[Gods, but part of him wants to snarl. To bite. To answer every smug, arrogant, humiliating little taunt with a retort of his own, breathed out in Astarion's ear as he flips him over and takes him the way he deserves—
And yet he wants this, too.
More than to fight back. More than anything, humiliation a dizzyingly potent aphrodisiac that crashes over him and shakes him to his core, leaving him slavering and starved for more. A dark flush floods his face and creeps down his chest, his lips and tongue aching from the slow, slick slide of Astarion's prick as he draws his hips up. No, and there's a whimper there, protesting despite the dampness in Fenris' eyes, overexertion still burning his throat. No don't, the tip of his tongue sliding pleadingly against Astarion's slit, begging him not to take his treat away.
Inhale, and he does: raggedly, wetly, his throat struggling to relax even as some part of his mind seethes in snarling defeat. Fury tangles with desire so potent it all but drowns him, leaving him resentful even as he trembles in anticipation. His ears dark at the tips and his fingers flexing as he grips one pale thigh, blunt nails digging in as he waits impatiently—
And when that first plunge comes, it's overwhelming.
It's everything, it's everything, overloading his every sense, smothering him in the sweetest way— Fenris moans as he feels Astarion's cock slowly but steadily penetrate him, every passing inch thicker than the last. His jaw is forced open achingly wide, his tongue flattened with dizzying ease— he can't breathe and he doesn't care, for the bitter taste of precome that drips down his throat is so much sweeter than any gasp of air he's ever inhaled. The muscles of his throat ripple as they expand, squeezing tight each time he desperately swallows (again again again), suckling and drooling around the girth of him as his eyes roll back. More please more, his prick so heavy, so thick, so searingly hot as it claims every inch of his mouth and throat—
And then draws back.
Only to plunge in again. Again. Again,, teasing little dips that force Fenris to acclimatize each time, learning the rhythm of relaxing his throat and jaw at command. There you are, and he doesn't know if he hears his voice or merely imagines he does, humiliating praise leaving him trembling either way. My good little slut, and this time Fenris does moan—
Only to belatedly understand Astarion's taunt about being quiet. It isn't fingers that muffle this time, but the swollen length of his prick— so heavy and thick that it smothers his vocal chords, reducing him to needy gags and spit-slick gurgles of pleasure. Reduced to little more than whorish cocksleeve, and he fights for that position— his cheeks going hollow as he sucks, his lips a searingly tight cinch around the width of that cock. His tongue drags as best it can beneath that heavy weight, all of him too hungry to finally taste his little patriar to care about positions—
And yet some spark of rebellion remains. A better attempt at retort than any word or sound: how his hand draws back and strikes at one pale cheek, his palm stinging as it lands against soft flesh. Again, again again again, rapidfire and eager, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing around the room too loudly, and yet Fenris can't find it in him to regret it. Not when he feels that thick cock jolt within the confines of his throat; not when every blow has been more than earned. And it isn't the punishment he still dreams of enacting on his brat, sprawling him out over his lap and patiently spanking him until he sobs—
no subject
[Gods, but part of him wants to snarl. To bite. To answer every smug, arrogant, humiliating little taunt with a retort of his own, breathed out in Astarion's ear as he flips him over and takes him the way he deserves—
And yet he wants this, too.
More than to fight back. More than anything, humiliation a dizzyingly potent aphrodisiac that crashes over him and shakes him to his core, leaving him slavering and starved for more. A dark flush floods his face and creeps down his chest, his lips and tongue aching from the slow, slick slide of Astarion's prick as he draws his hips up. No, and there's a whimper there, protesting despite the dampness in Fenris' eyes, overexertion still burning his throat. No don't, the tip of his tongue sliding pleadingly against Astarion's slit, begging him not to take his treat away.
Inhale, and he does: raggedly, wetly, his throat struggling to relax even as some part of his mind seethes in snarling defeat. Fury tangles with desire so potent it all but drowns him, leaving him resentful even as he trembles in anticipation. His ears dark at the tips and his fingers flexing as he grips one pale thigh, blunt nails digging in as he waits impatiently—
And when that first plunge comes, it's overwhelming.
It's everything, it's everything, overloading his every sense, smothering him in the sweetest way— Fenris moans as he feels Astarion's cock slowly but steadily penetrate him, every passing inch thicker than the last. His jaw is forced open achingly wide, his tongue flattened with dizzying ease— he can't breathe and he doesn't care, for the bitter taste of precome that drips down his throat is so much sweeter than any gasp of air he's ever inhaled. The muscles of his throat ripple as they expand, squeezing tight each time he desperately swallows (again again again), suckling and drooling around the girth of him as his eyes roll back. More please more, his prick so heavy, so thick, so searingly hot as it claims every inch of his mouth and throat—
And then draws back.
Only to plunge in again. Again. Again,, teasing little dips that force Fenris to acclimatize each time, learning the rhythm of relaxing his throat and jaw at command. There you are, and he doesn't know if he hears his voice or merely imagines he does, humiliating praise leaving him trembling either way. My good little slut, and this time Fenris does moan—
Only to belatedly understand Astarion's taunt about being quiet. It isn't fingers that muffle this time, but the swollen length of his prick— so heavy and thick that it smothers his vocal chords, reducing him to needy gags and spit-slick gurgles of pleasure. Reduced to little more than whorish cocksleeve, and he fights for that position— his cheeks going hollow as he sucks, his lips a searingly tight cinch around the width of that cock. His tongue drags as best it can beneath that heavy weight, all of him too hungry to finally taste his little patriar to care about positions—
And yet some spark of rebellion remains. A better attempt at retort than any word or sound: how his hand draws back and strikes at one pale cheek, his palm stinging as it lands against soft flesh. Again, again again again, rapidfire and eager, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing around the room too loudly, and yet Fenris can't find it in him to regret it. Not when he feels that thick cock jolt within the confines of his throat; not when every blow has been more than earned. And it isn't the punishment he still dreams of enacting on his brat, sprawling him out over his lap and patiently spanking him until he sobs—
But it's a start.]