[In a flash, his head swims. His hands hurt. There's a gaussian halo lining his vision like a blotted, vibrant cloud of flourescent streetlight, and it's framing the whole of Fenris' shadowed face where it looms right overhead. This wicked brute spanning every last one of his senses— growling while his eyes (their eyes) fleck with stars in an alleyway that smells like gutter filth. Dark leather bristling around that handsome throat. Sword hilts erect behind his spine— outdated weaponry for a city fond of magic, and all of it saturated. Blinding in the fractal patterns of a living, breathing harbor that never ever sleeps.
He's never seen anything like it.
Never felt anything like this, his heart rabbiting high inside his throat with a mind all its own, desperately clawing its way free with every painful beat. Gods— it might as well be screaming: its measure hot and loud against soft tension. Tongue parched. Neck peppered with sweat. Legs aching. He could swear he'd swallowed a burning splinter of red-hot coal like a pill somewhere in the last few seconds(? minutes?) and everything under his skin seethes just to promise that it's true. Thighs trembling and squeezed tight around his offered perch, unable to fight back.
And not solely because of leverage.
Unbearable, the word that comes to mind. Along with suffocating. Perfect.
The fuck of his life, they'd said.
He wants that.
He wants that more than he wants what's already been afforded (though strewth, he jolts at that wielded knife of a command. 'Come inside your pants like the squalling brat you are— ') so if his eyes roll, if his teeth chatter before they clench around a breathless groan, it's only warranted. Pushing his hips forward in a slow rut that leaves him fractured where he stands— a strangled cry in his throat for that first, unmistakably profane scuff— shaking through his shoulders as the too-tight fabric of his trousers catches under pressure: slow little ripples of tangled pressure, squeezed and knocking at his desperate cock and its drooling, smothered crown. Damp enough (thick enough) that it peeks out past the partway undone measure of his waistband, barely hidden by the sheer hang of his open shirt. Soft white. Dark black. Lurid pink flashes stricken with a glaze of vibrant lust— eager as the pup he's said to be.
But for all that he's tumbling headfirst into ruin, that's not the end of it.
Because truth be told there's a reason why it's bodyguard this time, and not sitter, keeper, servant, aide— a damned good reason why Astarion's parents tracked down a creature wholly without fear save for one. One easily manipulated, malleable, utterly ironclad fear. No family. No ties. Only a single task, with everything leveraged against it: keep their eldest out of trouble; keep him safe— handled with all the excessive care of someone purchasing a livestock guardian....to ward a starving dragon from their flock.
And it's because once Astarion's backed into a corner, there is nothing he won't do to claw his way back out.
(Slender thing with unmarked skin. Cut from pristine porcelain right to the edges of his long-lashed almond eyes, his irises set with inlaid silver. His delicate features lost beneath loose curls. Who grew fast enough to comprehend just how he looks beneath decadent layers of loose-stitched silk and pearl and cream-colored lace. Fit for poetry. Embroidery. Pretty even when he sulks.
Proof enough that a young buck still has horns.)
That's the trouble with power, after all, when even a hollow-boned thing can learn the exact threat it poses. Like the hunting dogs who roam in packs, yes, their jaws always aching for newer despotic thrills— but also like a boy who's had notoriety squirming in his palm already, comprehending what a few gasped breaths can do. And when you've a Duke that brings you chocolates (a Merchant Princess, a Duchess, a Magistrate or ten, even the guards that watch your estate's front gates— ) it's shockingly easy to put together how fucking flimsy the word no really is.
His last attendant got caught on his knees.
The one before that under his sheets.
Before that— fired. For incompetence (see figures two and three).
And they all of them hissed out behave, and they all snapped at one point or another for frustration, and they never— oh, it was never actually like this, he thinks, arching vulgarly from the pain scraped across his knuckles. His wrists. Wriggling down against the angle of an offered leg like an animal scolded. This is good. This is better. This is more fun.
But it doesn't change the fact that he wants more.
And he knows— because he's learned— that he can have his cake and make it whimper his name, too.
His back arches. His knee lifts. He's working his hips like it's his own pleasure that he's chasing while making sure his captive leg drags along the underside of Fenris' cock with each roll of his body. Wriggling them together through the leverage of his pinned-down arms and rhythmically curved spine. Forcing them to grind. Thigh to thigh, hip to hip, cock to— ]
....Come on, then....
[Parted lips shining in the dark. Teeth flashed in a feverishly provocative show of wet-mouthed need.] If this is all we're— going to share....Time to see who gives in first.
And— if you were worth the effort of picking up in the first place....
iliad XXXI: the iliad and the iliad
He's never seen anything like it.
Never felt anything like this, his heart rabbiting high inside his throat with a mind all its own, desperately clawing its way free with every painful beat. Gods— it might as well be screaming: its measure hot and loud against soft tension. Tongue parched. Neck peppered with sweat. Legs aching. He could swear he'd swallowed a burning splinter of red-hot coal like a pill somewhere in the last few seconds(? minutes?) and everything under his skin seethes just to promise that it's true. Thighs trembling and squeezed tight around his offered perch, unable to fight back.
And not solely because of leverage.
Unbearable, the word that comes to mind. Along with suffocating. Perfect.
The fuck of his life, they'd said.
He wants that.
He wants that more than he wants what's already been afforded (though strewth, he jolts at that wielded knife of a command. 'Come inside your pants like the squalling brat you are— ') so if his eyes roll, if his teeth chatter before they clench around a breathless groan, it's only warranted. Pushing his hips forward in a slow rut that leaves him fractured where he stands— a strangled cry in his throat for that first, unmistakably profane scuff— shaking through his shoulders as the too-tight fabric of his trousers catches under pressure: slow little ripples of tangled pressure, squeezed and knocking at his desperate cock and its drooling, smothered crown. Damp enough (thick enough) that it peeks out past the partway undone measure of his waistband, barely hidden by the sheer hang of his open shirt. Soft white. Dark black. Lurid pink flashes stricken with a glaze of vibrant lust— eager as the pup he's said to be.
But for all that he's tumbling headfirst into ruin, that's not the end of it.
Because truth be told there's a reason why it's bodyguard this time, and not sitter, keeper, servant, aide— a damned good reason why Astarion's parents tracked down a creature wholly without fear save for one. One easily manipulated, malleable, utterly ironclad fear. No family. No ties. Only a single task, with everything leveraged against it: keep their eldest out of trouble; keep him safe— handled with all the excessive care of someone purchasing a livestock guardian....to ward a starving dragon from their flock.
And it's because once Astarion's backed into a corner, there is nothing he won't do to claw his way back out.
(Slender thing with unmarked skin. Cut from pristine porcelain right to the edges of his long-lashed almond eyes, his irises set with inlaid silver. His delicate features lost beneath loose curls. Who grew fast enough to comprehend just how he looks beneath decadent layers of loose-stitched silk and pearl and cream-colored lace. Fit for poetry. Embroidery. Pretty even when he sulks.
Proof enough that a young buck still has horns.)
That's the trouble with power, after all, when even a hollow-boned thing can learn the exact threat it poses. Like the hunting dogs who roam in packs, yes, their jaws always aching for newer despotic thrills— but also like a boy who's had notoriety squirming in his palm already, comprehending what a few gasped breaths can do. And when you've a Duke that brings you chocolates (a Merchant Princess, a Duchess, a Magistrate or ten, even the guards that watch your estate's front gates— ) it's shockingly easy to put together how fucking flimsy the word no really is.
His last attendant got caught on his knees.
The one before that under his sheets.
Before that— fired. For incompetence (see figures two and three).
And they all of them hissed out behave, and they all snapped at one point or another for frustration, and they never— oh, it was never actually like this, he thinks, arching vulgarly from the pain scraped across his knuckles. His wrists. Wriggling down against the angle of an offered leg like an animal scolded. This is good. This is better. This is more fun.
But it doesn't change the fact that he wants more.
And he knows— because he's learned— that he can have his cake and make it whimper his name, too.
His back arches. His knee lifts. He's working his hips like it's his own pleasure that he's chasing while making sure his captive leg drags along the underside of Fenris' cock with each roll of his body. Wriggling them together through the leverage of his pinned-down arms and rhythmically curved spine. Forcing them to grind. Thigh to thigh, hip to hip, cock to— ]
....Come on, then....
[Parted lips shining in the dark. Teeth flashed in a feverishly provocative show of wet-mouthed need.] If this is all we're— going to share....Time to see who gives in first.
And— if you were worth the effort of picking up in the first place....