There’s something so beautiful about it, the way Fenris shifts beneath him. Spreading himself wider, spine bowing low rather than twisting itself upwards into mistrusting shapes. Even beneath the curses, the snarling, throaty rasps, none of it is distinctly barbed or warning. None of it is a true demand for Astarion to pull away in obedient retreat.
And Astarion, having been laid low too many times before, knows the difference keenly.
Salt sweat prickling across his skin, shuddering on all fours— this is trust, still.
Working in its shadow, Astarion trails his mouth down along Fenris’ back as his fingers all but begin driving down into pliant heat, dragging and curling, working him open right in the open midday air. And when at last his mouth reaches the curve of Fenris’ ass, his grip on that jaw has long since abated, settling instead across his hip. Tongue ever so deviously slow (preceded by breath, teasing cool across feverish skin) dips between his parted fingertips, slipping inside Fenris and flicking— curling serpentine and adoring, adding his own slickness to the fainter taste of lavender.
And then he draws back. Doting still, when he slips the heavy span of his cock against Fenris instead, fingers riding along the ridge as one replaces the other inch by widening inch.
His exhale is narrow. Audible. A groan of a thing as his own neck tips back, mottled sunlight flicking bright orange against the shadow of his eyelids where they’ve slipped shut. As his other hand meets Fenris’ hip as well, guiding him down against rigid contours. Hot and hungering and still throbbing with the thrill of their fight.
"Slow," Astarion promises, breath nearly dripping from his tongue as he pants softly. Clinging to the supple give of Fenris' bewitching submission.
no subject
And Astarion, having been laid low too many times before, knows the difference keenly.
Salt sweat prickling across his skin, shuddering on all fours— this is trust, still.
Working in its shadow, Astarion trails his mouth down along Fenris’ back as his fingers all but begin driving down into pliant heat, dragging and curling, working him open right in the open midday air. And when at last his mouth reaches the curve of Fenris’ ass, his grip on that jaw has long since abated, settling instead across his hip. Tongue ever so deviously slow (preceded by breath, teasing cool across feverish skin) dips between his parted fingertips, slipping inside Fenris and flicking— curling serpentine and adoring, adding his own slickness to the fainter taste of lavender.
And then he draws back. Doting still, when he slips the heavy span of his cock against Fenris instead, fingers riding along the ridge as one replaces the other inch by widening inch.
His exhale is narrow. Audible. A groan of a thing as his own neck tips back, mottled sunlight flicking bright orange against the shadow of his eyelids where they’ve slipped shut. As his other hand meets Fenris’ hip as well, guiding him down against rigid contours. Hot and hungering and still throbbing with the thrill of their fight.
"Slow," Astarion promises, breath nearly dripping from his tongue as he pants softly. Clinging to the supple give of Fenris' bewitching submission.
"Good boy. Just like that."