[Vulgar are the noises that fill the room in the minutes that follow. The slick sound of a swollen cock ravaging into a hole already wet with use, come and oil splattering slickly against pale skin, dripping down to soak into the sheets. The repetitive slap of skin on skin echoing just beneath it, damningly rhythmic as Astarion settles into taking just what he's owed from his twin— fast and hard and heavy, oh, a mortal could never keep up such a pace, not the way Astarion is. So intense that the air bursts out of Fenris' lungs for each heavy slam of his hips, his head snapping forward as stars dance in front of his eyes; pleasure pulsing through him in electric bursts, crackling through his body over and over each time the blunt head of Astarion's cock batters his prostate with vicious precision. The roughened murmur of voices pitched too low to be heard from the outside, Vakares' even tones offering sweet praise and goading filth as he leans forward to kiss Astarion—
And rising above all that cacophony, Fenris' voice rises in such a filthy moan.
Raggedly, desperately, endlessly: a moaning, mewling little mess that's so overwhelmed with pleasure he can't help but cry out for it, oh, he's so very loud. His voice rising and falling in time with each of Astarion's thrusts, little barks of overwhelmed pleasure slipping past his lips each time his chosen mate hits home— and that's to say nothing of how he screams when he picks up the pace. His voice so loud that surely some guests must overhear it, but gods, he can't worry about that right now. He can't even think right now, not beyond please and yes and don't stop. Drool slips down his chin as his cock slaps and bounces between his belly and his thighs, and he howls for that, too: the way he's so untouched, so untended, a helpless little slut denied release for no other reason than whim.
And so he bounces there: his arms forced back (and oh, how the pain of it only adds to his pleasure) and all of him suddenly and swiftly rendered into little more than biddable hole—
And that's why it's so important that it isn't an order that Astarion issues.
That's why it will matter later, when all is said and done and the heir is decided upon. Not because Fenris doesn't want to do it— but because he does. Because there is some part of him that eternally craves the pleasure of obedience; because there is so little he loves more than moments like these, when all games and pretense are given up and there's nothing but them, animalistic instincts triumphing over all. It's important it isn't an order because Fenris would follow it, addled as he is— and because that can't be the way this night ends.
Clean it. A suggestion, then— and one Fenris leaps upon in an instant.
All his moans suddenly go muffled as he lunges forward, head snapping up to drag his tongue so clumsily against Vakares' prick. Again and again he laps at him, and when his target proves elusive (for oh, gods, how Fenris bounces as he's bred), he simply mouths at him: come smearing over his lips and cheek, droplets lingering on his lips before his sire takes pity and grabs him by the jaw. 'Open', he urges, and slips his cock past that pearl-coated tongue, groaning as lips cinch tight around it.
And he loves it. He does. He loves being of service like this; he loves being shared, the appreciative hands that pet along his flank and cheek, the little bits of praise woven within groaning gasps: good boy, just like that, my sweet little hole so good at taking what he's given . . . and all the while he's stuffed full. Vakares' cock swelling in his mouth as Astarion outright impales him with every undignified snap of his hips, and Fenris moans so jaggedly for it. Helplessly he cinches tight around his twin's prick, his body greedy for the one thing it's craved all night, don't you dare stop.
And all the while his own cock aches for it. Throbs for it, swollen and slick with precome and so sensitive it hurts each time it bounces against something. Every brush of his flushed tip against silken sheets earns a pleading whine; every vicious slap of his cock against his thigh earns a howl of protest, please please don't stop please don't please please—]
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And rising above all that cacophony, Fenris' voice rises in such a filthy moan.
Raggedly, desperately, endlessly: a moaning, mewling little mess that's so overwhelmed with pleasure he can't help but cry out for it, oh, he's so very loud. His voice rising and falling in time with each of Astarion's thrusts, little barks of overwhelmed pleasure slipping past his lips each time his chosen mate hits home— and that's to say nothing of how he screams when he picks up the pace. His voice so loud that surely some guests must overhear it, but gods, he can't worry about that right now. He can't even think right now, not beyond please and yes and don't stop. Drool slips down his chin as his cock slaps and bounces between his belly and his thighs, and he howls for that, too: the way he's so untouched, so untended, a helpless little slut denied release for no other reason than whim.
And so he bounces there: his arms forced back (and oh, how the pain of it only adds to his pleasure) and all of him suddenly and swiftly rendered into little more than biddable hole—
And that's why it's so important that it isn't an order that Astarion issues.
That's why it will matter later, when all is said and done and the heir is decided upon. Not because Fenris doesn't want to do it— but because he does. Because there is some part of him that eternally craves the pleasure of obedience; because there is so little he loves more than moments like these, when all games and pretense are given up and there's nothing but them, animalistic instincts triumphing over all. It's important it isn't an order because Fenris would follow it, addled as he is— and because that can't be the way this night ends.
Clean it. A suggestion, then— and one Fenris leaps upon in an instant.
All his moans suddenly go muffled as he lunges forward, head snapping up to drag his tongue so clumsily against Vakares' prick. Again and again he laps at him, and when his target proves elusive (for oh, gods, how Fenris bounces as he's bred), he simply mouths at him: come smearing over his lips and cheek, droplets lingering on his lips before his sire takes pity and grabs him by the jaw. 'Open', he urges, and slips his cock past that pearl-coated tongue, groaning as lips cinch tight around it.
And he loves it. He does. He loves being of service like this; he loves being shared, the appreciative hands that pet along his flank and cheek, the little bits of praise woven within groaning gasps: good boy, just like that, my sweet little hole so good at taking what he's given . . . and all the while he's stuffed full. Vakares' cock swelling in his mouth as Astarion outright impales him with every undignified snap of his hips, and Fenris moans so jaggedly for it. Helplessly he cinches tight around his twin's prick, his body greedy for the one thing it's craved all night, don't you dare stop.
And all the while his own cock aches for it. Throbs for it, swollen and slick with precome and so sensitive it hurts each time it bounces against something. Every brush of his flushed tip against silken sheets earns a pleading whine; every vicious slap of his cock against his thigh earns a howl of protest, please please don't stop please don't please please—]