It's the drug. It has to be the drug, for he hadn't been this hot and bothered earlier tonight. Gods, the brat had walked naked in front of him and he'd been less distracted— but then again (and the realization is a dreamy thing, dissonantly distant), he had thought such filthy things about him, hadn't he? It's not about a lack of attraction. It's just that this time, those fantasies can't be pushed away, for each time he tries, they return insistently. Again and again and again, battering against his defenses, making him image—
Oh, everything.
(Muffled cries of protest and hunger as Fenris' cock fiercely fucks that slickened mouth, pretty tears filling the brat's eyes as he eagerly swallows down every inch of what his bodyguard has to offer, his hand desperately jerking himself off as he bounces in impatient longing; how good Astarion would look with come glazed on his cheek, over his lips, sated and dazed; the way he'd bend over and spread himself open in vulgar question, come take me— and it goes on).
He's panting, he realizes. Overheated exhales slip past slickened lips as his eyes focus shamelessly on the half-hidden span of Astarion's hand, mesmerized by the vulgar patterns enacted. He can all but feel the echo of them: the rhythmic squeeze of fingers that have never known a hard day's work, soft and yet all the more dexterous for it. The hard, heavy pulls of a hand desperate for release, wrist snapping as the pace picks up—]
Fasta vass.
[It's a harsh whisper as he palms at himself, trying and failing to will the heel of his hand to be enough. His hips rock forward, his cock straining desperately at his laces, and oh, this is stupid. With a frustrated growl he tugs at his own laces, shoving his hand down his pants like the errant adolescent he's trying so hard to mind, his fingers wrapping around his prick and squeezing tight. Fenris, Fenris, and without quite meaning to, he times the heavy tugs of his own hand to the breathy whispers from the other end of the alley. Fenris, his thumb smearing over the velvet head, his ears flushed dark as he feels his body cry out in relief.]
Older than you, no doubt. Three— three hundred.
[More or less. It's a roughened answer. Fenris tips his head back, his eyes fluttering as he settles in.]
And you do— ah— do not need to know how long.
[Oh, ages. Years. He's such a starved thing, but then again, he's never had much chance before now, has he? But ah, best not to linger on that. Best to turn the tables around, and oh, that's easy enough. The mean little smirk that plants itself on his lips is no accident, for oh, he is frustrated with this brat.]
And w-what of you, hm? Fifty? Have you hit a century yet? I need not ask when the last time you had someone between your legs was . . .
[And he means that as a casual insult, slut woven in the space between words, but it backfires. Twists back in on itself, so that the only thing Fenris can think of is that overhot cock shoved up against his thigh, and the mewling, panting brat who wanted nothing more than to get them both off . . . fasta vass, and he grits his teeth as he renews his efforts.]
no subject
It's the drug. It has to be the drug, for he hadn't been this hot and bothered earlier tonight. Gods, the brat had walked naked in front of him and he'd been less distracted— but then again (and the realization is a dreamy thing, dissonantly distant), he had thought such filthy things about him, hadn't he? It's not about a lack of attraction. It's just that this time, those fantasies can't be pushed away, for each time he tries, they return insistently. Again and again and again, battering against his defenses, making him image—
Oh, everything.
(Muffled cries of protest and hunger as Fenris' cock fiercely fucks that slickened mouth, pretty tears filling the brat's eyes as he eagerly swallows down every inch of what his bodyguard has to offer, his hand desperately jerking himself off as he bounces in impatient longing; how good Astarion would look with come glazed on his cheek, over his lips, sated and dazed; the way he'd bend over and spread himself open in vulgar question, come take me— and it goes on).
He's panting, he realizes. Overheated exhales slip past slickened lips as his eyes focus shamelessly on the half-hidden span of Astarion's hand, mesmerized by the vulgar patterns enacted. He can all but feel the echo of them: the rhythmic squeeze of fingers that have never known a hard day's work, soft and yet all the more dexterous for it. The hard, heavy pulls of a hand desperate for release, wrist snapping as the pace picks up—]
Fasta vass.
[It's a harsh whisper as he palms at himself, trying and failing to will the heel of his hand to be enough. His hips rock forward, his cock straining desperately at his laces, and oh, this is stupid. With a frustrated growl he tugs at his own laces, shoving his hand down his pants like the errant adolescent he's trying so hard to mind, his fingers wrapping around his prick and squeezing tight. Fenris, Fenris, and without quite meaning to, he times the heavy tugs of his own hand to the breathy whispers from the other end of the alley. Fenris, his thumb smearing over the velvet head, his ears flushed dark as he feels his body cry out in relief.]
Older than you, no doubt. Three— three hundred.
[More or less. It's a roughened answer. Fenris tips his head back, his eyes fluttering as he settles in.]
And you do— ah— do not need to know how long.
[Oh, ages. Years. He's such a starved thing, but then again, he's never had much chance before now, has he? But ah, best not to linger on that. Best to turn the tables around, and oh, that's easy enough. The mean little smirk that plants itself on his lips is no accident, for oh, he is frustrated with this brat.]
And w-what of you, hm? Fifty? Have you hit a century yet? I need not ask when the last time you had someone between your legs was . . .
[And he means that as a casual insult, slut woven in the space between words, but it backfires. Twists back in on itself, so that the only thing Fenris can think of is that overhot cock shoved up against his thigh, and the mewling, panting brat who wanted nothing more than to get them both off . . . fasta vass, and he grits his teeth as he renews his efforts.]