Joke or not (how he feels that smear of breath across his neck that signals Fenris' self-satisfied smirk— the one that makes Astarion's legs go numb below the knees, yanking his foot back in line against any and all resistance— ) it's the first time in his short life he's been up against the wall with his legs kept intentionally shut; his mouth unused and open in their place, wet with hunger and dry from sucked-in air. Thickslung arousal throbbing from whatever pent-up pressure already streaks along gilt wallpaper, bouncing as it sways sharply back and forth.
He groans to feel his ass lift without his input. Cheek a half-breadth away from scraping its way to a messy sort of bruise.
Fumbling with an open palm that slaps more than it braces; he doesn't have time to think between the footnotes, crying out for the slick across his hole, left damningly abandoned.
He's slipped (his toes slip inside his patent shoes, shoving him— nearly slamming him— against cold plaster on the next reverberating pump of iron hips). Arrogance made him clumsy. Makes him prey when he's a lion's lauded cub: trounced in an empty room and made into a little wriggling furrow for some unimportant servant's perfumed cock. Oh, the talk would ruin if word somehow managed to get out. Fine to be an apex thing that pumps one's length or sates one's cunt on the squealing use of lesser game, for supremacy makes everything viable, but the other way around? That's weakness. That's unworth. That's—
—perfect.
Relentless and perfect. Infuriating and perfect. Violating and demeaning and perfect, perfect, perfect. Tongue shoved against the backs of his own teeth while his head lolls and the world runs white, incapable of blinking. Thinking. Name it and he can't: a rutting hole won't be picky for its use, and ignoring the finery he's dressed in (tailored coat enough to feed a family for months; the leather belt drawing livid welts across his skin that burn like snapping sparks more expensive than a car; his sweatsoaked pants painstakingly stitched by peerless hands, gilt thread unraveling by the second as it frays), that's all he is under hands that feel like sandpaper and glass and heat. Raw, commanding heat. Held steady to the rock-hard thresh of slickness pushing harsh between his thighs over and over the way someone stokes a fire, fierce momentum feathering the underside of plush curves and closing in against his drooling prick, almost enough to— to—
He gets as far as the first bump before his nerves all but shriek in outrage, fever pitch taking him gut-first and using his throat as its conduit: howling like a rabbit seized by its own neck— trying to thrash just as effectively, in fact, meaning only that it isn't. Just a jolt between trapped shoulders. A painful twisting of his arm. He can't see behind him (Fenris a blur of silver-blue and white in the farthest corner of his watering left eye), but he can feel that rhythm keeping pace with the way the room is shifting, and fucking Hells, he's rocking with it. Groaning and mewling and sweating and whining in inglorious near-ecstasy, the narrow little span of his entry grasping at nothing at all between his battered cheeks.
Free hand whipped back to yank nails first at whatever part of his keeper's within reach.]
F— Fen— !!
[Barely a minute in, and Fenris is about to prove himself wrong.
Not about it being what Astarion wants, or what he's even earned, that wicked instigator still choking on his imperious fantasies unmade. Not even about enjoying it, because oh, he's doing that more than he ever thought he could in every vulgar, outright spasming sense. But when the stakes are this high and the friction sweet as liquid sugar to a thing so bloody young— ah.
The slide of it's too much, channeling between his legs. Knocking into his prick (oh, that's what does it in the end: a single, passing nudge struck just beneath his crest).
Astarion comes.
One warning pulse of rippling tension the only sign of what comes next, and if his bodyguard isn't swift enough to tamp it before it starts— ]
no subject
No—
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—
Joke or not (how he feels that smear of breath across his neck that signals Fenris' self-satisfied smirk— the one that makes Astarion's legs go numb below the knees, yanking his foot back in line against any and all resistance— ) it's the first time in his short life he's been up against the wall with his legs kept intentionally shut; his mouth unused and open in their place, wet with hunger and dry from sucked-in air. Thickslung arousal throbbing from whatever pent-up pressure already streaks along gilt wallpaper, bouncing as it sways sharply back and forth.
He groans to feel his ass lift without his input. Cheek a half-breadth away from scraping its way to a messy sort of bruise.
Fumbling with an open palm that slaps more than it braces; he doesn't have time to think between the footnotes, crying out for the slick across his hole, left damningly abandoned.
He's slipped (his toes slip inside his patent shoes, shoving him— nearly slamming him— against cold plaster on the next reverberating pump of iron hips). Arrogance made him clumsy. Makes him prey when he's a lion's lauded cub: trounced in an empty room and made into a little wriggling furrow for some unimportant servant's perfumed cock. Oh, the talk would ruin if word somehow managed to get out. Fine to be an apex thing that pumps one's length or sates one's cunt on the squealing use of lesser game, for supremacy makes everything viable, but the other way around? That's weakness. That's unworth. That's—
—perfect.
Relentless and perfect. Infuriating and perfect. Violating and demeaning and perfect, perfect, perfect. Tongue shoved against the backs of his own teeth while his head lolls and the world runs white, incapable of blinking. Thinking. Name it and he can't: a rutting hole won't be picky for its use, and ignoring the finery he's dressed in (tailored coat enough to feed a family for months; the leather belt drawing livid welts across his skin that burn like snapping sparks more expensive than a car; his sweatsoaked pants painstakingly stitched by peerless hands, gilt thread unraveling by the second as it frays), that's all he is under hands that feel like sandpaper and glass and heat. Raw, commanding heat. Held steady to the rock-hard thresh of slickness pushing harsh between his thighs over and over the way someone stokes a fire, fierce momentum feathering the underside of plush curves and closing in against his drooling prick, almost enough to— to—
He gets as far as the first bump before his nerves all but shriek in outrage, fever pitch taking him gut-first and using his throat as its conduit: howling like a rabbit seized by its own neck— trying to thrash just as effectively, in fact, meaning only that it isn't. Just a jolt between trapped shoulders. A painful twisting of his arm. He can't see behind him (Fenris a blur of silver-blue and white in the farthest corner of his watering left eye), but he can feel that rhythm keeping pace with the way the room is shifting, and fucking Hells, he's rocking with it. Groaning and mewling and sweating and whining in inglorious near-ecstasy, the narrow little span of his entry grasping at nothing at all between his battered cheeks.
Free hand whipped back to yank nails first at whatever part of his keeper's within reach.]
F— Fen— !!
[Barely a minute in, and Fenris is about to prove himself wrong.
Not about it being what Astarion wants, or what he's even earned, that wicked instigator still choking on his imperious fantasies unmade. Not even about enjoying it, because oh, he's doing that more than he ever thought he could in every vulgar, outright spasming sense. But when the stakes are this high and the friction sweet as liquid sugar to a thing so bloody young— ah.
The slide of it's too much, channeling between his legs. Knocking into his prick (oh, that's what does it in the end: a single, passing nudge struck just beneath his crest).
Astarion comes.
One warning pulse of rippling tension the only sign of what comes next, and if his bodyguard isn't swift enough to tamp it before it starts— ]