[But, the word lingering on the tip of his tongue in those breathless moments before Astarion kisses him. But, but, but, and the sentence can end a thousand different ways. But what if you tire of me; but what if I am too old and wearied for you? But your family still owns me; but what if they never let you inherit? But what if I become too distracted; but what if you become bored of me—
Their mouths meet. Warm lips press plushly against his own, and Fenris' eyes flutter shut as his hands redirect once more, settling on Astarion's hips. A wave of soothing relief washes over Fenris' heart, and it does not extinguish all his worries, no, but it does help to hush them. Astarion knows what he's choosing. And perhaps it will end badly; perhaps they will find they are not suited to each other— but this is not the overeager rush of youth hungry for temporary satisfaction. Whatever they become, they both of them are entering into it with open eyes.
Their lips part, Astarion offering that tease. And despite himself, Fenris responds with a little smirk.]
You're forty-five, [he murmurs in echo, and flips them both over, a rapidfire motion that ends with Astarion on his back and Fenris neatly slotted between his legs. His hips roll down, his trapped cock throbbing for the unclothed, supple cheeks that rub temptingly against his trousers.]
My young charge . . . I have much to teach you about the world. Spices, [and he darts down, stealing a swift kiss,] and all.
1/2
Their mouths meet. Warm lips press plushly against his own, and Fenris' eyes flutter shut as his hands redirect once more, settling on Astarion's hips. A wave of soothing relief washes over Fenris' heart, and it does not extinguish all his worries, no, but it does help to hush them. Astarion knows what he's choosing. And perhaps it will end badly; perhaps they will find they are not suited to each other— but this is not the overeager rush of youth hungry for temporary satisfaction. Whatever they become, they both of them are entering into it with open eyes.
Their lips part, Astarion offering that tease. And despite himself, Fenris responds with a little smirk.]
You're forty-five, [he murmurs in echo, and flips them both over, a rapidfire motion that ends with Astarion on his back and Fenris neatly slotted between his legs. His hips roll down, his trapped cock throbbing for the unclothed, supple cheeks that rub temptingly against his trousers.]
My young charge . . . I have much to teach you about the world. Spices, [and he darts down, stealing a swift kiss,] and all.