[What a mate he is, nosing at her with all the churlish insistence of his age: testing boundaries and borders and hoping he might find its iron gate nothing more than painted fenceposts— flimsy enough to expertly slip through. Not meanly. Not brutishly, or with no concern for the reason they'd been staked down in the first place, but rather draped with the sincerity of wolfish hunger. What the pups do with tins of treats wherein they stretch their paws high against shut lids and gently, gently press to see if it isn't well-secured, and appealing to the laws of physics that grander outside forces do the rest. Not a scrap of wickedness in sight, save for the growling of their bellies. Tightly locked muscle and fixated stares. All harmless.
Just hungry.
And Astarion can't blame anyone for that.
Deliberate in her own rise towards his fingers, unable to resist the pleasant pull of friction they provide. Fencing in her focus by pure, compulsive proxy, it funnels down like rain into the channels of her contours— the places where his fingerprints stick, run flush, run tight— where supple skin meets velvet slickness, and even lifelessness goes flush with fervent warmth. Its wordless confessions of interest speaking loud within each picture; the snap-click of that captive camera working like a maddened archivist-et-translator, pouring paper after slip of paper out onto the floor.
She groans.
She sighs.
Tilts her head towards him as her body cranes closer to his prick—
And then he's gone. Drawn back, away from the bliss of their entanglement, and her own hand swipes out low towards that camera in response.]
Don't you dare act coy after that, you filthy little tease— [drags from her a sharp-rimmed scoff, all teeth, that like the rest of her moves to hunt him down: crowding his larger form with her own diminutive silhouette against a nearby wall, so that he's nowhere left to run if he doesn't chance a swift withdrawal before then.]
no subject
Just hungry.
And Astarion can't blame anyone for that.
Deliberate in her own rise towards his fingers, unable to resist the pleasant pull of friction they provide. Fencing in her focus by pure, compulsive proxy, it funnels down like rain into the channels of her contours— the places where his fingerprints stick, run flush, run tight— where supple skin meets velvet slickness, and even lifelessness goes flush with fervent warmth. Its wordless confessions of interest speaking loud within each picture; the snap-click of that captive camera working like a maddened archivist-et-translator, pouring paper after slip of paper out onto the floor.
She groans.
She sighs.
Tilts her head towards him as her body cranes closer to his prick—
And then he's gone. Drawn back, away from the bliss of their entanglement, and her own hand swipes out low towards that camera in response.]
Don't you dare act coy after that, you filthy little tease— [drags from her a sharp-rimmed scoff, all teeth, that like the rest of her moves to hunt him down: crowding his larger form with her own diminutive silhouette against a nearby wall, so that he's nowhere left to run if he doesn't chance a swift withdrawal before then.]