Certainly not the savage glare his words earn, for in truth, he had not expected the goad to land so fiercely. He hadn't expected anything, too heady off his own blackened lust to dream of such things as consequences (but oh, he will, he will), but if he had, oh, not such an enraged glare. Deadly and snarling, and if they were beasts, a growl would surely be building low in Astarion's throat. And yet— instead, a panting tongue. Instead, hot breath puffing in the air between them, the brat's hand pumping all the harder. And Fenris wonders what it is, exactly, that had landed: the insinuation that he has not experienced the kind of down-and-dirty, eye-rolling thigh-trembling vigorous rutting that occupies all of Fenris' fantasies . . . or the fact that it's true?
(And he does not slant it sideways. He does not think about how it could be taken as a personal insult, you haven't earned this in anyone else, either, for in truth, all Fenris imagines right now is Astarion as a pretty thing— delicate and arrogant, it's true, but above all else: submissive).
But he doesn't expect, either, the curse that slips past his charge's lips.
Fucking hell, his voice slurred and his accent clumsy, and Fenris does not know why some part of him melts to hear it. It's surely a bit of goading and nothing more, the brat throwing his own language back at him, but gods, something in Fenris howls in response. He wants to hear more. He wants to teach Astarion the filthiest phrases in Tevene, growled in his ear as he mounts him from behind; he wants to hear those words drip off a honeyed tongue, Astarion's expression blissful and his eyes hazy, his impudent brat finally tamed as he's split atop Fenris' prick.
He wants it. He wants him, not just to fuck but to breed. He wants to run his fingers up the inside of pale thighs and watch him shiver; he wants to fill his needy little hole again and again, fucking him until all he can remember is Fenris' name, his face pushed into the mattress and his hips hoisted up, Fenris Fenris Fenris, drooling droplets of come already staining his thighs and yet he still shrieks for more—
Fuck, and the Tevene bursts out of him as he feels himself topple over the edge. His overheated cock throbs, come spilling inelegantly over his fingers as the thought of Astarion gasping his name lingers in his mind, Fenris Fenris please . . . Astarion follows suit not a moment later, and for that, he struggles to open his eyes. He drinks in the sight with a moan, thrilled to the core by the sound of a muffled, mewling cry— oh, pretty thing. Pretty thing so undone, and his own cock throbs feebly in the aftermath, twitching in vain for the sight of him with his throat bared and his body overwhelmed in pleasure . . .
And it's not enough. Not when the aftermath hits all at once: his drugged lust temporarily sated and thus his senses suddenly and swiftly returning to him, almost nauseating in their starkness. The sounds of the city buzz in his ear; the careless scrape of his hand against roughened brickwork fittingly painful. The humid summer air stings beads of sweat dripping down the line of his neck. Hastily he does up his trousers, his fingers fumbling in his haste; across from him, he can hear Astarion's ragged breathing.
And it doesn't matter that somewhere in him there's still that needful lust, for in this moment all Fenris can think of is that he has led them down a foolish path. An inciting one, and what had he been thinking? This will only encourage the brat. This will only teach him that escaping leads to all kinds of filthy escapades—
But the truth is, he wasn't thinking. He barely is now, a low buzzing in his ears and something in the back of his mind whispering filthily. And what's done is done: he will simply have to be sterner around Astarion, as stoic as he used to be to the other slaves.]
Come on.
[Addled as he is, he mutters it in Tevene first— and then, with a short, sharp exhale, corrects himself.]
Come on.
[He crosses the alley. He won't touch Astarion, not now; indeed, he won't even look at him while he's still half-undressed. Resentful shame ripples through him, anger&mdsah; a little at Astarion, mostly at himself— a smothering force to the lust.]
no subject
Certainly not the savage glare his words earn, for in truth, he had not expected the goad to land so fiercely. He hadn't expected anything, too heady off his own blackened lust to dream of such things as consequences (but oh, he will, he will), but if he had, oh, not such an enraged glare. Deadly and snarling, and if they were beasts, a growl would surely be building low in Astarion's throat. And yet— instead, a panting tongue. Instead, hot breath puffing in the air between them, the brat's hand pumping all the harder. And Fenris wonders what it is, exactly, that had landed: the insinuation that he has not experienced the kind of down-and-dirty, eye-rolling thigh-trembling vigorous rutting that occupies all of Fenris' fantasies . . . or the fact that it's true?
(And he does not slant it sideways. He does not think about how it could be taken as a personal insult, you haven't earned this in anyone else, either, for in truth, all Fenris imagines right now is Astarion as a pretty thing— delicate and arrogant, it's true, but above all else: submissive).
But he doesn't expect, either, the curse that slips past his charge's lips.
Fucking hell, his voice slurred and his accent clumsy, and Fenris does not know why some part of him melts to hear it. It's surely a bit of goading and nothing more, the brat throwing his own language back at him, but gods, something in Fenris howls in response. He wants to hear more. He wants to teach Astarion the filthiest phrases in Tevene, growled in his ear as he mounts him from behind; he wants to hear those words drip off a honeyed tongue, Astarion's expression blissful and his eyes hazy, his impudent brat finally tamed as he's split atop Fenris' prick.
He wants it. He wants him, not just to fuck but to breed. He wants to run his fingers up the inside of pale thighs and watch him shiver; he wants to fill his needy little hole again and again, fucking him until all he can remember is Fenris' name, his face pushed into the mattress and his hips hoisted up, Fenris Fenris Fenris, drooling droplets of come already staining his thighs and yet he still shrieks for more—
Fuck, and the Tevene bursts out of him as he feels himself topple over the edge. His overheated cock throbs, come spilling inelegantly over his fingers as the thought of Astarion gasping his name lingers in his mind, Fenris Fenris please . . . Astarion follows suit not a moment later, and for that, he struggles to open his eyes. He drinks in the sight with a moan, thrilled to the core by the sound of a muffled, mewling cry— oh, pretty thing. Pretty thing so undone, and his own cock throbs feebly in the aftermath, twitching in vain for the sight of him with his throat bared and his body overwhelmed in pleasure . . .
And it's not enough. Not when the aftermath hits all at once: his drugged lust temporarily sated and thus his senses suddenly and swiftly returning to him, almost nauseating in their starkness. The sounds of the city buzz in his ear; the careless scrape of his hand against roughened brickwork fittingly painful. The humid summer air stings beads of sweat dripping down the line of his neck. Hastily he does up his trousers, his fingers fumbling in his haste; across from him, he can hear Astarion's ragged breathing.
And it doesn't matter that somewhere in him there's still that needful lust, for in this moment all Fenris can think of is that he has led them down a foolish path. An inciting one, and what had he been thinking? This will only encourage the brat. This will only teach him that escaping leads to all kinds of filthy escapades—
But the truth is, he wasn't thinking. He barely is now, a low buzzing in his ears and something in the back of his mind whispering filthily. And what's done is done: he will simply have to be sterner around Astarion, as stoic as he used to be to the other slaves.]
Come on.
[Addled as he is, he mutters it in Tevene first— and then, with a short, sharp exhale, corrects himself.]
Come on.
[He crosses the alley. He won't touch Astarion, not now; indeed, he won't even look at him while he's still half-undressed. Resentful shame ripples through him, anger&mdsah; a little at Astarion, mostly at himself— a smothering force to the lust.]
Dress yourself and let us go.
Do not make me drag you.