The word sticks in Fenris' mind all night, irritating him throughout dinner and well into the evening. Purchased, and oh, he knows what was meant. He paid those twins a set sum, he offered them a salary and a room, something along those lines. Nobles don't really think about what they say; they think even less about how it sounds. A fancy purse his newfound charge calls him, and he isn't wrong, for that's how it sounds, doesn't it? An accessory. A delightfully exotic counterpart. A bodyguard and a nanny all at once, kept not because he's necessary but because he's fashionable.
But call it employment. Call it salaried. Call it anything but bought and sold— but he won't argue. He doesn't dare.
Besides: it's a bruise to his ego and affront to his pride, but it isn't dangerous, not really. After all the agony Fenris has lived through, he can afford a few misplaced words. Really, he ought to be grateful. He'd been wary enough when the job was described to him, but looking at his charge now . . . oh, he's little more than a whelp. A bratty firstborn who wants only to indulge in his hedonism and is sulking now that he can't— gods, the hardest part is likely biting his own tongue whenever the boy whines about any minor inconvenience.]
I suspect no one has told you that I am bound to your side day and night.
[There is a room somewhere in this grand estate that's ostensibly meant for him. He hasn't found it yet, and no one has bothered to show him. It barely matters. It's a place to keep his things, and given he barely has any, there's no point. But if there is a bed there, it is for show only. You will be his shadow, his employer informed him. Day and night.
There isn't a second bed. He'll have to ask after that. More than likely it's been forgotten, a minor detail he'll have to rectify himself. That's all right. He has slept on worse places than the floor. Fenris leans his back up against a wall, unintentionally mirroring his charge as he settles in.]
Perform your nightly routine, whatever that may be, and sleep. I will not interfere. But I am to be at your side constantly for the next few weeks.
[Until he learns to behave, his father had said dismissively. A semi-punishment for a young buck too headstrong to know better. Sooner or later those restrictions will loosen and Fenris given the far more preferable choice of standing guard outside Astarion's door— but then again, given the boy's proclivity for sneaking out the window, perhaps not.
His eyes flick up. And then, his tone perfectly neutral, adds:]
For the narrowest band of incendiary seconds, that fledgling noble's visible demeanor finally matches his own rotten mood in perfect, undistilled unison: volatility strung hot around the rim of pearldrop eyes, a score of ugly creases crushed into folds between the pinched-up middle of his brows— capped off by a scowl that didn't dare once show itself during dinner, no matter how severe the scolding he'd been subject to.
Not a mask, just the truth, its heat leveled in a wordless threat lacking in teeth, and only for propriety's sake alone.
How dare he—
(After all, it's not as if the hireling is wrong, is he? There's a great deal Astarion can get away with at face value without incurring backlash, but nothing in a vacuum. If he shrieks that the elf tried to crawl into his bed and rape him, he'd only be swatted for— rightfully— trying to get rid of the beast after only a few hours, with most of that having been spent divided by half a room's worth of dining space; if he hurts the man, orders him to harm himself, if he tries to sic the other servants on him—
Well.
Same outcome, different path.)
It's a trap set out with live, wriggling bait. It's a test that he can't win like this, playing to his nature first, and everything else second.
So knowing where his supposedly empowered reach ends, Astarion's acidity doesn't last.
It can't last. Not without cutting his nose to spite his own well-defined face, and he's had enough cuts there to still feel the sting more than a week after his last adventurous little fiasco. Call Astarion woefully stubborn, fine, but he's not stupid, and he knows how to concede before sunk cost fallacy decides to take its pound of flesh.
(And besides. Besides— the creature is attractive enough, isn't he? For a lowborn thing, for an animal clinging to the coin in his family's coffers— he has a striking way about him beyond all those countless tattoos. The scars peppered here and there, peeking out beneath his armor when he shifts.
Or he sighs, maybe, the two actions close enough that it's hard to tell what he's aiming for beyond simple dissipation. The baseline uncorking of a figurative bottle.]
Fine.
[No part of tonight's unfolding signals fine in any way, shape, or form, but there has to be a middle ground somewhere, right?
Unfolding himself and soon turning back towards the mirror, Astarion studies himself in its glass for a few slow beats, before reaching back to untie the tangled mess of curls tucked in against the back of his neck— lifting their delicate span with only one hand (and wrist): exposing the line of his throat and a series of jeweled clasps (attached to a collared choker, its gilt trails laced completely into the collar of his open-backed shirt, the blouse that'd been covering it— loose and partially sheer for thinness alone— slipping down around his elbow, his waist), no trace of effort spent.
His head tilts, chin drawn closer to his shoulder. Lashes drifting down towards the ground without a single glance spared for the elf stood opposite his reflection (just his voice. Just his attention. Just— )]
[Crisply and swiftly stated, and he's proud of himself for how even his tone stays.
No, the freed man tells his master. No, I won't do that, and what can Astarion do to him? Nothing. Nothing. At worst he'll stomp his foot and go tattle to his father, and what will that get him? The man won't take it out on Fenris, not when his entire job is to babysit this brat. No, he says, and it's as if the world reels on its axis, for never once before now has the word slipped past his lips in response to an order.
No. No, no, no, and maybe some of that impudent glee is evident in his gaze. Maybe some of his heady relief shows in the fractional flicker of a smile that graces his lips, unintended but still there. He does not think about how it might be misinterpreted, for in truth all of his mind is simply lingering on how good this feels.
Like inhaling after a lifetime of holding his breath. Like the heady surge of power that had come from grasping a sword for the first time. No, and gods, but he savors it.]
I am your bodyguard, not your servant. If you cannot manage your ties and buttons, I am told there are others who can aid you in that.
[And understand: it's not that Fenris doesn't notice the pale elf. He is a beautiful thing, all soft angles and pale skin . . . it would be impossible not to notice the slender span of that throat. The gilt collar that wraps around it, starkly framing it even as it hints at more. The coy way dark lashes flutter against cheeks touched faintly with color, flushed from the wine at dinner; the sudden stark showing of skin, all the more alluring after the gauzy teasing of that shirt . . . oh, he notices him.
But Fenris is good at keeping such feelings to himself. And though his cock twitches in faint interest, his mind knows far, far better than that. Noticing such things will only get him in trouble. Pursing them . . . oh, what a foolish risk that would be, and all for what? A fuck that couldn't ever be worth it. Carnal pleasure sated for a single night and then—
No.
He cannot lose this job. He cannot. The alternatives are too dire, the stakes too high. It simply isn't an option— and so it won't be.
(Besides, Fenris thinks nastily, how good a fuck could it even be? A rich little brat who's too used to getting what he wants— oh, surely he's used to simply lying back and spreading his legs, chasing after his own pleasure with no thought of anyone else . . . surely it wouldn't satisfy).]
[No, and the word is so edged on that bodyguard's tongue that Astarion briefly wonders how long the poor sap might've been holding onto that one: waiting for an opportunity to feel it tumble from his mouth.
But then again what lowbred thing doesn't wait for the opportunity to reject its betters? Astarion grew up surrounded by servants, he knows exactly how they work. (And think. And hope. And hate.)]
'Night and day' and you can't offer a hand to help me unless I'm dying?
[There's no twitch. No ripple in his mirrorglass stare. If he was incensed before, there's a placidity about him now— though not without its barbs, clearly (part and parcel of being in high society means control in at least some aspects of his temper, no matter how thin its margins). Coy commentary passed on as the pale elf turns his wrist around, keeping his own curls out of the way while he takes to unlatching those clasps on his own.
There's a practiced fluidity to it; it promises he's never— or at the very least not in a long, long time— asked for help in undressing.]
[The placidity is, if nothing. It's a shock, to be sure, for Fenris had braced himself for snarled out commands and seething threats— but perhaps he's cleverer than he looks. Perhaps this is little more than gentle testing of boundaries, pushing just to see where Fenris will draw the line. He does not mind that. Certainly there is hope to be found in the swift way Astarion undoes his clasps; better a noble that knows what he's doing than one that flounders.
And perhaps Fenris himself can be a bit more lax. There's no need to court hostility, after all— and perhaps Astarion's poor attitude is just the result of impositions suddenly laid. Fenris draws himself up, setting his sword down as he comes forward, ready to dryly comment as he tugs on ties—
My father clearly overpaid when he bought you.
— and freezes.
It's a pause that's barely there. A sudden swell of shock and rage that Fenris hastily shoves aside, though his heart is hammering in his chest, his lips longing to draw back in a snarl.]
He did not buy me. I am in his employment. I suggest you learn the difference.
[Fenris resumes his pace, closing the distance between them and staring at Astarion in the mirror's reflection.]
And whether or not he overpays me is his own business.
[And then, stiffly:]
What, exactly, do you require help with.
[It's not that he's dying to help, but on the other hand, he looks an idiot just looming here.]
[So quick as to be glancing; his arched fingers doing the light work of pulling his own hair further aside while that collar shrugs low, already split down the middle like cracked fruit and sagging save for the ties strung into its base through linen loops. No part of him reacting to that bluster (however brief— however visible or invisible— through the thick sheen of that mirror), expectation runs as thick as blood in the wireframed lad's aristocratic veins.
And when you're counting on the world tilting on its axis just to give you a little shade, far too few (pleasant) things come as a shock.]
And yet you live here. Sleep here— at some point, I assume. Unless you're some sort of undead beast with no need for rest, bound forever to my side.
[A soft noise of amusement spared there, passing though it may be.]
Or— no, he doesn't. He doesn't, for Fenris knows this is different than enslavement. It might have the same taste and scent and shape of it (for oh, Astarion's father had bought him at such an obscenely high price, and Fenris is not paid so much as doled out a small allowance each week, with the rest of his pay going towards working off that debt), but it isn't the same. He was never allowed dignity as a slave. He was never offered such freedoms as a slave. Astarion and his family cannot force Fenris to perform duties outside of his chosen job, whether that means untying knots or spreading his legs—
It is different.
His mouth is a thin line, but with effort, Fenris forces his temper back. He is too old to be baited by such a little brat, who goads him for no more reason than he's upset at being reigned in.]
Simply because I take my rest here does not mean I am of the same caliber as whatever toys your father purchases for you.
[His voice is even. And though his hands are full of roughened callouses between azure lines, Fenris' fingers are surprisingly deft as he tugs at linen ties. The fabric knots in on itself; it takes more than a few seconds to pull each one free.
It's impossible not to glance down. Impossible not to notice the arched line of Astarion's back, nor the delicate secret space just above his waistband. And to that end, yes, Fenris notices. His eyes dart down, his lashes flickering as he drinks in the sight. But his fingers don't waver, nor do they reach to touch that which is forbidden. Just because his brat is a pretty thing doesn't mean Fenris is going to forget himself.
He catches Astarion's eye in the mirror as another loop falls free. The shirt falls off bare shoulders; almost imperceptibly, one corner of Fenris' mouth twitches upwards. I see what you're doing, whelp. And it isn't working.]
Mind me, now, little noble: I am tasked with keeping you out of trouble— and teaching you how to behave as I do. Throw your weight around too much and you will see yourself following whatever schedule I deem suitable, obeying what rules I decide to impose.
Be good, and we will get along.
Act out . . . and I promise you, I can make your life very rigid indeed.
[His mouth (stained at its leftmost corner from supper wine) is already open to fire off a wry-yet-vulnerable appeal in the first few seconds while those fingers work, strong knuckles pushing inadvertently into his skin (his pulse slipping with every glance, making the whole thing a sort of joint-measure exercise): where for every knot come loose or every slid centimeter his heartrate resets a little more. And a little more. Distracted but not lost, he sucks in one shallow sip of air by the time that work is done, poised to exhale in the next beat— wrapping figurative thread around the needle of a confession designed to dredge up connectivity. Empathy. A fed passeri weeping from its perch about misery in Hesperides.
It dies when the shadow at his back levels its stare his way.
His shirt slips free and he barely feels it. Cold air takes the place of those knuckles. Thin cloth. Sheer linen. A shiver runs up his spine, and it's luck that nothing of it shows. Caught in the vicelock press of words like mind me, behave as I do, be good— caught in the medusine fix of those unblinking emerald eyes—
Everything else is just frosting.]
....hm.
[Ah, there's his belated exhale.
(Light.
Airy.
Smooth as the tip of a dagger pushed to tender skin.)
Treacherous mouth curling upwards at its edges well before he turns, leaving the both of them face to face instead.]
A babysitter with a spine.
[Be good, his brand new toy-that-isn't-one insists— but does he mean good as in the daylit definition? Or....perhaps he craves something more suited to the shadows where they stand....?
For a boy who's taken meals from two different sets of tables, he opts to frame that question in the way his own arched fingertips slide into leather beltloops, tugging once to bring them closer. Mirror cold against his naked spine— his thigh hooked rapidly between still-clothed legs, pushing them both into a sinful junction while his hands work to keep them anchored fast. Surprisingly athletic for his station.
Astarion is good at this. Fenris wonders how many times he's done it before. How many people has he wrapped around his finger with little more than a coy look or suggestive phrase? Oh, dozens, surely. Fenris is familiar with the type: the seductive women and charismatic men who flit around parties, tipsy on champagne and baring skin in daring little outfits, so eager to play the eternal game of noble politics and curried favor. The ones Danarius, thank the gods, never had much time for (and who in turn dismissed the middle-aged magister as too unappealing to ever want to play with). The nobles that Fenris was always mildly exasperated by, finding their methods of filling their endless time both hedonistic and pointless.
How old is Astarion? His father had never said, but he cannot be above a hundred. Likely less. A man in name only, swaggering around because he thinks he has some experience under his belt . . .
Ah, pretty thing. Pretty, foolish thing, who thinks all it will take to run rings around his bodyguard is a few blatant flirtations.
He'll learn.
Ignoring the heat pooling between his legs (gods, that hot, heavy pressure is tempting indeed; it takes a great deal for him not to twitch his hips down even once), Fenris takes in a breath. His fingers wrap heavily around both of Astarion's wrists, gripping them tightly— not cruelly, no, but with such deliberate intent.
(And it's tempting, you know, to pin them above his head. To press him into that mirror and rumble in his ear, do you really think I am so foolish as that, boy? Soft desperate noises sounding in Astarion's throat, a flaring hunger that Fenris would love to make even worse. Do you really think I am fooled half so easily as all those fawning suitors I'm sure nip at your heels? Led along by their cocks and promised a quick fuck if they'll give you what you want, oh, little prince, I am more difficult to tempt than that—
But that way lies ruin. Astarion will only be encouraged. And so Fenris tucks that fantasy away for later, when he can shove one hand over his mouth and the other between his legs, taking some of the edge off his eternal pent-up desperation).
He draws his hands forward. Holds them tightly between their two forms, his eyebrows raising up high.]
That is not behaving.
[Firm, the way you'd scold a dog. No, with the intent not to punish, but to reaffirm the boundary. He holds them there for a long second, making eye contact— do you see that this did not work?— before releasing him and stepping back.]
Finish undressing. Tend to whatever other routine you deem necessary. And then sleep.
[Though Astarion has his answer, at least, so there's that for consolation prizes. (His wrists gripped thickly between calloused fingers the better one. The part where he's scolded like a dog that pissed the carpet, the worse.)]
Bet you were just loads of fun at the orphanage.
[Or wherever it is sellswords like him come from. (Astarion's back still pushed to thick glass. Astarion's curls still rucked up around his throat and shoulders and cheeks. Slung in a way that pushes out his hips slightly, but the posing itself stays degenerate. Curved too much by any standard, like the image of an unpaid whore loitering outside her doorway in search of her next sponsor. Restlessness that beckons, in a word— only what do you call it in a room this nice, in a mansion this sterilely idyllic, where everything desirable's already in its place?)
Oh fine. Maybe he is pissing the figurative carpet, but then Astarion would argue it's hard to blame him: his father had good sense in the sheepdog he purchased— tall and lean, refined by a handsome stretch of years that attractively thinned out the hollows of arched features; stern eyes. Soft lips. When packs his own age talk about wanting to fit a well-seasoned bit of game between their legs or on their prick, this is the kind of delectable quarry they strive for, easily. (That lone retinue felt hot as a brand in those seconds when they'd squeezed against each other, and even at a distance, close to looming balcony shutters that glitter for their fractal glass in cold moonlight, armored contours fill whatever space he takes in ways that leave Astarion's jaw— right down to the set of his own cock— aching with warmed hunger.)
But his fingers find their way to his waistband.
And he finishes undressing, not even bothering to take off the rest of the jewelry he'd been wearing— crossing the room on bare feet, bare legs, bare everything— just to slip under thin sheets, peering upwards from a heap of cluttered (overstuffed) pillows. Watching him the way a child watches a pretty fish through glass.
Hello, see? You draconian thing. He can behave. He can be picture perfect.
[He doesn't look as Astarion strips. It isn't that he's avoiding staring, exactly, for that's just as bad as if he'd gawked. He will not be stuttering, stammering prey for his newest object of protection, a virginal elf who blushes at the thought of bare skin— but then again, nor will he give him the satisfaction of any kind of glance.
(And if he thinks, just a little, about how Astarion might look splayed up against the mirror dressing in nothing but those glittering earcuffs and gold bangles, well. Only he need know about it: a lustful thought there and gone.)
No, Fenris busies himself instead: pulling a chair from a nearby desk and settling it by the doorway. It's a stiff-backed thing made of stained oak, but at least the cushions are softly plush. It won't be the worst way he's spent a night, Fenris thinks, and settles himself down as best he can. His hands pat gently at his hips, feeling for the assuring weight of his knives; he draws one leg up, back arching in anticipation of inevitable stiffness.
And slowly, inevitably, he becomes aware of that pointed stare.]
I am not telling you a bedtime story, if that is what you are waiting for.
[It's a scoff that rises from the covers first. Not (yet) indulged, the languid stretch that bunches silk into loose shapes around his hips and chest deflates, leaving him flatter than the tone between them. Petulant little scowl etched right across otherwise fruit-sweet lips:]
No need to overexert yourself.
[Oh sweetheart, conveys pettiness out of place on a creature whose lynxine ears still don't fit the slender shape of his face. Almond eyes soon swimming just above the line of satin sheets pulled up past his chin.
Hired little trinket, sitting pretty in the corner of his room like the trophies and dust-laden baubles. Enviably made. Handsome and catching the light just right. Something nice to keep his stare on before usefulness— and relevance— runs its course.
(But the man is taking it all so seriously, isn't he? Acidic temperament designed to brook no mischief when they both know better; stern brows impassively drawn over weary eyes. It's as if he doesn't know the joke of it all.
And Astarion doubts his father cared enough to let the man in on the full scope of this game.
Mmph. Poor thing.)]
I'm sure the dustmites and occasional gnat will steer far, far away now that you're here.
[How safe he is thanks to you. How grateful he is, helpless little waif that he must be.]
Still— don't be afraid to crawl in with me if you find sleeping upright in a stiff, cold chair doesn't do it for you.
I could tell you a very satisfying bedtime story like that.
And unlike my family, I know how to be generous.
[Even to a professional killjoy.]
Sweet dreams, darling.
[Sweet dreams.
What Astarion himself— nominally wine-sated, well fed and worn out— finds not long after: taking only a few minutes at most to twist around, shut his eyes, and drift away in that sea of thickset bedding. Not so much whining or twitching; the very image of comfortable rest.
How uneventful.
How shockingly uneventful that in a world crawling with magic and monsters, catastrophe unchecked, there's anything this silently undisturbed. Not even the halls carry a single drop of sound outside the occasional servant, strolling at a quieted pace.
Like that, it's hard not to sleep.
—and on Astarion's part, it's hard not to know when to wake.
Three hours later, his eyes slip open.
Silent and still as a mouse through that first minute, not so much as twitching in his bed as he watches for the steady rise and fall of his protector's chest. Waiting to be sure the man's asleep, and from there, he's a practiced hand at it: the loose shirt and slacks tucked beneath his bed are easily slid on without a sound; his shoes are grabbed and held in the crook of his fingers so that he can creep towards those open windows, slithering up and over the ledge—
And off to freedom.
Freedom in this case being a decadent closed-door bacchanal. Masked patrons with distinguished clothing— young upstarts foregoing secrecy in favor of attracting focus. Password enforced, garden-wall obscured, he's still fastening his clothing by the time he trots up to the gate, dress shirt caught between his fingers, buttons fidgeted with while huffing out 'goldthorn rose'— the guard on duty quick to step aside.
And if Astarion is lucky, it might not be too late in the evening to find a decent bit of game.]
[His mistake, in retrospect, was trusting in the boy's laziness.
He had thought an escape inevitable, but not the first night. Certainly not after he so clearly had fallen asleep, his breath softening and his body stilling beneath the sheer sheets. And be fair to Fenris: he does have to sleep at some point. He can go for so long without it if he must, but sooner or later he has to rest. Better to do it this first night, when lines have been drawn and boundaries set, then the night of some party the whelp is aching to attend.
More fool him.
He doesn't know what rouses him. Perhaps it's the stillness in the room, or the lack of another's presence. Perhaps he just sleeps lightly nowadays, a creature too wary and paranoid to ever let his guard fully down. It doesn't matter.
He wakes and Astarion is gone.
In an instant Fenris is out the window, landing silently on the soft earth below. His heart is hammering too hard in his chest, a thundering rhythm that leaves him nauseous— and for a moment, panic makes him reel. Terror of what might happen tomorrow (Astarion's father coldly dismissing him, a mountain of debt crashing upon his head with no way to pay it back, Danarius lurking in the shadows just waiting for a moment like this) overwhelms him, and he wants to vomit—
And then his training takes over.
Panic won't help. Letting his fear overcome his intelligence will lead to ruin, so best to stop indulging it, lest those fears really do come true. Fenris takes a deep breath once, twice, and then glances around.
And thank the gods, Astarion wasn't subtle. He'd been clever enough in sneaking away, but not so much in covering his tracks. There's the faintest hint of a footprint leading out towards the garden wall, and from there . . . from there, it's just a matter of following the clues. He is a good tracker, and knows his quarry besides: it's not too hard to pick up the trail once he has his mind on right. A few swift questions close in the gap, and he manages to spot the boy just as he slips in through the gate.
Hells.
He tries the guard. He does not have much hope for the guard, but he tries anyway, and is not particularly disappointed when he's refused. The man has a duty to perform, and it's far safer to irritate a bodyguard than it is a noble; Fenris cannot begrudge him that. He simply makes a show of scowling in vexation, glancing around before inevitably wandering off.
It's not ten minutes later that he's infiltrated the party.
(The security here is terrible. Efficient enough for keeping unwanted guests out, maybe, but the haphazard way security patrols the perimeter is pathetic. They're distracted things, their focus aimed towards the lewdity going on within . . . and as for all the cameras and supposed magical wards that no doubt cost a fortune to install, oh, please. Fenris will never credit Danarius with anything, but there had been a man who knew how to ward off intruders. This is just pathetic).
He crosses the lawn, striding towards the lit-up manor. He stands out among all the lewd costumes and delicate masks, but he doesn't care. The point isn't to hide away; merely to find his ward. And to that end . . . a slight figure, silver curls and pointed ears, and it takes him some time. Long enough that Astarion has already settled in with a drink in one hand and a pipe in the other, chattering among a group of companions— no doubt congratulating himself on his cleverness.
Fenris' hand is so heavy as it sets on Astarion's shoulder, gripping tight.]
Get up.
[His voice pitched low, his tone brooking no argument.]
[They brag amongst themselves, the nobles of the city. And it carries, you know— what the eldest members do in their lounges with their smoke and drink, the youngest do too in the gardens: huddling together with (sharper) smiles just to boast about their exploits, diminutive though they may be.
He's partway through boasting about his new bodyguard's odds when—
—thud.
clatter—
—Astarion drops his pipe in a startled jolt.
Laughter erupts from the gathered pack (three young bucks Astarion's age and two girls), all in various states of repose on expensive furniture. All drinking— or drunk. All amused to see something this unexpectedly entertaining in its abrupt irony: schadenfreude bolstering the whole of their already well-fanned elation, where the bottom of a bottle is at most the start of a long, exhausting evening. The air smelling of honey, amber, ambrosia, and now— smoke.
And he does get to his feet, but it doesn't take him long to recover from the shock— or to register the sound of delighted cackling— twisting around to yank his shoulder free and glower at the nuisance he's been shackled to by something so expendable as duty.]
Get your hands off me—
[Incredulous, now that he's recovered. That he's puffed up his own chest like an agitated stoat is subconscious, but the roused authority behind it serves a purpose: insisting that he won't back down.
Which, like the rest of his delayed reaction, finds itself just a half-step off cue in terms of relevance, next shoved from its mark by exasperation:]
What is wrong with you? [Following Astarion this far, actually managing to get inside to chase after him; he could've just stayed home. Covered his own ass. Stood at the doorway insisting the young lord Astarion was resting soundly if anyone came knocking— now, though, now they're both up to their necks in this excursion, and for what? Approval? A pat on the head, a little coin? Selûne's cunt, Astarion could've given him all of the above and saved them both the trouble.
Behind them, one of the boys (a smug thing with dark hair down to his shoulders) whistles low in their direction, clicking the tip of his tongue to a chipped canine while adding 'you never said he was this devourable, Astarion.']
That's because he's more trouble than his face is worth. [He snorts back, reaching out for another pass of wine from over his shoulder. Bringing it to his lips and letting it bring back his own sense of carefree deliquency, swaying just a segue for his forced little grin (mean. Be mean).] ....maybe not the rest of him, though.
[There's another peal of snickering soon to rise up from that dark corner, and like any attention-starved thing, he's clearly encouraged by it.]
If you're going to stay, be useful: you can get down on your knees and entertain us, or go wait with the other wet coats at the exit while we finish having fun.
It's everything he ever fought to escape. It's humiliation and objectification, his entire self tethered on a leash to a goading master, forced to stand there and be reduced to something little more than a toy for these nobles to play with. Devourable, that brat calls him, his mouth curled up into a smug smirk and his eyes glittering with malice. Fuckable, breedable, and Fenris can almost hear it in Tevene. He can almost smell Danarius' magic curling on the edge of his tongue, feel the weight of that collar heavy on his throat—
And it only grows worse as Astarion joins in on it. Silver stare flicking over Fenris' form, his bearing cruel, and it doesn't matter that it's so clearly goading. It doesn't matter that Astarion does it because he's hungry for attention and embarrassed that Fenris chased after him.
It still burns.
Get on your knees, and for a moment such rage flares in his gaze.
Don't indulge it. Don't give these nobles any hint of a reaction, for that way only lies ruin. There's no way to win with people like this, and so Fenris does what he has always done: stoically ignore them in favor of his chosen target.]
You have two options.
[His voice is pitched low. That isn't done out of consideration for Astarion, but rather his job: the whelp won't come to heel if his pride's on the line.]
Walk out with me now, Astarion, or I will carry you out. One affords you dignity, while the other leaves you looking like a squalling child. But do not test me on this, for I have no further patience for your antics tonight.
[He's a pressure pot waiting to explode. Sharp to the tips of his ears, even Astarion can see it—
But he's mad to think the first option is one where Astarion retains his dignity. That's not a choice, that's just holding onto the hammer while it slams nail-after-nail into the coffin of his own reputation: turning tail after his own father's lackey shows up with a glare that could hone knives is as good as telling the others he can't stay to fuck himself senseless, his nanny's been kept waiting and the warm glass of milk and honey made for him's gone cold.
They'll laugh him out of existence.
But rejection's a tall order.
Not the least for their differences in height, where Astarion has to tilt his chin a little higher just to feel the cold ripple of admonitory warning in the air. The comical juxtaposition of a reedy princeling angled towards his armored counterpart, half-dressed and drinking till his lips stain dark around their corners.]
No errand boy dictates where or when I leave.
[A unified coo of scandalous delight erupts from the little audience behind him. Bright eyes flashing with excitement, almost jostling in their seats for a better view of an unexpected declaration of war; where Fenris had been discreet, Astarion's bravado comes out in the way nature dictates anything posturing should: by making itself louder.
Larger.]
But if you don't feel like sharing....
[He's a noble. He's been hunting before, even if only on the back of a saddled mare. Cornering a deer. A fox. A wolf. With enough dogs, anything is prey.]
I'll share with you instead.
[He pulls one more mouthful of wine, holding it to the back of his tongue— and lunging in a devilish flash over that narrow distance to try and fit their lips together.]
Fierce bodyguard trained to defend against every kind of attack under the sun, but not like this. Not something so vulgar, so crude, so mean— Fenris' eyes go wide as their mouths slot together, his shock stalling him out for a precious few seconds. His hands hang loose at his side, his fingers stiff and stricken, as all around him there's the barking laughs of the well-bred masses.
The world narrows itself to sensations. A hot tongue slipping between his lips; soft pressure as delicate fingers wrap around the back of his neck. Wine pouring down his throat, droplets of scarlet staining his lips as spice stings his tongue. Heat flooding through him, and by the time he realizes what's happening and wrenched his mouth away, it's too late. There's already a flush to the tip of his ears, his cock stirring faintly—
His wretched little charge has drugged him.
Not with much— but then again, when it comes to aphrodisiac, it doesn't need to be much. A few drops can twist your senses for hours on end, making you little more than a panting, mewling thing in need of service. How long does Fenris have before it hits him? Minutes? Maybe less. It's hard to tell, for he's only ever used to the things Danarius would sometimes give him, the drugs amplified tenfold by magic and the effects so terribly potent . . .
He can hear the jeers around him. He wishes he couldn't. There's a roaring in his ears, a tinny tone that means his mind is dropping away, and by all rights that ought to drown out the others. But no. No, he hears every goading word, every malicious comment: oh, look, he's feeling it already, how fast do you think he'll get to his knees, I bet he'd be a good rut if you could get him to pin you to the table . . .
His patience snaps.
With an outright growl he grabs Astarion: one hand on the back of his neck, the other viciously tight as he grips his bicep. And they march forward: away from those goading peers (their cries delighted, cat-calling that Astarion's about to have the fuck of his life) and towards the doorway. And maybe his charge wiggles or fights or laughs, but it doesn't matter, for they are moving— and there is so little that escapes Fenris' grasp when he has them in his clutches. They stride past guests (looking astonished, looking delighted, amused at how vicious this orgy has turned so quickly) and security alike (who don't dream of stopping him, not when he's so clearly flushed and aching to rut his squalling prey), not pausing until Fenris kicks open the filigree-decorated doors and they emerge into the cool night air.]
Move.
[He shoves him forward as he releases him.]
Now.
[Never mind that he's flushed. Never mind that his cock is half-hard, stiffened hang straining faintly against his laces. They're going home.]
Instigator that he is, he drank first. He had to for the joke (he would have anyway; that bottle was in his hands the second that the others saw him, and it wasn't as if they didn't all drink, too). His heartbeat thick between his ribs, sloshing with every movement.]
What, nothing— nothing for me?
[Laughing vestigially. Lovesick enough that his eyes shine and his lips are wet; he'd only just gotten to that party— and still his clothes and hair reek of perfumed clove-smoke, his breath immersed in wine. He can't wrench himself free (like a thing hooked), he stumbles on fawnish legs, but with his head ducked downwards in that grip he sees (—carpet, wood, boots, streets—) the loosened hang of leather laces, and his fingers itch just to pull.
They're close enough.
Sloughing chuckle let out when the world spins at first— everything blurring together in ways that only reassure his initial motivation: peripheral amusement, the whip of approving voices, (how many nobles leave those parties in the arms of someone else? How many of them can say their own name, let alone think by then?) the smeared sound of a guard he recognizes letting out a low whistle before making a bet to one of the others on how long he'll last. That harmless jocularity grown rougher the further into darkness that they tread.]
You won't make it home—
[Is he talking to Fenris or himself?]
—it's not made for us to enjoy and then leave— [The aphrodisiac, he means. The kinds laced into the pipes, the bottles— even the cups that they'd all knowingly indulged from when they arrived: strong only by the standards of a young buck who never had a master to come crawling to on wounded knees. The city's stench— a mixture of wet pavement and summer heat— finally registering in his nostrils. Those laces still dangling in his eyeline.
They should've stayed at the party.
(His own cock's already rammed hot against the inseam of his trousers and it howls with thick constriction at the end of every fumbled step; his lips cherry red for being bitten, his eyes glassier by the second. But Fenris won't let him look at him. The grip on his neck's too rough, and he's already dreaming about feeling out the bruises that punishment will leave behind come morning, too greedy not to drool for more than anything he's given past the borders of pretense.
—gods, they should've stayed at the party.)
This would've been easier.]
Let me help you—
[His grip is cupping when it comes. Serpentine and deceptively deft, it folds around the heavy underside of Fenris' prick through leather without warning, pushed hard between his legs under the drag of harsh proximity. Knowing that if his other arm were free, he'd be working at himself with all the same ferocity of an itch he just can't scratch— abstract and needy and insistently consumed. Smelling of smoke. Tasting of wine.
Echoing like laughter.
That he can ignore the fact that there are people watching them (on occasion) as they go, passing faces smoking on side streets or walking through midnight alleyways, it's through virtue of just not giving a damn.]
[Oh, wicked little beast. Impudent little upstart nipping at his heels, a pup so eager to play that he has no idea what he bats at. And yet not so puppyish just yet, is he, for there's a deft experience to the way he fondles at Fenris. His fingers are so clever, slipping between his thighs and stroking along his swollen length.
Fenris won't blame himself for the groan that rumbles low in his throat.
It's a brief thing, yes. Bitten back as green eyes flutter closed, his ardent stride stumbling as they come to a halt just at the mouth of an alley. And yet there's such hunger woven into that noise, Fenris' mouth going dry as his body whimpers that he hasn't felt another's touch in so, so long . . .
Deep breath. Fenris fills his lungs, trying and failing to distract himself from the curling lust warming in his belly. Sensory observations won't do it: the buzz of faded neon signs or the faint scrape of boots against cobblestone is drowned out by his own whining thoughts. He swallows thickly, glancing around. There's the occasional laugh, heads turning as they stumble forward— and all at once, Fenris realizes they're attracting too much attention. That's a stupid thing to do even in the richest parts of Baldur's Gate, never mind at night. Never mind when you're so clearly intoxicated . . .
No, they aren't going anywhere like this. Abruptly Fenris pivots them, steering them into one of the narrower alleyways. It's a forgotten thing, half-torn posters peeling on brick walls and rusted cans at their feet. Shadows conceal them both, and that suits Fenris just fine. Still gripping Astarion's wrist, he shoves him up against the wall, surging forward to shove one hardened thigh between the brat's own. Fine features hit roughened brick as Fenris pins both hands against the wall, not caring for how they might scrape or bleed.]
Get yourself off.
[It's a growl, low and frustrated. No mention is made for the swelling arousal in Fenris' own pants, and that's deliberate.]
Finish, so that we may go home without a scandal. Rut yourself against my thigh and come in your pants like the squalling brat you are, and then I will take you and put you to bed, and we will speak no more of this.
[But he cannot help but glance down just once, his eyes flicking as heat pulses through two layers of thin leather. Even trapped beneath Astarion's pants Fenris can see just how thickly his cock hangs; how big he is, just shy of vulgar and yet perfectly suiting a slender elven frame—
Stop. Bad enough they are doing this at all, but Fenris cannot think, not right now— and he certainly cannot deal with a pent-up, desperate noble who wants to be rut. At least if he spills once, Fenris will have enough of a refractory period to get them home.]
[In a flash, his head swims. His hands hurt. There's a gaussian halo lining his vision like a blotted, vibrant cloud of flourescent streetlight, and it's framing the whole of Fenris' shadowed face where it looms right overhead. This wicked brute spanning every last one of his senses— growling while his eyes (their eyes) fleck with stars in an alleyway that smells like gutter filth. Dark leather bristling around that handsome throat. Sword hilts erect behind his spine— outdated weaponry for a city fond of magic, and all of it saturated. Blinding in the fractal patterns of a living, breathing harbor that never ever sleeps.
He's never seen anything like it.
Never felt anything like this, his heart rabbiting high inside his throat with a mind all its own, desperately clawing its way free with every painful beat. Gods— it might as well be screaming: its measure hot and loud against soft tension. Tongue parched. Neck peppered with sweat. Legs aching. He could swear he'd swallowed a burning splinter of red-hot coal like a pill somewhere in the last few seconds(? minutes?) and everything under his skin seethes just to promise that it's true. Thighs trembling and squeezed tight around his offered perch, unable to fight back.
And not solely because of leverage.
Unbearable, the word that comes to mind. Along with suffocating. Perfect.
The fuck of his life, they'd said.
He wants that.
He wants that more than he wants what's already been afforded (though strewth, he jolts at that wielded knife of a command. 'Come inside your pants like the squalling brat you are— ') so if his eyes roll, if his teeth chatter before they clench around a breathless groan, it's only warranted. Pushing his hips forward in a slow rut that leaves him fractured where he stands— a strangled cry in his throat for that first, unmistakably profane scuff— shaking through his shoulders as the too-tight fabric of his trousers catches under pressure: slow little ripples of tangled pressure, squeezed and knocking at his desperate cock and its drooling, smothered crown. Damp enough (thick enough) that it peeks out past the partway undone measure of his waistband, barely hidden by the sheer hang of his open shirt. Soft white. Dark black. Lurid pink flashes stricken with a glaze of vibrant lust— eager as the pup he's said to be.
But for all that he's tumbling headfirst into ruin, that's not the end of it.
Because truth be told there's a reason why it's bodyguard this time, and not sitter, keeper, servant, aide— a damned good reason why Astarion's parents tracked down a creature wholly without fear save for one. One easily manipulated, malleable, utterly ironclad fear. No family. No ties. Only a single task, with everything leveraged against it: keep their eldest out of trouble; keep him safe— handled with all the excessive care of someone purchasing a livestock guardian....to ward a starving dragon from their flock.
And it's because once Astarion's backed into a corner, there is nothing he won't do to claw his way back out.
(Slender thing with unmarked skin. Cut from pristine porcelain right to the edges of his long-lashed almond eyes, his irises set with inlaid silver. His delicate features lost beneath loose curls. Who grew fast enough to comprehend just how he looks beneath decadent layers of loose-stitched silk and pearl and cream-colored lace. Fit for poetry. Embroidery. Pretty even when he sulks.
Proof enough that a young buck still has horns.)
That's the trouble with power, after all, when even a hollow-boned thing can learn the exact threat it poses. Like the hunting dogs who roam in packs, yes, their jaws always aching for newer despotic thrills— but also like a boy who's had notoriety squirming in his palm already, comprehending what a few gasped breaths can do. And when you've a Duke that brings you chocolates (a Merchant Princess, a Duchess, a Magistrate or ten, even the guards that watch your estate's front gates— ) it's shockingly easy to put together how fucking flimsy the word no really is.
His last attendant got caught on his knees.
The one before that under his sheets.
Before that— fired. For incompetence (see figures two and three).
And they all of them hissed out behave, and they all snapped at one point or another for frustration, and they never— oh, it was never actually like this, he thinks, arching vulgarly from the pain scraped across his knuckles. His wrists. Wriggling down against the angle of an offered leg like an animal scolded. This is good. This is better. This is more fun.
But it doesn't change the fact that he wants more.
And he knows— because he's learned— that he can have his cake and make it whimper his name, too.
His back arches. His knee lifts. He's working his hips like it's his own pleasure that he's chasing while making sure his captive leg drags along the underside of Fenris' cock with each roll of his body. Wriggling them together through the leverage of his pinned-down arms and rhythmically curved spine. Forcing them to grind. Thigh to thigh, hip to hip, cock to— ]
....Come on, then....
[Parted lips shining in the dark. Teeth flashed in a feverishly provocative show of wet-mouthed need.] If this is all we're— going to share....Time to see who gives in first.
And— if you were worth the effort of picking up in the first place....
[The world spins. Neon blurs and the echoes of voices from a street away fade as Fenris' mind reels. He is not so drugged he doesn't have good sense, but somehow that makes it all the worse: his conscious thoughts rise up only to be perverted, twisted, tainted with the seductive allure of that aphrodisiac. His fingers have gone tight against Astarion's wrists, his eyes locked on the lithe little figure beneath him. Home, that's what his mind whispers over and over. Home, home, I must get him home, and he will, he must, there's no choice but ruination otherwise—
And yet his attention is snagged over and over by the smallest of details. A flash of reddened tongue between parted lips slick with drool. The faintest hint of a cock swollen with arousal and flushed with heat straining at laces too paltry to keep it contained, grinding and rutting against Fenris' thigh with wanton desperation. The lines of Astarion's body moving with such vulgar fluidity, his back arching into a perfect point (oh, how Fenris could get him to arch that back, how he would force him back, the brat split open on his cock and forced backwards just so Fenris could buck up into him as he whispered in his ear)—
Breathe.
Redirect. Reroute. Fenris' eyes have long since gone black, his own lips parted as he pants in unconscious echo of his charge. Astarion's thigh grinds up against the underside of his cock, sparks of pleasure bursting behind his eyes. And Fenris—
(bite him. fuck him. spin him around and tear those flimsy pants off him while you leave purple bruises on that delicate skin. teach him what being fucked really means: not the paltry efforts of the patriar, pathetic rutting that falters after a few short minutes, but brutally. fuck him so hard and for so long that he'll end up impaled upon you, gagging on the taste of your cock as you force him against the wall; make his body learn the consequences of taunting a wolf. break him, mind and body both, til he's addicted to the steady slam of your prick against his prostate, his hole dripping with need from the mere memory of how it was forced to accommodate you. keep your fingers wrapped around his pretty prick all the while, and when you've had your fun, refuse to finish him off. have him toddle back to that party with his hand between his legs and realize that there's not a soul that can fuck him the way he wants now. make him addicted to you and watch how he mewls then, compliant and needy, soft-mouthed thing that's so used to getting his way that he can't imagine being denied—)
—shoves himself away.]
Enough.
[It's a growl, low and seething, as he staggers back. His head ducks, his teeth gritting as he tries to get a grip on himself. One hand shoves against his face, pushing through silver strands, in a vain attempt to sober himself up, as he leans back against the opposite wall. Then his head snaps up, his glare savage as he bares his teeth in a silent snarl.
More wolf than elf, aren't you? and gods, but he does not need Danarius' voice whispering in his ear right now. Inelegant thing, so needy, come here, my pet, I'll take the edge off . . .]
Stay there.
[They're both straining at their trousers right now. Two silver-haired elves flush with aphrodisiacs and desperately hungry, with only a narrow space between them, oh, what noble wouldn't thrill to see such a sight?]
I am not one of your dull-eyed noble paramours that think themselves lucky to fall in your bed. Nor am I some servant you can use only to dispose of the next day when you grow bored. Do you understand? I am not playing this game with you, boy.
Now get yourself off.
[Under his watchful eye. Put on a show, little noble, for that is the least of what Fenris is owed tonight.]
[Challenged not once, but twice in the same night—
It's invigorating.
Though sensing courted danger means comprehending it first. And while his mind is screaming here— here here here, stay here— anywhere but home, there's nothing but elation to be found even before momentum catches him off guard: dropped back between cold brick and cool air, but not his captive guard.
Tch.
He really thought he'd had him that time. Something about the blackness in green eyes whenever his tongue would slip out just between the edges of his teeth. The hollow darkness there, just begging for release. There's such a loveliness about it, that hollow-eyed, sleepless, handsomely gaunted face— so unlike any of the Upper City's nobility or guardsmen or merchants, wearing nicks and hunger from real battle, maybe, and smelling of split air before a storm— he wanted to see what it looked like on its knees. Flush. Dizzy. Tanned cheek pushed high over the span of his still clothed thigh for just a taste of what lies inches from his mouth. Led to water; yet to drink.
But he's had too much drink of his own to dwell on that without moving, though.
Smile— drunk and stupid, lost under a heavy curtain of displaced curls— stretched across his lips in the moment he reaches back again with one arm, fingertips splayed wide as if there was still a gloved grip clutching at his wrist. His other hand slipped deep inside his open waistband, tugging slow in masked obscurity. Again. And again. And again. The movement is what kills (and sates); pumped from shoulder to elbow to shuttling forearm, promising that out of sight is nothing close to out of mind right now.]
Whatever you want, Fenris.
[Pronunciation slurred, oh yes, he'd paid attention to how his family first beckoned him by name. Fenris, he repeats, letting his head turn to one side and his focus leave him in heavy rhythms. Fenris....Fenris.... ]
....how old are you....?
[He asks, panting so hard for every stroke that his voice is halting. Head tilted down, attention hung low and harsh between impatient fingers; it's only by virtue of habit that this scene is so compulsively lurid. (He wants to get off just as much as Fenris wants to save face and find closed doors. Desperation pretty in a squalid little alley. )
One stubborn wrench thrown into simple plans deserves another, after all.]
When was— ah— [Ah— and he twists right where he stands, throat raised while his chin lifts skyward, gasping for a dangerous pang of satisfaction.] —when was the last time you even touched yourself....?
It's the drug. It has to be the drug, for he hadn't been this hot and bothered earlier tonight. Gods, the brat had walked naked in front of him and he'd been less distracted— but then again (and the realization is a dreamy thing, dissonantly distant), he had thought such filthy things about him, hadn't he? It's not about a lack of attraction. It's just that this time, those fantasies can't be pushed away, for each time he tries, they return insistently. Again and again and again, battering against his defenses, making him image—
Oh, everything.
(Muffled cries of protest and hunger as Fenris' cock fiercely fucks that slickened mouth, pretty tears filling the brat's eyes as he eagerly swallows down every inch of what his bodyguard has to offer, his hand desperately jerking himself off as he bounces in impatient longing; how good Astarion would look with come glazed on his cheek, over his lips, sated and dazed; the way he'd bend over and spread himself open in vulgar question, come take me— and it goes on).
He's panting, he realizes. Overheated exhales slip past slickened lips as his eyes focus shamelessly on the half-hidden span of Astarion's hand, mesmerized by the vulgar patterns enacted. He can all but feel the echo of them: the rhythmic squeeze of fingers that have never known a hard day's work, soft and yet all the more dexterous for it. The hard, heavy pulls of a hand desperate for release, wrist snapping as the pace picks up—]
Fasta vass.
[It's a harsh whisper as he palms at himself, trying and failing to will the heel of his hand to be enough. His hips rock forward, his cock straining desperately at his laces, and oh, this is stupid. With a frustrated growl he tugs at his own laces, shoving his hand down his pants like the errant adolescent he's trying so hard to mind, his fingers wrapping around his prick and squeezing tight. Fenris, Fenris, and without quite meaning to, he times the heavy tugs of his own hand to the breathy whispers from the other end of the alley. Fenris, his thumb smearing over the velvet head, his ears flushed dark as he feels his body cry out in relief.]
Older than you, no doubt. Three— three hundred.
[More or less. It's a roughened answer. Fenris tips his head back, his eyes fluttering as he settles in.]
And you do— ah— do not need to know how long.
[Oh, ages. Years. He's such a starved thing, but then again, he's never had much chance before now, has he? But ah, best not to linger on that. Best to turn the tables around, and oh, that's easy enough. The mean little smirk that plants itself on his lips is no accident, for oh, he is frustrated with this brat.]
And w-what of you, hm? Fifty? Have you hit a century yet? I need not ask when the last time you had someone between your legs was . . .
[And he means that as a casual insult, slut woven in the space between words, but it backfires. Twists back in on itself, so that the only thing Fenris can think of is that overhot cock shoved up against his thigh, and the mewling, panting brat who wanted nothing more than to get them both off . . . fasta vass, and he grits his teeth as he renews his efforts.]
[Thumb wringing over swollen temptation in a way that scrapes sore knuckles back and forth across the jagged teeth of his open trousers. Halfway to dissolute bliss thanks to the urging of both wine and clinging smoke when the muttered snag of fasta vass (twice— he rasps it twice, his given guardian— and oh, that has to count as an avaricious notch on the scoreboard in Astarion's favor— ) loops around his focus to yank it right back down to earth, with its rainslicked sidestreets and cloying humidity, both mercifully offset by the lateness of the hour.
And just as quick: the dropping of his chin down to his shoulder.
Laughing for the raw, stupefied delight found in how strange a curse like that sounds to ears that've never heard even a shred of Tevene in their short years.]
Seventy-five. [The lithe thing perched on sinful legs abruptly sneers back (with too little air to cross the distance), still fighting the sound of his own unsubsided mirth. Rakishness leading the charge teeth first, grin second, enunciation third, and thought—
Oh, none of that, actually.
Less than a century is the truth: the man was right in guessing. But there's a savage charm in taking posturing little potshots at each other when pumping at the aching base of one's own thickened cock (welling crest to the space deep between his legs, finally hunching forwards at an angle so that he can work himself for pleasure instead of mewling show), particularly when the difference in years between them is centuries to paltry decades.
Astarion lied, you see.
He's forty-five, actually. But even his kin don't pay enough attention to correct him; why should he hold himself to etiquette when talking to a stranger? One that doesn't even beg him for temptation like the others. One who palms freely— angrily— at himself with a glint in narrowed eyes, relying on nothing but his own fingers and a stubborn insistence that jacking off in broad moonlight is a half-step closer to home. (Silver eyes pinned under the edges of his shirt and buckles, wetting his own lips with swift flicks of his tongue, ah)....
And with that attitude, it might well be soon enough.
Another heady ripple, biting at his mouth so hard his senses throb to hunt for flashes of dark skin at a warding distance, like a couple of steps somehow makes this less depraved. (Fenris....Fenris....)]
This morning. [He wasn't asked how long (it was a rhetorical slight); he answers anyway.]
There was a pretty maid beneath....the tablecloth.... [Whether for the story or the urgency instilled through livewire pangs of urgency behind his teeth, he's sped up his pace enough to the point of soft percussion: loose shirt now dragged to one side around the lean stretch of his belly, and followed by a supple slap slap slap— now that his fingers've grown slick from wanton strokes. Only sharing the sight of what slips rapidly between his thumb and crooked-in fingers. Little blurs of glossy movement.] ....she'd been cleaning everything so....diligently. I didn't have the heart to stop her, when she turned herself to me.
[Ah— ah— ]
Could've even been you just now, too, for the answer to that question....if you weren't so afraid of having fun. [Echoing Fenris slyly to add:]
It'd take longer than a night for me to tire of you.
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
The word sticks in Fenris' mind all night, irritating him throughout dinner and well into the evening. Purchased, and oh, he knows what was meant. He paid those twins a set sum, he offered them a salary and a room, something along those lines. Nobles don't really think about what they say; they think even less about how it sounds. A fancy purse his newfound charge calls him, and he isn't wrong, for that's how it sounds, doesn't it? An accessory. A delightfully exotic counterpart. A bodyguard and a nanny all at once, kept not because he's necessary but because he's fashionable.
But call it employment. Call it salaried. Call it anything but bought and sold— but he won't argue. He doesn't dare.
Besides: it's a bruise to his ego and affront to his pride, but it isn't dangerous, not really. After all the agony Fenris has lived through, he can afford a few misplaced words. Really, he ought to be grateful. He'd been wary enough when the job was described to him, but looking at his charge now . . . oh, he's little more than a whelp. A bratty firstborn who wants only to indulge in his hedonism and is sulking now that he can't— gods, the hardest part is likely biting his own tongue whenever the boy whines about any minor inconvenience.]
I suspect no one has told you that I am bound to your side day and night.
[There is a room somewhere in this grand estate that's ostensibly meant for him. He hasn't found it yet, and no one has bothered to show him. It barely matters. It's a place to keep his things, and given he barely has any, there's no point. But if there is a bed there, it is for show only. You will be his shadow, his employer informed him. Day and night.
There isn't a second bed. He'll have to ask after that. More than likely it's been forgotten, a minor detail he'll have to rectify himself. That's all right. He has slept on worse places than the floor. Fenris leans his back up against a wall, unintentionally mirroring his charge as he settles in.]
Perform your nightly routine, whatever that may be, and sleep. I will not interfere. But I am to be at your side constantly for the next few weeks.
[Until he learns to behave, his father had said dismissively. A semi-punishment for a young buck too headstrong to know better. Sooner or later those restrictions will loosen and Fenris given the far more preferable choice of standing guard outside Astarion's door— but then again, given the boy's proclivity for sneaking out the window, perhaps not.
His eyes flick up. And then, his tone perfectly neutral, adds:]
Do you understand?
[Daft thing indeed.]
no subject
For the narrowest band of incendiary seconds, that fledgling noble's visible demeanor finally matches his own rotten mood in perfect, undistilled unison: volatility strung hot around the rim of pearldrop eyes, a score of ugly creases crushed into folds between the pinched-up middle of his brows— capped off by a scowl that didn't dare once show itself during dinner, no matter how severe the scolding he'd been subject to.
Not a mask, just the truth, its heat leveled in a wordless threat lacking in teeth, and only for propriety's sake alone.
How dare he—
(After all, it's not as if the hireling is wrong, is he? There's a great deal Astarion can get away with at face value without incurring backlash, but nothing in a vacuum. If he shrieks that the elf tried to crawl into his bed and rape him, he'd only be swatted for— rightfully— trying to get rid of the beast after only a few hours, with most of that having been spent divided by half a room's worth of dining space; if he hurts the man, orders him to harm himself, if he tries to sic the other servants on him—
Well.
Same outcome, different path.)
It's a trap set out with live, wriggling bait. It's a test that he can't win like this, playing to his nature first, and everything else second.
So knowing where his supposedly empowered reach ends, Astarion's acidity doesn't last.
It can't last. Not without cutting his nose to spite his own well-defined face, and he's had enough cuts there to still feel the sting more than a week after his last adventurous little fiasco. Call Astarion woefully stubborn, fine, but he's not stupid, and he knows how to concede before sunk cost fallacy decides to take its pound of flesh.
(And besides. Besides— the creature is attractive enough, isn't he? For a lowborn thing, for an animal clinging to the coin in his family's coffers— he has a striking way about him beyond all those countless tattoos. The scars peppered here and there, peeking out beneath his armor when he shifts.
Hm.)]
2/2
Or he sighs, maybe, the two actions close enough that it's hard to tell what he's aiming for beyond simple dissipation. The baseline uncorking of a figurative bottle.]
Fine.
[No part of tonight's unfolding signals fine in any way, shape, or form, but there has to be a middle ground somewhere, right?
Unfolding himself and soon turning back towards the mirror, Astarion studies himself in its glass for a few slow beats, before reaching back to untie the tangled mess of curls tucked in against the back of his neck— lifting their delicate span with only one hand (and wrist): exposing the line of his throat and a series of jeweled clasps (attached to a collared choker, its gilt trails laced completely into the collar of his open-backed shirt, the blouse that'd been covering it— loose and partially sheer for thinness alone— slipping down around his elbow, his waist), no trace of effort spent.
His head tilts, chin drawn closer to his shoulder. Lashes drifting down towards the ground without a single glance spared for the elf stood opposite his reflection (just his voice. Just his attention. Just— )]
Make yourself useful, then.
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[Crisply and swiftly stated, and he's proud of himself for how even his tone stays.
No, the freed man tells his master. No, I won't do that, and what can Astarion do to him? Nothing. Nothing. At worst he'll stomp his foot and go tattle to his father, and what will that get him? The man won't take it out on Fenris, not when his entire job is to babysit this brat. No, he says, and it's as if the world reels on its axis, for never once before now has the word slipped past his lips in response to an order.
No. No, no, no, and maybe some of that impudent glee is evident in his gaze. Maybe some of his heady relief shows in the fractional flicker of a smile that graces his lips, unintended but still there. He does not think about how it might be misinterpreted, for in truth all of his mind is simply lingering on how good this feels.
Like inhaling after a lifetime of holding his breath. Like the heady surge of power that had come from grasping a sword for the first time. No, and gods, but he savors it.]
I am your bodyguard, not your servant. If you cannot manage your ties and buttons, I am told there are others who can aid you in that.
[And understand: it's not that Fenris doesn't notice the pale elf. He is a beautiful thing, all soft angles and pale skin . . . it would be impossible not to notice the slender span of that throat. The gilt collar that wraps around it, starkly framing it even as it hints at more. The coy way dark lashes flutter against cheeks touched faintly with color, flushed from the wine at dinner; the sudden stark showing of skin, all the more alluring after the gauzy teasing of that shirt . . . oh, he notices him.
But Fenris is good at keeping such feelings to himself. And though his cock twitches in faint interest, his mind knows far, far better than that. Noticing such things will only get him in trouble. Pursing them . . . oh, what a foolish risk that would be, and all for what? A fuck that couldn't ever be worth it. Carnal pleasure sated for a single night and then—
No.
He cannot lose this job. He cannot. The alternatives are too dire, the stakes too high. It simply isn't an option— and so it won't be.
(Besides, Fenris thinks nastily, how good a fuck could it even be? A rich little brat who's too used to getting what he wants— oh, surely he's used to simply lying back and spreading his legs, chasing after his own pleasure with no thought of anyone else . . . surely it wouldn't satisfy).]
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But then again what lowbred thing doesn't wait for the opportunity to reject its betters? Astarion grew up surrounded by servants, he knows exactly how they work. (And think. And hope. And hate.)]
'Night and day' and you can't offer a hand to help me unless I'm dying?
[There's no twitch. No ripple in his mirrorglass stare. If he was incensed before, there's a placidity about him now— though not without its barbs, clearly (part and parcel of being in high society means control in at least some aspects of his temper, no matter how thin its margins). Coy commentary passed on as the pale elf turns his wrist around, keeping his own curls out of the way while he takes to unlatching those clasps on his own.
There's a practiced fluidity to it; it promises he's never— or at the very least not in a long, long time— asked for help in undressing.]
My father clearly overpaid when he bought you.
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And perhaps Fenris himself can be a bit more lax. There's no need to court hostility, after all— and perhaps Astarion's poor attitude is just the result of impositions suddenly laid. Fenris draws himself up, setting his sword down as he comes forward, ready to dryly comment as he tugs on ties—
My father clearly overpaid when he bought you.
— and freezes.
It's a pause that's barely there. A sudden swell of shock and rage that Fenris hastily shoves aside, though his heart is hammering in his chest, his lips longing to draw back in a snarl.]
He did not buy me. I am in his employment. I suggest you learn the difference.
[Fenris resumes his pace, closing the distance between them and staring at Astarion in the mirror's reflection.]
And whether or not he overpays me is his own business.
[And then, stiffly:]
What, exactly, do you require help with.
[It's not that he's dying to help, but on the other hand, he looks an idiot just looming here.]
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[So quick as to be glancing; his arched fingers doing the light work of pulling his own hair further aside while that collar shrugs low, already split down the middle like cracked fruit and sagging save for the ties strung into its base through linen loops. No part of him reacting to that bluster (however brief— however visible or invisible— through the thick sheen of that mirror), expectation runs as thick as blood in the wireframed lad's aristocratic veins.
And when you're counting on the world tilting on its axis just to give you a little shade, far too few (pleasant) things come as a shock.]
And yet you live here. Sleep here— at some point, I assume. Unless you're some sort of undead beast with no need for rest, bound forever to my side.
[A soft noise of amusement spared there, passing though it may be.]
If that isn't being bought.... [Well, what is?]
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Or— no, he doesn't. He doesn't, for Fenris knows this is different than enslavement. It might have the same taste and scent and shape of it (for oh, Astarion's father had bought him at such an obscenely high price, and Fenris is not paid so much as doled out a small allowance each week, with the rest of his pay going towards working off that debt), but it isn't the same. He was never allowed dignity as a slave. He was never offered such freedoms as a slave. Astarion and his family cannot force Fenris to perform duties outside of his chosen job, whether that means untying knots or spreading his legs—
It is different.
His mouth is a thin line, but with effort, Fenris forces his temper back. He is too old to be baited by such a little brat, who goads him for no more reason than he's upset at being reigned in.]
Simply because I take my rest here does not mean I am of the same caliber as whatever toys your father purchases for you.
[His voice is even. And though his hands are full of roughened callouses between azure lines, Fenris' fingers are surprisingly deft as he tugs at linen ties. The fabric knots in on itself; it takes more than a few seconds to pull each one free.
It's impossible not to glance down. Impossible not to notice the arched line of Astarion's back, nor the delicate secret space just above his waistband. And to that end, yes, Fenris notices. His eyes dart down, his lashes flickering as he drinks in the sight. But his fingers don't waver, nor do they reach to touch that which is forbidden. Just because his brat is a pretty thing doesn't mean Fenris is going to forget himself.
He catches Astarion's eye in the mirror as another loop falls free. The shirt falls off bare shoulders; almost imperceptibly, one corner of Fenris' mouth twitches upwards. I see what you're doing, whelp. And it isn't working.]
Mind me, now, little noble: I am tasked with keeping you out of trouble— and teaching you how to behave as I do. Throw your weight around too much and you will see yourself following whatever schedule I deem suitable, obeying what rules I decide to impose.
Be good, and we will get along.
Act out . . . and I promise you, I can make your life very rigid indeed.
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It dies when the shadow at his back levels its stare his way.
His shirt slips free and he barely feels it. Cold air takes the place of those knuckles. Thin cloth. Sheer linen. A shiver runs up his spine, and it's luck that nothing of it shows. Caught in the vicelock press of words like mind me, behave as I do, be good— caught in the medusine fix of those unblinking emerald eyes—
Everything else is just frosting.]
....hm.
[Ah, there's his belated exhale.
(Light.
Airy.
Smooth as the tip of a dagger pushed to tender skin.)
Treacherous mouth curling upwards at its edges well before he turns, leaving the both of them face to face instead.]
A babysitter with a spine.
[Be good, his brand new toy-that-isn't-one insists— but does he mean good as in the daylit definition? Or....perhaps he craves something more suited to the shadows where they stand....?
For a boy who's taken meals from two different sets of tables, he opts to frame that question in the way his own arched fingertips slide into leather beltloops, tugging once to bring them closer. Mirror cold against his naked spine— his thigh hooked rapidly between still-clothed legs, pushing them both into a sinful junction while his hands work to keep them anchored fast. Surprisingly athletic for his station.
(Oh, trouble, by any name.)]
How rigid would he like me, exactly....?
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Astarion is good at this. Fenris wonders how many times he's done it before. How many people has he wrapped around his finger with little more than a coy look or suggestive phrase? Oh, dozens, surely. Fenris is familiar with the type: the seductive women and charismatic men who flit around parties, tipsy on champagne and baring skin in daring little outfits, so eager to play the eternal game of noble politics and curried favor. The ones Danarius, thank the gods, never had much time for (and who in turn dismissed the middle-aged magister as too unappealing to ever want to play with). The nobles that Fenris was always mildly exasperated by, finding their methods of filling their endless time both hedonistic and pointless.
How old is Astarion? His father had never said, but he cannot be above a hundred. Likely less. A man in name only, swaggering around because he thinks he has some experience under his belt . . .
Ah, pretty thing. Pretty, foolish thing, who thinks all it will take to run rings around his bodyguard is a few blatant flirtations.
He'll learn.
Ignoring the heat pooling between his legs (gods, that hot, heavy pressure is tempting indeed; it takes a great deal for him not to twitch his hips down even once), Fenris takes in a breath. His fingers wrap heavily around both of Astarion's wrists, gripping them tightly— not cruelly, no, but with such deliberate intent.
(And it's tempting, you know, to pin them above his head. To press him into that mirror and rumble in his ear, do you really think I am so foolish as that, boy? Soft desperate noises sounding in Astarion's throat, a flaring hunger that Fenris would love to make even worse. Do you really think I am fooled half so easily as all those fawning suitors I'm sure nip at your heels? Led along by their cocks and promised a quick fuck if they'll give you what you want, oh, little prince, I am more difficult to tempt than that—
But that way lies ruin. Astarion will only be encouraged. And so Fenris tucks that fantasy away for later, when he can shove one hand over his mouth and the other between his legs, taking some of the edge off his eternal pent-up desperation).
He draws his hands forward. Holds them tightly between their two forms, his eyebrows raising up high.]
That is not behaving.
[Firm, the way you'd scold a dog. No, with the intent not to punish, but to reaffirm the boundary. He holds them there for a long second, making eye contact— do you see that this did not work?— before releasing him and stepping back.]
Finish undressing. Tend to whatever other routine you deem necessary. And then sleep.
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[Though Astarion has his answer, at least, so there's that for consolation prizes. (His wrists gripped thickly between calloused fingers the better one. The part where he's scolded like a dog that pissed the carpet, the worse.)]
Bet you were just loads of fun at the orphanage.
[Or wherever it is sellswords like him come from. (Astarion's back still pushed to thick glass. Astarion's curls still rucked up around his throat and shoulders and cheeks. Slung in a way that pushes out his hips slightly, but the posing itself stays degenerate. Curved too much by any standard, like the image of an unpaid whore loitering outside her doorway in search of her next sponsor. Restlessness that beckons, in a word— only what do you call it in a room this nice, in a mansion this sterilely idyllic, where everything desirable's already in its place?)
Oh fine. Maybe he is pissing the figurative carpet, but then Astarion would argue it's hard to blame him: his father had good sense in the sheepdog he purchased— tall and lean, refined by a handsome stretch of years that attractively thinned out the hollows of arched features; stern eyes. Soft lips. When packs his own age talk about wanting to fit a well-seasoned bit of game between their legs or on their prick, this is the kind of delectable quarry they strive for, easily. (That lone retinue felt hot as a brand in those seconds when they'd squeezed against each other, and even at a distance, close to looming balcony shutters that glitter for their fractal glass in cold moonlight, armored contours fill whatever space he takes in ways that leave Astarion's jaw— right down to the set of his own cock— aching with warmed hunger.)
But his fingers find their way to his waistband.
And he finishes undressing, not even bothering to take off the rest of the jewelry he'd been wearing— crossing the room on bare feet, bare legs, bare everything— just to slip under thin sheets, peering upwards from a heap of cluttered (overstuffed) pillows. Watching him the way a child watches a pretty fish through glass.
Hello, see? You draconian thing. He can behave. He can be picture perfect.
Now where's his reward.]
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(And if he thinks, just a little, about how Astarion might look splayed up against the mirror dressing in nothing but those glittering earcuffs and gold bangles, well. Only he need know about it: a lustful thought there and gone.)
No, Fenris busies himself instead: pulling a chair from a nearby desk and settling it by the doorway. It's a stiff-backed thing made of stained oak, but at least the cushions are softly plush. It won't be the worst way he's spent a night, Fenris thinks, and settles himself down as best he can. His hands pat gently at his hips, feeling for the assuring weight of his knives; he draws one leg up, back arching in anticipation of inevitable stiffness.
And slowly, inevitably, he becomes aware of that pointed stare.]
I am not telling you a bedtime story, if that is what you are waiting for.
[It's dry. Fenris glances over, catching Astarion's gaze.]
Do you wish me to bid you good night, or merely promise you that I will not let anything hurt you? The latter I can vow. The former . . .
[He offers a one-shouldered shrug. It's been known to happen.]
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No need to overexert yourself.
[Oh sweetheart, conveys pettiness out of place on a creature whose lynxine ears still don't fit the slender shape of his face. Almond eyes soon swimming just above the line of satin sheets pulled up past his chin.
Hired little trinket, sitting pretty in the corner of his room like the trophies and dust-laden baubles. Enviably made. Handsome and catching the light just right. Something nice to keep his stare on before usefulness— and relevance— runs its course.
(But the man is taking it all so seriously, isn't he? Acidic temperament designed to brook no mischief when they both know better; stern brows impassively drawn over weary eyes. It's as if he doesn't know the joke of it all.
And Astarion doubts his father cared enough to let the man in on the full scope of this game.
Mmph. Poor thing.)]
I'm sure the dustmites and occasional gnat will steer far, far away now that you're here.
[How safe he is thanks to you. How grateful he is, helpless little waif that he must be.]
Still— don't be afraid to crawl in with me if you find sleeping upright in a stiff, cold chair doesn't do it for you.
I could tell you a very satisfying bedtime story like that.
And unlike my family, I know how to be generous.
[Even to a professional killjoy.]
Sweet dreams, darling.
[Sweet dreams.
What Astarion himself— nominally wine-sated, well fed and worn out— finds not long after: taking only a few minutes at most to twist around, shut his eyes, and drift away in that sea of thickset bedding. Not so much whining or twitching; the very image of comfortable rest.
How uneventful.
How shockingly uneventful that in a world crawling with magic and monsters, catastrophe unchecked, there's anything this silently undisturbed. Not even the halls carry a single drop of sound outside the occasional servant, strolling at a quieted pace.
Like that, it's hard not to sleep.
—and on Astarion's part, it's hard not to know when to wake.
Three hours later, his eyes slip open.
Silent and still as a mouse through that first minute, not so much as twitching in his bed as he watches for the steady rise and fall of his protector's chest. Waiting to be sure the man's asleep, and from there, he's a practiced hand at it: the loose shirt and slacks tucked beneath his bed are easily slid on without a sound; his shoes are grabbed and held in the crook of his fingers so that he can creep towards those open windows, slithering up and over the ledge—
And off to freedom.
Freedom in this case being a decadent closed-door bacchanal. Masked patrons with distinguished clothing— young upstarts foregoing secrecy in favor of attracting focus. Password enforced, garden-wall obscured, he's still fastening his clothing by the time he trots up to the gate, dress shirt caught between his fingers, buttons fidgeted with while huffing out 'goldthorn rose'— the guard on duty quick to step aside.
And if Astarion is lucky, it might not be too late in the evening to find a decent bit of game.]
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He had thought an escape inevitable, but not the first night. Certainly not after he so clearly had fallen asleep, his breath softening and his body stilling beneath the sheer sheets. And be fair to Fenris: he does have to sleep at some point. He can go for so long without it if he must, but sooner or later he has to rest. Better to do it this first night, when lines have been drawn and boundaries set, then the night of some party the whelp is aching to attend.
More fool him.
He doesn't know what rouses him. Perhaps it's the stillness in the room, or the lack of another's presence. Perhaps he just sleeps lightly nowadays, a creature too wary and paranoid to ever let his guard fully down. It doesn't matter.
He wakes and Astarion is gone.
In an instant Fenris is out the window, landing silently on the soft earth below. His heart is hammering too hard in his chest, a thundering rhythm that leaves him nauseous— and for a moment, panic makes him reel. Terror of what might happen tomorrow (Astarion's father coldly dismissing him, a mountain of debt crashing upon his head with no way to pay it back, Danarius lurking in the shadows just waiting for a moment like this) overwhelms him, and he wants to vomit—
And then his training takes over.
Panic won't help. Letting his fear overcome his intelligence will lead to ruin, so best to stop indulging it, lest those fears really do come true. Fenris takes a deep breath once, twice, and then glances around.
And thank the gods, Astarion wasn't subtle. He'd been clever enough in sneaking away, but not so much in covering his tracks. There's the faintest hint of a footprint leading out towards the garden wall, and from there . . . from there, it's just a matter of following the clues. He is a good tracker, and knows his quarry besides: it's not too hard to pick up the trail once he has his mind on right. A few swift questions close in the gap, and he manages to spot the boy just as he slips in through the gate.
Hells.
He tries the guard. He does not have much hope for the guard, but he tries anyway, and is not particularly disappointed when he's refused. The man has a duty to perform, and it's far safer to irritate a bodyguard than it is a noble; Fenris cannot begrudge him that. He simply makes a show of scowling in vexation, glancing around before inevitably wandering off.
It's not ten minutes later that he's infiltrated the party.
(The security here is terrible. Efficient enough for keeping unwanted guests out, maybe, but the haphazard way security patrols the perimeter is pathetic. They're distracted things, their focus aimed towards the lewdity going on within . . . and as for all the cameras and supposed magical wards that no doubt cost a fortune to install, oh, please. Fenris will never credit Danarius with anything, but there had been a man who knew how to ward off intruders. This is just pathetic).
He crosses the lawn, striding towards the lit-up manor. He stands out among all the lewd costumes and delicate masks, but he doesn't care. The point isn't to hide away; merely to find his ward. And to that end . . . a slight figure, silver curls and pointed ears, and it takes him some time. Long enough that Astarion has already settled in with a drink in one hand and a pipe in the other, chattering among a group of companions— no doubt congratulating himself on his cleverness.
Fenris' hand is so heavy as it sets on Astarion's shoulder, gripping tight.]
Get up.
[His voice pitched low, his tone brooking no argument.]
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He's partway through boasting about his new bodyguard's odds when—
—thud.
clatter—
—Astarion drops his pipe in a startled jolt.
Laughter erupts from the gathered pack (three young bucks Astarion's age and two girls), all in various states of repose on expensive furniture. All drinking— or drunk. All amused to see something this unexpectedly entertaining in its abrupt irony: schadenfreude bolstering the whole of their already well-fanned elation, where the bottom of a bottle is at most the start of a long, exhausting evening. The air smelling of honey, amber, ambrosia, and now— smoke.
And he does get to his feet, but it doesn't take him long to recover from the shock— or to register the sound of delighted cackling— twisting around to yank his shoulder free and glower at the nuisance he's been shackled to by something so expendable as duty.]
Get your hands off me—
[Incredulous, now that he's recovered. That he's puffed up his own chest like an agitated stoat is subconscious, but the roused authority behind it serves a purpose: insisting that he won't back down.
Which, like the rest of his delayed reaction, finds itself just a half-step off cue in terms of relevance, next shoved from its mark by exasperation:]
What is wrong with you? [Following Astarion this far, actually managing to get inside to chase after him; he could've just stayed home. Covered his own ass. Stood at the doorway insisting the young lord Astarion was resting soundly if anyone came knocking— now, though, now they're both up to their necks in this excursion, and for what? Approval? A pat on the head, a little coin? Selûne's cunt, Astarion could've given him all of the above and saved them both the trouble.
Behind them, one of the boys (a smug thing with dark hair down to his shoulders) whistles low in their direction, clicking the tip of his tongue to a chipped canine while adding 'you never said he was this devourable, Astarion.']
That's because he's more trouble than his face is worth. [He snorts back, reaching out for another pass of wine from over his shoulder. Bringing it to his lips and letting it bring back his own sense of carefree deliquency, swaying just a segue for his forced little grin (mean. Be mean).] ....maybe not the rest of him, though.
[There's another peal of snickering soon to rise up from that dark corner, and like any attention-starved thing, he's clearly encouraged by it.]
If you're going to stay, be useful: you can get down on your knees and entertain us, or go wait with the other wet coats at the exit while we finish having fun.
[One more sip.]
Whatever gets you off more.
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It's everything he ever fought to escape. It's humiliation and objectification, his entire self tethered on a leash to a goading master, forced to stand there and be reduced to something little more than a toy for these nobles to play with. Devourable, that brat calls him, his mouth curled up into a smug smirk and his eyes glittering with malice. Fuckable, breedable, and Fenris can almost hear it in Tevene. He can almost smell Danarius' magic curling on the edge of his tongue, feel the weight of that collar heavy on his throat—
And it only grows worse as Astarion joins in on it. Silver stare flicking over Fenris' form, his bearing cruel, and it doesn't matter that it's so clearly goading. It doesn't matter that Astarion does it because he's hungry for attention and embarrassed that Fenris chased after him.
It still burns.
Get on your knees, and for a moment such rage flares in his gaze.
Don't indulge it. Don't give these nobles any hint of a reaction, for that way only lies ruin. There's no way to win with people like this, and so Fenris does what he has always done: stoically ignore them in favor of his chosen target.]
You have two options.
[His voice is pitched low. That isn't done out of consideration for Astarion, but rather his job: the whelp won't come to heel if his pride's on the line.]
Walk out with me now, Astarion, or I will carry you out. One affords you dignity, while the other leaves you looking like a squalling child. But do not test me on this, for I have no further patience for your antics tonight.
Which is it to be?
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But he's mad to think the first option is one where Astarion retains his dignity. That's not a choice, that's just holding onto the hammer while it slams nail-after-nail into the coffin of his own reputation: turning tail after his own father's lackey shows up with a glare that could hone knives is as good as telling the others he can't stay to fuck himself senseless, his nanny's been kept waiting and the warm glass of milk and honey made for him's gone cold.
They'll laugh him out of existence.
But rejection's a tall order.
Not the least for their differences in height, where Astarion has to tilt his chin a little higher just to feel the cold ripple of admonitory warning in the air. The comical juxtaposition of a reedy princeling angled towards his armored counterpart, half-dressed and drinking till his lips stain dark around their corners.]
No errand boy dictates where or when I leave.
[A unified coo of scandalous delight erupts from the little audience behind him. Bright eyes flashing with excitement, almost jostling in their seats for a better view of an unexpected declaration of war; where Fenris had been discreet, Astarion's bravado comes out in the way nature dictates anything posturing should: by making itself louder.
Larger.]
But if you don't feel like sharing....
[He's a noble. He's been hunting before, even if only on the back of a saddled mare. Cornering a deer. A fox. A wolf. With enough dogs, anything is prey.]
I'll share with you instead.
[He pulls one more mouthful of wine, holding it to the back of his tongue— and lunging in a devilish flash over that narrow distance to try and fit their lips together.]
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Fierce bodyguard trained to defend against every kind of attack under the sun, but not like this. Not something so vulgar, so crude, so mean— Fenris' eyes go wide as their mouths slot together, his shock stalling him out for a precious few seconds. His hands hang loose at his side, his fingers stiff and stricken, as all around him there's the barking laughs of the well-bred masses.
The world narrows itself to sensations. A hot tongue slipping between his lips; soft pressure as delicate fingers wrap around the back of his neck. Wine pouring down his throat, droplets of scarlet staining his lips as spice stings his tongue. Heat flooding through him, and by the time he realizes what's happening and wrenched his mouth away, it's too late. There's already a flush to the tip of his ears, his cock stirring faintly—
His wretched little charge has drugged him.
Not with much— but then again, when it comes to aphrodisiac, it doesn't need to be much. A few drops can twist your senses for hours on end, making you little more than a panting, mewling thing in need of service. How long does Fenris have before it hits him? Minutes? Maybe less. It's hard to tell, for he's only ever used to the things Danarius would sometimes give him, the drugs amplified tenfold by magic and the effects so terribly potent . . .
He can hear the jeers around him. He wishes he couldn't. There's a roaring in his ears, a tinny tone that means his mind is dropping away, and by all rights that ought to drown out the others. But no. No, he hears every goading word, every malicious comment: oh, look, he's feeling it already, how fast do you think he'll get to his knees, I bet he'd be a good rut if you could get him to pin you to the table . . .
His patience snaps.
With an outright growl he grabs Astarion: one hand on the back of his neck, the other viciously tight as he grips his bicep. And they march forward: away from those goading peers (their cries delighted, cat-calling that Astarion's about to have the fuck of his life) and towards the doorway. And maybe his charge wiggles or fights or laughs, but it doesn't matter, for they are moving— and there is so little that escapes Fenris' grasp when he has them in his clutches. They stride past guests (looking astonished, looking delighted, amused at how vicious this orgy has turned so quickly) and security alike (who don't dream of stopping him, not when he's so clearly flushed and aching to rut his squalling prey), not pausing until Fenris kicks open the filigree-decorated doors and they emerge into the cool night air.]
Move.
[He shoves him forward as he releases him.]
Now.
[Never mind that he's flushed. Never mind that his cock is half-hard, stiffened hang straining faintly against his laces. They're going home.]
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Instigator that he is, he drank first. He had to for the joke (he would have anyway; that bottle was in his hands the second that the others saw him, and it wasn't as if they didn't all drink, too). His heartbeat thick between his ribs, sloshing with every movement.]
What, nothing— nothing for me?
[Laughing vestigially. Lovesick enough that his eyes shine and his lips are wet; he'd only just gotten to that party— and still his clothes and hair reek of perfumed clove-smoke, his breath immersed in wine. He can't wrench himself free (like a thing hooked), he stumbles on fawnish legs, but with his head ducked downwards in that grip he sees (—carpet, wood, boots, streets—) the loosened hang of leather laces, and his fingers itch just to pull.
They're close enough.
Sloughing chuckle let out when the world spins at first— everything blurring together in ways that only reassure his initial motivation: peripheral amusement, the whip of approving voices, (how many nobles leave those parties in the arms of someone else? How many of them can say their own name, let alone think by then?) the smeared sound of a guard he recognizes letting out a low whistle before making a bet to one of the others on how long he'll last. That harmless jocularity grown rougher the further into darkness that they tread.]
You won't make it home—
[Is he talking to Fenris or himself?]
—it's not made for us to enjoy and then leave— [The aphrodisiac, he means. The kinds laced into the pipes, the bottles— even the cups that they'd all knowingly indulged from when they arrived: strong only by the standards of a young buck who never had a master to come crawling to on wounded knees. The city's stench— a mixture of wet pavement and summer heat— finally registering in his nostrils. Those laces still dangling in his eyeline.
They should've stayed at the party.
(His own cock's already rammed hot against the inseam of his trousers and it howls with thick constriction at the end of every fumbled step; his lips cherry red for being bitten, his eyes glassier by the second. But Fenris won't let him look at him. The grip on his neck's too rough, and he's already dreaming about feeling out the bruises that punishment will leave behind come morning, too greedy not to drool for more than anything he's given past the borders of pretense.
—gods, they should've stayed at the party.)
This would've been easier.]
Let me help you—
[His grip is cupping when it comes. Serpentine and deceptively deft, it folds around the heavy underside of Fenris' prick through leather without warning, pushed hard between his legs under the drag of harsh proximity. Knowing that if his other arm were free, he'd be working at himself with all the same ferocity of an itch he just can't scratch— abstract and needy and insistently consumed. Smelling of smoke. Tasting of wine.
Echoing like laughter.
That he can ignore the fact that there are people watching them (on occasion) as they go, passing faces smoking on side streets or walking through midnight alleyways, it's through virtue of just not giving a damn.]
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[Oh, wicked little beast. Impudent little upstart nipping at his heels, a pup so eager to play that he has no idea what he bats at. And yet not so puppyish just yet, is he, for there's a deft experience to the way he fondles at Fenris. His fingers are so clever, slipping between his thighs and stroking along his swollen length.
Fenris won't blame himself for the groan that rumbles low in his throat.
It's a brief thing, yes. Bitten back as green eyes flutter closed, his ardent stride stumbling as they come to a halt just at the mouth of an alley. And yet there's such hunger woven into that noise, Fenris' mouth going dry as his body whimpers that he hasn't felt another's touch in so, so long . . .
Deep breath. Fenris fills his lungs, trying and failing to distract himself from the curling lust warming in his belly. Sensory observations won't do it: the buzz of faded neon signs or the faint scrape of boots against cobblestone is drowned out by his own whining thoughts. He swallows thickly, glancing around. There's the occasional laugh, heads turning as they stumble forward— and all at once, Fenris realizes they're attracting too much attention. That's a stupid thing to do even in the richest parts of Baldur's Gate, never mind at night. Never mind when you're so clearly intoxicated . . .
No, they aren't going anywhere like this. Abruptly Fenris pivots them, steering them into one of the narrower alleyways. It's a forgotten thing, half-torn posters peeling on brick walls and rusted cans at their feet. Shadows conceal them both, and that suits Fenris just fine. Still gripping Astarion's wrist, he shoves him up against the wall, surging forward to shove one hardened thigh between the brat's own. Fine features hit roughened brick as Fenris pins both hands against the wall, not caring for how they might scrape or bleed.]
Get yourself off.
[It's a growl, low and frustrated. No mention is made for the swelling arousal in Fenris' own pants, and that's deliberate.]
Finish, so that we may go home without a scandal. Rut yourself against my thigh and come in your pants like the squalling brat you are, and then I will take you and put you to bed, and we will speak no more of this.
[But he cannot help but glance down just once, his eyes flicking as heat pulses through two layers of thin leather. Even trapped beneath Astarion's pants Fenris can see just how thickly his cock hangs; how big he is, just shy of vulgar and yet perfectly suiting a slender elven frame—
Stop. Bad enough they are doing this at all, but Fenris cannot think, not right now— and he certainly cannot deal with a pent-up, desperate noble who wants to be rut. At least if he spills once, Fenris will have enough of a refractory period to get them home.]
iliad XXXI: the iliad and the iliad
He's never seen anything like it.
Never felt anything like this, his heart rabbiting high inside his throat with a mind all its own, desperately clawing its way free with every painful beat. Gods— it might as well be screaming: its measure hot and loud against soft tension. Tongue parched. Neck peppered with sweat. Legs aching. He could swear he'd swallowed a burning splinter of red-hot coal like a pill somewhere in the last few seconds(? minutes?) and everything under his skin seethes just to promise that it's true. Thighs trembling and squeezed tight around his offered perch, unable to fight back.
And not solely because of leverage.
Unbearable, the word that comes to mind. Along with suffocating. Perfect.
The fuck of his life, they'd said.
He wants that.
He wants that more than he wants what's already been afforded (though strewth, he jolts at that wielded knife of a command. 'Come inside your pants like the squalling brat you are— ') so if his eyes roll, if his teeth chatter before they clench around a breathless groan, it's only warranted. Pushing his hips forward in a slow rut that leaves him fractured where he stands— a strangled cry in his throat for that first, unmistakably profane scuff— shaking through his shoulders as the too-tight fabric of his trousers catches under pressure: slow little ripples of tangled pressure, squeezed and knocking at his desperate cock and its drooling, smothered crown. Damp enough (thick enough) that it peeks out past the partway undone measure of his waistband, barely hidden by the sheer hang of his open shirt. Soft white. Dark black. Lurid pink flashes stricken with a glaze of vibrant lust— eager as the pup he's said to be.
But for all that he's tumbling headfirst into ruin, that's not the end of it.
Because truth be told there's a reason why it's bodyguard this time, and not sitter, keeper, servant, aide— a damned good reason why Astarion's parents tracked down a creature wholly without fear save for one. One easily manipulated, malleable, utterly ironclad fear. No family. No ties. Only a single task, with everything leveraged against it: keep their eldest out of trouble; keep him safe— handled with all the excessive care of someone purchasing a livestock guardian....to ward a starving dragon from their flock.
And it's because once Astarion's backed into a corner, there is nothing he won't do to claw his way back out.
(Slender thing with unmarked skin. Cut from pristine porcelain right to the edges of his long-lashed almond eyes, his irises set with inlaid silver. His delicate features lost beneath loose curls. Who grew fast enough to comprehend just how he looks beneath decadent layers of loose-stitched silk and pearl and cream-colored lace. Fit for poetry. Embroidery. Pretty even when he sulks.
Proof enough that a young buck still has horns.)
That's the trouble with power, after all, when even a hollow-boned thing can learn the exact threat it poses. Like the hunting dogs who roam in packs, yes, their jaws always aching for newer despotic thrills— but also like a boy who's had notoriety squirming in his palm already, comprehending what a few gasped breaths can do. And when you've a Duke that brings you chocolates (a Merchant Princess, a Duchess, a Magistrate or ten, even the guards that watch your estate's front gates— ) it's shockingly easy to put together how fucking flimsy the word no really is.
His last attendant got caught on his knees.
The one before that under his sheets.
Before that— fired. For incompetence (see figures two and three).
And they all of them hissed out behave, and they all snapped at one point or another for frustration, and they never— oh, it was never actually like this, he thinks, arching vulgarly from the pain scraped across his knuckles. His wrists. Wriggling down against the angle of an offered leg like an animal scolded. This is good. This is better. This is more fun.
But it doesn't change the fact that he wants more.
And he knows— because he's learned— that he can have his cake and make it whimper his name, too.
His back arches. His knee lifts. He's working his hips like it's his own pleasure that he's chasing while making sure his captive leg drags along the underside of Fenris' cock with each roll of his body. Wriggling them together through the leverage of his pinned-down arms and rhythmically curved spine. Forcing them to grind. Thigh to thigh, hip to hip, cock to— ]
....Come on, then....
[Parted lips shining in the dark. Teeth flashed in a feverishly provocative show of wet-mouthed need.] If this is all we're— going to share....Time to see who gives in first.
And— if you were worth the effort of picking up in the first place....
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And yet his attention is snagged over and over by the smallest of details. A flash of reddened tongue between parted lips slick with drool. The faintest hint of a cock swollen with arousal and flushed with heat straining at laces too paltry to keep it contained, grinding and rutting against Fenris' thigh with wanton desperation. The lines of Astarion's body moving with such vulgar fluidity, his back arching into a perfect point (oh, how Fenris could get him to arch that back, how he would force him back, the brat split open on his cock and forced backwards just so Fenris could buck up into him as he whispered in his ear)—
Breathe.
Redirect. Reroute. Fenris' eyes have long since gone black, his own lips parted as he pants in unconscious echo of his charge. Astarion's thigh grinds up against the underside of his cock, sparks of pleasure bursting behind his eyes. And Fenris—
(bite him. fuck him. spin him around and tear those flimsy pants off him while you leave purple bruises on that delicate skin. teach him what being fucked really means: not the paltry efforts of the patriar, pathetic rutting that falters after a few short minutes, but brutally. fuck him so hard and for so long that he'll end up impaled upon you, gagging on the taste of your cock as you force him against the wall; make his body learn the consequences of taunting a wolf. break him, mind and body both, til he's addicted to the steady slam of your prick against his prostate, his hole dripping with need from the mere memory of how it was forced to accommodate you. keep your fingers wrapped around his pretty prick all the while, and when you've had your fun, refuse to finish him off. have him toddle back to that party with his hand between his legs and realize that there's not a soul that can fuck him the way he wants now. make him addicted to you and watch how he mewls then, compliant and needy, soft-mouthed thing that's so used to getting his way that he can't imagine being denied—)
—shoves himself away.]
Enough.
[It's a growl, low and seething, as he staggers back. His head ducks, his teeth gritting as he tries to get a grip on himself. One hand shoves against his face, pushing through silver strands, in a vain attempt to sober himself up, as he leans back against the opposite wall. Then his head snaps up, his glare savage as he bares his teeth in a silent snarl.
More wolf than elf, aren't you? and gods, but he does not need Danarius' voice whispering in his ear right now. Inelegant thing, so needy, come here, my pet, I'll take the edge off . . .]
Stay there.
[They're both straining at their trousers right now. Two silver-haired elves flush with aphrodisiacs and desperately hungry, with only a narrow space between them, oh, what noble wouldn't thrill to see such a sight?]
I am not one of your dull-eyed noble paramours that think themselves lucky to fall in your bed. Nor am I some servant you can use only to dispose of the next day when you grow bored. Do you understand? I am not playing this game with you, boy.
Now get yourself off.
[Under his watchful eye. Put on a show, little noble, for that is the least of what Fenris is owed tonight.]
And then we are going home.
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It's invigorating.
Though sensing courted danger means comprehending it first. And while his mind is screaming here— here here here, stay here— anywhere but home, there's nothing but elation to be found even before momentum catches him off guard: dropped back between cold brick and cool air, but not his captive guard.
Tch.
He really thought he'd had him that time. Something about the blackness in green eyes whenever his tongue would slip out just between the edges of his teeth. The hollow darkness there, just begging for release. There's such a loveliness about it, that hollow-eyed, sleepless, handsomely gaunted face— so unlike any of the Upper City's nobility or guardsmen or merchants, wearing nicks and hunger from real battle, maybe, and smelling of split air before a storm— he wanted to see what it looked like on its knees. Flush. Dizzy. Tanned cheek pushed high over the span of his still clothed thigh for just a taste of what lies inches from his mouth. Led to water; yet to drink.
But he's had too much drink of his own to dwell on that without moving, though.
Smile— drunk and stupid, lost under a heavy curtain of displaced curls— stretched across his lips in the moment he reaches back again with one arm, fingertips splayed wide as if there was still a gloved grip clutching at his wrist. His other hand slipped deep inside his open waistband, tugging slow in masked obscurity. Again. And again. And again. The movement is what kills (and sates); pumped from shoulder to elbow to shuttling forearm, promising that out of sight is nothing close to out of mind right now.]
Whatever you want, Fenris.
[Pronunciation slurred, oh yes, he'd paid attention to how his family first beckoned him by name. Fenris, he repeats, letting his head turn to one side and his focus leave him in heavy rhythms. Fenris....Fenris.... ]
....how old are you....?
[He asks, panting so hard for every stroke that his voice is halting. Head tilted down, attention hung low and harsh between impatient fingers; it's only by virtue of habit that this scene is so compulsively lurid. (He wants to get off just as much as Fenris wants to save face and find closed doors. Desperation pretty in a squalid little alley. )
One stubborn wrench thrown into simple plans deserves another, after all.]
When was— ah— [Ah— and he twists right where he stands, throat raised while his chin lifts skyward, gasping for a dangerous pang of satisfaction.] —when was the last time you even touched yourself....?
[....or someone else.]
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It's the drug. It has to be the drug, for he hadn't been this hot and bothered earlier tonight. Gods, the brat had walked naked in front of him and he'd been less distracted— but then again (and the realization is a dreamy thing, dissonantly distant), he had thought such filthy things about him, hadn't he? It's not about a lack of attraction. It's just that this time, those fantasies can't be pushed away, for each time he tries, they return insistently. Again and again and again, battering against his defenses, making him image—
Oh, everything.
(Muffled cries of protest and hunger as Fenris' cock fiercely fucks that slickened mouth, pretty tears filling the brat's eyes as he eagerly swallows down every inch of what his bodyguard has to offer, his hand desperately jerking himself off as he bounces in impatient longing; how good Astarion would look with come glazed on his cheek, over his lips, sated and dazed; the way he'd bend over and spread himself open in vulgar question, come take me— and it goes on).
He's panting, he realizes. Overheated exhales slip past slickened lips as his eyes focus shamelessly on the half-hidden span of Astarion's hand, mesmerized by the vulgar patterns enacted. He can all but feel the echo of them: the rhythmic squeeze of fingers that have never known a hard day's work, soft and yet all the more dexterous for it. The hard, heavy pulls of a hand desperate for release, wrist snapping as the pace picks up—]
Fasta vass.
[It's a harsh whisper as he palms at himself, trying and failing to will the heel of his hand to be enough. His hips rock forward, his cock straining desperately at his laces, and oh, this is stupid. With a frustrated growl he tugs at his own laces, shoving his hand down his pants like the errant adolescent he's trying so hard to mind, his fingers wrapping around his prick and squeezing tight. Fenris, Fenris, and without quite meaning to, he times the heavy tugs of his own hand to the breathy whispers from the other end of the alley. Fenris, his thumb smearing over the velvet head, his ears flushed dark as he feels his body cry out in relief.]
Older than you, no doubt. Three— three hundred.
[More or less. It's a roughened answer. Fenris tips his head back, his eyes fluttering as he settles in.]
And you do— ah— do not need to know how long.
[Oh, ages. Years. He's such a starved thing, but then again, he's never had much chance before now, has he? But ah, best not to linger on that. Best to turn the tables around, and oh, that's easy enough. The mean little smirk that plants itself on his lips is no accident, for oh, he is frustrated with this brat.]
And w-what of you, hm? Fifty? Have you hit a century yet? I need not ask when the last time you had someone between your legs was . . .
[And he means that as a casual insult, slut woven in the space between words, but it backfires. Twists back in on itself, so that the only thing Fenris can think of is that overhot cock shoved up against his thigh, and the mewling, panting brat who wanted nothing more than to get them both off . . . fasta vass, and he grits his teeth as he renews his efforts.]
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And just as quick: the dropping of his chin down to his shoulder.
Laughing for the raw, stupefied delight found in how strange a curse like that sounds to ears that've never heard even a shred of Tevene in their short years.]
Seventy-five. [The lithe thing perched on sinful legs abruptly sneers back (with too little air to cross the distance), still fighting the sound of his own unsubsided mirth. Rakishness leading the charge teeth first, grin second, enunciation third, and thought—
Oh, none of that, actually.
Less than a century is the truth: the man was right in guessing. But there's a savage charm in taking posturing little potshots at each other when pumping at the aching base of one's own thickened cock (welling crest to the space deep between his legs, finally hunching forwards at an angle so that he can work himself for pleasure instead of mewling show), particularly when the difference in years between them is centuries to paltry decades.
Astarion lied, you see.
He's forty-five, actually. But even his kin don't pay enough attention to correct him; why should he hold himself to etiquette when talking to a stranger? One that doesn't even beg him for temptation like the others. One who palms freely— angrily— at himself with a glint in narrowed eyes, relying on nothing but his own fingers and a stubborn insistence that jacking off in broad moonlight is a half-step closer to home. (Silver eyes pinned under the edges of his shirt and buckles, wetting his own lips with swift flicks of his tongue, ah)....
And with that attitude, it might well be soon enough.
Another heady ripple, biting at his mouth so hard his senses throb to hunt for flashes of dark skin at a warding distance, like a couple of steps somehow makes this less depraved. (Fenris....Fenris....)]
This morning. [He wasn't asked how long (it was a rhetorical slight); he answers anyway.]
There was a pretty maid beneath....the tablecloth.... [Whether for the story or the urgency instilled through livewire pangs of urgency behind his teeth, he's sped up his pace enough to the point of soft percussion: loose shirt now dragged to one side around the lean stretch of his belly, and followed by a supple slap slap slap— now that his fingers've grown slick from wanton strokes. Only sharing the sight of what slips rapidly between his thumb and crooked-in fingers. Little blurs of glossy movement.] ....she'd been cleaning everything so....diligently. I didn't have the heart to stop her, when she turned herself to me.
[Ah— ah— ]
Could've even been you just now, too, for the answer to that question....if you weren't so afraid of having fun. [Echoing Fenris slyly to add:]
It'd take longer than a night for me to tire of you.
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god that icon tho i am DYING about all these new ones
good because more are on the way for YOU >:]
AA BOO THANK YOU once again you spoil me :>
POINTS. AT. YOU.
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