Astarion rasps in mirroring echo, testing out the feel of it on his own tongue as he measures the feel of Fenris’ in turn. Lyrium-laced thigh butting just against his shoulder, and unlike before it seems more ecstasy than disdain— so he’s slow when his fingers withdraw, inch by slipping inch, careful not to agitate senses that’ve no doubt been blissfully blown out.
A means for him to pull himself up and off of Fenris’ lower half where his weight had settled for the sake of swallowing him down, and it ends with Astarion angled more squarely across Fenris’ shoulders, posture lowered through his own narrow hips.
There’s opportunity in it. A chance for Fenris to take hold of his waist or the edges of his thighs and feel out the rhythm that settles in, or to dig his nails and request it cede, or slow—
But he’s throbbing through his hips, the pit of his stomach twisting in hungering knots, and starved as he is for his own satisfaction he takes that offered mouth as a luxury now: shallower thrusts turning pistoning, his own breathing turned higher. Harsher. The corded muscle of his shoulders taut and tightened as he groans for the simpler pleasure of having something warm and wet so willing to meet him, erasing whatever conscious thought he might've held beyond pistoning his own body into it with senseless abandon.
Gods, Fenris—
Another moan, pinned low in his throat, rumbling in his chest. And despite knowing how sensitive Fenris must’ve been left, one hand moves to roll itself across the base of Fenris’ prick, scuffing more than kneading just for the satisfaction of holding him somehow.
no subject
Astarion rasps in mirroring echo, testing out the feel of it on his own tongue as he measures the feel of Fenris’ in turn. Lyrium-laced thigh butting just against his shoulder, and unlike before it seems more ecstasy than disdain— so he’s slow when his fingers withdraw, inch by slipping inch, careful not to agitate senses that’ve no doubt been blissfully blown out.
A means for him to pull himself up and off of Fenris’ lower half where his weight had settled for the sake of swallowing him down, and it ends with Astarion angled more squarely across Fenris’ shoulders, posture lowered through his own narrow hips.
There’s opportunity in it. A chance for Fenris to take hold of his waist or the edges of his thighs and feel out the rhythm that settles in, or to dig his nails and request it cede, or slow—
But he’s throbbing through his hips, the pit of his stomach twisting in hungering knots, and starved as he is for his own satisfaction he takes that offered mouth as a luxury now: shallower thrusts turning pistoning, his own breathing turned higher. Harsher. The corded muscle of his shoulders taut and tightened as he groans for the simpler pleasure of having something warm and wet so willing to meet him, erasing whatever conscious thought he might've held beyond pistoning his own body into it with senseless abandon.
Gods, Fenris—
Another moan, pinned low in his throat, rumbling in his chest. And despite knowing how sensitive Fenris must’ve been left, one hand moves to roll itself across the base of Fenris’ prick, scuffing more than kneading just for the satisfaction of holding him somehow.