The elf hummed, holding Talan's head in place by the horn. His hips shifted forward — not impatiently, but experimentally. Fingertips caressed the harsh ridges along the horn's growth, nails digging slightly. The second of his hands found itself gripping Talan's braid, giving a testing tug. Deciding Talan could take it, Athos wrapped the braid around his fist and gave a firmer pull, guiding the Qunari closer to engulfing his cock into wet heat.
Athos’ voice held a note of admiration, hushed by arousal. Distracted. His sometimes-lover never failed to hold his rapt attention; he was a captive in the man’s presence. And, in that moment, coincidentally, Talan was his captive.
"Really, I know in my heart that you can do better.” He appreciated the feel of Talan’s silky hair against his fingers, the way the light shone off of the deep red as he tilted his fist either way. “Open your mouth, pretty thing.”
