It's a fervent thought whispered in the back of his mind as Fenris stares at Astarion's little display. Not a coherent one, and certainly not one he wants to have, but there nonetheless. As a lithe figure twists and writhes beneath clever fingers and the most whorish little moans drift from across the room to slip into pointed ears— don't stop, hoarse and hungry, drifting like lightning beneath the scarlet and black frustration coursing through him.
It's too easy to imagine himself in the same position.
He doesn't want to. He wants to linger in that dominant role, relishing the fantasy of hauling Astarion off and fucking him into shrieking, drooling compliance, docile once he's filled and kept warm with a body full of come. He wants to think about how he'll drag Astarion over his knee for this little stunt, palms striking at his cheeks until he sobs for forgiveness; he wants to think about tying his lord to his bed and putting his tongue to him until he comes untouched. Merciless, and yet not cruel, teaching this uppity noble what it means to truly give himself over to pleasure . . .
And he does want to. And he will.
But something deep in the pit of Fenris' stomach jerks as Astarion's voice cuts through the air. If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut— and the rest doesn't matter, for those words are more than enough to wipe his mind blank. His mouth goes dry as heat floods through him— and it's not like before. It's not like the desire he had when they were in bed together, nor even at the gun range. Those were mere candles in the dark compared to the sudden inferno that's caught him— inflamed him, his knees weak and his cock heavy and hard, rigid against his leg (and thank gods for a long jacket).
He wants to be that boy. The realization strikes at him even as something in him curdles at the thought, loathing it (loathing himself) for even having it. He shouldn't want Astarion— at least not like this. Not when he's mean and merciless and cruel, spiteful in his arrogance and awful in his mannerisms . . . it's everything Fenris hates. It's the exact opposite of that lonely boy he'd held close nights ago, the one who'd reached out and ignored reality in favor of companionship (it's not fair, and there will never be a day when he doesn't hear the echo of those words in the back of his mind).
But lust doesn't listen to sense, and the fantasy that arises pulses through him: Astarion, arrogant and beautiful, perched upon his mattress with a leash drawn taut in one hand and his cock in the other, drawling out such a filthy thing. Staring at his bodyguard who strains stubbornly at the collar locked around his throat— and yet who stares and pants and drools for the overheated prick hanging just out of reach. Letting him taste the agony of being forced into patience for once, scorning him for his lust even as he deigns to sate it, such a good boy, now show me your tongue—
Fuck.
He's still half-hard when Astarion sets his hands on his hips. Still fuming and furious when he takes him by the wrist, and yet his skin still sings with the echo of that warmth. Lingering against his hips, his wrist, and it's telling that he doesn't wrench his arm back until they're well outside that smoking room. Then it's a fist grabbing that silk shirt, yanking it roughly to one side as he hauls Astarion into an empty room— come here, a seething hiss as he slams the door shut behind them, shoving Astarion up against the wall with a growl.]
Are you satisfied with yourself?
[Silk creaks warningly within his fist as he grips it too tightly; his other hand grabs for Astarion's hip, pinning him flat against the wall. Don't you dare move.]
Showing off to everyone— and for what? Because you were bored? Because they goaded you?
[No, this won't do— with a growl he spins him around, shoving him face-first against the wooden beam— no moving, no squirming, and a heavy hand pressed against the flat of his back ensures that his prey stays still. Astarion's back arches, his pert little ass sticking out— and oh, far be it for Fenris to resist looking. Soft and supple, and those leather trousers do nothing to conceal what lies beneath . . .
His next swallow is audible.]
Or are you so desperate to be touched you'll take any slut who offers?
[Mine, and the possessive howling in his heart drowns out any good sense he might have. Mine you're mine you're meant to be mine, and only later will he hear the hurt beneath the anger. He crowds forward, forcing Astarion flat against the wall as he shields him and pins him all at once— stay put, his breath ghosting hot against the line of Astarion's ear. Don't move as his hands reach down, finding Astarion's own and pinning them up against the wall. Obedient thing whispered roughly as Fenris rocks his hips forward— and grinds.
Again and again, slowly and yet all the more deliberate for it: a hot, heavy rut as his cock fits between supple cheeks, eagerly claiming every inch of what Astarion cedes to him. There's two layers between them, but Fenris swears he can still feel heat radiating off of the younger elf— all the lust from before still coiling in him, perhaps, and the thought only spurs Fenris on further, his next movement a mean snap of his hips as he presses as far in as those trousers will allow. Deeper, deeper, his cock aching to reach that tight little cinch, precome soaking into the fabric of his boxers as he strains— and then back. Back to that slow, deliberate rhythm, using Astarion's body just to satisfy himself.
And it's such a selfish motion, for there's no thought given to poor Astarion's straining prick, oh, no. Pinned flat between the wall and his belly, and there's not a chance that Fenris will let him reach for it— oh, no, not tonight. Not when he's proven to be so good at teasing others— petty little thing, surely he can handle being on the other side. Again and again, his eyes fluttering as his fingers tighten and loosen in echoing rhythm, his harsh breathing melting into a rumbling groan more felt than heard.]
no subject
It's a fervent thought whispered in the back of his mind as Fenris stares at Astarion's little display. Not a coherent one, and certainly not one he wants to have, but there nonetheless. As a lithe figure twists and writhes beneath clever fingers and the most whorish little moans drift from across the room to slip into pointed ears— don't stop, hoarse and hungry, drifting like lightning beneath the scarlet and black frustration coursing through him.
It's too easy to imagine himself in the same position.
He doesn't want to. He wants to linger in that dominant role, relishing the fantasy of hauling Astarion off and fucking him into shrieking, drooling compliance, docile once he's filled and kept warm with a body full of come. He wants to think about how he'll drag Astarion over his knee for this little stunt, palms striking at his cheeks until he sobs for forgiveness; he wants to think about tying his lord to his bed and putting his tongue to him until he comes untouched. Merciless, and yet not cruel, teaching this uppity noble what it means to truly give himself over to pleasure . . .
And he does want to. And he will.
But something deep in the pit of Fenris' stomach jerks as Astarion's voice cuts through the air. If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut— and the rest doesn't matter, for those words are more than enough to wipe his mind blank. His mouth goes dry as heat floods through him— and it's not like before. It's not like the desire he had when they were in bed together, nor even at the gun range. Those were mere candles in the dark compared to the sudden inferno that's caught him— inflamed him, his knees weak and his cock heavy and hard, rigid against his leg (and thank gods for a long jacket).
He wants to be that boy. The realization strikes at him even as something in him curdles at the thought, loathing it (loathing himself) for even having it. He shouldn't want Astarion— at least not like this. Not when he's mean and merciless and cruel, spiteful in his arrogance and awful in his mannerisms . . . it's everything Fenris hates. It's the exact opposite of that lonely boy he'd held close nights ago, the one who'd reached out and ignored reality in favor of companionship (it's not fair, and there will never be a day when he doesn't hear the echo of those words in the back of his mind).
But lust doesn't listen to sense, and the fantasy that arises pulses through him: Astarion, arrogant and beautiful, perched upon his mattress with a leash drawn taut in one hand and his cock in the other, drawling out such a filthy thing. Staring at his bodyguard who strains stubbornly at the collar locked around his throat— and yet who stares and pants and drools for the overheated prick hanging just out of reach. Letting him taste the agony of being forced into patience for once, scorning him for his lust even as he deigns to sate it, such a good boy, now show me your tongue—
Fuck.
He's still half-hard when Astarion sets his hands on his hips. Still fuming and furious when he takes him by the wrist, and yet his skin still sings with the echo of that warmth. Lingering against his hips, his wrist, and it's telling that he doesn't wrench his arm back until they're well outside that smoking room. Then it's a fist grabbing that silk shirt, yanking it roughly to one side as he hauls Astarion into an empty room— come here, a seething hiss as he slams the door shut behind them, shoving Astarion up against the wall with a growl.]
Are you satisfied with yourself?
[Silk creaks warningly within his fist as he grips it too tightly; his other hand grabs for Astarion's hip, pinning him flat against the wall. Don't you dare move.]
Showing off to everyone— and for what? Because you were bored? Because they goaded you?
[No, this won't do— with a growl he spins him around, shoving him face-first against the wooden beam— no moving, no squirming, and a heavy hand pressed against the flat of his back ensures that his prey stays still. Astarion's back arches, his pert little ass sticking out— and oh, far be it for Fenris to resist looking. Soft and supple, and those leather trousers do nothing to conceal what lies beneath . . .
His next swallow is audible.]
Or are you so desperate to be touched you'll take any slut who offers?
[Mine, and the possessive howling in his heart drowns out any good sense he might have. Mine you're mine you're meant to be mine, and only later will he hear the hurt beneath the anger. He crowds forward, forcing Astarion flat against the wall as he shields him and pins him all at once— stay put, his breath ghosting hot against the line of Astarion's ear. Don't move as his hands reach down, finding Astarion's own and pinning them up against the wall. Obedient thing whispered roughly as Fenris rocks his hips forward— and grinds.
Again and again, slowly and yet all the more deliberate for it: a hot, heavy rut as his cock fits between supple cheeks, eagerly claiming every inch of what Astarion cedes to him. There's two layers between them, but Fenris swears he can still feel heat radiating off of the younger elf— all the lust from before still coiling in him, perhaps, and the thought only spurs Fenris on further, his next movement a mean snap of his hips as he presses as far in as those trousers will allow. Deeper, deeper, his cock aching to reach that tight little cinch, precome soaking into the fabric of his boxers as he strains— and then back. Back to that slow, deliberate rhythm, using Astarion's body just to satisfy himself.
And it's such a selfish motion, for there's no thought given to poor Astarion's straining prick, oh, no. Pinned flat between the wall and his belly, and there's not a chance that Fenris will let him reach for it— oh, no, not tonight. Not when he's proven to be so good at teasing others— petty little thing, surely he can handle being on the other side. Again and again, his eyes fluttering as his fingers tighten and loosen in echoing rhythm, his harsh breathing melting into a rumbling groan more felt than heard.]
I am not in the habit of sharing, my charge . . .
[My brat. My elf. Mine, mine, mine . . .]