Freed fingers already scrabbling at Fenris' thighs, his eyes still partway rolled beneath his lids, jaw open and quivering for the next encroaching thrust of coarsegrained fingers (that taste so good— like oaken casks or sandalwood and the crispness prior to a storm), filled up with the scrape of bitter salt dragging hot along the back of his tongue in a rhythm that won't settle, pushing him further and further into the crook of Fenris' waiting shoulder without so much as a breathy, whimpered fuss: every bit of him remolded with senseless ease in the way something wild knows to settle when it's scruffed. And really, what difference is there? Kept upright beneath Fenris' arm and the measure of that rigid cock pushed snug around the bottom of his cheeks: he'd be on the floor if that teetering sense of pleasurable fatigue had its way with him, not that it changes much. His limbs are still limp. His neck's still craning under the pleading urge for more— playing witness to how Fenris fucks steadily into the channel that barely divides his legs— his own spent span splayed across his upper thighs and flush for how it throbs in gravity's harsh grip; he's shuddering under its palpitating aches more than the halfhearted gushes of pearl that languidly crawl down to channel against leather and sore skin in their own time, framing each of those sawing pumps with the sight of everything they've made. Wet between his legs and proven wet behind the ears.
Excitement and exhilaration making him sweet against an onslaught that he purrs for as it tears him into shreds.
Overstimulated. Understoked— all that he can think of is that he's grateful his cock's gone too limp to be of use. That he can't sink further into this game (oh, little elf, how wrong you are....) when the click of heels and familiar voices mingle with Fenris' reverberating chastisement against the shell of his ear, and the low, muffled keen Astarion makes out of contentment (for that's what it is, mistake it for nothing else but that) never makes it past his lips: pumped right back down by the pads of fingers that could crawl into his stomach if they wanted. Into his chest. His heart. His veins. Fuck— he doesn't care, so long as they don't leave; sinking his teeth in cruelly for the overriding burst of a few seconds where his mind stutters hard enough to hurt (to feel beyond wonderful)— swallowing the crook of his knuckles, though that's as far as it goes. Length, alas, only lets fingertips slide so far back, and no matter how he works his throat for more, he can't have it. Can't have anything, in fact, the shuttling of that prick still teasing the underside of him so that he's riled but not close, and yet he could, he thinks— or only realizes, maybe. He could come like this. He could, he could, he could. Just with a little more....and more....and....
(He could.)
To just the patter of those feet and the brace of Fenris' strong chest. To the way his heels are useless: buckled and reduced to a static buzz that underscores every jostle of his overwhelmed cock. To the way he reaches back again, raw momentum leading, to hook his fingers in those pants behind him, twisting against fabric with his pristine nails until they anchor, threatening to break beneath bright lacquer. His mind a roaring blaze of empty heat, dissembling everything into more of that contagious, vacant shriek that cracks between his teeth, welcoming grotesque vulgarity instead of pressure.
And then he—
(Comes.)
Bites down.
Again.
Synaptic crackle searing away minutes (or seconds?) a second, reeling time: sensation sounding like the high-pitched soughing of plastic against metal as it churns inside his skull into a violent snap that he can taste— he's thrashing in his mind and stilling in reality; his cock the only thing that jerks just once, throat a gurgling mess of extant bliss— imagining this, craving this, for exactly what it is. Everything. Everything. Everything he could want and everything he needs, swallowing him pride-first two steps away from his friends. His peers. Ten away from his conquests. Mewling and moaning for the meal he hasn't even had yet that keeps on taunting and tempting him to ruinous despoilment.
So it's the third bite that brings him back enough to sink his figurative fangs in like a twitch of half-strung awareness clinging to fractured reflexes.
A twinge of pressure before his jaws finally clamp tight around thick knuckles, bearing down until they shake. Until his tongue begins to lathe between caught digits in a stumbling pattern. Still whining, still wanting, still heaving on the verge of consciousness itself, but stubborn in it. Unwilling to let go when there's nothing left to give.
Staying latched through trembling palms and working with his own numbed hips no matter how his body screams. He will take this. He will prove he's not some pampered thing in need of service. That he can rut harder. Fight better. The echo of some dark, damp alleyway ringing in his ears alongside the bone-deep shock of orgasm, spurring him against himself. Don't pity him. Don't you dare— ]
no subject
Freed fingers already scrabbling at Fenris' thighs, his eyes still partway rolled beneath his lids, jaw open and quivering for the next encroaching thrust of coarsegrained fingers (that taste so good— like oaken casks or sandalwood and the crispness prior to a storm), filled up with the scrape of bitter salt dragging hot along the back of his tongue in a rhythm that won't settle, pushing him further and further into the crook of Fenris' waiting shoulder without so much as a breathy, whimpered fuss: every bit of him remolded with senseless ease in the way something wild knows to settle when it's scruffed. And really, what difference is there? Kept upright beneath Fenris' arm and the measure of that rigid cock pushed snug around the bottom of his cheeks: he'd be on the floor if that teetering sense of pleasurable fatigue had its way with him, not that it changes much. His limbs are still limp. His neck's still craning under the pleading urge for more— playing witness to how Fenris fucks steadily into the channel that barely divides his legs— his own spent span splayed across his upper thighs and flush for how it throbs in gravity's harsh grip; he's shuddering under its palpitating aches more than the halfhearted gushes of pearl that languidly crawl down to channel against leather and sore skin in their own time, framing each of those sawing pumps with the sight of everything they've made. Wet between his legs and proven wet behind the ears.
Excitement and exhilaration making him sweet against an onslaught that he purrs for as it tears him into shreds.
Overstimulated. Understoked— all that he can think of is that he's grateful his cock's gone too limp to be of use. That he can't sink further into this game (oh, little elf, how wrong you are....) when the click of heels and familiar voices mingle with Fenris' reverberating chastisement against the shell of his ear, and the low, muffled keen Astarion makes out of contentment (for that's what it is, mistake it for nothing else but that) never makes it past his lips: pumped right back down by the pads of fingers that could crawl into his stomach if they wanted. Into his chest. His heart. His veins. Fuck— he doesn't care, so long as they don't leave; sinking his teeth in cruelly for the overriding burst of a few seconds where his mind stutters hard enough to hurt (to feel beyond wonderful)— swallowing the crook of his knuckles, though that's as far as it goes. Length, alas, only lets fingertips slide so far back, and no matter how he works his throat for more, he can't have it. Can't have anything, in fact, the shuttling of that prick still teasing the underside of him so that he's riled but not close, and yet he could, he thinks— or only realizes, maybe. He could come like this. He could, he could, he could. Just with a little more....and more....and....
(He could.)
To just the patter of those feet and the brace of Fenris' strong chest. To the way his heels are useless: buckled and reduced to a static buzz that underscores every jostle of his overwhelmed cock. To the way he reaches back again, raw momentum leading, to hook his fingers in those pants behind him, twisting against fabric with his pristine nails until they anchor, threatening to break beneath bright lacquer. His mind a roaring blaze of empty heat, dissembling everything into more of that contagious, vacant shriek that cracks between his teeth, welcoming grotesque vulgarity instead of pressure.
And then he—
(Comes.)
Bites down.
Again.
Synaptic crackle searing away minutes (or seconds?) a second, reeling time: sensation sounding like the high-pitched soughing of plastic against metal as it churns inside his skull into a violent snap that he can taste— he's thrashing in his mind and stilling in reality; his cock the only thing that jerks just once, throat a gurgling mess of extant bliss— imagining this, craving this, for exactly what it is. Everything. Everything. Everything he could want and everything he needs, swallowing him pride-first two steps away from his friends. His peers. Ten away from his conquests. Mewling and moaning for the meal he hasn't even had yet that keeps on taunting and tempting him to ruinous despoilment.
So it's the third bite that brings him back enough to sink his figurative fangs in like a twitch of half-strung awareness clinging to fractured reflexes.
A twinge of pressure before his jaws finally clamp tight around thick knuckles, bearing down until they shake. Until his tongue begins to lathe between caught digits in a stumbling pattern. Still whining, still wanting, still heaving on the verge of consciousness itself, but stubborn in it. Unwilling to let go when there's nothing left to give.
Staying latched through trembling palms and working with his own numbed hips no matter how his body screams. He will take this. He will prove he's not some pampered thing in need of service. That he can rut harder. Fight better. The echo of some dark, damp alleyway ringing in his ears alongside the bone-deep shock of orgasm, spurring him against himself. Don't pity him. Don't you dare— ]