Until after you shoved your cock down my throat, you mean.
[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.
no subject
[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.