[It's too much (it's not enough). It's too much (and it's nothing, it's nothing, minimal maddening malicious). An endless ebb and flow, a torturous rhythm that never, ever works in his favor—
The slow fucking of his mouth. The seductive lack of a single finger pressing down teasingly against his tongue, taunting him with what he's all but salivating for. Astarion's eyes black as pitch as he stares down at him, his tones dulcet as he plays at teacher: wrap your lips around me, little one. Harder, faster— no, not like that, and it's nothing like he craves. It's the faintest pressure, the most meager drag as it slides slickly past swollen lips, and when his impatience (his rage, his grief, his lust) rises—
Buzz, and Fenris thrashes wildly, his eyes rolling back as frantic moans vibrate in his throat— please I can't please, for that toy is nestled so firmly above that bundle of nerves. Viciously thick, menacingly powerful— he can't think, he can't breathe when it's on, it's like lightning sparking through his veins. Too hot, too powerful, too much I can't too much please, his back arching and his hips wriggling in a futile attempt to escape&dmash;
It ceases.
And then it all begins again.
Over and over and over, and he knows what Astarion is doing. He knows that he is being trained, a nubile little consort educated on how best to please his master— but knowing it doesn't help anything. Fighting doesn't either— how long Astarion had kept him screaming the one time he'd dared to nick his finger with a stray fang? Hours, surely, or at least that's how it felt. Hours upon hours of merciless vibration twitching between his thighs, thrumming and pulsing against his prostate, his cock drooling in whimpering need as it strained against his panties, his orgasm rising, rising, rising—
Only to be cruelly smothered each and every time.
He doesn't know how many times they play like that. All he knows is that suddenly the scent of blood cuts through the sex and sweat, and he realizes that Astarion is drinking. The dark-eyed spawn is near, and oh, Fenris should feel some measure of humiliation for having a witness, but he doesn't care. Not anymore. His thigh tenses where his leg is hoisted over Astaron's shoulder; the other dangles uselessly, leather biting into soft skin as it strains against its cuff.
And Fenris grinds.
Desperately at first: a stop-start rut meant only to work his cock against stiffened leather, gasping softly each time a spark of pleasure travels lazily down his spine. But he can feel Astarion's own cock thick and stiff against the curve of his ass, straining against black leather— and it's easy, then, to adjust. To make sure that every slow grind ruts against that straining length, soft cheeks rocking against him again and again. Rhythmic, eager— and so clearly not trying to take, but give. Every slow push of his hips surely must be bliss to Astarion, a balm to those howling instincts that demand that he take.
Enjoy it. Enjoy what your consort gives you. Enjoy what his body so clearly can't help but offer up in needy tribute . . .]
Do not pretend at kindness as though you have anything but a blackened heart. The lie does not suit you. You wish to take my mouth? Then take it and spare me your lying tongue, for you have never been kind to me—
[His leg jerks, thrashing— and it's an awkward angle, not his best work, but still Fenris manages to wrap one calf around Astarion's back, yanking him forward. Blood spills everywhere, crimson soaking into white lace and pattering on his skin; it matches the smear of red stain on his lips as he bares his fangs. Click, click, and his teeth echo in the air once, twice, straining to meet flesh—
A satisfied growl rumbling in his throat as his fangs scratch at pale flesh, and it doesn't matter if that collar scratches his face in return, for he tastes blood.]
Or are you too frightened of your captive to do anything but tease like a noble, too scared to dare go further?
no subject
The slow fucking of his mouth. The seductive lack of a single finger pressing down teasingly against his tongue, taunting him with what he's all but salivating for. Astarion's eyes black as pitch as he stares down at him, his tones dulcet as he plays at teacher: wrap your lips around me, little one. Harder, faster— no, not like that, and it's nothing like he craves. It's the faintest pressure, the most meager drag as it slides slickly past swollen lips, and when his impatience (his rage, his grief, his lust) rises—
Buzz, and Fenris thrashes wildly, his eyes rolling back as frantic moans vibrate in his throat— please I can't please, for that toy is nestled so firmly above that bundle of nerves. Viciously thick, menacingly powerful— he can't think, he can't breathe when it's on, it's like lightning sparking through his veins. Too hot, too powerful, too much I can't too much please, his back arching and his hips wriggling in a futile attempt to escape&dmash;
It ceases.
And then it all begins again.
Over and over and over, and he knows what Astarion is doing. He knows that he is being trained, a nubile little consort educated on how best to please his master— but knowing it doesn't help anything. Fighting doesn't either— how long Astarion had kept him screaming the one time he'd dared to nick his finger with a stray fang? Hours, surely, or at least that's how it felt. Hours upon hours of merciless vibration twitching between his thighs, thrumming and pulsing against his prostate, his cock drooling in whimpering need as it strained against his panties, his orgasm rising, rising, rising—
Only to be cruelly smothered each and every time.
He doesn't know how many times they play like that. All he knows is that suddenly the scent of blood cuts through the sex and sweat, and he realizes that Astarion is drinking. The dark-eyed spawn is near, and oh, Fenris should feel some measure of humiliation for having a witness, but he doesn't care. Not anymore. His thigh tenses where his leg is hoisted over Astaron's shoulder; the other dangles uselessly, leather biting into soft skin as it strains against its cuff.
And Fenris grinds.
Desperately at first: a stop-start rut meant only to work his cock against stiffened leather, gasping softly each time a spark of pleasure travels lazily down his spine. But he can feel Astarion's own cock thick and stiff against the curve of his ass, straining against black leather— and it's easy, then, to adjust. To make sure that every slow grind ruts against that straining length, soft cheeks rocking against him again and again. Rhythmic, eager— and so clearly not trying to take, but give. Every slow push of his hips surely must be bliss to Astarion, a balm to those howling instincts that demand that he take.
Enjoy it. Enjoy what your consort gives you. Enjoy what his body so clearly can't help but offer up in needy tribute . . .]
Do not pretend at kindness as though you have anything but a blackened heart. The lie does not suit you. You wish to take my mouth? Then take it and spare me your lying tongue, for you have never been kind to me—
[His leg jerks, thrashing— and it's an awkward angle, not his best work, but still Fenris manages to wrap one calf around Astarion's back, yanking him forward. Blood spills everywhere, crimson soaking into white lace and pattering on his skin; it matches the smear of red stain on his lips as he bares his fangs. Click, click, and his teeth echo in the air once, twice, straining to meet flesh—
A satisfied growl rumbling in his throat as his fangs scratch at pale flesh, and it doesn't matter if that collar scratches his face in return, for he tastes blood.]
Or are you too frightened of your captive to do anything but tease like a noble, too scared to dare go further?