[Thumb wringing over swollen temptation in a way that scrapes sore knuckles back and forth across the jagged teeth of his open trousers. Halfway to dissolute bliss thanks to the urging of both wine and clinging smoke when the muttered snag of fasta vass (twice— he rasps it twice, his given guardian— and oh, that has to count as an avaricious notch on the scoreboard in Astarion's favor— ) loops around his focus to yank it right back down to earth, with its rainslicked sidestreets and cloying humidity, both mercifully offset by the lateness of the hour.
And just as quick: the dropping of his chin down to his shoulder.
Laughing for the raw, stupefied delight found in how strange a curse like that sounds to ears that've never heard even a shred of Tevene in their short years.]
Seventy-five. [The lithe thing perched on sinful legs abruptly sneers back (with too little air to cross the distance), still fighting the sound of his own unsubsided mirth. Rakishness leading the charge teeth first, grin second, enunciation third, and thought—
Oh, none of that, actually.
Less than a century is the truth: the man was right in guessing. But there's a savage charm in taking posturing little potshots at each other when pumping at the aching base of one's own thickened cock (welling crest to the space deep between his legs, finally hunching forwards at an angle so that he can work himself for pleasure instead of mewling show), particularly when the difference in years between them is centuries to paltry decades.
Astarion lied, you see.
He's forty-five, actually. But even his kin don't pay enough attention to correct him; why should he hold himself to etiquette when talking to a stranger? One that doesn't even beg him for temptation like the others. One who palms freely— angrily— at himself with a glint in narrowed eyes, relying on nothing but his own fingers and a stubborn insistence that jacking off in broad moonlight is a half-step closer to home. (Silver eyes pinned under the edges of his shirt and buckles, wetting his own lips with swift flicks of his tongue, ah)....
And with that attitude, it might well be soon enough.
Another heady ripple, biting at his mouth so hard his senses throb to hunt for flashes of dark skin at a warding distance, like a couple of steps somehow makes this less depraved. (Fenris....Fenris....)]
This morning. [He wasn't asked how long (it was a rhetorical slight); he answers anyway.]
There was a pretty maid beneath....the tablecloth.... [Whether for the story or the urgency instilled through livewire pangs of urgency behind his teeth, he's sped up his pace enough to the point of soft percussion: loose shirt now dragged to one side around the lean stretch of his belly, and followed by a supple slap slap slap— now that his fingers've grown slick from wanton strokes. Only sharing the sight of what slips rapidly between his thumb and crooked-in fingers. Little blurs of glossy movement.] ....she'd been cleaning everything so....diligently. I didn't have the heart to stop her, when she turned herself to me.
[Ah— ah— ]
Could've even been you just now, too, for the answer to that question....if you weren't so afraid of having fun. [Echoing Fenris slyly to add:]
It'd take longer than a night for me to tire of you.
no subject
And just as quick: the dropping of his chin down to his shoulder.
Laughing for the raw, stupefied delight found in how strange a curse like that sounds to ears that've never heard even a shred of Tevene in their short years.]
Seventy-five. [The lithe thing perched on sinful legs abruptly sneers back (with too little air to cross the distance), still fighting the sound of his own unsubsided mirth. Rakishness leading the charge teeth first, grin second, enunciation third, and thought—
Oh, none of that, actually.
Less than a century is the truth: the man was right in guessing. But there's a savage charm in taking posturing little potshots at each other when pumping at the aching base of one's own thickened cock (welling crest to the space deep between his legs, finally hunching forwards at an angle so that he can work himself for pleasure instead of mewling show), particularly when the difference in years between them is centuries to paltry decades.
Astarion lied, you see.
He's forty-five, actually. But even his kin don't pay enough attention to correct him; why should he hold himself to etiquette when talking to a stranger? One that doesn't even beg him for temptation like the others. One who palms freely— angrily— at himself with a glint in narrowed eyes, relying on nothing but his own fingers and a stubborn insistence that jacking off in broad moonlight is a half-step closer to home. (Silver eyes pinned under the edges of his shirt and buckles, wetting his own lips with swift flicks of his tongue, ah)....
And with that attitude, it might well be soon enough.
Another heady ripple, biting at his mouth so hard his senses throb to hunt for flashes of dark skin at a warding distance, like a couple of steps somehow makes this less depraved. (Fenris....Fenris....)]
This morning. [He wasn't asked how long (it was a rhetorical slight); he answers anyway.]
There was a pretty maid beneath....the tablecloth.... [Whether for the story or the urgency instilled through livewire pangs of urgency behind his teeth, he's sped up his pace enough to the point of soft percussion: loose shirt now dragged to one side around the lean stretch of his belly, and followed by a supple slap slap slap— now that his fingers've grown slick from wanton strokes. Only sharing the sight of what slips rapidly between his thumb and crooked-in fingers. Little blurs of glossy movement.] ....she'd been cleaning everything so....diligently. I didn't have the heart to stop her, when she turned herself to me.
[Ah— ah— ]
Could've even been you just now, too, for the answer to that question....if you weren't so afraid of having fun. [Echoing Fenris slyly to add:]
It'd take longer than a night for me to tire of you.