[Please, the filthy thing between his legs implores, his lips pressed tightly to a risen cock (so thick the borders of his mouth must sting from where they'd stretched; so imposing that the back of his throat must feel raw from that first insistent delve), his hands curled fiercely around soft thighs— and above it all, just out of immediate focus, lean hips raise and wriggle in their sire's grasp, wiggling back and forth as if to beg just as much: Please, please....I've been so good, please—
So good.
So good, like the exhausted little hole left empty and wet with his slick spit, shadowed underneath his chin in eclipsed demonstration: I've been good, can't you see? Rumbled while his shoulder drops and his head turns slightly, showing off Astarion's livid cock instead, burying the evidence of his mean hunger in exchange for— what, exactly? The latter lies pretty and drooling against his profile, but it's no more sated than the former; piquant attention draws out bubbles of shining precome over a thin patina of drool, but it's not come, is it? His master tasked him with a demonstration of doting reciprocity, and now that its reward has come, he flits ardently between its scattered parts, lifing their unfinished fractals as proof of his hard work, desperate for so much praise.
If Astarion had any lucidity left in him, he'd be livid at that ploy.
But that theory hinges on the idea he had any in him already. Gods know he didn't when that tongue was twisting in him, his cheeks forced to spread and his squirming kept tethered while he fretted on a tether— keening for just a hint of mercy. Fuck— he feels high. He feels dizzy, still, his legs shivering where they're caught in a latching hold that's bordering on absent: more claws than fingertips, more stiff— knuckles so clamped tight and unbudging that he sees pinprick lines of red slipped around the edges of turned talons.
It isn't about him anymore.
He's just a bit player now, Astarion. Just that risen cock under those imploring lips. Just the sound and punctuation of one more moaned-out please— echoing in the chamber of his chest without pride or preservation. 'Please, Vakares' tangled up in 'Please, Fenris'— and the rest is background clutter, holding its breath for their dismayed beseechments to be met by that tall shadow that flocks them.
Ambition gives fenris what he wants.
With a grueling slip of well-glazed movement, the tension barring his sire's cock from the heat of his own body breaks: without a second spared for acclimation, the bulbous head that speared the charge plunges deep— ploughing the way as it drags along tight walls until resistance finally meets its molten match— potent girth prying his fluttering cinch outwards so it can't settle. Oh, ambition does swell in him now, doesn't it? Palpable reward having pushed in to the hilt, those mastering hands pumping him over its breadth with unsparing abandon. Everything he'd wanted: his. Wet and slapping, plump and spreading redness over the curvature of his upturned ass—
(Yet that ambition doesn't make him ready to handle it all just yet.
Being the controlling marse of two taxing creatures without succumbing wholly to their conjoined touch, ah, now that takes mastery....)
With his prize pushed roughly in behind him, his quarry slips its lede to demand satisfaction of its own: in a surge just as swift as their proud sire, Astarion's unheld hands rush to fist around pale wisps of straight white hair— cruelly grabbing palmfulls to the root on either side and yanking that open mouth down across his waiting cock— his hips lifting in tangent, trembling as they pump. Push. Pummel. Fuck. They fuck those pretty lips with riled madness, driven to desperation by minutes upon minutes of pent-up teasing. So severe in its momentum Vakares barely needs to move to watch his own prick disappear as dusky hips squirm their way down across its measure again and again and again—
no subject
So good.
So good, like the exhausted little hole left empty and wet with his slick spit, shadowed underneath his chin in eclipsed demonstration: I've been good, can't you see? Rumbled while his shoulder drops and his head turns slightly, showing off Astarion's livid cock instead, burying the evidence of his mean hunger in exchange for— what, exactly? The latter lies pretty and drooling against his profile, but it's no more sated than the former; piquant attention draws out bubbles of shining precome over a thin patina of drool, but it's not come, is it? His master tasked him with a demonstration of doting reciprocity, and now that its reward has come, he flits ardently between its scattered parts, lifing their unfinished fractals as proof of his hard work, desperate for so much praise.
If Astarion had any lucidity left in him, he'd be livid at that ploy.
But that theory hinges on the idea he had any in him already. Gods know he didn't when that tongue was twisting in him, his cheeks forced to spread and his squirming kept tethered while he fretted on a tether— keening for just a hint of mercy. Fuck— he feels high. He feels dizzy, still, his legs shivering where they're caught in a latching hold that's bordering on absent: more claws than fingertips, more stiff— knuckles so clamped tight and unbudging that he sees pinprick lines of red slipped around the edges of turned talons.
It isn't about him anymore.
He's just a bit player now, Astarion. Just that risen cock under those imploring lips. Just the sound and punctuation of one more moaned-out please— echoing in the chamber of his chest without pride or preservation. 'Please, Vakares' tangled up in 'Please, Fenris'— and the rest is background clutter, holding its breath for their dismayed beseechments to be met by that tall shadow that flocks them.
Ambition gives fenris what he wants.
With a grueling slip of well-glazed movement, the tension barring his sire's cock from the heat of his own body breaks: without a second spared for acclimation, the bulbous head that speared the charge plunges deep— ploughing the way as it drags along tight walls until resistance finally meets its molten match— potent girth prying his fluttering cinch outwards so it can't settle. Oh, ambition does swell in him now, doesn't it? Palpable reward having pushed in to the hilt, those mastering hands pumping him over its breadth with unsparing abandon. Everything he'd wanted: his. Wet and slapping, plump and spreading redness over the curvature of his upturned ass—
(Yet that ambition doesn't make him ready to handle it all just yet.
Being the controlling marse of two taxing creatures without succumbing wholly to their conjoined touch, ah, now that takes mastery....)
With his prize pushed roughly in behind him, his quarry slips its lede to demand satisfaction of its own: in a surge just as swift as their proud sire, Astarion's unheld hands rush to fist around pale wisps of straight white hair— cruelly grabbing palmfulls to the root on either side and yanking that open mouth down across his waiting cock— his hips lifting in tangent, trembling as they pump. Push. Pummel. Fuck. They fuck those pretty lips with riled madness, driven to desperation by minutes upon minutes of pent-up teasing. So severe in its momentum Vakares barely needs to move to watch his own prick disappear as dusky hips squirm their way down across its measure again and again and again—
Oh, stunning little Fenris. How lucky you are.
Given everything he'd asked for at both ends.]