercy, his eyes rolling back each time he was teased and edged and forced to be good. Or: Astarion with his arms folded behind his head, a reckless grin stretched over his face and his eyes gleaming white in the darkness, watching as those hands fucked every inch of Fenris. Fingers in her mouth, her ass, thrusting and diving and stretching as all the while, she was impaled upon his cock— bounced and rut and claimed, come dripping down her face and staining her thighs, her voice hoarse and muffled as he forced her to take more and more, a brutal gangbang all his own—]
Bad dog.
[And that's to say nothing of their fight. The inglorious humiliation of Astarion coming on his face; the vengeful glee of watching him rut and rock against Fenris' shin, only to be forced into his lap and onto the floor . . . oh, he lingers on that memory for far too long. Long enough that ink soaks into the parchment; long enough that when his mind flits to the bath, warm skin and slick fingers and endless intimacy tucked into soft words, he's long since had to cross one leg over the other for the sake of his own dignity.]
I said one, little cheater. Now what am I meant to do with you?
[Oh, gods, he wants to be home so badly. He deserves to be home; they both deserve to be able to pounce on each other after this. And yet he is not so comfortable with his own magic that he'll risk even an unguarded flame, never mind teleportation— so the long way it is. He'll start walking home just as soon as he can get himself under control.]
But if you're going to be so clever, my vampire, then continue to put it to good use. Tell me the real one now.
no subject
[As if he minds. As if he isn't preening over each and every word, smirking down at his notebook as heat flares in the pit of his stomach. Each incident flits through his mind in a hazy amalgam of keen sensation and disjointed memory: Astarion sprawled out beneath him, pale and perfect, trembling in overstimulated desire and mewling out Leto's name between pleas for mercy, his eyes rolling back each time he was teased and edged and forced to be good. Or: Astarion with his arms folded behind his head, a reckless grin stretched over his face and his eyes gleaming white in the darkness, watching as those hands fucked every inch of Fenris. Fingers in her mouth, her ass, thrusting and diving and stretching as all the while, she was impaled upon his cock— bounced and rut and claimed, come dripping down her face and staining her thighs, her voice hoarse and muffled as he forced her to take more and more, a brutal gangbang all his own—]
Bad dog.
[And that's to say nothing of their fight. The inglorious humiliation of Astarion coming on his face; the vengeful glee of watching him rut and rock against Fenris' shin, only to be forced into his lap and onto the floor . . . oh, he lingers on that memory for far too long. Long enough that ink soaks into the parchment; long enough that when his mind flits to the bath, warm skin and slick fingers and endless intimacy tucked into soft words, he's long since had to cross one leg over the other for the sake of his own dignity.]
I said one, little cheater. Now what am I meant to do with you?
[Oh, gods, he wants to be home so badly. He deserves to be home; they both deserve to be able to pounce on each other after this. And yet he is not so comfortable with his own magic that he'll risk even an unguarded flame, never mind teleportation— so the long way it is. He'll start walking home just as soon as he can get himself under control.]
But if you're going to be so clever, my vampire, then continue to put it to good use. Tell me the real one now.