It's brutal. Cruel. Savage, Astarion's eyes black with lust and his expression merciless as he bottles his guardian's throat and fucks his mouth with taunting triumph. Swelling heat pushes deep into Fenris' throat by brutal inches, prying him open as he violates narrow confines, belly rippling as he drives down again and again, sadistic in the way he refuses Fenris even the barest half-gasps of air. Take it, as saliva drips down his chin and his throat bobs with desperate swallows, take it, searing heat heavy on his tongue and the most vulgarly slick noises rising each time their bodies meet—
And Fenris loves it.
He moans like a whore in heat, the noise smothered away, as Astarion grips his hair and yanks him in even closer. His eyes flutter, rolling back for the sheer indignity of being so brutally used. Soft skin bumps against his nose, pushing it flat; wet groans and overheated moans buzz around his prick as his belly grows wet with precome. And each time pale hips draw back, Fenris strains at the grip in his hair: whimpering for his treat even as he shudders for the feeling of Astarion's prick dragging back against his lips. Caressing his tongue and teasing him with what he could have— and lucky him, for it comes again. And again, and again—
And he could spend forever like that. Writhing and groaning and wriggling, meager prey for a conquering lord, until at last his charge spilled down his throat and into his belly, breeding him and claiming him all at once.
But it's no fun if they're not competing.
His left hand strains against that metal cuff, but his right rises: one calloused hand groping at an overfull cheek, fingers digging into soft muscle in audacious delight. Spreading him open just to watch Astarion shudder for the feeling of cold air stinging against him, blunt nails digging in to remind him of his strength. Over and over, until suddenly that withdraws.
And then it's two oil-slicked fingers that tease him, circling around his rim just once (taunting, teasing, you missed this, too, didn't you?) before they find their mark— and plunge in deep. There's no warning, no buildup, but ah, Astarion barely needs such things, for his body just melts around that intrusion. Slender thighs trembling and yet all of him so yielding, squeezing fretfully around him as Fenris scissors his fingers again and again. There you go, take it all, just like that, the words flashing through his mind, and for the life of him he can't tell which of them it's meant for.
Over and over, and he falls into rhythm: stretching Astarion open and spreading him wide, working with his pace all the while— back and forth. In and out, the plunge of his fingers timed to the rock of Astarion's hips, again, again, the rhythm hypnotic—
Until Astarion thrusts forward again, thighs trembling for the effort— and Fenris' fingers curl.
Not down, but up: hooking into him like the most merciless toy, keeping him right where he is. Locked into place by gravity and the tension in Fenris' arm, and forced to linger as Fenris closes his eyes and sucks. His throat ripples as he swallows again and again, saliva pooling in his throat and dripping down his chin as he milks his lover's cock for all he's worth. And when the lack of oxygen is too much and the stars start to dance in front of his eyes—
Back. Back onto his heels, back into his mouth— and yet his wrist twists down, his fingers curling as they grind mercilessly against that one spot that always makes Astarion wail. Fingers pulsing sadistically and his eyes glittering as he stares up at his darling magistrate: don't spill too soon, now—
Again. And again. And again, trying to skate that thin line between unrelenting pleasure and overstimulating sadism, hungry to tease without quite tormenting. Fingers easing their relentless tease only when it seems his brat might outright scream— and even then, it's only a temporary relief. His fingers working in scissoring instead of grinding, fucking instead of pulsing, all of him fixated on pushing Astarion to the very brink.]
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It's brutal. Cruel. Savage, Astarion's eyes black with lust and his expression merciless as he bottles his guardian's throat and fucks his mouth with taunting triumph. Swelling heat pushes deep into Fenris' throat by brutal inches, prying him open as he violates narrow confines, belly rippling as he drives down again and again, sadistic in the way he refuses Fenris even the barest half-gasps of air. Take it, as saliva drips down his chin and his throat bobs with desperate swallows, take it, searing heat heavy on his tongue and the most vulgarly slick noises rising each time their bodies meet—
And Fenris loves it.
He moans like a whore in heat, the noise smothered away, as Astarion grips his hair and yanks him in even closer. His eyes flutter, rolling back for the sheer indignity of being so brutally used. Soft skin bumps against his nose, pushing it flat; wet groans and overheated moans buzz around his prick as his belly grows wet with precome. And each time pale hips draw back, Fenris strains at the grip in his hair: whimpering for his treat even as he shudders for the feeling of Astarion's prick dragging back against his lips. Caressing his tongue and teasing him with what he could have— and lucky him, for it comes again. And again, and again—
And he could spend forever like that. Writhing and groaning and wriggling, meager prey for a conquering lord, until at last his charge spilled down his throat and into his belly, breeding him and claiming him all at once.
But it's no fun if they're not competing.
His left hand strains against that metal cuff, but his right rises: one calloused hand groping at an overfull cheek, fingers digging into soft muscle in audacious delight. Spreading him open just to watch Astarion shudder for the feeling of cold air stinging against him, blunt nails digging in to remind him of his strength. Over and over, until suddenly that withdraws.
And then it's two oil-slicked fingers that tease him, circling around his rim just once (taunting, teasing, you missed this, too, didn't you?) before they find their mark— and plunge in deep. There's no warning, no buildup, but ah, Astarion barely needs such things, for his body just melts around that intrusion. Slender thighs trembling and yet all of him so yielding, squeezing fretfully around him as Fenris scissors his fingers again and again. There you go, take it all, just like that, the words flashing through his mind, and for the life of him he can't tell which of them it's meant for.
Over and over, and he falls into rhythm: stretching Astarion open and spreading him wide, working with his pace all the while— back and forth. In and out, the plunge of his fingers timed to the rock of Astarion's hips, again, again, the rhythm hypnotic—
Until Astarion thrusts forward again, thighs trembling for the effort— and Fenris' fingers curl.
Not down, but up: hooking into him like the most merciless toy, keeping him right where he is. Locked into place by gravity and the tension in Fenris' arm, and forced to linger as Fenris closes his eyes and sucks. His throat ripples as he swallows again and again, saliva pooling in his throat and dripping down his chin as he milks his lover's cock for all he's worth. And when the lack of oxygen is too much and the stars start to dance in front of his eyes—
Back. Back onto his heels, back into his mouth— and yet his wrist twists down, his fingers curling as they grind mercilessly against that one spot that always makes Astarion wail. Fingers pulsing sadistically and his eyes glittering as he stares up at his darling magistrate: don't spill too soon, now—
Again. And again. And again, trying to skate that thin line between unrelenting pleasure and overstimulating sadism, hungry to tease without quite tormenting. Fingers easing their relentless tease only when it seems his brat might outright scream— and even then, it's only a temporary relief. His fingers working in scissoring instead of grinding, fucking instead of pulsing, all of him fixated on pushing Astarion to the very brink.]