[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.
[He rumbles out the words, hot breath ghosting against damp skin as he rocks his hips alongside every frantic, writhing snap of Astarion's hips. Like that, like that, his orgasm coaxed along with every searing stroke of his hand, his fingers gripping so tight as he watches Astarion ride out wave after pulsing wave— only ebbing when he falls back limply beneath him, shuddering in aftershocks.]
Pretty thing.
[He says it simply, the way nearly all his compliments come out: like a statement of fact rather than subjective opinion. Pretty droplets of frost cover azure nanites that pulse and throb in time with his thundering heartbeat; for a moment he has the thought to lap up such a mess, but instead he keeps his hand loosely wrapped around Astarion's prick.]
I will remind you of this the next time you think to tease me on my age and stamina. That could not have been more than a minute, eager thing.
Then again . . .
[His head ducks down, his teeth scraping against the line of one sensitive ear as his hand loosely glides up and down his spent cock.]
You're always so eager. Was that merely a warm-up? How fast do you think I can rouse you again, hm?
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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.]
no subject
[He rumbles out the words, hot breath ghosting against damp skin as he rocks his hips alongside every frantic, writhing snap of Astarion's hips. Like that, like that, his orgasm coaxed along with every searing stroke of his hand, his fingers gripping so tight as he watches Astarion ride out wave after pulsing wave— only ebbing when he falls back limply beneath him, shuddering in aftershocks.]
Pretty thing.
[He says it simply, the way nearly all his compliments come out: like a statement of fact rather than subjective opinion. Pretty droplets of frost cover azure nanites that pulse and throb in time with his thundering heartbeat; for a moment he has the thought to lap up such a mess, but instead he keeps his hand loosely wrapped around Astarion's prick.]
I will remind you of this the next time you think to tease me on my age and stamina. That could not have been more than a minute, eager thing.
Then again . . .
[His head ducks down, his teeth scraping against the line of one sensitive ear as his hand loosely glides up and down his spent cock.]
You're always so eager. Was that merely a warm-up? How fast do you think I can rouse you again, hm?