[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
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.]
no subject
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.]