Fierce bodyguard trained to defend against every kind of attack under the sun, but not like this. Not something so vulgar, so crude, so mean— Fenris' eyes go wide as their mouths slot together, his shock stalling him out for a precious few seconds. His hands hang loose at his side, his fingers stiff and stricken, as all around him there's the barking laughs of the well-bred masses.
The world narrows itself to sensations. A hot tongue slipping between his lips; soft pressure as delicate fingers wrap around the back of his neck. Wine pouring down his throat, droplets of scarlet staining his lips as spice stings his tongue. Heat flooding through him, and by the time he realizes what's happening and wrenched his mouth away, it's too late. There's already a flush to the tip of his ears, his cock stirring faintly—
His wretched little charge has drugged him.
Not with much— but then again, when it comes to aphrodisiac, it doesn't need to be much. A few drops can twist your senses for hours on end, making you little more than a panting, mewling thing in need of service. How long does Fenris have before it hits him? Minutes? Maybe less. It's hard to tell, for he's only ever used to the things Danarius would sometimes give him, the drugs amplified tenfold by magic and the effects so terribly potent . . .
He can hear the jeers around him. He wishes he couldn't. There's a roaring in his ears, a tinny tone that means his mind is dropping away, and by all rights that ought to drown out the others. But no. No, he hears every goading word, every malicious comment: oh, look, he's feeling it already, how fast do you think he'll get to his knees, I bet he'd be a good rut if you could get him to pin you to the table . . .
His patience snaps.
With an outright growl he grabs Astarion: one hand on the back of his neck, the other viciously tight as he grips his bicep. And they march forward: away from those goading peers (their cries delighted, cat-calling that Astarion's about to have the fuck of his life) and towards the doorway. And maybe his charge wiggles or fights or laughs, but it doesn't matter, for they are moving— and there is so little that escapes Fenris' grasp when he has them in his clutches. They stride past guests (looking astonished, looking delighted, amused at how vicious this orgy has turned so quickly) and security alike (who don't dream of stopping him, not when he's so clearly flushed and aching to rut his squalling prey), not pausing until Fenris kicks open the filigree-decorated doors and they emerge into the cool night air.]
Move.
[He shoves him forward as he releases him.]
Now.
[Never mind that he's flushed. Never mind that his cock is half-hard, stiffened hang straining faintly against his laces. They're going home.]
no subject
Fierce bodyguard trained to defend against every kind of attack under the sun, but not like this. Not something so vulgar, so crude, so mean— Fenris' eyes go wide as their mouths slot together, his shock stalling him out for a precious few seconds. His hands hang loose at his side, his fingers stiff and stricken, as all around him there's the barking laughs of the well-bred masses.
The world narrows itself to sensations. A hot tongue slipping between his lips; soft pressure as delicate fingers wrap around the back of his neck. Wine pouring down his throat, droplets of scarlet staining his lips as spice stings his tongue. Heat flooding through him, and by the time he realizes what's happening and wrenched his mouth away, it's too late. There's already a flush to the tip of his ears, his cock stirring faintly—
His wretched little charge has drugged him.
Not with much— but then again, when it comes to aphrodisiac, it doesn't need to be much. A few drops can twist your senses for hours on end, making you little more than a panting, mewling thing in need of service. How long does Fenris have before it hits him? Minutes? Maybe less. It's hard to tell, for he's only ever used to the things Danarius would sometimes give him, the drugs amplified tenfold by magic and the effects so terribly potent . . .
He can hear the jeers around him. He wishes he couldn't. There's a roaring in his ears, a tinny tone that means his mind is dropping away, and by all rights that ought to drown out the others. But no. No, he hears every goading word, every malicious comment: oh, look, he's feeling it already, how fast do you think he'll get to his knees, I bet he'd be a good rut if you could get him to pin you to the table . . .
His patience snaps.
With an outright growl he grabs Astarion: one hand on the back of his neck, the other viciously tight as he grips his bicep. And they march forward: away from those goading peers (their cries delighted, cat-calling that Astarion's about to have the fuck of his life) and towards the doorway. And maybe his charge wiggles or fights or laughs, but it doesn't matter, for they are moving— and there is so little that escapes Fenris' grasp when he has them in his clutches. They stride past guests (looking astonished, looking delighted, amused at how vicious this orgy has turned so quickly) and security alike (who don't dream of stopping him, not when he's so clearly flushed and aching to rut his squalling prey), not pausing until Fenris kicks open the filigree-decorated doors and they emerge into the cool night air.]
Move.
[He shoves him forward as he releases him.]
Now.
[Never mind that he's flushed. Never mind that his cock is half-hard, stiffened hang straining faintly against his laces. They're going home.]