Despite the vulgar beauty of it all, despite the sleek sweeps of pallid suppleness working down into hessonite again and again and again, it doesn't do anything to lessen the battle underneath. Expand— snap— he can feel it before he sees it: the muscle beneath him clenching once— twice— his vision blurring wildly as he feels his hole stretch against a quaking grip, but it can't knock out the sharpness of his instincts; he'd recognize that pulsating lock anywhere, ingrained as it is after so many midnight trysts that taught him where to put his tongue or roll his spine. He recognizes it like the acrid scent that spells out a full-bodied red or a flowery white, even without looking down inside the bottle that's been held. Force of habit such a potent thing even in abstract periphery, still lapping up overheated salt and the glazing backwash of his own spit while his senses flare inside close quarters.
Fenris is about to come.
Fenris comes.
Expand— snap— and gods, tightness has him in a vice grip from the cock up; inside his mouth, he feels that thickness swell across sore lips until his throat is plunged into the first thundering gush of roaring heat. A splash that sinks like swallowed embers down into the basin of his chest, scalding him until he seizes— until his own thrusts stutter hard against the squeeze that suctions and gurgles hot between his thighs, forcing his legs to grind against the source of all those smothered groans like he aims to choke them out right at the root— bottomed out and bouncing instead of thrusting; unwilling to sacrifice an inch. There's no slowing. No relent.
That's how it stays a fight, not a coaxing negotiation.
Fenris folds and stumbles— and it takes everything in the middle of that scuffle not to do the same, pressure whirling in Astarion's slight ears. Vertigo hitting him low inside his belly, near where he feels strained lips fight just to wriggle around his submerged girth. Obscene. Undignified. Impatient as the spurt of white-hot slickness he's only just begun to swallow—
His tongue thrust hard against that slit before a second splash ensues, forcing his tongue against its trembling little line.
His, now. His.
His payback. His triumph. Call it what you want, and don't discount he's barely managing it— but all the same: he is managing it. His cheeks suddenly running gaunt as he bobs and twists his head, rolling from his shoulders first in noisy, moaning patterns. Sucking, exhaling rattling vibrations, it doesn't pull his tongue away from the crest in the slightest no matter where he wends or what he does— he bottles the orgasm he stokes, unable to stop smooth pumps of frantic pearl from gushing past his tongue completely, but keeping them wedged harsh. Making them splash instead of pour into uncontrollable bliss. And underneath: young fingers dive beneath the cusp of what they work(ed) at, riving hard between clothed cheeks to knock and tap and piston at their center— waiting for one little slip— one little, slight, careless contraction, where that hole just so happens to run open....
His middle finger's already so wet, you see.
He'd coated it in spit while working right under that cock. He'd coated all of them, in fact....ready to fingerfuck his keeper underneath him in his bedroom till he whimpers through welled tears.
Ready for the inevitable plunge that'll bring on all the rest.]
no subject
Despite the vulgar beauty of it all, despite the sleek sweeps of pallid suppleness working down into hessonite again and again and again, it doesn't do anything to lessen the battle underneath. Expand— snap— he can feel it before he sees it: the muscle beneath him clenching once— twice— his vision blurring wildly as he feels his hole stretch against a quaking grip, but it can't knock out the sharpness of his instincts; he'd recognize that pulsating lock anywhere, ingrained as it is after so many midnight trysts that taught him where to put his tongue or roll his spine. He recognizes it like the acrid scent that spells out a full-bodied red or a flowery white, even without looking down inside the bottle that's been held. Force of habit such a potent thing even in abstract periphery, still lapping up overheated salt and the glazing backwash of his own spit while his senses flare inside close quarters.
Fenris is about to come.
Fenris comes.
Expand— snap— and gods, tightness has him in a vice grip from the cock up; inside his mouth, he feels that thickness swell across sore lips until his throat is plunged into the first thundering gush of roaring heat. A splash that sinks like swallowed embers down into the basin of his chest, scalding him until he seizes— until his own thrusts stutter hard against the squeeze that suctions and gurgles hot between his thighs, forcing his legs to grind against the source of all those smothered groans like he aims to choke them out right at the root— bottomed out and bouncing instead of thrusting; unwilling to sacrifice an inch. There's no slowing. No relent.
That's how it stays a fight, not a coaxing negotiation.
Fenris folds and stumbles— and it takes everything in the middle of that scuffle not to do the same, pressure whirling in Astarion's slight ears. Vertigo hitting him low inside his belly, near where he feels strained lips fight just to wriggle around his submerged girth. Obscene. Undignified. Impatient as the spurt of white-hot slickness he's only just begun to swallow—
His tongue thrust hard against that slit before a second splash ensues, forcing his tongue against its trembling little line.
His, now. His.
His payback. His triumph. Call it what you want, and don't discount he's barely managing it— but all the same: he is managing it. His cheeks suddenly running gaunt as he bobs and twists his head, rolling from his shoulders first in noisy, moaning patterns. Sucking, exhaling rattling vibrations, it doesn't pull his tongue away from the crest in the slightest no matter where he wends or what he does— he bottles the orgasm he stokes, unable to stop smooth pumps of frantic pearl from gushing past his tongue completely, but keeping them wedged harsh. Making them splash instead of pour into uncontrollable bliss. And underneath: young fingers dive beneath the cusp of what they work(ed) at, riving hard between clothed cheeks to knock and tap and piston at their center— waiting for one little slip— one little, slight, careless contraction, where that hole just so happens to run open....
His middle finger's already so wet, you see.
He'd coated it in spit while working right under that cock. He'd coated all of them, in fact....ready to fingerfuck his keeper underneath him in his bedroom till he whimpers through welled tears.
Ready for the inevitable plunge that'll bring on all the rest.]