[The edges of his teeth lead that question, ruthlessly clamping down on Fenris' lower lip just in time to get an entire mouthful of exhaled air— and it says something (not now: later. Later it'll say something) that Astarion has no idea which one of them it came from, what with heat busy striking up more heat somewhere deep in the steady shoves of skin against skin. Cloth over cloth. Where every time that lordling twists to get a better angle on his next harassing snap his thumbprints scrub until they're hot, punctuating just how much tension's still stuck in them that it's already at a fever pitch despite this only being foreplay, his knuckles sore for how tight he's locked them, turning the tanned skin across corded wrists bone white— at least around the indents of his grip.
And does Astarion really think Fenris imagines him as a fool? Not really. Not exactly. It wasn't as if they weren't playing last night, too, albeit with figurative knives out. In fact the moral of this story could be that if Astarion had opted to be kind about his bodyguard's clarification instead of dry-humping a noble prick just to get under his skin, maybe conversely he wouldn't have wound up in that side room passed out cold with an aching cock across his lap.
But then they wouldn't have ended up here, either.
Attacking each other with the ragged outlines of their arousal; entirely aware the longer this drags on, the more he finds his lips twitching closer to a sneer than a snarl.]
A spoiled patriar tugging at your ears, demanding that you take him seriously.
[After last night (flashes of lingering sensation peppering his mind if he closes in too much: blurry recollection just an overwrought surge of numbness blaring between clenched teeth, catching hard between his legs in mirrored bursts, no real memory tacked on— only raw pressure and the burnmarks on his thighs, still there when he dares to flex them), the point is, who could blame Fenris? He won. Not even by a meter, by a mile; it's not remotely close to a debate when doubt died three times over in those arms— you don't work someone to unconsciousness without getting to forever gloat.
That said, it's always dangerous to score a point first in a fencing match.
Your opponent learns your moves.
In the middle of just one more pair of predictably enticing bucks, Astarion lunges forward to force the whole of his weight into his palms (leveraged hold buckling those slight arms) as he hooks one toe in the hemline of his trousers and then pulls: displacement and leonine agility taking them clean off in the middle of transitioning— straddling Fenris the other way round. Toes snapped to where his touch had been, mouth angled just over where his hips had been grinding for the last few scattered minutes: only his nightshirt and its lengthy-yet-closing-in-on-sheer border left to cover the whole of his raised body, his most vulgar assets barely obscured alongside friction marks and peppered bruises— or left to subltly slide along the center of Fenris' chest.
One flick of his chin— the same insistent teeth still warm from hounding branded skin— and the waistband of his guardian's defenses pops effortlessly free.
Every word whispered through the barely parted outline of a zipper.]
You don't ruin twenty five careers through good looks alone, old man.
no subject
You think I'm an idiot, don't you?
[The edges of his teeth lead that question, ruthlessly clamping down on Fenris' lower lip just in time to get an entire mouthful of exhaled air— and it says something (not now: later. Later it'll say something) that Astarion has no idea which one of them it came from, what with heat busy striking up more heat somewhere deep in the steady shoves of skin against skin. Cloth over cloth. Where every time that lordling twists to get a better angle on his next harassing snap his thumbprints scrub until they're hot, punctuating just how much tension's still stuck in them that it's already at a fever pitch despite this only being foreplay, his knuckles sore for how tight he's locked them, turning the tanned skin across corded wrists bone white— at least around the indents of his grip.
And does Astarion really think Fenris imagines him as a fool? Not really. Not exactly. It wasn't as if they weren't playing last night, too, albeit with figurative knives out. In fact the moral of this story could be that if Astarion had opted to be kind about his bodyguard's clarification instead of dry-humping a noble prick just to get under his skin, maybe conversely he wouldn't have wound up in that side room passed out cold with an aching cock across his lap.
But then they wouldn't have ended up here, either.
Attacking each other with the ragged outlines of their arousal; entirely aware the longer this drags on, the more he finds his lips twitching closer to a sneer than a snarl.]
A spoiled patriar tugging at your ears, demanding that you take him seriously.
[After last night (flashes of lingering sensation peppering his mind if he closes in too much: blurry recollection just an overwrought surge of numbness blaring between clenched teeth, catching hard between his legs in mirrored bursts, no real memory tacked on— only raw pressure and the burnmarks on his thighs, still there when he dares to flex them), the point is, who could blame Fenris? He won. Not even by a meter, by a mile; it's not remotely close to a debate when doubt died three times over in those arms— you don't work someone to unconsciousness without getting to forever gloat.
That said, it's always dangerous to score a point first in a fencing match.
Your opponent learns your moves.
In the middle of just one more pair of predictably enticing bucks, Astarion lunges forward to force the whole of his weight into his palms (leveraged hold buckling those slight arms) as he hooks one toe in the hemline of his trousers and then pulls: displacement and leonine agility taking them clean off in the middle of transitioning— straddling Fenris the other way round. Toes snapped to where his touch had been, mouth angled just over where his hips had been grinding for the last few scattered minutes: only his nightshirt and its lengthy-yet-closing-in-on-sheer border left to cover the whole of his raised body, his most vulgar assets barely obscured alongside friction marks and peppered bruises— or left to subltly slide along the center of Fenris' chest.
One flick of his chin— the same insistent teeth still warm from hounding branded skin— and the waistband of his guardian's defenses pops effortlessly free.
Every word whispered through the barely parted outline of a zipper.]
You don't ruin twenty five careers through good looks alone, old man.