[Astarion hums quietly to the lordling in his lap, directly addressing an earlobe— or the soft muscle of his conquest's jaw— obeying the law of the figurative jungle to keep from spoiling the first real taste of freedom he's had in weeks: answer the patriar, shun the hireling, but it's only his wicked mouth that pays its respects. Only his teeth, his tongue, his throat and attached lungs, and the crooked pressure of his fingers—
His eyes are drawn to Fenris.
The rest of him is, too.
Unreadable. Lidded. Unmoving as his own mouth after those murmurs, caught in a half-blink that never closes, only twitches. Watching the only creature that watches him rather than the show he's putting on: Fenris, who stands there and implores his reckless charge. Fenris, who's stubborn enough to linger stock-still with both fists balled at his sides, letting his teeth grit across themselves to howl out everything he can't.
The problem is, there's not enough smoke in the world to make them psychic, let alone this room. (Or maybe that's the point.)
Whatever Fenris is thinking of, Astarion doesn't seem to notice: the word friend elicits nothing between languid, palming strokes, and no verbal reply slips in either— just something passing for a nod that languidly tilts the little pale elf's head more than it angles it in acknowledgment. He'll find him in the end no doubt, like a coat or a checked wallet; an accessory doesn't warrant anything else in a place like this. (So go on, then. Stay and watch or leave and pretend it isn't happening.)
And in the interim: fingers fist tighter in the other boy's hair. A giddy laugh erupting from that splash of pain as it likely catches in his belly, high and heady and slurred. Sweet as the alcohol he's drunk on, and barely anything but dazed.
And the farther away Fenris gets, Astarion grows mean.]
Look at you.
[An offered command, not commentary. Look down. Look at how you're enjoying this.]
Performing in front of everyone like some common whore. Does your mother know you're the entertainment? [How he palms at him. How he tugs, ensuring fabric's just an afterthought when he can still fully wrap his hand around a swollen, straining little cock (already leaking for all its worth beneath richly tailored silk if sight is any indication: grey threadwork stained two shades darker, and coursing headlong for coalish black), no part taken to fighting back.]
Should I tell her what you're doing?
[Time drags as conversation's relegated to little whispers that flit around them, struggling to ignore the filth he fits against that young thing's mouth in lieu of the kisses that it tirelessly continues straining for, always hungrily swallowing the next best thing. If not love: humiliation. If not flattery: crude debasement in front of a salivating crowd that tries— and always fails— not to give that fact away.
Astarion knows the boy's name through hearsay; he never once uses it.
The thing spread out in his lap till rucked clothing strains to rip. Angled directly towards that not-so-distant shadow in the corner, rather than his highborne flock: slender back arched high, sloped backwards— every inch of that graceful body poured over Astarion's shoulder, down along his chest, his stomach, his legs— caught around the front of his neck with a single, pallid hand that looks like smooth marble against pinched skin, dimpling it through the force it takes to pull him closer. To make grinding the only option left (because he is grinding, that ensnared patriar. Made to play the captive odalisque while Astarion hisses in his ear):]
If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut, I might just offer you a treat next time I see you.
....and we can all take bets on how long you hold your breath. [Boldness that on any other night would end with a sucked prick and a heeled shoe to shove him off once finished, Astarion's hunt ending with a worthwhile prize.
He's close, now.
He's so close.
Instead— ]
—Ready to go?
[Lord Ancunín asks with a flash of teeth as he pulls away, his hands briefly planted on the wall on either side of the moon elf's hips— warmth from all that lavish friction still radiating through his palms in a way Fenris can very nearly feel— and then does feel, once the high elf catches his wrist to pull him towards the door. Prowling like a cat on weightless strides.
('Wait—'
That disheveled (and-yet-entirely-unfinished) little patriar calls out before a few of the other guests catch him with a tepid laugh, urging him to stay sitting before he cracks his own head stumbling across the room in pursuit of the two silhouettes taking their leave.)
It's probably no shock to confess that they don't wait.]
no subject
[Astarion hums quietly to the lordling in his lap, directly addressing an earlobe— or the soft muscle of his conquest's jaw— obeying the law of the figurative jungle to keep from spoiling the first real taste of freedom he's had in weeks: answer the patriar, shun the hireling, but it's only his wicked mouth that pays its respects. Only his teeth, his tongue, his throat and attached lungs, and the crooked pressure of his fingers—
His eyes are drawn to Fenris.
The rest of him is, too.
Unreadable. Lidded. Unmoving as his own mouth after those murmurs, caught in a half-blink that never closes, only twitches. Watching the only creature that watches him rather than the show he's putting on: Fenris, who stands there and implores his reckless charge. Fenris, who's stubborn enough to linger stock-still with both fists balled at his sides, letting his teeth grit across themselves to howl out everything he can't.
The problem is, there's not enough smoke in the world to make them psychic, let alone this room. (Or maybe that's the point.)
Whatever Fenris is thinking of, Astarion doesn't seem to notice: the word friend elicits nothing between languid, palming strokes, and no verbal reply slips in either— just something passing for a nod that languidly tilts the little pale elf's head more than it angles it in acknowledgment. He'll find him in the end no doubt, like a coat or a checked wallet; an accessory doesn't warrant anything else in a place like this. (So go on, then. Stay and watch or leave and pretend it isn't happening.)
And in the interim: fingers fist tighter in the other boy's hair. A giddy laugh erupting from that splash of pain as it likely catches in his belly, high and heady and slurred. Sweet as the alcohol he's drunk on, and barely anything but dazed.
And the farther away Fenris gets, Astarion grows mean.]
Look at you.
[An offered command, not commentary. Look down. Look at how you're enjoying this.]
Performing in front of everyone like some common whore. Does your mother know you're the entertainment? [How he palms at him. How he tugs, ensuring fabric's just an afterthought when he can still fully wrap his hand around a swollen, straining little cock (already leaking for all its worth beneath richly tailored silk if sight is any indication: grey threadwork stained two shades darker, and coursing headlong for coalish black), no part taken to fighting back.]
Should I tell her what you're doing?
[Time drags as conversation's relegated to little whispers that flit around them, struggling to ignore the filth he fits against that young thing's mouth in lieu of the kisses that it tirelessly continues straining for, always hungrily swallowing the next best thing. If not love: humiliation. If not flattery: crude debasement in front of a salivating crowd that tries— and always fails— not to give that fact away.
Astarion knows the boy's name through hearsay; he never once uses it.
The thing spread out in his lap till rucked clothing strains to rip. Angled directly towards that not-so-distant shadow in the corner, rather than his highborne flock: slender back arched high, sloped backwards— every inch of that graceful body poured over Astarion's shoulder, down along his chest, his stomach, his legs— caught around the front of his neck with a single, pallid hand that looks like smooth marble against pinched skin, dimpling it through the force it takes to pull him closer. To make grinding the only option left (because he is grinding, that ensnared patriar. Made to play the captive odalisque while Astarion hisses in his ear):]
If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut, I might just offer you a treat next time I see you.
....and we can all take bets on how long you hold your breath. [Boldness that on any other night would end with a sucked prick and a heeled shoe to shove him off once finished, Astarion's hunt ending with a worthwhile prize.
He's close, now.
He's so close.
Instead— ]
—Ready to go?
[Lord Ancunín asks with a flash of teeth as he pulls away, his hands briefly planted on the wall on either side of the moon elf's hips— warmth from all that lavish friction still radiating through his palms in a way Fenris can very nearly feel— and then does feel, once the high elf catches his wrist to pull him towards the door. Prowling like a cat on weightless strides.
('Wait—'
That disheveled (and-yet-entirely-unfinished) little patriar calls out before a few of the other guests catch him with a tepid laugh, urging him to stay sitting before he cracks his own head stumbling across the room in pursuit of the two silhouettes taking their leave.)
It's probably no shock to confess that they don't wait.]