[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.]
[His hand grips the mirror— tilting it to show the full splay of Fenris' spread thighs across soft sheets, hard prick surrendered to the air and yet gleaming with mouth-watering slick; cuffed wrist drawn behind that vulgarity like a serpent, cuff chain taut and heavy— his white-knuckled hold on its frame barely visible at the distance they're maintaining, but if Fenris' eager eyes are sharp, he might notice the little lordling's grip betrays the passiveness behind silver eyes and a steadied expression. The same poker face he uses when he isn't hammered to the hells and back during rounds of Wicked Grace: swearing that his feathers aren't ruffled— that he isn't affected in the slightest by the goading they enact in all their tussling back and forth.
He's good at that. Deception, misdirection.
....but his cock isn't.
Stiff with a need that started hours ago. Drooling with the memory of every last one of those texts, compounded with the sight before him now— the obscenity crawling up a prickling spine to slink down deep into his ears. All caught quick between thumb and forefinger (squeezed) to tamp it down as his slacks fall away and he shifts again back on his heels, turning to the side, offering a fuller glance of just how long he is. Just how broad he is, shameless in his bluntness from the soft curvature of limber hips, to the supple plushness just below, to the wicked, swollen prick beneath his fingers, jolting like a worked up animal when his thumbprint catches just the right spot.
And he exhales.
Long and slow, like the loose smoke expelled from a cigarette.]
About you liking the idea of me flustered in my seat, panting like a pup and palming at myself, unable to keep from imagining you there....? [His smirk is smooth yet wrenchingly sincere; he knows that's not really what Fenris had been asking, but in prowling closer the bottom line might be obvious: it's fun to tease each other.]
I kept it together. [He says once he's close enough to lay his phone across the bedside table— the softest little transactional thunk, emulating the punch of a taken ticket.] Just barely.
And I don't forgive you, to answer your earlier question.
[For taking his phone. For scolding him. For working him up and bringing him here and having him looming naked over his own bed at noon—
He grins wider when he dips forward, sinking his teeth into the low slope of Fenris' throat— tasting the sweet tang of salt and softer cologne, and the floral spread of his own scent up close in ways he rarely gets to find; feels the shudder of electric thrill caught hot between his teeth before his tongue gives chase; the snare of magic-branded thighs just against his cock as he moves to straddle his bodyguard head-on, slipping over him in a matter of slow seconds.
A burst of air exhaled when he withdraws.]
Yet.
[Not yet, he grins, spitshine on his lips.]
....but I will if you do a good enough job distracting me again.
[Quick as anything Fenris' free hand darts up, fingers wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck and drawing him down for a hungry kiss. Oh no you don't, as playful as it is demanding, and yet every hungry push and pull of his lips against Astarion's isn't about dominance, but need. I missed you, I missed this: the soft plushness of Astarion's mouth and the sweetened taste of him. His shoulder throbs pleasantly, reddened teethmarks already bruising around marks that brighten and dim in time with the rise and fall of his chest.]
You see me lying in wait for you, chained to your bed with my legs spread and my cock hard, and that isn't enough to earn forgiveness? Never mind my crime was holding you accountable for being such a brat . . .
[He breathes the words out against Astarion's mouth, close enough that their lips brush together, his tongue flicking out with every word to trace over swollen flesh. His hand drifts down, releasing his neck in favor of slipping between his legs: roughened knuckles so terribly gentle as he brushes against Astarion's thickened length. There you are, long and broad and so missed that it's all Fenris can do not to whimper and whine for a taste.
He is salivating, though. Enough that he has to swallow thickly before he continues, part of him already imagining what's to come.]
Spoiled thing.
[He nips sharply at his bottom lip as his fingers wrap around his cock, squeezing tight just once before he begins a slow, indulgent stroke. They've built this up, teased one another far past the point of riling, but this is playful, and Fenris means to enjoy it. His thumb smears over the head of his cock, rubbing indulgent circles over his slit, savoring every hitched breath and flutter of his eyes.]
But I cannot help but indulge you, wicked that you are. So . . . [Another deliberate rub of his thumb, teasing against his slit just to watch him melt.] If I am to earn your good favor . . . turn around now, so I can slick you up with my tongue before spreading you open with a toy— or inch upwards, so I can take your cock in my mouth and suck on you until you fall to pieces in front of me.
[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?
[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.]
[He sees stars, that spoiled, stubborn thing perched long and lean atop Fenris' taut outline, shakily hunched over the headboard. So many that when his fingers curl and flex it's bright as daylight behind shut eyes, static electricity popping hotter by the second in the divots bored by ruddy fingertips over the well-flexed splay of branded thighs as he leans back— his own paler set preoccupied with the rise and fall between them: that weighted, steady pull brought on by an eager mouth and agile musculature.
The noise he makes is loud (like cold shock, it bottles in his slackened throat, unstifled and unmuffled, threatening to rouse attention through what amounts to thin pane glass, locked doors), but obscenity is louder. Every smack and mouthwatering pop before a groan reverberates with squirming shamelessness, eager to take and swallow and fill and— though Astarion's first few bucks are only shallow based on reflex, it's merely the merger between Fenris' insistence and Astarion's own coming fitfully to bear; harshly hitching, and even more violent once it settles into a harmonic tremor squeezed in tight against those slickened lips gone pink with lurid effort. The thrilling rush they're both prey to, and there's no masking that he loves it.
Loves this.
Dark-eyed and open-mouthed, quaking through his teeth with every last unblinking exhale, oh he can't look away, and it's a miserably funny thought that he almost jerks towards that phone laid stagnant across his bedside table, not wanting to lose this image before it's gone.
(But he can live in the moment, can't he?)
One more rolling (roiling) buck forward, shoved to the unseen back of Fenris' throat; one more settled, untouched grind against the softened grain of inlaid contours— before the outstretched fingers of his left hand surge forwards like a snake, bedding themselves with an anchor's grasp on the roots of his bodyguard's own scalp, forcibly dragging them tighter. Closer. Flush and shivering, undulating, working through the leverage between their angled bodies and the space therein they lack, making sure the only thing his guardian can breathe is the suffocatingly sweet scent of perfumed oil....
....and the thickness in his throat.
Astarion's too young to growl properly; his vocal cords still run just about as lithe as each and every last one of those willowy little limbs that he employs, but there's a richness to it all the same, spurred on by the shuddering fantasy of this that's stayed moored in him for hours, coiling over itself until it grew and grew and grew beyond the borders of its housing:]
Please.... [Is what he then musters from the depths of that dark, hungry shelter, daring Fenris to broker for more.]
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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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
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?
no subject
He's good at that. Deception, misdirection.
....but his cock isn't.
Stiff with a need that started hours ago. Drooling with the memory of every last one of those texts, compounded with the sight before him now— the obscenity crawling up a prickling spine to slink down deep into his ears. All caught quick between thumb and forefinger (squeezed) to tamp it down as his slacks fall away and he shifts again back on his heels, turning to the side, offering a fuller glance of just how long he is. Just how broad he is, shameless in his bluntness from the soft curvature of limber hips, to the supple plushness just below, to the wicked, swollen prick beneath his fingers, jolting like a worked up animal when his thumbprint catches just the right spot.
And he exhales.
Long and slow, like the loose smoke expelled from a cigarette.]
About you liking the idea of me flustered in my seat, panting like a pup and palming at myself, unable to keep from imagining you there....? [His smirk is smooth yet wrenchingly sincere; he knows that's not really what Fenris had been asking, but in prowling closer the bottom line might be obvious: it's fun to tease each other.]
I kept it together. [He says once he's close enough to lay his phone across the bedside table— the softest little transactional thunk, emulating the punch of a taken ticket.] Just barely.
And I don't forgive you, to answer your earlier question.
[For taking his phone. For scolding him. For working him up and bringing him here and having him looming naked over his own bed at noon—
He grins wider when he dips forward, sinking his teeth into the low slope of Fenris' throat— tasting the sweet tang of salt and softer cologne, and the floral spread of his own scent up close in ways he rarely gets to find; feels the shudder of electric thrill caught hot between his teeth before his tongue gives chase; the snare of magic-branded thighs just against his cock as he moves to straddle his bodyguard head-on, slipping over him in a matter of slow seconds.
A burst of air exhaled when he withdraws.]
Yet.
[Not yet, he grins, spitshine on his lips.]
....but I will if you do a good enough job distracting me again.
no subject
You see me lying in wait for you, chained to your bed with my legs spread and my cock hard, and that isn't enough to earn forgiveness? Never mind my crime was holding you accountable for being such a brat . . .
[He breathes the words out against Astarion's mouth, close enough that their lips brush together, his tongue flicking out with every word to trace over swollen flesh. His hand drifts down, releasing his neck in favor of slipping between his legs: roughened knuckles so terribly gentle as he brushes against Astarion's thickened length. There you are, long and broad and so missed that it's all Fenris can do not to whimper and whine for a taste.
He is salivating, though. Enough that he has to swallow thickly before he continues, part of him already imagining what's to come.]
Spoiled thing.
[He nips sharply at his bottom lip as his fingers wrap around his cock, squeezing tight just once before he begins a slow, indulgent stroke. They've built this up, teased one another far past the point of riling, but this is playful, and Fenris means to enjoy it. His thumb smears over the head of his cock, rubbing indulgent circles over his slit, savoring every hitched breath and flutter of his eyes.]
But I cannot help but indulge you, wicked that you are. So . . . [Another deliberate rub of his thumb, teasing against his slit just to watch him melt.] If I am to earn your good favor . . . turn around now, so I can slick you up with my tongue before spreading you open with a toy— or inch upwards, so I can take your cock in my mouth and suck on you until you fall to pieces in front of me.
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?
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.]
no subject
The noise he makes is loud (like cold shock, it bottles in his slackened throat, unstifled and unmuffled, threatening to rouse attention through what amounts to thin pane glass, locked doors), but obscenity is louder. Every smack and mouthwatering pop before a groan reverberates with squirming shamelessness, eager to take and swallow and fill and— though Astarion's first few bucks are only shallow based on reflex, it's merely the merger between Fenris' insistence and Astarion's own coming fitfully to bear; harshly hitching, and even more violent once it settles into a harmonic tremor squeezed in tight against those slickened lips gone pink with lurid effort. The thrilling rush they're both prey to, and there's no masking that he loves it.
Loves this.
Dark-eyed and open-mouthed, quaking through his teeth with every last unblinking exhale, oh he can't look away, and it's a miserably funny thought that he almost jerks towards that phone laid stagnant across his bedside table, not wanting to lose this image before it's gone.
(But he can live in the moment, can't he?)
One more rolling (roiling) buck forward, shoved to the unseen back of Fenris' throat; one more settled, untouched grind against the softened grain of inlaid contours— before the outstretched fingers of his left hand surge forwards like a snake, bedding themselves with an anchor's grasp on the roots of his bodyguard's own scalp, forcibly dragging them tighter. Closer. Flush and shivering, undulating, working through the leverage between their angled bodies and the space therein they lack, making sure the only thing his guardian can breathe is the suffocatingly sweet scent of perfumed oil....
....and the thickness in his throat.
Astarion's too young to growl properly; his vocal cords still run just about as lithe as each and every last one of those willowy little limbs that he employs, but there's a richness to it all the same, spurred on by the shuddering fantasy of this that's stayed moored in him for hours, coiling over itself until it grew and grew and grew beyond the borders of its housing:]
Please.... [Is what he then musters from the depths of that dark, hungry shelter, daring Fenris to broker for more.]
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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.]