He's drenched in Fenris' shadow before he knows where he is. Snapped up against a featureless wall, barely visible, subsumption doesn't even begin to cover the sight of them (it covers all of him outside the twitching span of pale white fingers, pink flush staining their useless tips and spreading lower every second, angling for the places where they meet). And in the other room someone's whining loudly for attention. In the other room someone's wishing for what Fenris has caught between his jaws— or more accurately: what Astarion has. Its audible memory loitering dangerously nearby, feet planted in the present through the thinnest barrier of a dividing wall, muffled voices crawling through plaster and dense-carved polished wood, scraped hard against the shell of Astarion's own ear.
(Don't stop.)
—oh.
Oh.
The winding breed of depravity that'd circled Astarion's mind long before the door snapped shut catches like a spark again and again and again inside his belly for every milestone they blaze past in a roiling blur of frustration. Seconds doing the work of minutes to rearrange them both and yank him higher into outpours of groaning lust already well-incited: jagged and cruel and sweeter than the most expensive wine— punctuating a point he'd only half-imagined under his own bedding until now.
How he loves to be his.
It hits him hard enough to blank his senses in that first, degrading push. It glazes his eyes on the second, dragging bluntness fitfully seeking shelter in the tangle of tight cloth as it wrinkles until it snags rough across his obscured cinch— yes yes yes. Like that. Just like that, gods, please— too much and not enough: he's wanted this from the second he saw Fenris talking to that woman. From weeks ago, in fact, dark wine staining at his lips while he stood on fine carpet and sized up gold-green eyes. Obedient thing is right (and he's glad not to have a choice when those growls wash over his curls in close proximity), considering he does everything he can right down to the rounding of his spine to draw it in with only centimeters to his name. Answering with his own vulgar moan for pressure he could swim in, and proud to play the part better than the patriar he'd had in his arms not two minutes ago, working at like tinder. Trying to catch a spark at a distance.
A long shot.
One that paid off, as it so happens.
(His laugh is a low, razed thing. It shudders in between his shoulder blades to the sound of rustling fabric twisting. Creaking.)]
So you say— but you couldn't stop staring, could you?
[Oh, it's a growl of his own. The nastiest cast to a voice that can't quite match Fenris' rumble, though it's enviably sharp, and only just cut through by panting breaths.]
You're....you're salivating, old man.
....I can hear it.
[He's braced against the wall so tight— no, he's pinned, his cock squirming anxiously against his inseam (his belly) each and every time those bucks dig harder, wringing the air out of his lungs with roughened groans. Barely able to keep himself upright against pressure that has him seeing stars by the end of every blink.
And yet he makes the stupid choice (it isn't a choice) to hook his left ankle back around Fenris' own, twisting his leg to draw his guardian in when there's nothing else left to spare. Goading him the only way he knows how when agency might as well be back in the other room with that heaving little patriar.]
Maybe you should slow down. [The soft, dry click of licked lips, before:] Get a drink.
We wouldn't want you to overexert yourself just— to rut against a pair of pants like the starving thing you are. [He has to be creative. He has to make it count, through the rucking of his trousers and the knitted prickle of his sock set to scraping in the narrow gap it offers: as prudish an invitation as his father's father's courtship (all wound up in the wrists; the ankles), with a still-clothed prick sunk thick between his cheeks and stalking for slick prey.
He tries to pull at that grip (fuck, he's strong). He tries to twist or arch or buck to unclasp the measure of his waistband (fuck, he's pinned too tight), his features scuffing at the wall like a lover all the while, sore and cold against hot skin. Cheeks stinging for its scratch. And yet— and yet and yet and yet— it's intoxicating.
He'd never expected the bait to work so well, but....]
Put yourself on your knees....and I'll let you do to me what I left him panting for.
no subject
He's drenched in Fenris' shadow before he knows where he is. Snapped up against a featureless wall, barely visible, subsumption doesn't even begin to cover the sight of them (it covers all of him outside the twitching span of pale white fingers, pink flush staining their useless tips and spreading lower every second, angling for the places where they meet). And in the other room someone's whining loudly for attention. In the other room someone's wishing for what Fenris has caught between his jaws— or more accurately: what Astarion has. Its audible memory loitering dangerously nearby, feet planted in the present through the thinnest barrier of a dividing wall, muffled voices crawling through plaster and dense-carved polished wood, scraped hard against the shell of Astarion's own ear.
(Don't stop.)
—oh.
Oh.
The winding breed of depravity that'd circled Astarion's mind long before the door snapped shut catches like a spark again and again and again inside his belly for every milestone they blaze past in a roiling blur of frustration. Seconds doing the work of minutes to rearrange them both and yank him higher into outpours of groaning lust already well-incited: jagged and cruel and sweeter than the most expensive wine— punctuating a point he'd only half-imagined under his own bedding until now.
How he loves to be his.
It hits him hard enough to blank his senses in that first, degrading push. It glazes his eyes on the second, dragging bluntness fitfully seeking shelter in the tangle of tight cloth as it wrinkles until it snags rough across his obscured cinch— yes yes yes. Like that. Just like that, gods, please— too much and not enough: he's wanted this from the second he saw Fenris talking to that woman. From weeks ago, in fact, dark wine staining at his lips while he stood on fine carpet and sized up gold-green eyes. Obedient thing is right (and he's glad not to have a choice when those growls wash over his curls in close proximity), considering he does everything he can right down to the rounding of his spine to draw it in with only centimeters to his name. Answering with his own vulgar moan for pressure he could swim in, and proud to play the part better than the patriar he'd had in his arms not two minutes ago, working at like tinder. Trying to catch a spark at a distance.
A long shot.
One that paid off, as it so happens.
(His laugh is a low, razed thing. It shudders in between his shoulder blades to the sound of rustling fabric twisting. Creaking.)]
So you say— but you couldn't stop staring, could you?
[Oh, it's a growl of his own. The nastiest cast to a voice that can't quite match Fenris' rumble, though it's enviably sharp, and only just cut through by panting breaths.]
You're....you're salivating, old man.
....I can hear it.
[He's braced against the wall so tight— no, he's pinned, his cock squirming anxiously against his inseam (his belly) each and every time those bucks dig harder, wringing the air out of his lungs with roughened groans. Barely able to keep himself upright against pressure that has him seeing stars by the end of every blink.
And yet he makes the stupid choice (it isn't a choice) to hook his left ankle back around Fenris' own, twisting his leg to draw his guardian in when there's nothing else left to spare. Goading him the only way he knows how when agency might as well be back in the other room with that heaving little patriar.]
Maybe you should slow down. [The soft, dry click of licked lips, before:] Get a drink.
We wouldn't want you to overexert yourself just— to rut against a pair of pants like the starving thing you are. [He has to be creative. He has to make it count, through the rucking of his trousers and the knitted prickle of his sock set to scraping in the narrow gap it offers: as prudish an invitation as his father's father's courtship (all wound up in the wrists; the ankles), with a still-clothed prick sunk thick between his cheeks and stalking for slick prey.
He tries to pull at that grip (fuck, he's strong). He tries to twist or arch or buck to unclasp the measure of his waistband (fuck, he's pinned too tight), his features scuffing at the wall like a lover all the while, sore and cold against hot skin. Cheeks stinging for its scratch. And yet— and yet and yet and yet— it's intoxicating.
He'd never expected the bait to work so well, but....]
Put yourself on your knees....and I'll let you do to me what I left him panting for.
[Come on, wolf.
Come on.]