[Taken by surprise by that avidity— Fenris' mouth is on Astarion before he can do anything but stumble for an acclimating second, his efforts as avaricious as a suckling yearling with its mouth around a bottle.]
G-good boy, there you go.
[Strewth— he'd be laughing if he wasn't groaning in animal reflex as he melts to feel that throat begin to flutter in surrender: the squeeze of it abyssal and lightless in those first few driving inches while their bodies rearrange. The ones that have his blunted crown rammed right into the slope along the back of Fenris' tongue with only a second or two to spare, those obscured lips caught wringing as they slick with rising drool, their grip embracing every jerk and fevered jolt his little lordling's prick decides to offer. Broad contours swallowed like a sheathe, though the slide of hungry pressure's too raw to be finessed given the stop-start bobbing climbing upwards between slim thighs— and maybe that's just Fenris' way. He's a mercenary killer, when all's been said and done. A bodyguard. A fighter. Whatever he did in dark backrooms was probably as rough as Astarion pictured in his dreams (waking and imagined, both), stitched together from the cloth of fisted fingers and lightless eyes pinched shut so hard they'd redden at their edges. Nothing pretty. Nothing refined— at least not when the participants' skin would be smeared around every open cut with a patina of salt and copper blood, burning brighter than the markings on pale legs.
Astarion wishes he could remember those spectral rasps from the night before just to use them now.
....but maybe he won't need them.
Submerged halfway, his cock suddenly feels caught in a vice. A flickering, roiling rush of trembling strain, Fenris' body bucking off what's taming him in a fit that shoves them violently to shore— ]
Fuck, Fenris! A-ah— !!
Shit shit shit. [His thumbs slip across their perch. His palms go next— their edges seething with the scrape of twisting broadcloth before he forces those legs down to stop their struggling: having to use the angled weight of his chest to manage it (and even then, he almost flattens completely— cheek utterly dropping with a sudden smack against that open waistband), groaning into the arch of it all while his vision flecks with spattered stars— strong hands pushing him still into an opening that's too tight, reflexes not yet having caught on that he's too flustered to take him. And then a laugh at last. Breathy, dizzied. His lungs pulsing with air the throat beneath him longs for, making this a battle all its own (two new things struggling in parallel only a handful of hours apart).]
Easy....easy.
[Amused. Said with as much gentleness as a rider tugging the reins of a skittish horse, his hips already lifting to reroute the worst of his intrusion.]
Mmph. Never had a challenge like this before, have you?
All that smug talk about firsts and experience and worldliness I'd never know.... [and oh, oh, you're no better:] laid out flat across your back beneath me, gagging like Petras on his very first cigarette.
[Or his very first cock, for that matter.]
But don't worry, I'll be as gentle as you were to me.
I'll even help keep you quiet so that you don't get caught. [He knows how big he is. Never once doubt that he knows it. It's a point of vulgar pride, after all, and he uses it to his advantage even now: pulling himself back towards the front of Fenris' slickened mouth until his ridgeline sits against the back of pursing lips— a patient pause. One that settles in tangent with his hand diving beneath the waistband of those boxers (elastic scraped across his skin) and seizing their swollen prize just to make sure Fenris won't have the bandwidth to put up any sort of fight. His rooted touch no longer coaxing: it's manhandling. ]
Now inhale like the good little slut I know you can be....and relax your throat this time.
no subject
[Taken by surprise by that avidity— Fenris' mouth is on Astarion before he can do anything but stumble for an acclimating second, his efforts as avaricious as a suckling yearling with its mouth around a bottle.]
G-good boy, there you go.
[Strewth— he'd be laughing if he wasn't groaning in animal reflex as he melts to feel that throat begin to flutter in surrender: the squeeze of it abyssal and lightless in those first few driving inches while their bodies rearrange. The ones that have his blunted crown rammed right into the slope along the back of Fenris' tongue with only a second or two to spare, those obscured lips caught wringing as they slick with rising drool, their grip embracing every jerk and fevered jolt his little lordling's prick decides to offer. Broad contours swallowed like a sheathe, though the slide of hungry pressure's too raw to be finessed given the stop-start bobbing climbing upwards between slim thighs— and maybe that's just Fenris' way. He's a mercenary killer, when all's been said and done. A bodyguard. A fighter. Whatever he did in dark backrooms was probably as rough as Astarion pictured in his dreams (waking and imagined, both), stitched together from the cloth of fisted fingers and lightless eyes pinched shut so hard they'd redden at their edges. Nothing pretty. Nothing refined— at least not when the participants' skin would be smeared around every open cut with a patina of salt and copper blood, burning brighter than the markings on pale legs.
Astarion wishes he could remember those spectral rasps from the night before just to use them now.
....but maybe he won't need them.
Submerged halfway, his cock suddenly feels caught in a vice. A flickering, roiling rush of trembling strain, Fenris' body bucking off what's taming him in a fit that shoves them violently to shore— ]
Fuck, Fenris! A-ah— !!
Shit shit shit. [His thumbs slip across their perch. His palms go next— their edges seething with the scrape of twisting broadcloth before he forces those legs down to stop their struggling: having to use the angled weight of his chest to manage it (and even then, he almost flattens completely— cheek utterly dropping with a sudden smack against that open waistband), groaning into the arch of it all while his vision flecks with spattered stars— strong hands pushing him still into an opening that's too tight, reflexes not yet having caught on that he's too flustered to take him. And then a laugh at last. Breathy, dizzied. His lungs pulsing with air the throat beneath him longs for, making this a battle all its own (two new things struggling in parallel only a handful of hours apart).]
Easy....easy.
[Amused. Said with as much gentleness as a rider tugging the reins of a skittish horse, his hips already lifting to reroute the worst of his intrusion.]
Mmph. Never had a challenge like this before, have you?
All that smug talk about firsts and experience and worldliness I'd never know.... [and oh, oh, you're no better:] laid out flat across your back beneath me, gagging like Petras on his very first cigarette.
[Or his very first cock, for that matter.]
But don't worry, I'll be as gentle as you were to me.
I'll even help keep you quiet so that you don't get caught. [He knows how big he is. Never once doubt that he knows it. It's a point of vulgar pride, after all, and he uses it to his advantage even now: pulling himself back towards the front of Fenris' slickened mouth until his ridgeline sits against the back of pursing lips— a patient pause. One that settles in tangent with his hand diving beneath the waistband of those boxers (elastic scraped across his skin) and seizing their swollen prize just to make sure Fenris won't have the bandwidth to put up any sort of fight. His rooted touch no longer coaxing: it's manhandling. ]
Now inhale like the good little slut I know you can be....and relax your throat this time.
....all the way down.
[What comes next, it's going to run deep.]