Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing— thoughts so far from lucidity compared to the primal urging of low, exhilarating hunger. It’s near that point now, when Fenris utters that unrestrained, guttural moan. Astarion wants more of it. He wants more. There’s so little friction to be had with that oil in play between them, turning Astarion’s grip into nothing but constricting, demanding, shifting pressure as Fenris cants his hips into it— as he squeezes his fingertips in an alternating pattern, making every bit of contact maddeningly unpredictable.
His body is tense even as it rolls with fluid grace. He’s forgotten caution, as he suspects Fenris might have, too—
Or, no. He hasn’t forgotten it entirely, only relegated it to the restraint that keeps his fangs in check as his tongue slides deep over Fenris’ own, chasing the wine-laced taste of a broken kiss as if seeking out his breath. His warmth. Restraint, by way of the fact that he hasn’t yet rushed to snare Fenris’ hips with both his hands in order to fuck him so furiously that lithe body might need weeks more to recover.
Because Astarion is, after all, content with this.
Content with the feeling of tangled covers pulled tight and coaxed sighs, and the promise that this uncharted, euphoric territory isn't an offering to anyone but themselves.
Yes, Fenris says, and it sounds like bliss and amusement all tangled together— and Astarion can’t help but laugh against the cradle of that perfect mouth. Sound of it lost the next second to a dizzying groan.
also resurfaces to gather u in my strong arms
Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing— thoughts so far from lucidity compared to the primal urging of low, exhilarating hunger. It’s near that point now, when Fenris utters that unrestrained, guttural moan. Astarion wants more of it. He wants more. There’s so little friction to be had with that oil in play between them, turning Astarion’s grip into nothing but constricting, demanding, shifting pressure as Fenris cants his hips into it— as he squeezes his fingertips in an alternating pattern, making every bit of contact maddeningly unpredictable.
His body is tense even as it rolls with fluid grace. He’s forgotten caution, as he suspects Fenris might have, too—
Or, no. He hasn’t forgotten it entirely, only relegated it to the restraint that keeps his fangs in check as his tongue slides deep over Fenris’ own, chasing the wine-laced taste of a broken kiss as if seeking out his breath. His warmth. Restraint, by way of the fact that he hasn’t yet rushed to snare Fenris’ hips with both his hands in order to fuck him so furiously that lithe body might need weeks more to recover.
Because Astarion is, after all, content with this.
Content with the feeling of tangled covers pulled tight and coaxed sighs, and the promise that this uncharted, euphoric territory isn't an offering to anyone but themselves.
Yes, Fenris says, and it sounds like bliss and amusement all tangled together— and Astarion can’t help but laugh against the cradle of that perfect mouth. Sound of it lost the next second to a dizzying groan.
Strewth.