[His heart pounds like a drum in his ear, pulsing through his entire body and timed to the steady rut of their hips. Astarion's ankle flexes against his shin, a goading bit of contact from mewling prey who can't offer up anything else; he registers it in the same way he registers that drawling offer. It's fine enough on its own, registered and enjoyed for what it is (on your knees, and for the briefest moment he's distracted by the thought of heavy heat flattening his tongue, pearl dripping down his chin)— but it's secondary. Irrelevant, for no matter how his squalling prey reacted, Fenris' goal remains unchanged.
But it amuses. This arrogant pup strutting around on paws too big for him, barking loudly as he tries to pretend he's won . . . Fenris chuckles breathlessly against the sharp line of Astarion's ear, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.]
What an offer.
[Emphasis punctuated by the slow roll of his hips.]
Get to your knees and I will grant you the honor of sucking my cock . . . little noble, your seduction needs work. That kind of offer might fly in these gilded halls among your peers, but you'll have to do better than that if you want to see me on my knees.
[Not tonight, though. Cold air rushes between Astarion's frame and the wall as Fenris draws him back by an inch— just far enough for him to slip deft fingers against his slender frame. Blindly he plucks at his belt buckle, uncinching it swiftly and shoving Astarion's trousers down to his mid-thigh. His cock springs out, heavy heat brushing against the back of his knuckles, and it's so tempting to take it in his palm, to squeeze and stroke and tease—
Instead, Fenris yanks hard at Astarion's belt, cinching it as tight as it will go around pale thighs. It's little more than a makeshift binding, crude but effective, forcing him to keep his legs firmly closed (and trust that there's a smirk on Fenris' lips, the joke too obvious to bother saying aloud). Then that same hand plants itself against Astarion's back, inexorable force urging his back into a sharp arch, his ass pushing out even as his face is pressed closer against the wall— just like that, Fenris whispers, and grips his hips tightly even as he steps back.
And oh, what a sight he makes.
Fenris' charge is a vain thing, but that vanity is well earned— for the sight of him half-naked and trembling leaves Fenris breathless, the air rushing out of his lungs in one harsh burst. His mouth goes dry, his eyes locked on the sight before him: pale skin all but glowing in the darkness, his ass so perfectly pliant before him. Almost in a daze he gropes at him, tanned fingers digging into soft flesh and squeezing hungrily as it melts beneath his palm. He spreads one cheek open, his eyes locking on to the sight of that tight little hole— gods, and it takes everything in him not to tease. To tap the tips of his fingers against that waiting cinch, his thumb rubbing tauntingly without ever once pushing in, but ah— later.
For he wants to relish the sight of Astarion like this. Undignified. Unkempt— no longer is Astarion the proud figure of before. There's not a trace to be found of that arrogant noble who so loves to toy with his peers, baiting them and teasing them until they're worked up in a frenzy, offering him the attention he so obviously craves. That man is a dignified thing, cold and untouchable in all his sadistic glory. Petty in his power and clever in his manipulations, hungry only to see the world bow before him.
This brat is nothing like that. His body half-exposed and his bearing awkward; his hands freed and yet all of him still utterly trapped. Too weak to push the predator slavering over his form away— and in truth, far too hungry to try. He's no noble now. He's not even the odalisque that idiot outside had been, dignified in his seductive air— oh, no. He's little more than a slut in heat now. A boy all but drooling in his desire, wriggling and twisting as he offers himself up, and all the while still trying desperately to pretend he's every inch the proud lord he presents himself as . . .
They'll fix that soon enough.]
Pretty thing . . . you won't come at all tonight.
[It's a warning and a command all at once, issued as Fenris grabs for Astarion's wrist, twisting his arm back behind him. The other he leaves only for support— and so that his little brat might choose what he wants more. To stop himself from being shoved up against the wall like a common slattern, his cheek pressed against wood and his ear listening to all the drifting voices of his peers . . . or to touch himself. To eke out an orgasm clumsily with his left hand, or at least try.
(For the truth is, Fenris won't let him come. Not tonight. If he has to cinch his fingers around the base of that hefty prick or wrench his hand back, he will— for there's no use in rewarding brats when they act out).
From there, his movements are insulting languid. His fingers fish into Astarion's vest, finding the oil tucked there and flicking it open, drizzling it generously atop his cock. Artificial warmth floods through him, a cloying tingle that he shudders to feel— of course it's laced with aphrodisiacs, and he cannot say he didn't expect it.]
Enjoy this, now. Your reward for all your petty manipulations . . .
[A sudden edge to his rumbling voice as Fenris discards the bottle and grips Astarion's hip. Yanks him back as he presses forward, his cock smearing slickly against that unguarded little hole. Blunt heat presses against it, oil smearing against that cinch as it starts to cede beneath inexorable pressure—
And stops.
Dripping and suddenly untouched, and before Astarion has time to cry out, Fenris' cock slips lower, swiftly forcing itself between pale thighs. Fenris groans low in his throat as lithe muscles squeeze at him so tight, the warmth of Astarion's skin more than enough to sate him— especially as his hips pick up a swift rhythm. His cock slams forward, the blunted crown only occasionally tapping roughly against Astarion's own forgotten hang; again and again he fucks his student's thighs, rutting him with all the inelegant grace of a brute fighter, practical and messy. Oil drips down pale thighs that can't part, the slap of their hips meeting echoing throughout the room— each noise cruel reminder of what Astarion might have gotten, as all the while cold air stings as it drifts over his untouched cinch. Again and again Fenris drags him back as he slams forward, growling low in his throat as he takes his prize— and it's not what he wants, it's not tight heat squeezing his cock, it's not being buried to the hilt in his errant student, claiming him in the most primal way— but it's enough. It's enough, it's enough, every thrust a sharp rebuke against that stupid boy's giggle, every squeeze of Astarion's thighs validation that there is nowhere his student would rather be. Just with me, just with me, Fenris' fingers leaving bruises against fair hips, mine mine mine—]
Is this what you envisioned? Is this what you wanted, little brat? I hope so, for it's all you've earned . . .
[And like this, perhaps, the lesson from teacher to student becomes clear: act out and I still won't give you what you want, little one.]
no subject
But it amuses. This arrogant pup strutting around on paws too big for him, barking loudly as he tries to pretend he's won . . . Fenris chuckles breathlessly against the sharp line of Astarion's ear, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.]
What an offer.
[Emphasis punctuated by the slow roll of his hips.]
Get to your knees and I will grant you the honor of sucking my cock . . . little noble, your seduction needs work. That kind of offer might fly in these gilded halls among your peers, but you'll have to do better than that if you want to see me on my knees.
[Not tonight, though. Cold air rushes between Astarion's frame and the wall as Fenris draws him back by an inch— just far enough for him to slip deft fingers against his slender frame. Blindly he plucks at his belt buckle, uncinching it swiftly and shoving Astarion's trousers down to his mid-thigh. His cock springs out, heavy heat brushing against the back of his knuckles, and it's so tempting to take it in his palm, to squeeze and stroke and tease—
Instead, Fenris yanks hard at Astarion's belt, cinching it as tight as it will go around pale thighs. It's little more than a makeshift binding, crude but effective, forcing him to keep his legs firmly closed (and trust that there's a smirk on Fenris' lips, the joke too obvious to bother saying aloud). Then that same hand plants itself against Astarion's back, inexorable force urging his back into a sharp arch, his ass pushing out even as his face is pressed closer against the wall— just like that, Fenris whispers, and grips his hips tightly even as he steps back.
And oh, what a sight he makes.
Fenris' charge is a vain thing, but that vanity is well earned— for the sight of him half-naked and trembling leaves Fenris breathless, the air rushing out of his lungs in one harsh burst. His mouth goes dry, his eyes locked on the sight before him: pale skin all but glowing in the darkness, his ass so perfectly pliant before him. Almost in a daze he gropes at him, tanned fingers digging into soft flesh and squeezing hungrily as it melts beneath his palm. He spreads one cheek open, his eyes locking on to the sight of that tight little hole— gods, and it takes everything in him not to tease. To tap the tips of his fingers against that waiting cinch, his thumb rubbing tauntingly without ever once pushing in, but ah— later.
For he wants to relish the sight of Astarion like this. Undignified. Unkempt— no longer is Astarion the proud figure of before. There's not a trace to be found of that arrogant noble who so loves to toy with his peers, baiting them and teasing them until they're worked up in a frenzy, offering him the attention he so obviously craves. That man is a dignified thing, cold and untouchable in all his sadistic glory. Petty in his power and clever in his manipulations, hungry only to see the world bow before him.
This brat is nothing like that. His body half-exposed and his bearing awkward; his hands freed and yet all of him still utterly trapped. Too weak to push the predator slavering over his form away— and in truth, far too hungry to try. He's no noble now. He's not even the odalisque that idiot outside had been, dignified in his seductive air— oh, no. He's little more than a slut in heat now. A boy all but drooling in his desire, wriggling and twisting as he offers himself up, and all the while still trying desperately to pretend he's every inch the proud lord he presents himself as . . .
They'll fix that soon enough.]
Pretty thing . . . you won't come at all tonight.
[It's a warning and a command all at once, issued as Fenris grabs for Astarion's wrist, twisting his arm back behind him. The other he leaves only for support— and so that his little brat might choose what he wants more. To stop himself from being shoved up against the wall like a common slattern, his cheek pressed against wood and his ear listening to all the drifting voices of his peers . . . or to touch himself. To eke out an orgasm clumsily with his left hand, or at least try.
(For the truth is, Fenris won't let him come. Not tonight. If he has to cinch his fingers around the base of that hefty prick or wrench his hand back, he will— for there's no use in rewarding brats when they act out).
From there, his movements are insulting languid. His fingers fish into Astarion's vest, finding the oil tucked there and flicking it open, drizzling it generously atop his cock. Artificial warmth floods through him, a cloying tingle that he shudders to feel— of course it's laced with aphrodisiacs, and he cannot say he didn't expect it.]
Enjoy this, now. Your reward for all your petty manipulations . . .
[A sudden edge to his rumbling voice as Fenris discards the bottle and grips Astarion's hip. Yanks him back as he presses forward, his cock smearing slickly against that unguarded little hole. Blunt heat presses against it, oil smearing against that cinch as it starts to cede beneath inexorable pressure—
And stops.
Dripping and suddenly untouched, and before Astarion has time to cry out, Fenris' cock slips lower, swiftly forcing itself between pale thighs. Fenris groans low in his throat as lithe muscles squeeze at him so tight, the warmth of Astarion's skin more than enough to sate him— especially as his hips pick up a swift rhythm. His cock slams forward, the blunted crown only occasionally tapping roughly against Astarion's own forgotten hang; again and again he fucks his student's thighs, rutting him with all the inelegant grace of a brute fighter, practical and messy. Oil drips down pale thighs that can't part, the slap of their hips meeting echoing throughout the room— each noise cruel reminder of what Astarion might have gotten, as all the while cold air stings as it drifts over his untouched cinch. Again and again Fenris drags him back as he slams forward, growling low in his throat as he takes his prize— and it's not what he wants, it's not tight heat squeezing his cock, it's not being buried to the hilt in his errant student, claiming him in the most primal way— but it's enough. It's enough, it's enough, every thrust a sharp rebuke against that stupid boy's giggle, every squeeze of Astarion's thighs validation that there is nowhere his student would rather be. Just with me, just with me, Fenris' fingers leaving bruises against fair hips, mine mine mine—]
Is this what you envisioned? Is this what you wanted, little brat? I hope so, for it's all you've earned . . .
[And like this, perhaps, the lesson from teacher to student becomes clear: act out and I still won't give you what you want, little one.]