His stare— through the fog obscuring his vision— finding a hard snap of focus owing to the chalky taste of bitter spite. They're like the walls behind them: they reverberate. Lust, animosity, enmity, ire greed. It all bounces back. Harder. Sharper. Louder. Never mind the fact that he's two degrees from his eyes rolling back, unable to breathe without panting open-mouthed like an animal run to its last steps. Never mind the smell of sex that wafts across his senses despite the fact that the air isn't actually rife with it so much as the suggestion of it. Of body heat. Salt tang. Sweat. Vulgar, acrid pearl. His own hand won't stop moving despite his childish rage, and his eyelids flutter before they narrow into slits for an insult that actually sticks.
Not his age, or his wealth, or his station. Not his pretty looks, not the fact that he's figured out he can't walk two steps in certain places without someone drooling along their back teeth for the allure of what he is (who doesn't want a highborne little coinhound in their pocket? Who doesn't imagine a wedding, or a bed, or more power, or the thought of bruises under jewel-lined tunics wearing the shape of their fingers?) and Fenris isn't any different— his eyes had dropped before that mirror, too. His stare lingered while he fiddled with those clasps. He's wild and savage-eyed against the wall pretending that he's better, while he bickers and dreams up something dark that'll soon swallow him up like supper. Oh yes, he's no different. Just more interesting— Astarion will give him that.
But it's the thought that he's useless at this that riles (and feverishly incites).
Used to mounting servants. Spoiled in high halls. Middling compared to anything real, riding on the coattails of everything he's been stitched into and suckled empty praise from. Glowering out of the corner of his eye under the tangle of white bangs that've fallen— sweatsoaked— out of place, his hand shuttling faster while he's taken to imagining this impudent weathered curr on the floor, kept hungry and waiting for hours upon hours at a time, untouched and undressed and left open: taught a lesson about what sort of servant he is, all but wailing to be fucked by the so-called little brat he'd strung along— all while his cock jumps and trickles where it bobs stiffly between spread legs.
(He'll brand him. Tattoo him. Add his own marks to the rest of that blazing artwork strung across tanned skin, permanent and crude as marking up a wall. Hold him spread out and docile while he sucks Astarion's cock like a thing starved so that Petras can etch profane slang on either cheek in the back room of whatever party they next attend, their message drawn around his sated hole. And best of all, have him begging for it by the time he's done with this arrangement. He'll drug his food for fun. He'll mount his own hand in the wretch's obedient eyeline each time they say goodnight. He— ) ]
—nngh!!
[(This isn't how he thinks. That's the drug talking. The alcohol. The smoke. The aprodisiac and sore pride intermingled. If he's going to win this stupid war, then he's going to do it on his terms, in the way he's always done. Seduction first: conquest after.
But— )]
F-fasta vass—
[A rough pantomime, a genuine shiver wracking him where he stands, trying on in earnest that strange little quip for himself.
He's not quite strong enough to prove him wrong, while his knuckles are squeezed white-hot beneath a flaring crest. He wants to be, but—
A thousand lurid images snap through his mind. Inside his boots, his toes curl. He's too dangerously close to the precipice that there's no stopping the steady trickle of what the words 'teach you how to fuck as though you mean it' conjure up a cyclical feedback loop of cruel sensation: his body struggling to make itself feel what it might taste whilst speared atop a truly sating cock, driven out of his mind and wailing with wet tears in his eyes for release that digs in deep— oh, fuck.
He could slow his own touch and last a minute longer, maybe, but the fluttering slip of his muscles and the tightening of his belly swears that's all he might get before he— ]
I—
[That's as far as he goes before his fist locks.
Before his knees buckle and his body snaps with electric rigidity, clamping his jaw shut with a whimpering cry— damp rivulets spurting hot across his knuckles, soaking down the front of his open slacks. His eyes roll back and his own head follows, baring his throat to the crisp night air while a shaking grip keeps pumping madly in tight patterns.
Too succumbed to do anything but keep succumbing.]
no subject
His stare— through the fog obscuring his vision— finding a hard snap of focus owing to the chalky taste of bitter spite. They're like the walls behind them: they reverberate. Lust, animosity, enmity, ire greed. It all bounces back. Harder. Sharper. Louder. Never mind the fact that he's two degrees from his eyes rolling back, unable to breathe without panting open-mouthed like an animal run to its last steps. Never mind the smell of sex that wafts across his senses despite the fact that the air isn't actually rife with it so much as the suggestion of it. Of body heat. Salt tang. Sweat. Vulgar, acrid pearl. His own hand won't stop moving despite his childish rage, and his eyelids flutter before they narrow into slits for an insult that actually sticks.
Not his age, or his wealth, or his station. Not his pretty looks, not the fact that he's figured out he can't walk two steps in certain places without someone drooling along their back teeth for the allure of what he is (who doesn't want a highborne little coinhound in their pocket? Who doesn't imagine a wedding, or a bed, or more power, or the thought of bruises under jewel-lined tunics wearing the shape of their fingers?) and Fenris isn't any different— his eyes had dropped before that mirror, too. His stare lingered while he fiddled with those clasps. He's wild and savage-eyed against the wall pretending that he's better, while he bickers and dreams up something dark that'll soon swallow him up like supper. Oh yes, he's no different. Just more interesting— Astarion will give him that.
But it's the thought that he's useless at this that riles (and feverishly incites).
Used to mounting servants. Spoiled in high halls. Middling compared to anything real, riding on the coattails of everything he's been stitched into and suckled empty praise from. Glowering out of the corner of his eye under the tangle of white bangs that've fallen— sweatsoaked— out of place, his hand shuttling faster while he's taken to imagining this impudent weathered curr on the floor, kept hungry and waiting for hours upon hours at a time, untouched and undressed and left open: taught a lesson about what sort of servant he is, all but wailing to be fucked by the so-called little brat he'd strung along— all while his cock jumps and trickles where it bobs stiffly between spread legs.
(He'll brand him. Tattoo him. Add his own marks to the rest of that blazing artwork strung across tanned skin, permanent and crude as marking up a wall. Hold him spread out and docile while he sucks Astarion's cock like a thing starved so that Petras can etch profane slang on either cheek in the back room of whatever party they next attend, their message drawn around his sated hole. And best of all, have him begging for it by the time he's done with this arrangement. He'll drug his food for fun. He'll mount his own hand in the wretch's obedient eyeline each time they say goodnight. He— ) ]
—nngh!!
[(This isn't how he thinks. That's the drug talking. The alcohol. The smoke. The aprodisiac and sore pride intermingled. If he's going to win this stupid war, then he's going to do it on his terms, in the way he's always done. Seduction first: conquest after.
But— )]
F-fasta vass—
[A rough pantomime, a genuine shiver wracking him where he stands, trying on in earnest that strange little quip for himself.
He's not quite strong enough to prove him wrong, while his knuckles are squeezed white-hot beneath a flaring crest. He wants to be, but—
A thousand lurid images snap through his mind. Inside his boots, his toes curl. He's too dangerously close to the precipice that there's no stopping the steady trickle of what the words 'teach you how to fuck as though you mean it' conjure up a cyclical feedback loop of cruel sensation: his body struggling to make itself feel what it might taste whilst speared atop a truly sating cock, driven out of his mind and wailing with wet tears in his eyes for release that digs in deep— oh, fuck.
He could slow his own touch and last a minute longer, maybe, but the fluttering slip of his muscles and the tightening of his belly swears that's all he might get before he— ]
I—
[That's as far as he goes before his fist locks.
Before his knees buckle and his body snaps with electric rigidity, clamping his jaw shut with a whimpering cry— damp rivulets spurting hot across his knuckles, soaking down the front of his open slacks. His eyes roll back and his own head follows, baring his throat to the crisp night air while a shaking grip keeps pumping madly in tight patterns.
Too succumbed to do anything but keep succumbing.]