[It wasn't a ploy. Truly it wasn't, for Fenris' mind is fixated on that door now, long ears twitching as he desperately tries to listen for footsteps. For the sound of a key turning or a latch lifting, something, anything to give him forewarning. Enough that he can throw Astarion off him and—
And what?
Leap to his feet? Claim that he was helping Astarion undress, and never mind the sizable swell in his trousers? There's no hiding it. There's no avoiding it. He cannot have the middle ground he's hunting for— just as Astarion couldn't last night. And it isn't the same, some stubborn part of him insists, for the humiliating indignity of being a noble caught at a bodyguard's mercy is far, far different than the consequence of being thrown to the wolves and back into his master's clutches, but . . . nor can Fenris deny that Astarion isn't wholly wrong, either.
For though he also balks for more intimate reasons, what was last night if not a refusal to adhere to them? If he is to be the twenty-sixth— and he is too cynical, too jagged, too raw not to fear such a thing— he has already crossed that line. The moment he yanked Astarion into that dark room he made his choice, and now all that remains is to see where the debris settles.
There's no way but forward. No choice but the one he made hours and hours ago. And so though his nerves still whimper softly in fear—
The next noise that rings between them isn't a protest, but a groan. Low and hungry despite its owner's better instincts; a crumbling sense of willpower accompanying the way his cock twitches once more as Astarion nuzzles against it. Yes, and it isn't about consent so much as submission. Yes, yes, and it's the same reason he doesn't throw Astarion off him. It's the same reason he squirms beneath the shadow of those pale thighs, arousal thundering through him as the plush crown of Astarion's prick drags against his face. Yes, and he isn't giving up the fight just yet—
But gods, if he doesn't love this.
It's so crude. So mean, a petty punishment from a bratty little slut that's furious that he lost his favorite game, and yet Fenris finds himself all but trembling in desire as he suffers it. Precome glimmers in the morning light as it smears against his cheek, the heavy weight of his prick palpable as it drags against his lips. He hadn't gotten a good look last night, not really, but oh, his little noble has ample reason to be proud, for his cock is even prettier in daylight. A heavy hang sits between his thighs, big enough to be intimidating to someone virginal— and a mouth-watering treat to those too used to something smaller. Fenris' next exhale is an overheated thing, his own prick straining avidly at his boxers as he contemplates what's being held before him—
And lets his lips part.
(Lets them part, and in a battle such as this, such distinctions matter).
His tongue is already slick with saliva, his prick straining needily at his boxers— but the moment Astarion's cock slips into his mouth, Fenris feels some part of himself ignite. That fierce competitiveness and pent-up desire crashes over him all at once, a resurgence that leaves him starving for more— more, and how can he resist when Astarion's prick is all but in his mouth? His tongue flits eagerly over his slit, working to tease at the crown of his prick— more, give me more, and he doesn't care if it makes him look weak. He doesn't care if Astarion takes it as a victory, a submissive bodyguard finally brought to heel—
For it isn't that.
Oh, it's submission, do not mistake him— but what would be the point if he gave up so early?
Now he pulls his arms free, wrenching at least one away so that he can grip Astarion's hip, forcing that lithe frame down. More, urged instead of taken, his jaw straining and his throat audibly gulping as he swallows down inch after searing inch—
Until he can't anymore. Until perhaps Astarion jerks himself free, momentum and leverage in his favor— or until Fenris' throat suddenly closes, the guttural sound of gagging and thrashing legs humiliating evidence that he has never once taken a cock this big.]
no subject
And what?
Leap to his feet? Claim that he was helping Astarion undress, and never mind the sizable swell in his trousers? There's no hiding it. There's no avoiding it. He cannot have the middle ground he's hunting for— just as Astarion couldn't last night. And it isn't the same, some stubborn part of him insists, for the humiliating indignity of being a noble caught at a bodyguard's mercy is far, far different than the consequence of being thrown to the wolves and back into his master's clutches, but . . . nor can Fenris deny that Astarion isn't wholly wrong, either.
For though he also balks for more intimate reasons, what was last night if not a refusal to adhere to them? If he is to be the twenty-sixth— and he is too cynical, too jagged, too raw not to fear such a thing— he has already crossed that line. The moment he yanked Astarion into that dark room he made his choice, and now all that remains is to see where the debris settles.
There's no way but forward. No choice but the one he made hours and hours ago. And so though his nerves still whimper softly in fear—
The next noise that rings between them isn't a protest, but a groan. Low and hungry despite its owner's better instincts; a crumbling sense of willpower accompanying the way his cock twitches once more as Astarion nuzzles against it. Yes, and it isn't about consent so much as submission. Yes, yes, and it's the same reason he doesn't throw Astarion off him. It's the same reason he squirms beneath the shadow of those pale thighs, arousal thundering through him as the plush crown of Astarion's prick drags against his face. Yes, and he isn't giving up the fight just yet—
But gods, if he doesn't love this.
It's so crude. So mean, a petty punishment from a bratty little slut that's furious that he lost his favorite game, and yet Fenris finds himself all but trembling in desire as he suffers it. Precome glimmers in the morning light as it smears against his cheek, the heavy weight of his prick palpable as it drags against his lips. He hadn't gotten a good look last night, not really, but oh, his little noble has ample reason to be proud, for his cock is even prettier in daylight. A heavy hang sits between his thighs, big enough to be intimidating to someone virginal— and a mouth-watering treat to those too used to something smaller. Fenris' next exhale is an overheated thing, his own prick straining avidly at his boxers as he contemplates what's being held before him—
And lets his lips part.
(Lets them part, and in a battle such as this, such distinctions matter).
His tongue is already slick with saliva, his prick straining needily at his boxers— but the moment Astarion's cock slips into his mouth, Fenris feels some part of himself ignite. That fierce competitiveness and pent-up desire crashes over him all at once, a resurgence that leaves him starving for more— more, and how can he resist when Astarion's prick is all but in his mouth? His tongue flits eagerly over his slit, working to tease at the crown of his prick— more, give me more, and he doesn't care if it makes him look weak. He doesn't care if Astarion takes it as a victory, a submissive bodyguard finally brought to heel—
For it isn't that.
Oh, it's submission, do not mistake him— but what would be the point if he gave up so early?
Now he pulls his arms free, wrenching at least one away so that he can grip Astarion's hip, forcing that lithe frame down. More, urged instead of taken, his jaw straining and his throat audibly gulping as he swallows down inch after searing inch—
Until he can't anymore. Until perhaps Astarion jerks himself free, momentum and leverage in his favor— or until Fenris' throat suddenly closes, the guttural sound of gagging and thrashing legs humiliating evidence that he has never once taken a cock this big.]