He might not be now either, all truth be told. Not even with his lips left wet and tingling with the pin-and-needle salve of slick saliva left behind, his eyes half-closed behind lids still partway smudged with kohl (he should've wiped it off properly; he never does), dark-stained skin shimmering like an oil slick. Twitching under mounting heat he wishes he could mount. Or surmount. Or—
Or.
Every thought's a stutter. Every reaction sluggish and dense whenever it inevitably finds him, having had to crawl on hands and fumbling knees just to shove at the forefront of his mind over and over again. It leaves him drowsy while he struggles around the shape of embers in his throat and that kiss across his tongue, and gods have pity, it's not his fault that he's combustible as flint. That he's suddenly tempted to cry if he can't have what he wants like a stupid, shameful child; the knot in his chest swollen until it barely fits behind his ribs, making every breath more shallow than the last for the pointless ache of trying (oh, he's forgotten about his racing pulse— about that arm still holding him in its coils: ataxiated mind supplanting reality with superstition). It's not his fault because whatever this is— love or fear or hunger so potent in its distillation that Astarion can't even taste it without buckling— it's unlike anything he's ever put his mouth to before. A counter to the synaptic rush of pleasure solely from a thumb clumsily hitting the right spot or a few words happening to thrill.
Fenris could devour him whole and he'd beg to vanish again and again and again inside that striking maw. Everything in him swears it.
Staring until his eyes hurt. Gawking until his tongue goes raw. He can't shake the thought from his head even as he revels in its irony when it finally sinks beneath his skin: I will have all of you or none of you. A noble lordling enslaved to a slave.
His leg hooks on its own.
He feels the pressure bow before it bears down on their hips in married unison, pushing stiffness against stiffness through the dull scratch of their own trousers. (It takes everything in him not to arch instead of listen). He wants that thumb back. He wants to drive it hard to the back of his own mouth through the rolling of his tongue and the neediness of blunted teeth. He wants to squirm. To writhe. And not because he wants the fun of being caught come sunrise, but because now he wants never to be caught.
Fuck.
Fuck, that his father finally got the better of him without even realizing it.]
....I do know.
[And he hates the way it sounds.
Like begging. Like pleading. Like that too protesting insistence on I can, I am, I know. I'm old enough. Smart enough. Trust me, cries the thing that only looks smaller for asserting. No, not that, then. Not that.]
Fenris— name it. [Anything. Anything. Sensation verging on dictation for just how fervently it presses.] Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours.
[This time he does rub. Hips working. Straining for that kiss like a creature in withdrawal, shaking for more than strain. A trembling that matches the muted rattle of his phone across the nightstand. Don't ignore me.]
I'm yours. Please—
[Please please please—
Tugging on those soft white locks behind subtly downturned ears.]
no subject
He might not be now either, all truth be told. Not even with his lips left wet and tingling with the pin-and-needle salve of slick saliva left behind, his eyes half-closed behind lids still partway smudged with kohl (he should've wiped it off properly; he never does), dark-stained skin shimmering like an oil slick. Twitching under mounting heat he wishes he could mount. Or surmount. Or—
Or.
Every thought's a stutter. Every reaction sluggish and dense whenever it inevitably finds him, having had to crawl on hands and fumbling knees just to shove at the forefront of his mind over and over again. It leaves him drowsy while he struggles around the shape of embers in his throat and that kiss across his tongue, and gods have pity, it's not his fault that he's combustible as flint. That he's suddenly tempted to cry if he can't have what he wants like a stupid, shameful child; the knot in his chest swollen until it barely fits behind his ribs, making every breath more shallow than the last for the pointless ache of trying (oh, he's forgotten about his racing pulse— about that arm still holding him in its coils: ataxiated mind supplanting reality with superstition). It's not his fault because whatever this is— love or fear or hunger so potent in its distillation that Astarion can't even taste it without buckling— it's unlike anything he's ever put his mouth to before. A counter to the synaptic rush of pleasure solely from a thumb clumsily hitting the right spot or a few words happening to thrill.
Fenris could devour him whole and he'd beg to vanish again and again and again inside that striking maw. Everything in him swears it.
Staring until his eyes hurt. Gawking until his tongue goes raw. He can't shake the thought from his head even as he revels in its irony when it finally sinks beneath his skin: I will have all of you or none of you. A noble lordling enslaved to a slave.
His leg hooks on its own.
He feels the pressure bow before it bears down on their hips in married unison, pushing stiffness against stiffness through the dull scratch of their own trousers. (It takes everything in him not to arch instead of listen). He wants that thumb back. He wants to drive it hard to the back of his own mouth through the rolling of his tongue and the neediness of blunted teeth. He wants to squirm. To writhe. And not because he wants the fun of being caught come sunrise, but because now he wants never to be caught.
Fuck.
Fuck, that his father finally got the better of him without even realizing it.]
....I do know.
[And he hates the way it sounds.
Like begging. Like pleading. Like that too protesting insistence on I can, I am, I know. I'm old enough. Smart enough. Trust me, cries the thing that only looks smaller for asserting. No, not that, then. Not that.]
Fenris— name it. [Anything. Anything. Sensation verging on dictation for just how fervently it presses.] Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours.
[This time he does rub. Hips working. Straining for that kiss like a creature in withdrawal, shaking for more than strain. A trembling that matches the muted rattle of his phone across the nightstand. Don't ignore me.]
I'm yours. Please—
[Please please please—
Tugging on those soft white locks behind subtly downturned ears.]