[Though Astarion has his answer, at least, so there's that for consolation prizes. (His wrists gripped thickly between calloused fingers the better one. The part where he's scolded like a dog that pissed the carpet, the worse.)]
Bet you were just loads of fun at the orphanage.
[Or wherever it is sellswords like him come from. (Astarion's back still pushed to thick glass. Astarion's curls still rucked up around his throat and shoulders and cheeks. Slung in a way that pushes out his hips slightly, but the posing itself stays degenerate. Curved too much by any standard, like the image of an unpaid whore loitering outside her doorway in search of her next sponsor. Restlessness that beckons, in a word— only what do you call it in a room this nice, in a mansion this sterilely idyllic, where everything desirable's already in its place?)
Oh fine. Maybe he is pissing the figurative carpet, but then Astarion would argue it's hard to blame him: his father had good sense in the sheepdog he purchased— tall and lean, refined by a handsome stretch of years that attractively thinned out the hollows of arched features; stern eyes. Soft lips. When packs his own age talk about wanting to fit a well-seasoned bit of game between their legs or on their prick, this is the kind of delectable quarry they strive for, easily. (That lone retinue felt hot as a brand in those seconds when they'd squeezed against each other, and even at a distance, close to looming balcony shutters that glitter for their fractal glass in cold moonlight, armored contours fill whatever space he takes in ways that leave Astarion's jaw— right down to the set of his own cock— aching with warmed hunger.)
But his fingers find their way to his waistband.
And he finishes undressing, not even bothering to take off the rest of the jewelry he'd been wearing— crossing the room on bare feet, bare legs, bare everything— just to slip under thin sheets, peering upwards from a heap of cluttered (overstuffed) pillows. Watching him the way a child watches a pretty fish through glass.
Hello, see? You draconian thing. He can behave. He can be picture perfect.
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[Though Astarion has his answer, at least, so there's that for consolation prizes. (His wrists gripped thickly between calloused fingers the better one. The part where he's scolded like a dog that pissed the carpet, the worse.)]
Bet you were just loads of fun at the orphanage.
[Or wherever it is sellswords like him come from. (Astarion's back still pushed to thick glass. Astarion's curls still rucked up around his throat and shoulders and cheeks. Slung in a way that pushes out his hips slightly, but the posing itself stays degenerate. Curved too much by any standard, like the image of an unpaid whore loitering outside her doorway in search of her next sponsor. Restlessness that beckons, in a word— only what do you call it in a room this nice, in a mansion this sterilely idyllic, where everything desirable's already in its place?)
Oh fine. Maybe he is pissing the figurative carpet, but then Astarion would argue it's hard to blame him: his father had good sense in the sheepdog he purchased— tall and lean, refined by a handsome stretch of years that attractively thinned out the hollows of arched features; stern eyes. Soft lips. When packs his own age talk about wanting to fit a well-seasoned bit of game between their legs or on their prick, this is the kind of delectable quarry they strive for, easily. (That lone retinue felt hot as a brand in those seconds when they'd squeezed against each other, and even at a distance, close to looming balcony shutters that glitter for their fractal glass in cold moonlight, armored contours fill whatever space he takes in ways that leave Astarion's jaw— right down to the set of his own cock— aching with warmed hunger.)
But his fingers find their way to his waistband.
And he finishes undressing, not even bothering to take off the rest of the jewelry he'd been wearing— crossing the room on bare feet, bare legs, bare everything— just to slip under thin sheets, peering upwards from a heap of cluttered (overstuffed) pillows. Watching him the way a child watches a pretty fish through glass.
Hello, see? You draconian thing. He can behave. He can be picture perfect.
Now where's his reward.]