Praise so potent it boils in the pit of his stomach (while his lips run tight around his maker's divine breadth, messily inviting worship) through voiceless pops of slick saliva welling thick against his lips. Posited scenario so inviting he can't help but break into a submerged groan while his head bobs appreciatively up and down (and up and down— ) milking at a cock more perfect than it has any right to be in a rough substitute for fantasy made real; told not to palm himself— behaved enough to abide by it regardless of how his fingers twitch— but desperate enough to fulfill his need another way: noisily suckling at that prick in rhythmic measure that's matched to the bouncing of his unclaimed hips. As if bumping it to the back of his throat over and over again is the same feeling of pressure described in lurid detail.
A whore rutting with spread legs. Eager to please. Eager to open himself to being brought low in every last sense of the word. Used. Fucked. Ridden hard and put away wetter than anyone might have thought possible.
Transitive friction near to palpable if he shuts his eyes (if he focuses long enough for the sluggish drag across his tongue, his lips— down, down into the back of his throat), and it's not hard to think he's already seated atop the sire he covets above all else, taking his conquered pleasure from gilded heighths instead of waiting for it to be offered on a silver platter.
Good boy.
Words lapping distantly at the shores of his own focus, thrumming like the very weight within his mouth (and while it's been a while since he bedded something living, he'd swear his master's just as scalding as he feels: white-hot jolts of reflex warring wildly along his tongue with ruthless patience), unhurried to reach the finish line. In the wreckage of a room (a hall, a wing) sporting the evidence of his countless misdemeanors and well-aimed slights, he is a good boy now. Of that, he's keenly certain.
The world, Vakares says. True both ways, if one feels like being metonymical.
An entire world trapped inside the margins of their merger.]
I know.
[Slick, the outline of those words. Brief interlude fit against the underside of a well-loved cock gone flush with spared attention.]
And could you blame me for being eager? [Asked while his knuckles slide between soft thighs, working slowly at plush curvatures left buried beneath dark trousers and their unwound laces. Methodical and sweet.]
You were a bewitching fascination in those days compared to anything I'd ever known. Willful and isolated both.
[Not strictly Astarion's past, but....oh, it is the past, isn't it? Close to the horizon, like a foothold left exposed.]
no subject
Praise so potent it boils in the pit of his stomach (while his lips run tight around his maker's divine breadth, messily inviting worship) through voiceless pops of slick saliva welling thick against his lips. Posited scenario so inviting he can't help but break into a submerged groan while his head bobs appreciatively up and down (and up and down— ) milking at a cock more perfect than it has any right to be in a rough substitute for fantasy made real; told not to palm himself— behaved enough to abide by it regardless of how his fingers twitch— but desperate enough to fulfill his need another way: noisily suckling at that prick in rhythmic measure that's matched to the bouncing of his unclaimed hips. As if bumping it to the back of his throat over and over again is the same feeling of pressure described in lurid detail.
A whore rutting with spread legs. Eager to please. Eager to open himself to being brought low in every last sense of the word. Used. Fucked. Ridden hard and put away wetter than anyone might have thought possible.
Transitive friction near to palpable if he shuts his eyes (if he focuses long enough for the sluggish drag across his tongue, his lips— down, down into the back of his throat), and it's not hard to think he's already seated atop the sire he covets above all else, taking his conquered pleasure from gilded heighths instead of waiting for it to be offered on a silver platter.
Good boy.
Words lapping distantly at the shores of his own focus, thrumming like the very weight within his mouth (and while it's been a while since he bedded something living, he'd swear his master's just as scalding as he feels: white-hot jolts of reflex warring wildly along his tongue with ruthless patience), unhurried to reach the finish line. In the wreckage of a room (a hall, a wing) sporting the evidence of his countless misdemeanors and well-aimed slights, he is a good boy now. Of that, he's keenly certain.
The world, Vakares says. True both ways, if one feels like being metonymical.
An entire world trapped inside the margins of their merger.]
I know.
[Slick, the outline of those words. Brief interlude fit against the underside of a well-loved cock gone flush with spared attention.]
And could you blame me for being eager? [Asked while his knuckles slide between soft thighs, working slowly at plush curvatures left buried beneath dark trousers and their unwound laces. Methodical and sweet.]
You were a bewitching fascination in those days compared to anything I'd ever known. Willful and isolated both.
[Not strictly Astarion's past, but....oh, it is the past, isn't it? Close to the horizon, like a foothold left exposed.]