There they both are at last. Their instincts— their true instincts— set loose to run boundlessly wild like they always should've been. Not a territorial pair of bitten things fighting over what they already own as if they might soon starve, but this— this: that same territorial pair moaning and rutting— their legs splayed and tongues eager, every part of them panting and rushing to take in more; messy with provocation. A host of soft, percussive slaps and throaty moans gone muffled, no sign of who owns either in any amount when they both are busy spilling dismayed ecstasy like melted sugar. Roiling sensation twisting hotly in the snare of their waiting mouths, their clench-sore palms, their open legs and waiting bellies— lust more poisonous than blood, dragging them closer than ever before through so much restless rutting.
Even an intermission doesn't change that.
Astarion couldn't confess how long it takes for him to readjust himself on uttered command (not much— not much, when they're so flush and dripping with spread ardor— a set of slender legs drawn wide with nothing forcing it, their hips already roughly met). He's miles from his own body by the time Fenris is whipped around (or turned around, or pushed) to face the other way, the full moon of his pristine ass raised in reddened display and dripping at its glazing center: a pretty little hole still slightly swollen from all use that tugs in matching direction when Astarion pulls at rich surrounding swells, toying dazedly with the ability to squeeze, to lift, to spread, to catch its barest edge and make it tremble from tender tension—
To watch its perfect shape pull wide between his thumbs and match the outline of his encroaching cock like a key approaching its intended fit.
A gift.
A gift.
For both of them this time, courtesy of their kind master— puncturing the surface of held stillness with an impatient thrust that only quickens at the base: plap plap plap while thin wrists are caught and pulled back into a wheelbarrowish hold— or something resembling a rider harshly holding reins: Fenris' weight pushed sharply forward through his chest and head and shoulders though his lower half and hands stay back, caught and bouncing in that savage hold. His head swinging wildly beneath the angle of his collarbone, close again to their master's sated prick.
That set of ember eyes that meet Astarion's once his gaze somehow rises from the channel of Fenris' spine and the vulgar-hot ravine of shuddering cheeks speared fully by the mesmerizing measure of a restlessly pistoning cock.]
....Clean it....
[He manages (he thinks), oh, sounding nothing like himself. Listening to his own voice speak with a roughened shiver; hearing something like the grit of lupine fervor or the scrape of gravel over stone, hopelessly breathless.
Clean it. And it's not a command— that's Vakares' to give, after all— and even in a wild haze, he doesn't dare to cross that line.
But they've almost switched positions now, haven't they? Thematically speaking, it'd be such a waste not to let that offer hang there like the former elf whose body he's mounting with dizzying aplomb. The idea of sharing him between them again exalt; swept up in yet another smack of pumping contact (and then another, and another— ) delighting in the kiss of those tight hollows that don't know how to do anything but squeeze to drink in more.]
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There they both are at last. Their instincts— their true instincts— set loose to run boundlessly wild like they always should've been. Not a territorial pair of bitten things fighting over what they already own as if they might soon starve, but this— this: that same territorial pair moaning and rutting— their legs splayed and tongues eager, every part of them panting and rushing to take in more; messy with provocation. A host of soft, percussive slaps and throaty moans gone muffled, no sign of who owns either in any amount when they both are busy spilling dismayed ecstasy like melted sugar. Roiling sensation twisting hotly in the snare of their waiting mouths, their clench-sore palms, their open legs and waiting bellies— lust more poisonous than blood, dragging them closer than ever before through so much restless rutting.
Even an intermission doesn't change that.
Astarion couldn't confess how long it takes for him to readjust himself on uttered command (not much— not much, when they're so flush and dripping with spread ardor— a set of slender legs drawn wide with nothing forcing it, their hips already roughly met). He's miles from his own body by the time Fenris is whipped around (or turned around, or pushed) to face the other way, the full moon of his pristine ass raised in reddened display and dripping at its glazing center: a pretty little hole still slightly swollen from all use that tugs in matching direction when Astarion pulls at rich surrounding swells, toying dazedly with the ability to squeeze, to lift, to spread, to catch its barest edge and make it tremble from tender tension—
To watch its perfect shape pull wide between his thumbs and match the outline of his encroaching cock like a key approaching its intended fit.
A gift.
A gift.
For both of them this time, courtesy of their kind master— puncturing the surface of held stillness with an impatient thrust that only quickens at the base: plap plap plap while thin wrists are caught and pulled back into a wheelbarrowish hold— or something resembling a rider harshly holding reins: Fenris' weight pushed sharply forward through his chest and head and shoulders though his lower half and hands stay back, caught and bouncing in that savage hold. His head swinging wildly beneath the angle of his collarbone, close again to their master's sated prick.
That set of ember eyes that meet Astarion's once his gaze somehow rises from the channel of Fenris' spine and the vulgar-hot ravine of shuddering cheeks speared fully by the mesmerizing measure of a restlessly pistoning cock.]
....Clean it....
[He manages (he thinks), oh, sounding nothing like himself. Listening to his own voice speak with a roughened shiver; hearing something like the grit of lupine fervor or the scrape of gravel over stone, hopelessly breathless.
Clean it. And it's not a command— that's Vakares' to give, after all— and even in a wild haze, he doesn't dare to cross that line.
But they've almost switched positions now, haven't they? Thematically speaking, it'd be such a waste not to let that offer hang there like the former elf whose body he's mounting with dizzying aplomb. The idea of sharing him between them again exalt; swept up in yet another smack of pumping contact (and then another, and another— ) delighting in the kiss of those tight hollows that don't know how to do anything but squeeze to drink in more.]