[The Tevene slips past his lips thoughtlessly, a purely instinctive exhalation as heat ghosts along his cock— and then disappears. Draws back cruelly to leave him panting with nothing but cold air and the memory of near-proximity, his prick throbbing all the more needily for the taste of it.
Merciless thing, and he groans softly, his hips rocking up in futile desire. Pretty, cruel little menace, and this is only the beginning, Fenris knows already. He sits up on one elbow, his eyes locked on the sight before him. Astarion is getting stronger, he notes with pleasure. There's more definition to the lines of his back and shoulders, muscles building through hours of hard work. It's thrilling, not just as a lover but as a teacher, too: his little magistrate is getting better at defending himself.]
If this is your idea of punishment, Astarion . . .
[He lets the sentence trail off as his eyes deliberately wander down, drinking in every inch of what his lover has to offer him. Pale skin that shimmers in the sunlight, his silver eyes gleaming as they stare at him through the mirrorglass; a tapered waist and jutting hips, and that's to say nothing of what's yet to be revealed . . . oh, it is a punishment, it really is, and yet the most indulgent kind. His back arches again in a faint squirm as another fat drop of precome drips down the line of his prick. He's aching for slick, searing heat; he's aching for the way Astarion looks as he wraps his lips around his cock, eyes dark and ass raised up, vulgarly submissive in the sweetest way.
Let it be punishment for both of them, then. He has no silver tongue, not the way Astarion does. But that blush was worth everything, and that, Fenris is certain, he can earn again.]
Did you touch yourself when you were in that courtroom? [His voice is roughened, but there's nothing but confidence in his tone.] I doubt it. You barely have time to breathe between trials, you told me once . . . and I'll admit, as sweet as the thought is of you furiously stroking yourself off between trials, I savor the opposite more.
You squirming in that high seat of yours, fighting not to whine and whimper and drool as you dream of spearing me atop your prick or falling to pieces atop my tongue . . . sucking on a pen in lieu of my cock, wishing for the taste of me dripping down your throat, crossing your legs as if the pressure of your thighs might relieve you . . .
[He cocks his head, a little smirk playing over his lips.]
no subject
[The Tevene slips past his lips thoughtlessly, a purely instinctive exhalation as heat ghosts along his cock— and then disappears. Draws back cruelly to leave him panting with nothing but cold air and the memory of near-proximity, his prick throbbing all the more needily for the taste of it.
Merciless thing, and he groans softly, his hips rocking up in futile desire. Pretty, cruel little menace, and this is only the beginning, Fenris knows already. He sits up on one elbow, his eyes locked on the sight before him. Astarion is getting stronger, he notes with pleasure. There's more definition to the lines of his back and shoulders, muscles building through hours of hard work. It's thrilling, not just as a lover but as a teacher, too: his little magistrate is getting better at defending himself.]
If this is your idea of punishment, Astarion . . .
[He lets the sentence trail off as his eyes deliberately wander down, drinking in every inch of what his lover has to offer him. Pale skin that shimmers in the sunlight, his silver eyes gleaming as they stare at him through the mirrorglass; a tapered waist and jutting hips, and that's to say nothing of what's yet to be revealed . . . oh, it is a punishment, it really is, and yet the most indulgent kind. His back arches again in a faint squirm as another fat drop of precome drips down the line of his prick. He's aching for slick, searing heat; he's aching for the way Astarion looks as he wraps his lips around his cock, eyes dark and ass raised up, vulgarly submissive in the sweetest way.
Let it be punishment for both of them, then. He has no silver tongue, not the way Astarion does. But that blush was worth everything, and that, Fenris is certain, he can earn again.]
Did you touch yourself when you were in that courtroom? [His voice is roughened, but there's nothing but confidence in his tone.] I doubt it. You barely have time to breathe between trials, you told me once . . . and I'll admit, as sweet as the thought is of you furiously stroking yourself off between trials, I savor the opposite more.
You squirming in that high seat of yours, fighting not to whine and whimper and drool as you dream of spearing me atop your prick or falling to pieces atop my tongue . . . sucking on a pen in lieu of my cock, wishing for the taste of me dripping down your throat, crossing your legs as if the pressure of your thighs might relieve you . . .
[He cocks his head, a little smirk playing over his lips.]
Am I right?