[He feels taut muscle underneath him, barely masked by cheap linen. Narrow ribs and their attached ripples of houndish sinew expanding with sharp shudders that exhale— and sigh. Lock. Stiffen. Expand. Break— a sturdy animal subdued by spreading bliss, no doubt salivating where Astarion can't see and hardening where he can. All of it proving that after everything that's happened, the little patriar's finally wrapped his hands around the edge he'd wanted. Control.
Intoxicating, pitch-perfect, dangerous control.
And the thing he's always liked about its shape is that like any overruling force, it doesn't care about a fair fight: lust won't tilt over who's strongest or fastest or— against the run of last night's disconnected whispers (a pulse of phantom breath along his ear that hitches in his stomach even now)— who's oldest. Open-mouthed, it's ugly. It grabs, and in Astarion's experience? Usually by the throat first, leaving barely any slack for thought, let alone breath. It's why last night had been Fenris' win in the end, and why today's going to be different. He can feel it already, caught squirming between his knees. (Go on Fenris crowed a minute or so ago, so damned content with himself at the time after dining on easy friction and a win he could pin to his sleeve.) Now curled toes wrap against the jut of that moon elf's wrists, his torso slacking into something more convex to lift into the angle of his rising cock— and—
Wait.
—Wait.
The jagged little warble puffed between his thighs that isn't hotter than his skin, even settled close. But where was that mercy for Astarion last night? (Ah, but where was Astarion's mercy for Fenris, first?)
Around the angle of his shoulder, he grins:]
Oh, so now that I'm winning you want to fret about the door, is that it? [It's a smart move, at least. Sharp enough to give Astarion maybe half a second of snorting amusement if nothing else, teeth already back to harassing settled cloth.]
Tsk. I wasn't born yesterday, despite what you might think.
I'm not falling for that.
[He sits back stubbornly in a substitute for countering punishment, and there— pleasant and overwarm— comes the smooth slide of Fenris' profile drawn against the base of his cock. Catching the tip of that strong nose, finding the soft pillow of his lips on the next sidling roll of his hips. His shirt still falling loose around it all, and he can feel the way it forms a sort of cage around the act— obscuring it like any civilized in-humor in conversation: right there in plain sight, only thinly veiled. Shamelessly arranged.
His legs are spread, his knees are buckled. His hips are risen over the line of Fenris' face, teasing and dipping in exploratory patterns that don't leave room for talk even without penetrating that striking mouth, his own left nuzzling at the sheltered outline of his guardian's stiff lust, dampness kissing at his nose to make this a perfectly mirrored affair: someone could slap censor blurs across the whole of it and there still would be no mistaking it for what it is.
no subject
Intoxicating, pitch-perfect, dangerous control.
And the thing he's always liked about its shape is that like any overruling force, it doesn't care about a fair fight: lust won't tilt over who's strongest or fastest or— against the run of last night's disconnected whispers (a pulse of phantom breath along his ear that hitches in his stomach even now)— who's oldest. Open-mouthed, it's ugly. It grabs, and in Astarion's experience? Usually by the throat first, leaving barely any slack for thought, let alone breath. It's why last night had been Fenris' win in the end, and why today's going to be different. He can feel it already, caught squirming between his knees. (Go on Fenris crowed a minute or so ago, so damned content with himself at the time after dining on easy friction and a win he could pin to his sleeve.) Now curled toes wrap against the jut of that moon elf's wrists, his torso slacking into something more convex to lift into the angle of his rising cock— and—
Wait.
—Wait.
The jagged little warble puffed between his thighs that isn't hotter than his skin, even settled close. But where was that mercy for Astarion last night? (Ah, but where was Astarion's mercy for Fenris, first?)
Around the angle of his shoulder, he grins:]
Oh, so now that I'm winning you want to fret about the door, is that it? [It's a smart move, at least. Sharp enough to give Astarion maybe half a second of snorting amusement if nothing else, teeth already back to harassing settled cloth.]
Tsk. I wasn't born yesterday, despite what you might think.
I'm not falling for that.
[He sits back stubbornly in a substitute for countering punishment, and there— pleasant and overwarm— comes the smooth slide of Fenris' profile drawn against the base of his cock. Catching the tip of that strong nose, finding the soft pillow of his lips on the next sidling roll of his hips. His shirt still falling loose around it all, and he can feel the way it forms a sort of cage around the act— obscuring it like any civilized in-humor in conversation: right there in plain sight, only thinly veiled. Shamelessly arranged.
His legs are spread, his knees are buckled. His hips are risen over the line of Fenris' face, teasing and dipping in exploratory patterns that don't leave room for talk even without penetrating that striking mouth, his own left nuzzling at the sheltered outline of his guardian's stiff lust, dampness kissing at his nose to make this a perfectly mirrored affair: someone could slap censor blurs across the whole of it and there still would be no mistaking it for what it is.
A little slattern at his favorite craft.]