[Oh, there he is. Pushed past the point of flustered uncertainty into becoming something arrogant and dominant once more, voice low and drenched in ravenous desire— there he is, and beneath the glide of soft fingertips, Fenris' pulse begins to thunder. There's something so uniquely thrilling about this side of Astarion, sadistic in his lust and merciless in the way he fights; Fenris licks his lips, his eyes locked upon the sight of him. More, I want more, and it's all he can do not to squirm and whine and beg in heated response.]
Both.
[An unintentional echo of the hungry mantra running through his lover's mind now rumbled as Fenris cranes his neck forward. His fingers are still wrapped around his cock, his wrist moving with heavy, slow deliberation, tugging him off with aching slowness. And there: soft lips meet velvet skin as Fenris presses his mouth against the tip of his cock, ensuring every word vibrates straight to his core.]
I want to take you in my mouth and feel you spill down my throat while you beg me for forgiveness for all your arrogance and bratty behavior.
[Hot breath caresses him with every word; precious droplets of precome smear and gloss against his lips, his tongue flicking out to lap and tease and worship with every slow syllable.]
I want to hear what Lord Astarion Ancunín thinks is a good apology . . . and hope that my mood becomes more merciful while I have you on my tongue.
[But oh, enough foreplay: without warning his hand releases his cock, darting to brace against the small of his back instead. Abruptly he yanks him forward by the barest of inches, the motion far more about display than it is practicality: I can move you even like this, and Fenris' eyes are glittering with anticipation as he stares up at his charge. One hand or not, you come at my beckoning, little one.
His head tips, his lips parting as he prepares to wrap them around his cock, but oh—]
Don't forget to say please.
[Then he takes him into his mouth: one swift swallow as his jaw drops open and his tongue is abruptly flattened, searing weight filling his mouth completely. Fenris groans, his hips bucking up despite himself; he has to swallow once, twice, his next exhales labored as he fights not to gag. The angle works against him and he doesn't care, not a bit, for Astarion wasn't wrong: he has spent hours begging for this. Longing for the familiar taste of precome dripping down his throat as his jaw is forced open to its limit, his tongue sliding up desperately in an overeager attempt to map out veins and ridges, lips slick with drool already . . . oh, he loves this, and all the more so for how he is and isn't in control. His cheeks go hollow as slick, vulgar noises drift up between them— for though it's Astarion who controls the pace and speed, Fenris won't give up his own power so easily.
The tips of his fingers press against Astarion's back, urging him forward impudently: come fuck me, little princeling, goading and hungry both. Come take me, as his head bobs and he sucks hungrily, savoring the slow slide of slick skin against swollen lips.]
no subject
Both.
[An unintentional echo of the hungry mantra running through his lover's mind now rumbled as Fenris cranes his neck forward. His fingers are still wrapped around his cock, his wrist moving with heavy, slow deliberation, tugging him off with aching slowness. And there: soft lips meet velvet skin as Fenris presses his mouth against the tip of his cock, ensuring every word vibrates straight to his core.]
I want to take you in my mouth and feel you spill down my throat while you beg me for forgiveness for all your arrogance and bratty behavior.
[Hot breath caresses him with every word; precious droplets of precome smear and gloss against his lips, his tongue flicking out to lap and tease and worship with every slow syllable.]
I want to hear what Lord Astarion Ancunín thinks is a good apology . . . and hope that my mood becomes more merciful while I have you on my tongue.
[But oh, enough foreplay: without warning his hand releases his cock, darting to brace against the small of his back instead. Abruptly he yanks him forward by the barest of inches, the motion far more about display than it is practicality: I can move you even like this, and Fenris' eyes are glittering with anticipation as he stares up at his charge. One hand or not, you come at my beckoning, little one.
His head tips, his lips parting as he prepares to wrap them around his cock, but oh—]
Don't forget to say please.
[Then he takes him into his mouth: one swift swallow as his jaw drops open and his tongue is abruptly flattened, searing weight filling his mouth completely. Fenris groans, his hips bucking up despite himself; he has to swallow once, twice, his next exhales labored as he fights not to gag. The angle works against him and he doesn't care, not a bit, for Astarion wasn't wrong: he has spent hours begging for this. Longing for the familiar taste of precome dripping down his throat as his jaw is forced open to its limit, his tongue sliding up desperately in an overeager attempt to map out veins and ridges, lips slick with drool already . . . oh, he loves this, and all the more so for how he is and isn't in control. His cheeks go hollow as slick, vulgar noises drift up between them— for though it's Astarion who controls the pace and speed, Fenris won't give up his own power so easily.
The tips of his fingers press against Astarion's back, urging him forward impudently: come fuck me, little princeling, goading and hungry both. Come take me, as his head bobs and he sucks hungrily, savoring the slow slide of slick skin against swollen lips.]