[Oh, wicked little beast. Impudent little upstart nipping at his heels, a pup so eager to play that he has no idea what he bats at. And yet not so puppyish just yet, is he, for there's a deft experience to the way he fondles at Fenris. His fingers are so clever, slipping between his thighs and stroking along his swollen length.
Fenris won't blame himself for the groan that rumbles low in his throat.
It's a brief thing, yes. Bitten back as green eyes flutter closed, his ardent stride stumbling as they come to a halt just at the mouth of an alley. And yet there's such hunger woven into that noise, Fenris' mouth going dry as his body whimpers that he hasn't felt another's touch in so, so long . . .
Deep breath. Fenris fills his lungs, trying and failing to distract himself from the curling lust warming in his belly. Sensory observations won't do it: the buzz of faded neon signs or the faint scrape of boots against cobblestone is drowned out by his own whining thoughts. He swallows thickly, glancing around. There's the occasional laugh, heads turning as they stumble forward— and all at once, Fenris realizes they're attracting too much attention. That's a stupid thing to do even in the richest parts of Baldur's Gate, never mind at night. Never mind when you're so clearly intoxicated . . .
No, they aren't going anywhere like this. Abruptly Fenris pivots them, steering them into one of the narrower alleyways. It's a forgotten thing, half-torn posters peeling on brick walls and rusted cans at their feet. Shadows conceal them both, and that suits Fenris just fine. Still gripping Astarion's wrist, he shoves him up against the wall, surging forward to shove one hardened thigh between the brat's own. Fine features hit roughened brick as Fenris pins both hands against the wall, not caring for how they might scrape or bleed.]
Get yourself off.
[It's a growl, low and frustrated. No mention is made for the swelling arousal in Fenris' own pants, and that's deliberate.]
Finish, so that we may go home without a scandal. Rut yourself against my thigh and come in your pants like the squalling brat you are, and then I will take you and put you to bed, and we will speak no more of this.
[But he cannot help but glance down just once, his eyes flicking as heat pulses through two layers of thin leather. Even trapped beneath Astarion's pants Fenris can see just how thickly his cock hangs; how big he is, just shy of vulgar and yet perfectly suiting a slender elven frame—
Stop. Bad enough they are doing this at all, but Fenris cannot think, not right now— and he certainly cannot deal with a pent-up, desperate noble who wants to be rut. At least if he spills once, Fenris will have enough of a refractory period to get them home.]
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[Oh, wicked little beast. Impudent little upstart nipping at his heels, a pup so eager to play that he has no idea what he bats at. And yet not so puppyish just yet, is he, for there's a deft experience to the way he fondles at Fenris. His fingers are so clever, slipping between his thighs and stroking along his swollen length.
Fenris won't blame himself for the groan that rumbles low in his throat.
It's a brief thing, yes. Bitten back as green eyes flutter closed, his ardent stride stumbling as they come to a halt just at the mouth of an alley. And yet there's such hunger woven into that noise, Fenris' mouth going dry as his body whimpers that he hasn't felt another's touch in so, so long . . .
Deep breath. Fenris fills his lungs, trying and failing to distract himself from the curling lust warming in his belly. Sensory observations won't do it: the buzz of faded neon signs or the faint scrape of boots against cobblestone is drowned out by his own whining thoughts. He swallows thickly, glancing around. There's the occasional laugh, heads turning as they stumble forward— and all at once, Fenris realizes they're attracting too much attention. That's a stupid thing to do even in the richest parts of Baldur's Gate, never mind at night. Never mind when you're so clearly intoxicated . . .
No, they aren't going anywhere like this. Abruptly Fenris pivots them, steering them into one of the narrower alleyways. It's a forgotten thing, half-torn posters peeling on brick walls and rusted cans at their feet. Shadows conceal them both, and that suits Fenris just fine. Still gripping Astarion's wrist, he shoves him up against the wall, surging forward to shove one hardened thigh between the brat's own. Fine features hit roughened brick as Fenris pins both hands against the wall, not caring for how they might scrape or bleed.]
Get yourself off.
[It's a growl, low and frustrated. No mention is made for the swelling arousal in Fenris' own pants, and that's deliberate.]
Finish, so that we may go home without a scandal. Rut yourself against my thigh and come in your pants like the squalling brat you are, and then I will take you and put you to bed, and we will speak no more of this.
[But he cannot help but glance down just once, his eyes flicking as heat pulses through two layers of thin leather. Even trapped beneath Astarion's pants Fenris can see just how thickly his cock hangs; how big he is, just shy of vulgar and yet perfectly suiting a slender elven frame—
Stop. Bad enough they are doing this at all, but Fenris cannot think, not right now— and he certainly cannot deal with a pent-up, desperate noble who wants to be rut. At least if he spills once, Fenris will have enough of a refractory period to get them home.]