[Sparks fly behind his eyes as Astarion's fingers knot in his hair, his breathless chuckle melting into an appreciative moan. His hips buck forward involuntarily, his still-clothed prick straining at his inseam and grinding desperately against one lean thigh— and oh, god, he wants more. For a moment the urge seizes him: to yank his hand away and push open pale thighs, listening for the way squalling protests melt into a vulgar wail of satisfaction, that pretty little body melting around the swell of his cock—
But not yet.
Not when Astarion's so close to the edge, and prying his hand away would be more sadistic than sweet; not when all he wants tonight is to be doting and sweet, soaking up every bit of what Astarion has to offer him.
For he looks so pretty like this. Pale skin flushed pink with desire, his mouth slick with saliva and his eyes wet with desperation . . . there's no one else who gets to see him like this, Fenris thinks distantly. No one else who gets to watch as he falls apart, truly falls apart: not a performance put on for his peers, but melting into true bliss. Astarion yanks his hair, pleasing pinpricks of sensation forcing him to bare his throat, but still, Fenris fights to keep his gaze locked on the sight.
Only you, and he breathes it against his skin, echoing the sentiment back and forth.]
Sensitive thing . . . you're so close already?
[It's the culmination of hours of teasing, he knows, but the fantasy is so much hotter. Fenris squeezes tighter, thumb smearing carelessly over velvet skin and a needy little slit, intent on driving Astarion into a mewling, melting finish. His breath hitches, little moans vibrating in his throat in aching empathy as Astarion squirms so prettily beneath him. Closer, as tremors wrack his thighs and his body trembles beneath Fenris' own, close, as his cock drools over his knuckles, close, but not there just yet.]
Go on— come for me. Fall apart for me, my heart, my love, let me see you become mine once again— let me see you melt the way you melt for none other.
[He pitches his voice low, the Tevene sliding off his tongue with deliberate slowness. It's easier to be honest when he knows he won't be understood— and there's something so wonderful about getting to murmur all this right now.]
Only me. Only you. My heart, my little love, come for me—
[Astarion's learned few things as quickly as his delves into Fenris' home. His culture, his purported kin— there are tomes piled high in the study that Fenris will never either know or see, dogeared from use— but Tevene? No matter how he's tried to follow its patterns, all he picks up now are snippets of vocabulary: razor-thin beats of clarity highlighted by me, mine, you, little— sporadically repeating as they play his body like a fiddle, eliciting recognition, eliciting vulgar little jolts and pitched-back sighs where his eyes squeeze tightly shut, mind anything but blank.
It races. Not towards anything, but the way an animal runs without a goal his heart is a hammer in his chest and his tongue's taken to lolling between breaths that burn his throat. Like that, it doesn't matter how much self-restraint he musters (none— there's none to speak of), or how his shoulders' already cramping when it wedges tight against the seat's myriad straps, or what someone else might say if they knew it was possible to coax Astarion Ancunín to climax in less than a single minute with only a pair of roughened fingers at their task. Like this, he only hears a litany he can't understand, but his body follows perfectly in line, until his next breath's held too long and his eyes roll back beneath fluttering lashes, his prick already slavering.
Until what he'd been holding bursts free of his lungs in a sudden, involuntary rush— all reflex, all stardust flecks across his shuttered vision, all ringing in his ears— ]
Fenris, fuck— Fenris, I—
[Thin paneling groans as it's compressed by the bruising pressure of a leg arched high; white-knuckled grip laid out by white knuckles that pull at Fenris with more force than what they should (or otherwise would), all elegance and pretense lost.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
But not yet.
Not when Astarion's so close to the edge, and prying his hand away would be more sadistic than sweet; not when all he wants tonight is to be doting and sweet, soaking up every bit of what Astarion has to offer him.
For he looks so pretty like this. Pale skin flushed pink with desire, his mouth slick with saliva and his eyes wet with desperation . . . there's no one else who gets to see him like this, Fenris thinks distantly. No one else who gets to watch as he falls apart, truly falls apart: not a performance put on for his peers, but melting into true bliss. Astarion yanks his hair, pleasing pinpricks of sensation forcing him to bare his throat, but still, Fenris fights to keep his gaze locked on the sight.
Only you, and he breathes it against his skin, echoing the sentiment back and forth.]
Sensitive thing . . . you're so close already?
[It's the culmination of hours of teasing, he knows, but the fantasy is so much hotter. Fenris squeezes tighter, thumb smearing carelessly over velvet skin and a needy little slit, intent on driving Astarion into a mewling, melting finish. His breath hitches, little moans vibrating in his throat in aching empathy as Astarion squirms so prettily beneath him. Closer, as tremors wrack his thighs and his body trembles beneath Fenris' own, close, as his cock drools over his knuckles, close, but not there just yet.]
Go on— come for me. Fall apart for me, my heart, my love, let me see you become mine once again— let me see you melt the way you melt for none other.
[He pitches his voice low, the Tevene sliding off his tongue with deliberate slowness. It's easier to be honest when he knows he won't be understood— and there's something so wonderful about getting to murmur all this right now.]
Only me. Only you. My heart, my little love, come for me—
no subject
It races. Not towards anything, but the way an animal runs without a goal his heart is a hammer in his chest and his tongue's taken to lolling between breaths that burn his throat. Like that, it doesn't matter how much self-restraint he musters (none— there's none to speak of), or how his shoulders' already cramping when it wedges tight against the seat's myriad straps, or what someone else might say if they knew it was possible to coax Astarion Ancunín to climax in less than a single minute with only a pair of roughened fingers at their task. Like this, he only hears a litany he can't understand, but his body follows perfectly in line, until his next breath's held too long and his eyes roll back beneath fluttering lashes, his prick already slavering.
Until what he'd been holding bursts free of his lungs in a sudden, involuntary rush— all reflex, all stardust flecks across his shuttered vision, all ringing in his ears— ]
Fenris, fuck— Fenris, I—
[Thin paneling groans as it's compressed by the bruising pressure of a leg arched high; white-knuckled grip laid out by white knuckles that pull at Fenris with more force than what they should (or otherwise would), all elegance and pretense lost.
And something better gained.]