[Oh, it's only dominance in the way that dug-in nails and a bowed spine equates to absolute control: they're follow the cues now, shifting between predator and prey and aggressor and inciter, adjusting their taken roles just to cater to the rush of penning out the pleasant, adrenal high this game of theirs invokes.
Both, something crowish him him barks out again, a voiceless mantra. Both, it presses like it did before during those texts, quaking with palpable greed along the places where they touch: he's shuddering again. Flexed hard through all his muscle, his cock swollen and drooling in a perch comprised of steady hands and spread legs and the way he sits himself on both— heavy, and slow, and like the hitch in breath before answering a question that's been posed. Only it's not a question, is it? It's a demand. A beseechment. An entreaty based solely on desire that they take turns staving off otherwise it'd go too quick for exhilaration to catch up to (but come here. Come here, come ride me, rut me, fuck me), because if they sank into the mire of anxious hands and quickened thrusts it'd all be over before he has a chance to even savor what this is.
What it's worth.
That for the first time he can remember, he's come home when called to; that there's metal on a former servant's undeniably strong wrist; that Fenris looks damned devourable laid out like this up close in willing obeisance (narrow counterbalance to one formerly 'irrepressible' Astarion Ancunín having abandoned his own phone, precious as it is for the unseen freedom that it brings), and that it all might prove lethal if he doesn't remember that he still needs to breathe.
He rocks up.
Onto his knees at first, then all fours— palms to the headboard, stomach arched and prick raised over Fenris in deep shadow, slick and hot above his lips (and if he hasn't slid that grip away, his roughened touch still prompts the occasional rich shiver from his agile charge); eyelids weighted so close to closing, each exhale burning in his throat. Everything's electric now, alive with anticipation and the dizzying thought of what it might look like to watch his bodyguard's mouth press in flush against his belly, throat a vice. A steel, undulating trap that'll take and take and take until there's nothing more to give outside of molten bliss.
But that wouldn't mean they're done.]
Fine. [He tries to say, all air and little sound. A toothless murmur akin to licked chops. Pitch dark eyes.
Less cub, more lion.
Fine.]
Use your tongue, then. [A buck. A charting roll of his slim hips, laying friction hard across soft skin— toying with Fenris' patience. Teasing him. Scuffling.
And then sitting higher, pale knees pressed to tanned shoulders.]
Start with the cock you've been begging to suckle on for hours, and finish by warming me for yours. [His hand moves, sliding along the bed frame to rest over the cuff (and its captive arm), fingerprints latching down over a pulse he wants to track.]
....or do you want your penitent noble to beg forgiveness before his supper?
no subject
Both, something crowish him him barks out again, a voiceless mantra. Both, it presses like it did before during those texts, quaking with palpable greed along the places where they touch: he's shuddering again. Flexed hard through all his muscle, his cock swollen and drooling in a perch comprised of steady hands and spread legs and the way he sits himself on both— heavy, and slow, and like the hitch in breath before answering a question that's been posed. Only it's not a question, is it? It's a demand. A beseechment. An entreaty based solely on desire that they take turns staving off otherwise it'd go too quick for exhilaration to catch up to (but come here. Come here, come ride me, rut me, fuck me), because if they sank into the mire of anxious hands and quickened thrusts it'd all be over before he has a chance to even savor what this is.
What it's worth.
That for the first time he can remember, he's come home when called to; that there's metal on a former servant's undeniably strong wrist; that Fenris looks damned devourable laid out like this up close in willing obeisance (narrow counterbalance to one formerly 'irrepressible' Astarion Ancunín having abandoned his own phone, precious as it is for the unseen freedom that it brings), and that it all might prove lethal if he doesn't remember that he still needs to breathe.
He rocks up.
Onto his knees at first, then all fours— palms to the headboard, stomach arched and prick raised over Fenris in deep shadow, slick and hot above his lips (and if he hasn't slid that grip away, his roughened touch still prompts the occasional rich shiver from his agile charge); eyelids weighted so close to closing, each exhale burning in his throat. Everything's electric now, alive with anticipation and the dizzying thought of what it might look like to watch his bodyguard's mouth press in flush against his belly, throat a vice. A steel, undulating trap that'll take and take and take until there's nothing more to give outside of molten bliss.
But that wouldn't mean they're done.]
Fine. [He tries to say, all air and little sound. A toothless murmur akin to licked chops. Pitch dark eyes.
Less cub, more lion.
Fine.]
Use your tongue, then. [A buck. A charting roll of his slim hips, laying friction hard across soft skin— toying with Fenris' patience. Teasing him. Scuffling.
And then sitting higher, pale knees pressed to tanned shoulders.]
Start with the cock you've been begging to suckle on for hours, and finish by warming me for yours. [His hand moves, sliding along the bed frame to rest over the cuff (and its captive arm), fingerprints latching down over a pulse he wants to track.]
....or do you want your penitent noble to beg forgiveness before his supper?