[Why it feels so much better than usual, Astarion will never have time to ask.
Smack—
And that first blow nearly breaks him.
The second one succeeds. A rush of tears welling in his eyes right as they stutter and roll back, harsh pressure like a hammer pounded over a nail no matter how he locks his knees, driving him so much deeper into base of Fenris' throat until it turns into dangerous facsimile of thrusting when he tries to pull back out. Shallow, suspended, stilled— smack—
Smack—
And the friction of the plunge shakes him to his core each time. Starburst pangs of pain blossoming into pleasure as they flood his synapses like a shockwave, tasting gunpowder under his flattened tongue; he's so close to howling that the next strike has him barking from the air that rushes from his lungs, but it's not a conscious effort. Not willing. He's hearing his own voice instead of feeling even a shiver of its reverberation, and the second that it hits his ears in a mewling cry he knows he has to sink his teeth into something. Anything, otherwise— otherwise—
(Otherwise nothing: he never gets that far before self preservation saves them both.) There's only one hard yank of his jaw clamping onto dampened boxers right beside the cock he fights to service while his own hips rattle under impact spanning either of his upturned cheeks— be calm, be calm— as if soothing some wild beast with trembling strokes pinched tight between his forefinger and shuttling thumb.
Oh, it can't last forever. Fenris will need air, or that virgin throat of his will start to struggle, gagging and bobbing again soon enough the way it did before. It can't last, he tries to tell himself as he braces for the next oncoming hit. It can't—
But between the mouth wrapped tight and suckling around him, between the stinging of his cheeks beneath a thin veneer of cloth that scuffs at every welling handprint, he might not make it, either.]
Fenris— [he hisses out, a muffled whisper that dips into a whine for just a second, elastic slipped hard between clenched teeth and pulled (but is he yanking on Fenris' bit to stop him, or is he chewing on his own?)]
F-fff....[Fuck. Fuck. Gods below and Maker, all. His forehead scuffs against that thigh, draped and scrubbing with his curls, eyes still tightly shut. It's more controlled than the canting of his hips, at least, or the way his thickened crown beats against the hollow of its sheathe.] —the- the door.
[And like an offer barely managed, he tries to fit his mouth around the thing he's working: tender length made rock-hard and straining when he brings his lips to kiss its salivating crown, glossing them with ardor. Please. Please. Be good (be smart). It can be a truce, not a bloody battle, can't it? They've gotten in their blows, their wicked little warning shots: take the figurative sussur branch. The offering he'll trade, since nothing comes for free.
no subject
Smack—
And that first blow nearly breaks him.
The second one succeeds. A rush of tears welling in his eyes right as they stutter and roll back, harsh pressure like a hammer pounded over a nail no matter how he locks his knees, driving him so much deeper into base of Fenris' throat until it turns into dangerous facsimile of thrusting when he tries to pull back out. Shallow, suspended, stilled— smack—
Smack—
And the friction of the plunge shakes him to his core each time. Starburst pangs of pain blossoming into pleasure as they flood his synapses like a shockwave, tasting gunpowder under his flattened tongue; he's so close to howling that the next strike has him barking from the air that rushes from his lungs, but it's not a conscious effort. Not willing. He's hearing his own voice instead of feeling even a shiver of its reverberation, and the second that it hits his ears in a mewling cry he knows he has to sink his teeth into something. Anything, otherwise— otherwise—
(Otherwise nothing: he never gets that far before self preservation saves them both.) There's only one hard yank of his jaw clamping onto dampened boxers right beside the cock he fights to service while his own hips rattle under impact spanning either of his upturned cheeks— be calm, be calm— as if soothing some wild beast with trembling strokes pinched tight between his forefinger and shuttling thumb.
Oh, it can't last forever. Fenris will need air, or that virgin throat of his will start to struggle, gagging and bobbing again soon enough the way it did before. It can't last, he tries to tell himself as he braces for the next oncoming hit. It can't—
But between the mouth wrapped tight and suckling around him, between the stinging of his cheeks beneath a thin veneer of cloth that scuffs at every welling handprint, he might not make it, either.]
Fenris— [he hisses out, a muffled whisper that dips into a whine for just a second, elastic slipped hard between clenched teeth and pulled (but is he yanking on Fenris' bit to stop him, or is he chewing on his own?)]
F-fff....[Fuck. Fuck. Gods below and Maker, all. His forehead scuffs against that thigh, draped and scrubbing with his curls, eyes still tightly shut. It's more controlled than the canting of his hips, at least, or the way his thickened crown beats against the hollow of its sheathe.] —the- the door.
[And like an offer barely managed, he tries to fit his mouth around the thing he's working: tender length made rock-hard and straining when he brings his lips to kiss its salivating crown, glossing them with ardor. Please. Please. Be good (be smart). It can be a truce, not a bloody battle, can't it? They've gotten in their blows, their wicked little warning shots: take the figurative sussur branch. The offering he'll trade, since nothing comes for free.
Better that than self destruction....isn't it?]