[Like the flick of a blade nicking thicker armor; like a stiletto pushed beneath his chin, a fragile tension rising between them as sharp metal kisses his throat. Every instinct he has shrieks that this is a stupid idea and it doesn't matter, not when he's caught like this. Kept still and utterly enraptured by his master, his imagination sparking at each tap of Astarion's thumb. Swollen lips wrapped obediently around two pale fingers; the heavy weight of Astarion's prick, sedate and yet still drooling, resting atop the belly of his conquered prey. Look at how I won, look at how you melt for me, humiliation to be savored and offered later, and Fenris can feel his own cock twitch in response.
And oh, those words . . . relax, old man, and let Astarion decide if the grunt of displeasure that follows is for that careless instruction or the diminutive that follows. Either way, it earns a sharp stare: narrowed eyes above a mouth still eager to serve, Fenris' tongue sliding eagerly over soft fingerpads. And perhaps that would be the end of it. If he kept up that slow, meandering sadism; if he took picture after picture with his only intent being vouyeristic bullying . . .
But he inches forward. He presses his luck.
And Fenris strikes.
One hand wraps tight around Astarion's wrist, squeezing cruelly until he either drops that phone or at least lowers it; the other grips his hip as Fenris flips them both over. It's a messy action, far more about pinning than it is seduction; in an instant he has Astarion on his back, one arm pinned up over his head and his lithe legs splayed around Fenris' waist. His phone's screen is still unlocked, not that Fenris notices.]
Listen when I tell you something.
[White hair hangs messily around his face as he surveys his bratty ward.]
You spend your days telling me about how petty your friends are . . . how quick would they be to plaster such images anywhere they could just to get a laugh?
[Oh, he means it. He does. And yet it's no accident that his hips rock forward, grinding sedately against Astarion. Who knows when they'll next be left alone, after all? And while they still have to be quiet, now that the door is locked, well. There's little harm in indulgence, is there?
A kiss. A bite, his teeth sedately worrying at Astarion's lower lip, as he keeps a tight grip on his wrist. Murmured against his mouth, then:]
And stop calling me old man. You're practically a century old, you need not act as though I am so much your elder.
[But don't stop, actually, because he quite likes it.]
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And oh, those words . . . relax, old man, and let Astarion decide if the grunt of displeasure that follows is for that careless instruction or the diminutive that follows. Either way, it earns a sharp stare: narrowed eyes above a mouth still eager to serve, Fenris' tongue sliding eagerly over soft fingerpads. And perhaps that would be the end of it. If he kept up that slow, meandering sadism; if he took picture after picture with his only intent being vouyeristic bullying . . .
But he inches forward. He presses his luck.
And Fenris strikes.
One hand wraps tight around Astarion's wrist, squeezing cruelly until he either drops that phone or at least lowers it; the other grips his hip as Fenris flips them both over. It's a messy action, far more about pinning than it is seduction; in an instant he has Astarion on his back, one arm pinned up over his head and his lithe legs splayed around Fenris' waist. His phone's screen is still unlocked, not that Fenris notices.]
Listen when I tell you something.
[White hair hangs messily around his face as he surveys his bratty ward.]
You spend your days telling me about how petty your friends are . . . how quick would they be to plaster such images anywhere they could just to get a laugh?
[Oh, he means it. He does. And yet it's no accident that his hips rock forward, grinding sedately against Astarion. Who knows when they'll next be left alone, after all? And while they still have to be quiet, now that the door is locked, well. There's little harm in indulgence, is there?
A kiss. A bite, his teeth sedately worrying at Astarion's lower lip, as he keeps a tight grip on his wrist. Murmured against his mouth, then:]
And stop calling me old man. You're practically a century old, you need not act as though I am so much your elder.
[But don't stop, actually, because he quite likes it.]