Astarion is good at this. Fenris wonders how many times he's done it before. How many people has he wrapped around his finger with little more than a coy look or suggestive phrase? Oh, dozens, surely. Fenris is familiar with the type: the seductive women and charismatic men who flit around parties, tipsy on champagne and baring skin in daring little outfits, so eager to play the eternal game of noble politics and curried favor. The ones Danarius, thank the gods, never had much time for (and who in turn dismissed the middle-aged magister as too unappealing to ever want to play with). The nobles that Fenris was always mildly exasperated by, finding their methods of filling their endless time both hedonistic and pointless.
How old is Astarion? His father had never said, but he cannot be above a hundred. Likely less. A man in name only, swaggering around because he thinks he has some experience under his belt . . .
Ah, pretty thing. Pretty, foolish thing, who thinks all it will take to run rings around his bodyguard is a few blatant flirtations.
He'll learn.
Ignoring the heat pooling between his legs (gods, that hot, heavy pressure is tempting indeed; it takes a great deal for him not to twitch his hips down even once), Fenris takes in a breath. His fingers wrap heavily around both of Astarion's wrists, gripping them tightly— not cruelly, no, but with such deliberate intent.
(And it's tempting, you know, to pin them above his head. To press him into that mirror and rumble in his ear, do you really think I am so foolish as that, boy? Soft desperate noises sounding in Astarion's throat, a flaring hunger that Fenris would love to make even worse. Do you really think I am fooled half so easily as all those fawning suitors I'm sure nip at your heels? Led along by their cocks and promised a quick fuck if they'll give you what you want, oh, little prince, I am more difficult to tempt than that—
But that way lies ruin. Astarion will only be encouraged. And so Fenris tucks that fantasy away for later, when he can shove one hand over his mouth and the other between his legs, taking some of the edge off his eternal pent-up desperation).
He draws his hands forward. Holds them tightly between their two forms, his eyebrows raising up high.]
That is not behaving.
[Firm, the way you'd scold a dog. No, with the intent not to punish, but to reaffirm the boundary. He holds them there for a long second, making eye contact— do you see that this did not work?— before releasing him and stepping back.]
Finish undressing. Tend to whatever other routine you deem necessary. And then sleep.
no subject
Astarion is good at this. Fenris wonders how many times he's done it before. How many people has he wrapped around his finger with little more than a coy look or suggestive phrase? Oh, dozens, surely. Fenris is familiar with the type: the seductive women and charismatic men who flit around parties, tipsy on champagne and baring skin in daring little outfits, so eager to play the eternal game of noble politics and curried favor. The ones Danarius, thank the gods, never had much time for (and who in turn dismissed the middle-aged magister as too unappealing to ever want to play with). The nobles that Fenris was always mildly exasperated by, finding their methods of filling their endless time both hedonistic and pointless.
How old is Astarion? His father had never said, but he cannot be above a hundred. Likely less. A man in name only, swaggering around because he thinks he has some experience under his belt . . .
Ah, pretty thing. Pretty, foolish thing, who thinks all it will take to run rings around his bodyguard is a few blatant flirtations.
He'll learn.
Ignoring the heat pooling between his legs (gods, that hot, heavy pressure is tempting indeed; it takes a great deal for him not to twitch his hips down even once), Fenris takes in a breath. His fingers wrap heavily around both of Astarion's wrists, gripping them tightly— not cruelly, no, but with such deliberate intent.
(And it's tempting, you know, to pin them above his head. To press him into that mirror and rumble in his ear, do you really think I am so foolish as that, boy? Soft desperate noises sounding in Astarion's throat, a flaring hunger that Fenris would love to make even worse. Do you really think I am fooled half so easily as all those fawning suitors I'm sure nip at your heels? Led along by their cocks and promised a quick fuck if they'll give you what you want, oh, little prince, I am more difficult to tempt than that—
But that way lies ruin. Astarion will only be encouraged. And so Fenris tucks that fantasy away for later, when he can shove one hand over his mouth and the other between his legs, taking some of the edge off his eternal pent-up desperation).
He draws his hands forward. Holds them tightly between their two forms, his eyebrows raising up high.]
That is not behaving.
[Firm, the way you'd scold a dog. No, with the intent not to punish, but to reaffirm the boundary. He holds them there for a long second, making eye contact— do you see that this did not work?— before releasing him and stepping back.]
Finish undressing. Tend to whatever other routine you deem necessary. And then sleep.