[Don't, he thinks as one slender leg hooks around his hip, pressure urging his back to arch. Don't, don't, and it's the same old refrain, but it takes a different tune than all the times before. Don't, Fenris had coldly snapped at his smirking charge, refusing to stare as he stood pale and perfect in front of the mirror. Don't as their lips met, aphrodisiac stinging his throat as the world swum and the laughter of his friends echoed all around them. Don't as they'd stood parallel in that alley, panting and heaving, Fenris trembling in rage and arousal all at once—
Don't, Fenris thinks now, and it is not a refusal, but a last, desperate gasp. Don't, because I cannot resist you, not really, not if you try.
Their hips rub together, dull friction sending sparks shooting through his frame— but though his hips buck in instinctive desire, that isn't what tears at his resolve. Astarion's voice sounds so desperate as he pleads. Not a brat unwilling to accept he won't get his way, no, for that would not sway Fenris. Rather: it's the cry of a person locked away in the darkness for so long, one who has finally had the briefest glimpse of sunlight: please, please, I cannot go back, not again.
He knows that fear. He knows that grief, for some days it feels as if he has spent his entire life silently screaming with that same pain. When you feel as though you're alone in a crowd, and everyone around you is too cruel or hateful or stupid for words . . . and it isn't about being understood, not really. It isn't about being known, or having some special soulmate that reads your thoughts before you've even begun to think. It's about being seen. Listened to.
It's about whispering how miserable you are— and hearing someone whisper that they, too, know that grief.]
Shh— shh, shh—
[Another kiss, shallow and swift. And then another, their mouths meeting clumsily, as he tightens his grip around Astarion's frame. Don't, don't, but can he be blamed for what he takes anyway? Like a drowning man gasping for air, and a few lungfuls surely won't shatter them.]
I am not going anywhere— shh, little star. Settle. I am not leaving.
[The bridge of his nose bumps against Astarion's own, their foreheads pressing together even as Fenris shifts, til he's resting atop his charge. I am not leaving, and he does not try and dissuade those fingers knotted in his hair. I'm here, and it isn't the same as yes— but it's something.
And he'll clarify later. When that racing heart beneath him has settled and there isn't such panic in the room, he'll explain. But for now . . . shh, and the nosing kiss he presses against Astarion's cheek is as much for himself as it is the pale elf.]
Not tonight. Not like this. Trust me, for my age if nothing else— and trust, too, that I want as badly as you do.
Like he didn't just pride himself for years now on toying with the lives of his servants, his tutors, his friends— if one could even call them that. Before tonight, he could practically see the puppet strings tied tight around each and every last one his fingers, prompting everyone and everything beneath him to dance. That was the joy of it. The only thing he had aside from pretty clothes. Expensive faff.
Now, they read as something else. So brittle he worries they could snap from even the slightest movement, and his fingertips twitch against a febrile scalp to that same end (feathersoft ribbons of hair knifing at his circulation, digging deeper into his skin), every part of him trying to keep still.
He does trust him. Against everything that screams, he does. But every scuff is incendiary. Subtle waves of coiling breath kiss the edges of his aching lips in ways he wishes their origination would. Centimeters feel like lifetimes. Hot air, hot need, hotter pinpricks of sensation threatening the outline of his vision every time he blinks. Wanting like a blaze. Needing like a yawning pit.
It'll be morning soon.
Not the stroke of midnight, but daylight erasing what this is, when— if he doesn't want to lose whatever they've found (and he doesn't, trust that he doesn't despite all his restless fidgeting)— they have to crawl back into the narrowness of their roles. A noble that doesn't know the smell of sandalwood or sword oil. A guard that keeps his distance with stiffened, cold indifference. For a while they'll go back to being nothing but museums of themselves. Shut doors letting nothing inside escape.
And for a while (no matter how awful that night is, their backs angled towards each other by the end. Frustrated in a way that isn't angry), it works.
For a while, anyway.
'What's his type?' Aurelia asks in that clear-cut way of hers. Two drinks in and already watching Fenris from the corner of her vision.
'As if Astarion would know.' Answers Leon before the high elf can open his mouth, ending with the most narrowed expression imaginable.
'Maybe he doesn't have one.'
Petras, of course. At last.
(At this rate, Astarion's never going to have a chance to actually answer the damned question— which is par for the course for nights like these, actually.) Drink in hand and the party around them mutedly stirring into a later rhythm than the one that came before sunset; respectable enough in theory that even dear Lord Ancunín, pleased to have peace for a scarce few weeks, didn't bother to object to.
'Of course he does. Everyone does.' Violet. Stubborn as ever, and trying to size up the topic of conversation from a distance, as is her usual wont.
'Not everyone.'
Dal.
Who brings a flicker of a smirk to Astarion's lips for that, if only because it's the first time in a good long while she's been wrong.
Fenris does have a type. And it's sitting, for all Astarion's bold, impulsive certainty, right at the heart of this discussion.]
He's going to hear you thirsting from a mile away, if you keep this up. And then none of you will know his type.
['Bullshit.' Snaps Petras around the edge of his drink— following it up with a long pull from a cigarette that (in theory) makes him look older than he is. If he didn't suck on it like a bottle, maybe it actually would.
The smoke from it trailing when he adds with one low cough, 'Bet he loves it when it's forwards.'
That Astarion kicks his chair after that is just coincidence.]
It's funny, for the attention doesn't bother him quite so much as it normally might. Normally he despises parties like this for just that reason: countless nobles gawking at him as if he's an exotic and delightfully intimidating bit of entertainment, caring not for how their too-loud whispers or pointed objectification makes him feel. The women giggle and the men deride, and though he is too old to be hurt by their comments anymore, still. It makes for a long and unpleasant evening.
And indeed: he isn't happy to feel six sets of eyes burning holes into his frame. But some combination of Astarion's presence and (oh, admit it) their collective age leaves Fenris feeling vaguely amused. They're so obvious in the way they gawk and gossip, and he cannot decide which is worse: the arrogant looking girl who stares at him so coldly (oh, he knows her type: the ones that want to be wanted, and think that he'll be all the more intrigued by her because she doesn't slaver over him), or the pale, petulant boy who keeps sneaking glances at him when he thinks Fenris is unaware (smoking as though he's a practiced hand and nearly burning his fingers in the process). Children, all of them, in general life experience if not true age.
And in the middle of it all: Astarion. Not quite as young as his peers (and there's surely no bias showing there, thank you), but brighter and more vivid than any of them could hope to be. Fenris glances over just in time to see him kick Petras' chair, and despite himself, smiles for just a moment.
Strange to be endeared to the sight of one's charge. Stranger still to realize that, in his own way, he's acting protectively, safeguarding his bodyguard from wagging tongues and cruel jibes.
But that group isn't the only one paying him mind.
'Here's your chance to find out,' Leon says, nodding back towards Fenris. No longer is the bodyguard facing them; instead, his attention has been captured by a tiefling woman who leans up against the wall next to him. Large is the first word that comes to mind when looking at her: tall and broad both, with swelling biceps and thighs tensed with well-honed muscles. One horn peaks out beneath a shock of black hair; the other is broken, the edges filed down and softened.
She speaks animatedly to him, her hands gesturing emphatically in front of her as she tells her story. Loud as she is (attracting no small host of stares, the wealthy elite so disapproving of the help making itself known), it's hard to make out individual words. Gortash, maybe, but then again, maybe not— it's not as if anyone really knows or cares about the name of some arms dealer.
But Fenris seems interested in her. His body is half-turned, his gaze warming as he focuses on her. Occasionally he'll speak, contributing only a little compared to her enthusiastic deluge— but he does not pull away when she grips his shoulder, smiling as she yanks him in closer.
'So he likes women who are stronger,' Violet declares with a judgemental little sniff. 'Figures.'
'It's one conversation,' Dal interjects. Her brow is creased, her expression caught between vague amusement and mild incredulity. 'Just because he's speaking to her doesn't mean—'
'Look at him. He's clearly invested,' Violet argues. 'And isn't he supposed to be looking after you, Astarion? And yet he's distracted.' So there, and she shrugs one shoulder. Takes a sip of her wine— and then, quite pointedly, adds: 'Have you even managed to seduce him yet?'
As if that's some kind of litmus test— but you know, perhaps it is. After all: she's so different than Astarion, and if Fenris seems more interested in one than the other, well. It has to come down to type, doesn't it?
[How tall she is. Beautiful in a— crush you between her thighs sort of way. Rowdy and raw, near crackling with energy that seems to flicker through the edges of her clothing: a pointed cross between thick leather and modern formality, her rolled dress shirt bunches through every gesticulation underneath countless buckles and clasps that do nothing to hide rippling layers of idle muscle. Imposing but bright. Boisterous yet warm. A network of scars and coarse tattoos and stories to match their accompanying exploits, no doubt resonating with a fellow fighter in hedonism's gilded lair as she tugs on him like an old denmate.
In other words: everything Astarion isn't.]
Shut up. [He doesn't look at Violet when he snaps it, his eyes boring straight ahead towards the pair against the wall, their bodies angled towards each other in mirrored unison. Bringing himself to blink is like an exercise in trying to unglue his lids, when even a second might mean watching his bodyguard (his bodyguard) tilt a few centimeters closer to her— and farther away from him.]
You saw that I did.
['We saw you cheat and run away with him.' Petras grunts in the middle of stamping out what's left of his cigarette on the side table his chair's still wedged against, clearly taking Violet's side in the debate. 'That's what we all saw. Doesn't count.'
'Could've just walked it off.' Adds Yousen. Neutral only for the way he's stating nothing more than the facts themselves, punctuated by a shrug.
Astarion's eye twitches. A byproduct of his nostril twisting when it flares.
He's seeing red. Literally. Figuratively. And the chatter around him smears accordingly.
'I mean we all know how fast Astarion burns through hired help. If he really did anything, he'd have a new bodyguard already.'
'Maybe the mutt just doesn't care for boys.']
I said. Shut. Up.
['Dalyria's right. Enough, you two.' Leon cuts through at last like yet one more voice of reason, recognizing the bolded outline of Astarion's telltale temper burning hotter than the Hellish eyes he's watching from across the room.
The problem is he adds, unkindly: 'It's bad form to pick on children.'
And like a viper, Astarion's lunged over his knees in his seat, baring contempt in lieu of fangs. Something that'd be more effective if he had a target for it; the pack's turned against him, he realizes too late.]
I could hire someone to kill you and they'd never find the body—
['Ooh. Such words from a Magistrate.' Pale petras shivers, eliciting a rumbling chuckle from at least half the present party, though it dithers in at least a few specific margins.
The point is, however long it takes, by the time Leto shores up any lingering conversation, that circle of waiting silhouettes will be missing one.
The one he's meant to be guarding.
'No luck, Fenris?' Asks one pale not-elf from where he's sprawled himself in drinking— boots up, ankles crossed— over two adjacent seats, now. Head resting on the edge of Violet's shoulder. Hard to say which of the lot is vying harder for Fenris' attention on return.
[His first thought, as Karlach wanders off to check upon her charge and Fenris attempts to do the same with his own, isn't that Astarion might have disappeared out of spite. And that's important. It's important because everything between them is so terribly tentative, and now more than ever Astarion deserves the benefit of the doubt. It would be a lie to say his mind doesn't dart towards a more carnal explanation (especially in wake of how utterly frustrated his lord had been by the end of that first night), but still, he bites his tongue and keeps that thought to himself.
Though frankly, Fenris thinks as he approaches that wolf pack in noble attire, even if he was utterly convinced that was why Astarion ran off, he still would keep it to himself. He does not like Astarion's friends. Likely he'll never like any of them individually (except maybe Dalyria, and even then, he likes her for her ability to hold her tongue more than anything), but gods, he especially despises them when they're together. There's such an air of sneering, airy judgement about them— childish compared to Danarius and his ilk, but all the more vicious for it. They've nothing to blunt their teeth upon just yet, and so they turn upon one another— or any other luckless victim too powerless to properly fight back.
It's not that Fenris is intimidated as he stands before them. Even if he was, he's too practiced at making his face stone to give away any hint of anxiety or fear. But it's uncomfortable watching them watch him. Hunger in their gaze and nothing but malicious sport in their hearts— and no matter what he says or does next, there's nothing that can save him from it.
But really, what can they do? Actually do? Not much. They can't bed him, not without earning not just Astarion's wrath, but that of his father. They can't bully him into running some embarrassing errand, or force him to get drunk . . . all they have is their words, and what can they say that hasn't already been whispered in Fenris' ear? How far down does that lyrium go, what a savage beast, what a thrilling bit of sport, oh, he's heard it all. So what's there to be afraid of?
He wishes that thought helped.]
Luck?
[He regrets it the moment it slips past his lips, but the question takes him by surprise. There's smirks all around— and despite himself, despite all that he'd just assured himself on, still, Fenris feels a rush of hot embarrassment. He isn't stupid, but this lot will take his question as proof of it nonetheless.
'Yes, luck,' Violet drawls. Her head tips back, her hair tossed artfully over her free shoulder. 'From your little conquest— well. I say little . . .'
'We had a debate, you see.' Petras again, his words slow but deliberate. 'On what your type was. Astarion seemed confident he knew it, but then again . . . perhaps he didn't count on you having a taste for the strong, savage type.'
And the puzzle pieces fall into place. Fenris exhales slowly, his mouth thinning as he glances around the room. There's no shock of white hair that pops out immediately, but then again, this estate is a grand thing. There's plenty of rooms where he might be hiding.]
Where is he?
['Settle our argument first,' Violet commands— and it is a command, snapped out so effortlessly that Fenris feels his spine instinctively straighten. 'Did you end up bedding him? He keeps telling us you did.']
I—
[He knows why Astarion asserts that. He really does. It's so easy to lose standing among your peers no matter who they are, and this lot is the worst of them. Of course he said such a thing; there's no advantage to admitting that all you did was jerk off in an alley.
But suddenly Fenris is tired of this. These stupid games played by these idiotic children who have nothing better to do than endlessly speculate . . . well, let them. But there's nothing that says Fenris need play along.
Still: their eyes are gleaming. Still: they hang on to his every word, and will only laugh in spiteful mockery if he simply stalks off. And chalk it up to Astarion's influence, maybe, or his own newfound freedom— but Fenris feels something in him quietly snap.]
It was not a conquest. Simply because you six have little else going on in your lives beyond lustful machinations does not mean the rest of us do. And as for your argument—
[Gods. He hesitates for half a moment before finally continuing abruptly:]
— settle it yourselves. You have little else going on tonight.
[It won't win any awards for cleverest comeback of the year, but on the other hand, it's deeply satisfying to say. And certainly not what they expected: Violet's expression snaps into shocked indigence, while Petras (to his mild credit) snorts at that bucking bit of backtalk. Fenris doesn't bother to check the rest, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
The party spills into countless rooms, some more quiet than others. It takes him a few tries before he finds Astarion. His charge is sprawled in a chair in the middle of the room, a drained glass at his side and more than a few people gathered around him, chattering and laughing at something he says. And in his lap—
The son of the host himself, and oh, what a pretty thing he is. Giggling as he leans in to whisper in Astarion's ear, his cheeks flushed beneath tanned skin and teeth so white they gleam. A darling, daring little thing, drunk off champagne and all the bolder for it.
And it's all Fenris can do not to stalk over and tear the boy's throat out.
Somehow, impossibly, he makes his way over to a nearby wall. It's a miracle he doesn't bump into anyone, for he refuses to take his eyes off the sight of Astarion and this boy. This child, this drunken idiot who thinks it's the height of coy cleverness to splay his fingers against Astarion's chest, loudly admiring the supposed detailing on his buttons.
And unlike last time, he's no leave to grab Astarion and march him out. A bit of unsubtle flirting isn't enough to warrant any kind of scolding. And so he simply stands there, seething silently, his expression stone and his eyes thunderous, glaring fiercely at the brat in his brat's lap.
But oh— he has leave to say something, doesn't he? Innocuous and not untrue, and it's a flimsy excuse, but he'll take what he can get. His jaw clenched, Fenris slips between partygoers, glaring down at his errant charge.]
You should have told me you were leaving the room.
[There's a thousand statements layered beneath that, jealous and seething, angry and upset— but to the guests around them, he simply appears like an overly serious bodyguard. Enthusiastic, yes, but not particularly inappropriate.]
First: Petras gasping in cold shock after his snort wears away, Violet's settled outline still planted partway underneath him with increasingly stiffened contours: her slackened anger the picture of a fish somehow drowning in its native stream, petty counterpart to his bemused incredulity with the rest of the group following suit.
'Can he do that?' A question to which no one present has a definitive answer for once asked. Something that, in a way, makes it an answer unto itself (though it'll take them the better part of the next hour to reach that same conclusion in a somewhat drink-addled deliberation between adolescent hearts).
Second: Astarion.
Drawing den a charcoal map of pipesmoke and half-lit walls while something bassy plays on loop in either this room or the next; his audience thicker than the atmosphere that flanks him, more amenable than the cocksure pack he'd left behind. More willing to be regaled, particularly when the one talking isn't shy about making it a show.
Not to mention the weight on his lap's a pleasant distraction when he otherwise lacks for it in the minutes before footsteps pad close enough to break relative silence. Tangled friction lending itself to a sense of acclimated control that— like a drug— quenches the restlessness in his veins: inflamed jealousy already fading into pleasant numbness under the places where clothed bodies meet, embracing the delicate care of those fingers as they move to fuss along his buttons (ignoring that same attention when the drunken little thing strains higher every now and then, trying to fit spice-scented lips against his own). A game, not a rejection. Why let fantasy hold the reins? This isn't about neophytic love, after all, no matter what his catch might think with every soft attempt to kiss— all redirected to Astarion's neck or cheek or shoulder through tepid tilts of his own head, and like the good little find the host's son is, he obediently takes to it with lavish capitulation (he is a darling little thing. So well behaved. Astarion could free his cock from his trousers right now and tease him to orgasm in front of every set of eyes in the room, and he'd no doubt purr for more).
Which makes this conversation easier, actually.
Left free to frame his focus around that pretty patriar's shoulder while dull teeth nip and worry at his throat, smelling of brandy and too much wine. The ensuing sight of Fenris (oh, still handsome as ever when dark brows shadow green eyes in rage), bristling like a taphouse cat and snapping out sharp irritations that only curl that much sweeter within Astarion's own embittered gut. Different day, same old, destructive habit: l'appel du vide— he likes the attention more than he cares about its type.
Matting its hedonistic spite with a palm slid along the inline of spread legs starting at the knee just to feel fine threadwork pull. His every blink slow. Smolderingly placid. A half-smile on his lips.
Oh.
Hello, Fenris.]
You were busy, last I checked.
[As Astarion is busy now.
Thumb squeezed into the junction between thigh and inseam— punctuated by a panting moan— the slight thing in his lap curled higher.]
Petulant little brat. One night between them had done wonders to improve Fenris' opinion of his charge, but he is a fool to be shocked by this behavior. Astarion is cut from the same cloth as that wolf pack he calls a social circle, after all, and his mannerisms and impulses are just the same as any of them. He's not used to being told no. He's not accustomed to the prickle of unpleasant emotions (at least as far as Fenris knows, and someday he'll learn better). He struts boldly and acts out in an audacious manner, for he knows just what will garner him attention. But gods, the ploy isn't subtle. It's laughably clumsy, a child's stamping foot translated into a more salacious act. I saw you talking to someone else— well, I've found someone else too, now aren't you jealous? It's pathetic.
The trouble is: it's working.
Never mind that it's unfair. Never mind that this is all a misunderstanding. Never mind even the fact that Astarion really ought to behave like this, lest everyone wonder why the notoriously hungry heir to the Ancunín name has suddenly gone celibate. Right now Fenris can't think. There's a tiny voice in the back of his mind roaring to be heard, listing out all the reasons he ought to just walk away and show Astarion that this ploy isn't working—
But he can't. Not when the sight of Astarion's hand slipping between slender thighs sears itself into his mind's eye; when the sound of that excitable little moan (pathetic, a pent-up little slut of a boy that's too stupid to know he's nothing more than a prop in a larger play, oh, Fenris is scathing in his thoughts) echoes endlessly in his ears. He can't leave and he can't bear to stay— and so he stands there, jealousy and anger pulsing through his body with every thundering beat of his heart.]
I was speaking to a friend, yes.
[A friend, though he isn't so obvious as to emphasize the word. His glare does that for him.]
Yours are looking for you. Perhaps you should—
['He's needed here,' the boy declares. His head is still tipped towards Astarion, reddened lips lingering against his skin. Liquor makes the edges of his words slur softly, but there's no mistaking the amusement in his tone.]
Be that as it may—
[The boy scoffs as he turns, nosing needily at Astarion's neck. 'Do you always let your bodyguard order you around like this? He seems more nursemaid than protector . . . unless he's trying to keep you safe from me.' A drunken laugh, low and hungry, as the boy arches his back and presses himself against Astarion's hand.
It's all Fenris can do not to roll his eyes. But his attention is fixated on Astarion, refusing to divert for even a moment. Stop it, and the thought echoes seethingly in his mind, a snarling command that he longs to enact. Two strides forward, yanking that boy out of his charge's lap so he might haul him out of the room (just as he had at that party), and then—
A wall. An alcove. A brutal undressing as their mouths met, expensive cloth tearing and buttons clattering as they hit the floor. Astarion's goading laughter melting into breathless whines as Fenris spins him around and pins him there, making him tremble as he waits for blunt heat to spread him open and fill him up the way he craves—
Over and over, fucking into him with all the blunt brutality of a beast. Until that arrogant composure doesn't just melt but shatters, Astarion's voice breaking as he cries out again and again. His own cock untouched and his writhing growing desperate, until at last he pleads, slick-mouthed and desperate (Fenris please, and he knows what that pretty voice sounds like when it begs). Touch me, please touch me, and he will. He will. The palm of his hand striking at supple curves over and over, teaching his little brat exactly what a foolish idea it was to ever underestimate his bodyguard. Until his ass is bright red from abuse; until even the slow, steady slap of their bodies meeting is enough to leave him trembling in painful aftershocks. Until he learns his lesson, and can repeat it back with wet eyes and a drooling cock: I won't play games, not with you.
And then he'd fuck him again.
Over and over, pistoning in and out of that tight little cinch til his cock is streaked with pearl; until Astarion's thighs are shaking with desire, his back arched and his eyes unfocused, so thoroughly intent on being bred that he's forgotten his own pleasure. Until at last the roaring rage and jealousy simmers down with Fenris, and he's left with a pliant, pretty little charge once more . . .
. . . who will take nothing from that lesson save that acting out gets him exactly the kind of treatment he longs for.
Fenris' tongue runs over his teeth, a swift motion.]
. . . find me when you are ready to depart, then.
[His voice is pitched lower, his tenor's tone gone rough and gravely from his thoughts. He wonders if Astarion can guess at them. He wonders if Astarion knows just how frayed Fenris' self-control truly is.
(He wonders, quietly and without really wondering at all, if Astarion cares overly much for how his newfound companion just spoke to him).]
[Astarion hums quietly to the lordling in his lap, directly addressing an earlobe— or the soft muscle of his conquest's jaw— obeying the law of the figurative jungle to keep from spoiling the first real taste of freedom he's had in weeks: answer the patriar, shun the hireling, but it's only his wicked mouth that pays its respects. Only his teeth, his tongue, his throat and attached lungs, and the crooked pressure of his fingers—
His eyes are drawn to Fenris.
The rest of him is, too.
Unreadable. Lidded. Unmoving as his own mouth after those murmurs, caught in a half-blink that never closes, only twitches. Watching the only creature that watches him rather than the show he's putting on: Fenris, who stands there and implores his reckless charge. Fenris, who's stubborn enough to linger stock-still with both fists balled at his sides, letting his teeth grit across themselves to howl out everything he can't.
The problem is, there's not enough smoke in the world to make them psychic, let alone this room. (Or maybe that's the point.)
Whatever Fenris is thinking of, Astarion doesn't seem to notice: the word friend elicits nothing between languid, palming strokes, and no verbal reply slips in either— just something passing for a nod that languidly tilts the little pale elf's head more than it angles it in acknowledgment. He'll find him in the end no doubt, like a coat or a checked wallet; an accessory doesn't warrant anything else in a place like this. (So go on, then. Stay and watch or leave and pretend it isn't happening.)
And in the interim: fingers fist tighter in the other boy's hair. A giddy laugh erupting from that splash of pain as it likely catches in his belly, high and heady and slurred. Sweet as the alcohol he's drunk on, and barely anything but dazed.
And the farther away Fenris gets, Astarion grows mean.]
Look at you.
[An offered command, not commentary. Look down. Look at how you're enjoying this.]
Performing in front of everyone like some common whore. Does your mother know you're the entertainment? [How he palms at him. How he tugs, ensuring fabric's just an afterthought when he can still fully wrap his hand around a swollen, straining little cock (already leaking for all its worth beneath richly tailored silk if sight is any indication: grey threadwork stained two shades darker, and coursing headlong for coalish black), no part taken to fighting back.]
Should I tell her what you're doing?
[Time drags as conversation's relegated to little whispers that flit around them, struggling to ignore the filth he fits against that young thing's mouth in lieu of the kisses that it tirelessly continues straining for, always hungrily swallowing the next best thing. If not love: humiliation. If not flattery: crude debasement in front of a salivating crowd that tries— and always fails— not to give that fact away.
Astarion knows the boy's name through hearsay; he never once uses it.
The thing spread out in his lap till rucked clothing strains to rip. Angled directly towards that not-so-distant shadow in the corner, rather than his highborne flock: slender back arched high, sloped backwards— every inch of that graceful body poured over Astarion's shoulder, down along his chest, his stomach, his legs— caught around the front of his neck with a single, pallid hand that looks like smooth marble against pinched skin, dimpling it through the force it takes to pull him closer. To make grinding the only option left (because he is grinding, that ensnared patriar. Made to play the captive odalisque while Astarion hisses in his ear):]
If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut, I might just offer you a treat next time I see you.
....and we can all take bets on how long you hold your breath. [Boldness that on any other night would end with a sucked prick and a heeled shoe to shove him off once finished, Astarion's hunt ending with a worthwhile prize.
He's close, now.
He's so close.
Instead— ]
—Ready to go?
[Lord Ancunín asks with a flash of teeth as he pulls away, his hands briefly planted on the wall on either side of the moon elf's hips— warmth from all that lavish friction still radiating through his palms in a way Fenris can very nearly feel— and then does feel, once the high elf catches his wrist to pull him towards the door. Prowling like a cat on weightless strides.
('Wait—'
That disheveled (and-yet-entirely-unfinished) little patriar calls out before a few of the other guests catch him with a tepid laugh, urging him to stay sitting before he cracks his own head stumbling across the room in pursuit of the two silhouettes taking their leave.)
It's probably no shock to confess that they don't wait.]
It's a fervent thought whispered in the back of his mind as Fenris stares at Astarion's little display. Not a coherent one, and certainly not one he wants to have, but there nonetheless. As a lithe figure twists and writhes beneath clever fingers and the most whorish little moans drift from across the room to slip into pointed ears— don't stop, hoarse and hungry, drifting like lightning beneath the scarlet and black frustration coursing through him.
It's too easy to imagine himself in the same position.
He doesn't want to. He wants to linger in that dominant role, relishing the fantasy of hauling Astarion off and fucking him into shrieking, drooling compliance, docile once he's filled and kept warm with a body full of come. He wants to think about how he'll drag Astarion over his knee for this little stunt, palms striking at his cheeks until he sobs for forgiveness; he wants to think about tying his lord to his bed and putting his tongue to him until he comes untouched. Merciless, and yet not cruel, teaching this uppity noble what it means to truly give himself over to pleasure . . .
And he does want to. And he will.
But something deep in the pit of Fenris' stomach jerks as Astarion's voice cuts through the air. If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut— and the rest doesn't matter, for those words are more than enough to wipe his mind blank. His mouth goes dry as heat floods through him— and it's not like before. It's not like the desire he had when they were in bed together, nor even at the gun range. Those were mere candles in the dark compared to the sudden inferno that's caught him— inflamed him, his knees weak and his cock heavy and hard, rigid against his leg (and thank gods for a long jacket).
He wants to be that boy. The realization strikes at him even as something in him curdles at the thought, loathing it (loathing himself) for even having it. He shouldn't want Astarion— at least not like this. Not when he's mean and merciless and cruel, spiteful in his arrogance and awful in his mannerisms . . . it's everything Fenris hates. It's the exact opposite of that lonely boy he'd held close nights ago, the one who'd reached out and ignored reality in favor of companionship (it's not fair, and there will never be a day when he doesn't hear the echo of those words in the back of his mind).
But lust doesn't listen to sense, and the fantasy that arises pulses through him: Astarion, arrogant and beautiful, perched upon his mattress with a leash drawn taut in one hand and his cock in the other, drawling out such a filthy thing. Staring at his bodyguard who strains stubbornly at the collar locked around his throat— and yet who stares and pants and drools for the overheated prick hanging just out of reach. Letting him taste the agony of being forced into patience for once, scorning him for his lust even as he deigns to sate it, such a good boy, now show me your tongue—
Fuck.
He's still half-hard when Astarion sets his hands on his hips. Still fuming and furious when he takes him by the wrist, and yet his skin still sings with the echo of that warmth. Lingering against his hips, his wrist, and it's telling that he doesn't wrench his arm back until they're well outside that smoking room. Then it's a fist grabbing that silk shirt, yanking it roughly to one side as he hauls Astarion into an empty room— come here, a seething hiss as he slams the door shut behind them, shoving Astarion up against the wall with a growl.]
Are you satisfied with yourself?
[Silk creaks warningly within his fist as he grips it too tightly; his other hand grabs for Astarion's hip, pinning him flat against the wall. Don't you dare move.]
Showing off to everyone— and for what? Because you were bored? Because they goaded you?
[No, this won't do— with a growl he spins him around, shoving him face-first against the wooden beam— no moving, no squirming, and a heavy hand pressed against the flat of his back ensures that his prey stays still. Astarion's back arches, his pert little ass sticking out— and oh, far be it for Fenris to resist looking. Soft and supple, and those leather trousers do nothing to conceal what lies beneath . . .
His next swallow is audible.]
Or are you so desperate to be touched you'll take any slut who offers?
[Mine, and the possessive howling in his heart drowns out any good sense he might have. Mine you're mine you're meant to be mine, and only later will he hear the hurt beneath the anger. He crowds forward, forcing Astarion flat against the wall as he shields him and pins him all at once— stay put, his breath ghosting hot against the line of Astarion's ear. Don't move as his hands reach down, finding Astarion's own and pinning them up against the wall. Obedient thing whispered roughly as Fenris rocks his hips forward— and grinds.
Again and again, slowly and yet all the more deliberate for it: a hot, heavy rut as his cock fits between supple cheeks, eagerly claiming every inch of what Astarion cedes to him. There's two layers between them, but Fenris swears he can still feel heat radiating off of the younger elf— all the lust from before still coiling in him, perhaps, and the thought only spurs Fenris on further, his next movement a mean snap of his hips as he presses as far in as those trousers will allow. Deeper, deeper, his cock aching to reach that tight little cinch, precome soaking into the fabric of his boxers as he strains— and then back. Back to that slow, deliberate rhythm, using Astarion's body just to satisfy himself.
And it's such a selfish motion, for there's no thought given to poor Astarion's straining prick, oh, no. Pinned flat between the wall and his belly, and there's not a chance that Fenris will let him reach for it— oh, no, not tonight. Not when he's proven to be so good at teasing others— petty little thing, surely he can handle being on the other side. Again and again, his eyes fluttering as his fingers tighten and loosen in echoing rhythm, his harsh breathing melting into a rumbling groan more felt than heard.]
He's drenched in Fenris' shadow before he knows where he is. Snapped up against a featureless wall, barely visible, subsumption doesn't even begin to cover the sight of them (it covers all of him outside the twitching span of pale white fingers, pink flush staining their useless tips and spreading lower every second, angling for the places where they meet). And in the other room someone's whining loudly for attention. In the other room someone's wishing for what Fenris has caught between his jaws— or more accurately: what Astarion has. Its audible memory loitering dangerously nearby, feet planted in the present through the thinnest barrier of a dividing wall, muffled voices crawling through plaster and dense-carved polished wood, scraped hard against the shell of Astarion's own ear.
(Don't stop.)
—oh.
Oh.
The winding breed of depravity that'd circled Astarion's mind long before the door snapped shut catches like a spark again and again and again inside his belly for every milestone they blaze past in a roiling blur of frustration. Seconds doing the work of minutes to rearrange them both and yank him higher into outpours of groaning lust already well-incited: jagged and cruel and sweeter than the most expensive wine— punctuating a point he'd only half-imagined under his own bedding until now.
How he loves to be his.
It hits him hard enough to blank his senses in that first, degrading push. It glazes his eyes on the second, dragging bluntness fitfully seeking shelter in the tangle of tight cloth as it wrinkles until it snags rough across his obscured cinch— yes yes yes. Like that. Just like that, gods, please— too much and not enough: he's wanted this from the second he saw Fenris talking to that woman. From weeks ago, in fact, dark wine staining at his lips while he stood on fine carpet and sized up gold-green eyes. Obedient thing is right (and he's glad not to have a choice when those growls wash over his curls in close proximity), considering he does everything he can right down to the rounding of his spine to draw it in with only centimeters to his name. Answering with his own vulgar moan for pressure he could swim in, and proud to play the part better than the patriar he'd had in his arms not two minutes ago, working at like tinder. Trying to catch a spark at a distance.
A long shot.
One that paid off, as it so happens.
(His laugh is a low, razed thing. It shudders in between his shoulder blades to the sound of rustling fabric twisting. Creaking.)]
So you say— but you couldn't stop staring, could you?
[Oh, it's a growl of his own. The nastiest cast to a voice that can't quite match Fenris' rumble, though it's enviably sharp, and only just cut through by panting breaths.]
You're....you're salivating, old man.
....I can hear it.
[He's braced against the wall so tight— no, he's pinned, his cock squirming anxiously against his inseam (his belly) each and every time those bucks dig harder, wringing the air out of his lungs with roughened groans. Barely able to keep himself upright against pressure that has him seeing stars by the end of every blink.
And yet he makes the stupid choice (it isn't a choice) to hook his left ankle back around Fenris' own, twisting his leg to draw his guardian in when there's nothing else left to spare. Goading him the only way he knows how when agency might as well be back in the other room with that heaving little patriar.]
Maybe you should slow down. [The soft, dry click of licked lips, before:] Get a drink.
We wouldn't want you to overexert yourself just— to rut against a pair of pants like the starving thing you are. [He has to be creative. He has to make it count, through the rucking of his trousers and the knitted prickle of his sock set to scraping in the narrow gap it offers: as prudish an invitation as his father's father's courtship (all wound up in the wrists; the ankles), with a still-clothed prick sunk thick between his cheeks and stalking for slick prey.
He tries to pull at that grip (fuck, he's strong). He tries to twist or arch or buck to unclasp the measure of his waistband (fuck, he's pinned too tight), his features scuffing at the wall like a lover all the while, sore and cold against hot skin. Cheeks stinging for its scratch. And yet— and yet and yet and yet— it's intoxicating.
He'd never expected the bait to work so well, but....]
Put yourself on your knees....and I'll let you do to me what I left him panting for.
[His heart pounds like a drum in his ear, pulsing through his entire body and timed to the steady rut of their hips. Astarion's ankle flexes against his shin, a goading bit of contact from mewling prey who can't offer up anything else; he registers it in the same way he registers that drawling offer. It's fine enough on its own, registered and enjoyed for what it is (on your knees, and for the briefest moment he's distracted by the thought of heavy heat flattening his tongue, pearl dripping down his chin)— but it's secondary. Irrelevant, for no matter how his squalling prey reacted, Fenris' goal remains unchanged.
But it amuses. This arrogant pup strutting around on paws too big for him, barking loudly as he tries to pretend he's won . . . Fenris chuckles breathlessly against the sharp line of Astarion's ear, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.]
What an offer.
[Emphasis punctuated by the slow roll of his hips.]
Get to your knees and I will grant you the honor of sucking my cock . . . little noble, your seduction needs work. That kind of offer might fly in these gilded halls among your peers, but you'll have to do better than that if you want to see me on my knees.
[Not tonight, though. Cold air rushes between Astarion's frame and the wall as Fenris draws him back by an inch— just far enough for him to slip deft fingers against his slender frame. Blindly he plucks at his belt buckle, uncinching it swiftly and shoving Astarion's trousers down to his mid-thigh. His cock springs out, heavy heat brushing against the back of his knuckles, and it's so tempting to take it in his palm, to squeeze and stroke and tease—
Instead, Fenris yanks hard at Astarion's belt, cinching it as tight as it will go around pale thighs. It's little more than a makeshift binding, crude but effective, forcing him to keep his legs firmly closed (and trust that there's a smirk on Fenris' lips, the joke too obvious to bother saying aloud). Then that same hand plants itself against Astarion's back, inexorable force urging his back into a sharp arch, his ass pushing out even as his face is pressed closer against the wall— just like that, Fenris whispers, and grips his hips tightly even as he steps back.
And oh, what a sight he makes.
Fenris' charge is a vain thing, but that vanity is well earned— for the sight of him half-naked and trembling leaves Fenris breathless, the air rushing out of his lungs in one harsh burst. His mouth goes dry, his eyes locked on the sight before him: pale skin all but glowing in the darkness, his ass so perfectly pliant before him. Almost in a daze he gropes at him, tanned fingers digging into soft flesh and squeezing hungrily as it melts beneath his palm. He spreads one cheek open, his eyes locking on to the sight of that tight little hole— gods, and it takes everything in him not to tease. To tap the tips of his fingers against that waiting cinch, his thumb rubbing tauntingly without ever once pushing in, but ah— later.
For he wants to relish the sight of Astarion like this. Undignified. Unkempt— no longer is Astarion the proud figure of before. There's not a trace to be found of that arrogant noble who so loves to toy with his peers, baiting them and teasing them until they're worked up in a frenzy, offering him the attention he so obviously craves. That man is a dignified thing, cold and untouchable in all his sadistic glory. Petty in his power and clever in his manipulations, hungry only to see the world bow before him.
This brat is nothing like that. His body half-exposed and his bearing awkward; his hands freed and yet all of him still utterly trapped. Too weak to push the predator slavering over his form away— and in truth, far too hungry to try. He's no noble now. He's not even the odalisque that idiot outside had been, dignified in his seductive air— oh, no. He's little more than a slut in heat now. A boy all but drooling in his desire, wriggling and twisting as he offers himself up, and all the while still trying desperately to pretend he's every inch the proud lord he presents himself as . . .
They'll fix that soon enough.]
Pretty thing . . . you won't come at all tonight.
[It's a warning and a command all at once, issued as Fenris grabs for Astarion's wrist, twisting his arm back behind him. The other he leaves only for support— and so that his little brat might choose what he wants more. To stop himself from being shoved up against the wall like a common slattern, his cheek pressed against wood and his ear listening to all the drifting voices of his peers . . . or to touch himself. To eke out an orgasm clumsily with his left hand, or at least try.
(For the truth is, Fenris won't let him come. Not tonight. If he has to cinch his fingers around the base of that hefty prick or wrench his hand back, he will— for there's no use in rewarding brats when they act out).
From there, his movements are insulting languid. His fingers fish into Astarion's vest, finding the oil tucked there and flicking it open, drizzling it generously atop his cock. Artificial warmth floods through him, a cloying tingle that he shudders to feel— of course it's laced with aphrodisiacs, and he cannot say he didn't expect it.]
Enjoy this, now. Your reward for all your petty manipulations . . .
[A sudden edge to his rumbling voice as Fenris discards the bottle and grips Astarion's hip. Yanks him back as he presses forward, his cock smearing slickly against that unguarded little hole. Blunt heat presses against it, oil smearing against that cinch as it starts to cede beneath inexorable pressure—
And stops.
Dripping and suddenly untouched, and before Astarion has time to cry out, Fenris' cock slips lower, swiftly forcing itself between pale thighs. Fenris groans low in his throat as lithe muscles squeeze at him so tight, the warmth of Astarion's skin more than enough to sate him— especially as his hips pick up a swift rhythm. His cock slams forward, the blunted crown only occasionally tapping roughly against Astarion's own forgotten hang; again and again he fucks his student's thighs, rutting him with all the inelegant grace of a brute fighter, practical and messy. Oil drips down pale thighs that can't part, the slap of their hips meeting echoing throughout the room— each noise cruel reminder of what Astarion might have gotten, as all the while cold air stings as it drifts over his untouched cinch. Again and again Fenris drags him back as he slams forward, growling low in his throat as he takes his prize— and it's not what he wants, it's not tight heat squeezing his cock, it's not being buried to the hilt in his errant student, claiming him in the most primal way— but it's enough. It's enough, it's enough, every thrust a sharp rebuke against that stupid boy's giggle, every squeeze of Astarion's thighs validation that there is nowhere his student would rather be. Just with me, just with me, Fenris' fingers leaving bruises against fair hips, mine mine mine—]
Is this what you envisioned? Is this what you wanted, little brat? I hope so, for it's all you've earned . . .
[And like this, perhaps, the lesson from teacher to student becomes clear: act out and I still won't give you what you want, little one.]
Joke or not (how he feels that smear of breath across his neck that signals Fenris' self-satisfied smirk— the one that makes Astarion's legs go numb below the knees, yanking his foot back in line against any and all resistance— ) it's the first time in his short life he's been up against the wall with his legs kept intentionally shut; his mouth unused and open in their place, wet with hunger and dry from sucked-in air. Thickslung arousal throbbing from whatever pent-up pressure already streaks along gilt wallpaper, bouncing as it sways sharply back and forth.
He groans to feel his ass lift without his input. Cheek a half-breadth away from scraping its way to a messy sort of bruise.
Fumbling with an open palm that slaps more than it braces; he doesn't have time to think between the footnotes, crying out for the slick across his hole, left damningly abandoned.
He's slipped (his toes slip inside his patent shoes, shoving him— nearly slamming him— against cold plaster on the next reverberating pump of iron hips). Arrogance made him clumsy. Makes him prey when he's a lion's lauded cub: trounced in an empty room and made into a little wriggling furrow for some unimportant servant's perfumed cock. Oh, the talk would ruin if word somehow managed to get out. Fine to be an apex thing that pumps one's length or sates one's cunt on the squealing use of lesser game, for supremacy makes everything viable, but the other way around? That's weakness. That's unworth. That's—
—perfect.
Relentless and perfect. Infuriating and perfect. Violating and demeaning and perfect, perfect, perfect. Tongue shoved against the backs of his own teeth while his head lolls and the world runs white, incapable of blinking. Thinking. Name it and he can't: a rutting hole won't be picky for its use, and ignoring the finery he's dressed in (tailored coat enough to feed a family for months; the leather belt drawing livid welts across his skin that burn like snapping sparks more expensive than a car; his sweatsoaked pants painstakingly stitched by peerless hands, gilt thread unraveling by the second as it frays), that's all he is under hands that feel like sandpaper and glass and heat. Raw, commanding heat. Held steady to the rock-hard thresh of slickness pushing harsh between his thighs over and over the way someone stokes a fire, fierce momentum feathering the underside of plush curves and closing in against his drooling prick, almost enough to— to—
He gets as far as the first bump before his nerves all but shriek in outrage, fever pitch taking him gut-first and using his throat as its conduit: howling like a rabbit seized by its own neck— trying to thrash just as effectively, in fact, meaning only that it isn't. Just a jolt between trapped shoulders. A painful twisting of his arm. He can't see behind him (Fenris a blur of silver-blue and white in the farthest corner of his watering left eye), but he can feel that rhythm keeping pace with the way the room is shifting, and fucking Hells, he's rocking with it. Groaning and mewling and sweating and whining in inglorious near-ecstasy, the narrow little span of his entry grasping at nothing at all between his battered cheeks.
Free hand whipped back to yank nails first at whatever part of his keeper's within reach.]
F— Fen— !!
[Barely a minute in, and Fenris is about to prove himself wrong.
Not about it being what Astarion wants, or what he's even earned, that wicked instigator still choking on his imperious fantasies unmade. Not even about enjoying it, because oh, he's doing that more than he ever thought he could in every vulgar, outright spasming sense. But when the stakes are this high and the friction sweet as liquid sugar to a thing so bloody young— ah.
The slide of it's too much, channeling between his legs. Knocking into his prick (oh, that's what does it in the end: a single, passing nudge struck just beneath his crest).
Astarion comes.
One warning pulse of rippling tension the only sign of what comes next, and if his bodyguard isn't swift enough to tamp it before it starts— ]
And Fenris, for all his talk of before, allows it. It's a split-second impulse, one that pays off in an instant— for Astarion is so pretty as he tumbles headfirst over the edge. His prick (heavy, and Fenris' eyes greedily drink in the sight, heavy and thick and hot, oh, he will relish wrapping his lips around that cock someday) bobs in the air as the force of his orgasm wracks through him. Thick ropes of pearly come splatter messily against the wall in heaving rhythm, drooling down messily from his slit and smearing against pale thighs, as all the while Astarion lets slip the sweetest noises. Mewling moans and ragged cries, sweat lining his forehead as his body goes so rigid in Fenris' arms— oh, it wracks through the whole of him, tip to toe, a shuddering little mess that can't help himself.
Pretty thing. Pretty loud thing; Fenris releases his arm in favor of slipping his hand up, two fingers thrusting into that drooling mouth as it howls its pleasure. And you know, it's a pity to lose all those whimpers and moans&dmash; but there's something fantastic about the wet gurgle of Astarion's voice as calloused fingers flatten his tongue and knock against his teeth.
They stay like that: interlocked, intertwined, Fenris' cock still slowly pumping between pale thighs. Until at last that heavy cock pulses one last time, meager droplets pattering onto the marble beneath them, and all those drooling howls ebb into something softer. He leans forward then, nuzzling sweetly behind the line of one upturned ear, his fingers slowly matching the rhythm of his hips as he languidly claims Astarion's mouth.]
Oh, little noble . . . I forgot how new this must be for you.
[It's the purring delight of a predator who found unexpected prey, the fondness in his tone corrupted by the sadism woven deep within. Fenris chuckles, and it is a mean thing, dark and depthless. All the frustration of the past few weeks thrums within his body; all the humiliation he suffered at Astarion's hands, forgiven but never forgotten, roars up to fuel this mood. Get on your knees and entertain us, oh, arrogant little pup . . .]
Excitable thing . . . is this the first time you've ever been taken like this? Not like a spoiled little princeling who gets to dip his cock in anyone and know they'll beg for more, but like the mewling slut in heat you really are . . .
[His fingers keep pumping into Astarion's mouth, edging deeper and deeper with every slow pulsing push. Heels click rapidly as they pass the doorway, a sharp break to the steady murmur of voices and laughter that lies just a doorspan away.]
Keep quiet, now. My fingers will only muffle so much, and we don't want your precious friends to find you, hm? Ah— they're hunting for you already.
[For the owner of those heels is speaking, and Violet's arrogant tones are impossible to mistake. He can't make out what she's demanding, but it barely matters: it's enough she's near. It's enough that Astarion shivers in his arms, his legs still tied together and his cock drooling in the aftermath of his inelegant denouncement. With a little groan Fenris' hips pick up the pace, the soft slap of skin against skin music to his sadistic ears.]
Perhaps I should let them watch . . .
[(Oh, he would never. He would never, not just because he wouldn't wish such humiliation on anyone, but because he wouldn't do that to his Astarion. But his noble need not know that. He need not know that the door is locked; that Fenris would whisk him away in an instant if need be. Let him squirm. Let him wriggle and writhe and mewl in belated payback for the way he'd made Fenris little more than humiliating spectacle that first night.)]
Freed fingers already scrabbling at Fenris' thighs, his eyes still partway rolled beneath his lids, jaw open and quivering for the next encroaching thrust of coarsegrained fingers (that taste so good— like oaken casks or sandalwood and the crispness prior to a storm), filled up with the scrape of bitter salt dragging hot along the back of his tongue in a rhythm that won't settle, pushing him further and further into the crook of Fenris' waiting shoulder without so much as a breathy, whimpered fuss: every bit of him remolded with senseless ease in the way something wild knows to settle when it's scruffed. And really, what difference is there? Kept upright beneath Fenris' arm and the measure of that rigid cock pushed snug around the bottom of his cheeks: he'd be on the floor if that teetering sense of pleasurable fatigue had its way with him, not that it changes much. His limbs are still limp. His neck's still craning under the pleading urge for more— playing witness to how Fenris fucks steadily into the channel that barely divides his legs— his own spent span splayed across his upper thighs and flush for how it throbs in gravity's harsh grip; he's shuddering under its palpitating aches more than the halfhearted gushes of pearl that languidly crawl down to channel against leather and sore skin in their own time, framing each of those sawing pumps with the sight of everything they've made. Wet between his legs and proven wet behind the ears.
Excitement and exhilaration making him sweet against an onslaught that he purrs for as it tears him into shreds.
Overstimulated. Understoked— all that he can think of is that he's grateful his cock's gone too limp to be of use. That he can't sink further into this game (oh, little elf, how wrong you are....) when the click of heels and familiar voices mingle with Fenris' reverberating chastisement against the shell of his ear, and the low, muffled keen Astarion makes out of contentment (for that's what it is, mistake it for nothing else but that) never makes it past his lips: pumped right back down by the pads of fingers that could crawl into his stomach if they wanted. Into his chest. His heart. His veins. Fuck— he doesn't care, so long as they don't leave; sinking his teeth in cruelly for the overriding burst of a few seconds where his mind stutters hard enough to hurt (to feel beyond wonderful)— swallowing the crook of his knuckles, though that's as far as it goes. Length, alas, only lets fingertips slide so far back, and no matter how he works his throat for more, he can't have it. Can't have anything, in fact, the shuttling of that prick still teasing the underside of him so that he's riled but not close, and yet he could, he thinks— or only realizes, maybe. He could come like this. He could, he could, he could. Just with a little more....and more....and....
(He could.)
To just the patter of those feet and the brace of Fenris' strong chest. To the way his heels are useless: buckled and reduced to a static buzz that underscores every jostle of his overwhelmed cock. To the way he reaches back again, raw momentum leading, to hook his fingers in those pants behind him, twisting against fabric with his pristine nails until they anchor, threatening to break beneath bright lacquer. His mind a roaring blaze of empty heat, dissembling everything into more of that contagious, vacant shriek that cracks between his teeth, welcoming grotesque vulgarity instead of pressure.
And then he—
(Comes.)
Bites down.
Again.
Synaptic crackle searing away minutes (or seconds?) a second, reeling time: sensation sounding like the high-pitched soughing of plastic against metal as it churns inside his skull into a violent snap that he can taste— he's thrashing in his mind and stilling in reality; his cock the only thing that jerks just once, throat a gurgling mess of extant bliss— imagining this, craving this, for exactly what it is. Everything. Everything. Everything he could want and everything he needs, swallowing him pride-first two steps away from his friends. His peers. Ten away from his conquests. Mewling and moaning for the meal he hasn't even had yet that keeps on taunting and tempting him to ruinous despoilment.
So it's the third bite that brings him back enough to sink his figurative fangs in like a twitch of half-strung awareness clinging to fractured reflexes.
A twinge of pressure before his jaws finally clamp tight around thick knuckles, bearing down until they shake. Until his tongue begins to lathe between caught digits in a stumbling pattern. Still whining, still wanting, still heaving on the verge of consciousness itself, but stubborn in it. Unwilling to let go when there's nothing left to give.
Staying latched through trembling palms and working with his own numbed hips no matter how his body screams. He will take this. He will prove he's not some pampered thing in need of service. That he can rut harder. Fight better. The echo of some dark, damp alleyway ringing in his ears alongside the bone-deep shock of orgasm, spurring him against himself. Don't pity him. Don't you dare— ]
[He hisses it against Astarion's ear, his vicious grin all but audible as fledgling fangs sink into calloused flesh. Pain erupts behind Fenris' eyes, a bright white flash that sings up his nerves, piercing right through the pleasure in three sharp rapidfire bursts. And the guiding trick in Fenris' life has always been to learn to love pain— and so it's a slick, low moan that chases after that mocking praise. The shrieking pulse of pain weaves its way into the rhythmic symphony already thundering through his body, pulsing in time with the unrelenting throb of his cock squeezed between lean thighs, the rapid slap of flesh against flesh, all of it only ever growing faster, hotter, hungrier.
And then there's that tongue.
Overheated and sinfully clever as it lathes its way between Fenris' fingers, proving once again that Astarion might be young, but he isn't virginal— oh, no, not with a tongue like that. His lips suckle at Fenris' knuckles as the tip of his tongue teases so pointedly, caressing every whorl along his fingerpads, teasing against old scars and blunted nails. Look what I can do, his charge all but whines, look at how well I could treat you, and far be it for Fenris to ignore such a dexterous show of spirit.]
All that talk about having me get on my knees, but oh, little noble . . . it seems like it might suit you more. Look at how eager you are . . . does it feel good, having that weight on your tongue? Sucking at my fingers as you drool for them— I can feel you salivating, boy, [and trust that's an intentional echo.]
Just think of how much more you could have had.
[The hungry snap of his hips suddenly picks up the pace, his cock thrusting slickly between Astarion's thighs— in and out, in and out . . .]
My cock flattening that pretty tongue of yours— a gag that finally suits you and shuts you up all at once. Sinking so deep in you that I wouldn't just claim your mouth, but your throat: watching you swallow desperately around me, fighting not to gag, for you're far too experienced for that, aren't you? And yet . . . so eager to be dominant. So eager not to get on your knees . . . so perhaps not. Perhaps I'll have to teach you what it is to suck on a prick properly, breaching your throat again and again until at last you learn to take it all . . .
[His tongue drags over the edge of one pointed ear, his teeth sharp as he bites at the tip.]
And that's to say nothing of when I finally fuck you the way you deserve— splitting that little hole of yours open atop my prick and breeding you until you're docile for me— begging me for more even as you drip my come from both ends . . .
[Oh, he's so close. He's so close, his cock pumping so swiftly between those pretty thighs and the fantasy of Astarion drooling with come sharp in his mind's eye, but ah, not yet, not yet. Fenris forces his hips to slow, his cock pumping steadily as he adds with a roughened chuckle:]
His protest lost beneath those fingers, an expert working at his craft and yet unmade by it— vulgarity devouring him alive with avid interest. No, he won't come, he tells himself, denial framed by the thought of rough-edged fingertips replaced by something softer and heavier, expansive in the sweetest sense. Gazing up at that magnificent creature from the center of those legs, knees aching, pulse racing while his fingers pump in and out swiftly (throat bobbing) in obscene shadow, mind numb.
It's running numb again.
Dangerously numb, in fact. Under the sway of temptation and the snap of thrusting hips, he's faltering like there's nothing else besides it to sink into— not victory, not the fight, just bliss and comfortable mockery that curls inside his stomach, telling him to stay. To behave.
Ask anyone and they'll call it impossible a task as ever, convincing the long-impetuous Lord Ancunín to curb his want for someone else's, and what he'd wanted tonight was a grander thought: Leto sucking mouthfuls from his cock in a closed room, already suckled into warming on that bout of prior foreplay he didn't even feel. His stern visage gone obedient and pretty as it sank down to the floor in slow petition, falling prey to the old tried and true tricks kept locked within Astarion's sharp arsenal, left tamed as surely as any bit or bridle would insist— tongue shining white just to pour out of his mouth in drooling patters. Look at what I've done for you. How much I've given you at last.
Instead they aren't even fucking, and he's running out of willpower faster than he's running out of air, albeit by the thinnest margin. He hasn't been touched— not properly. Not like he'd expected. Not like he deserves. His knees taken to shivering for the feeling that they lack while he wrestles just to offer up small pumps of swift manipulation, driving Fenris' thickglazed prick along the slender channel dividing entry and soft swells, his hands shaking, knuckles screaming, nails biting. It's a miracle he hasn't lost his balance in the battle, but maybe he can thank the brace of Fenris' shoulder combined with the thrust of heated fingers for that cruel, humiliating (satisfying) anchor.
The door could swing right open and his friends would never believe it. This isn't how things work. This isn't how he works—
And as he cants himself into the next precipitating buck, imagining every last profane image of himself split wide across what won't even deign to use him in this moment (his body stretched to all its limits, glutted on his guardian's offered signature), all he can think of— the last thing that he thinks, in fact— is that it's perfect.
He wakes up later with a start.
A jolt of sharp awareness that's disorienting, fingers rushing to his mouth, his jaw, his legs—
It's daylight. He's in bed. Clean. Dressed, but only in his sleeping clothes. He doesn't smell like sex or Fenris. Not even that puerile little noble's perfume lingers when he gives his own wrist a perfunctory sniff just to be sure. No. No, just himself.
But it can't have been a dream (it damned well better not have been), glancing around his room for the one person with insight— and barring that (finding Fenris' windowside seat frustratingly vacant), his own phone, searching for messages. Timestamps. Photos. Anything.
[To be fair to Fenris: it's the third time he's checked in on his charge. The first two times were spaced an hour apart: the first in the morning, when he'd woken from what was really more of a nap than a proper sleep, and then later, after he'd gone through his morning exercises and begged a bit of breakfast from one of the kitchen girls who seems to be soft on him. It's nearly eleven now— late, perhaps, for Fenris, but early enough for his night-loving charge.
Closing the door behind him, he comes to sit on the edge of Astarion's bed. And at first blush, perhaps Astarion does wonder if it was a dream, for there's no real change in his bodyguard's countenance. There's still the same stern expression, albeit a little softer around the edges as he settles in. His teeth don't bare in vicious mockery, and there's no sense of smugness as he stares down at his reclining charge—
But perhaps there's a glint in his eye. A little curl in the curve of his lips. Some belittling (doting) echo in the way he reaches down to sweep Astarion's hair out of his eyes.]
You will not find anything there.
[His phone, he means, indicating the glowing screen with a little nod. ]
You went dark after a few more trips into ecstasy, [and for a moment there's the strangest sense of déjà vu, but he ignores it.] I cleaned you up and snuck you out— no easy task, I assure you, for your friends wondered where you went. But after I assured them I was equally as keen to find you, they assumed you'd snuck off for some round of indulgent debauchery, and I was able to ferry you out.
[Fenris leans down, carefully arranging himself so he lies on his side next to Astarion, his head braced along one hand. And oh, he is smug about it, for now a smirk lays properly along his lips, his eyes glinting playfully as he settles near his charge.]
You came at least twice more, though I wouldn't be surprised if it was more than that— you keened so loudly around the swell of my fingers by the third time. All but choking on them as you tried to beg me for more and then toppled headfirst into yet another chained orgasm . . . such a needy thing. Trembling and drooling, come dripping all down your thighs as you fought for consciousness and more all at once . . . and yet your cock still twitched even as you passed out in my arms.
[A flashbang grin steals over his face, there and gone— oh, he doesn't regret a second of it.]
[It isn't balking, it's a growl, snaking from his throat in the seconds prior to a lunge that has him coiled over his sprawled bodyguard (never mind that his cock's already stiffened from suggestion, caught hot against his thigh like a brand, insisting on a memory he won't soon manage to outrun), never mind that he can almost taste those fingers if he dares to shut his eyes— watching them disappear along the back of Fenris' own head only to chase them with his hand: grabbing that smug excuse for a servant by both his wrists and wrenching them to the sheets through leverage alone, silvered stare gleaming like a knife in sunlight.
It was kind, that Fenris didn't rub it in. He had to have been patient just to wait so long, lying and feigning at what he didn't know just to shake the bloodhounds from their scent, not to mention how difficult it would've been to clean Astarion as a servant in the middle of an overlavish affair.
But if Astarion was the sort for gratitude, it's more than late to the party, now.]
You cheated.
[Oh, it wasn't fair, cries the player that'd rigged the game well before they'd ever even begun. The one with a head start, who then shoves his forehead hard against the center of Fenris' own with one more insistent snap of air let out from rousing lungs, posturing like a lion over prey, though it's only the depiction in his mind.]
[It won't always be like this. He will not always be so damnedably smug, flaunting caution in favor of smirking up at Astarion— but for now, let him revel in it. Let him thrill in the hot puffs of air against his cheek, the sweet scent of Astarion surrounding him as their foreheads press together and the tight squeeze of slender fingers sears itself into Fenris' memory. He grins blindly and tips his head back, baring his throat in a mockery of surrender: oh, you got me, little cub. As he wriggles impotently against the bed, straining against a grip he could shatter if it pleased him, oh, you did it, you triumphed, laughter shining in his gaze all the while.]
If I did, you seemed to enjoy it . . . perhaps submission suits you more than you think. You certainly moaned up a storm around my fingers . . . or did I cheat my way into that, too?
[He won't always be because Astarion won't let him— or at least that's the version of this story the little lordling sells in silence while his knees run tight and his thighs clench around the borders of strong hips, biting back in sips again and again (the digging of white-knuckled fingertips; the grind of their foreheads beneath trapped strands of white fringe, tangled; the grit in his throat rumbling against the grain of words like submission or the lingering taste of long-abandoned sweat). Yes you cheated your way into that. Yes you broke the rules—
But what rules were they, really?
That a patriar's supposed to carry weight? That the house always wins? That's childish. Stupid. Blind, above all else, but it doesn't change the fact that it's what Astarion knows— and has known— for far, far too long. And the only creature questioning it is....]
You were afraid to let me lead. [He pushes back, shoving roughly against that turning cheek before taking the offer of that throat, teeth-first: not remotely above getting in a head start the second that it's given with his shirt draped loose and his cock edged hard along the merger of their hips, craning his neck to bite, and scrape, and rock with all his angled strength down against the places where they meet. Forefingers lifted on either side of grapped wrists to push into the center of marked palms, proving that traits like submission, dominance— both, all— are more than just a matter of brute force or advantage.
And he knows it.
He knows that if nothing else, smugness included, thoughts of last night have probably been smoldering ever since inside that handsome skull, no matter how good he's been when left to tend a dozing master. Self-satisfied and warranted, but unless he tucked himself into a closet or bruised that sense of pride? Oh, unfinished.
[Little minx, little brat— oh, fierce little cub who thinks himself a dominant lion who found a kill. He climbs atop Fenris and thinks him a conqueror; he pins him down with slender fingers more suited to holding a wine glass than they are brute strength and thinks himself so terribly fierce. And what's worse: Fenris lets him.
He shouldn't. All it would take would be a single set of eyes— some overeager maid or errant bootboy who can't help but wag their tongues in amusement the moment they realize what's happening. Lord Astarion's bedding another tutor, at least this one lasted a full month, and he'd be out on his ass before dusk. He'd be thrown to the wolves, and no matter that Astarion promised to protect him, for it wouldn't matter, not when it was his word against his lord father's. The safest thing right now would be to throw him off and back away, and yet—]
Fasta vass . . .
[He breathes it out hotly, his eyes fluttering closed as his fingers curl in their nominal bindings. Fucking hell, for Astarion isn't wrong: whatever began last night isn't over. He'd fooled himself into thinking that it was, assuming today would be full of redrawn boundary lines and earnest discussions, but more fool him, for his charge is a wild thing. Stubborn and competitive, petulant and selfish, and he wants what he wants when he wants it. His fierce pride stung thanks to all that happened last night, and of course he wants to set the score straight—
And Fenris wants him to.
Not like this. Oh, he can do better, Fenris is sure; this is a mere warm-up. If they are to fight, let his charge show his claws: not these feeble nibbles against Fenris' throat (ones that leave his breath hitching, his Adam's apple bobbing heavily as he swallows), but something truly fierce.]
Dominance is earned, little patriar.
[His voice has dropped low into his throat, more a warning rumble than the sweetly sarcastic tones of before. He's straining at his trousers already, stars bursting behind his eyes each time that plush ass rocks and grinds against his cock; it isn't long before his hips rock up in answering echo. Like that, just like that, heat suffusing through him as he stares at nothing.
It had been so hard last night. He'd been every inch the diligent bodyguard, careful in how he cleaned claiming pearl off the span of those pretty thighs and dutifully tugging his trousers up— but gods, his desires had run dark. Vicious and mean and petty, born of all his simmering resentment and heady dominance not yet sated— for just a bit of rutting wasn't nearly enough. Not for this brat. Again and again Fenris' gaze had gone to the slackened span of those pretty lips, dreaming of what it would be to straddle Astarion's shoulders and viciously fuck that mouth the way it deserves. Unresisting wet heat suddenly become resistant the moment Astarion woke, choking on the intimidating swollen span of him, his eyes wet with unshed tears and the most undignified noises vibrating low in his throat as he swallowed again and again—
Only to melt into it. To realize that what he wants, truly wants, is to be put in his place at last: his eyes rolling back in pleasure as his head bobs feebly, lips tightening in dogged effort to contribute. Whining and whimpering and mewling until at last he'd fed the way he deserves, left to pant and gasp around a tongue coated in pearl.
And that's to say nothing of how badly Fenris wants to claim him from the other end. Spreading plush cheeks and sinking his cock deep into that tempting little cinch . . .
Gods, and his next exhale is a harsh thing. His pulse thrums beneath Astarion's fingers, and yet he doesn't move to throw him off just yet. Let the lesson play out. After all, he is meant to be his tutor.]
You imagine I'm afraid . . .? Of what?
[Another lazy grin, this one meaner than the last.]
The nipping of your teeth? Your insistence on grinding atop my cock? I will admit, I would have let you take the lead before if I'd known your flavor of dominance was so dedicated to servicing another . . .
[Do better.]
Go on: slide down and take my prick in your mouth. Suck me off and really put me in my place.
[The edges of his teeth lead that question, ruthlessly clamping down on Fenris' lower lip just in time to get an entire mouthful of exhaled air— and it says something (not now: later. Later it'll say something) that Astarion has no idea which one of them it came from, what with heat busy striking up more heat somewhere deep in the steady shoves of skin against skin. Cloth over cloth. Where every time that lordling twists to get a better angle on his next harassing snap his thumbprints scrub until they're hot, punctuating just how much tension's still stuck in them that it's already at a fever pitch despite this only being foreplay, his knuckles sore for how tight he's locked them, turning the tanned skin across corded wrists bone white— at least around the indents of his grip.
And does Astarion really think Fenris imagines him as a fool? Not really. Not exactly. It wasn't as if they weren't playing last night, too, albeit with figurative knives out. In fact the moral of this story could be that if Astarion had opted to be kind about his bodyguard's clarification instead of dry-humping a noble prick just to get under his skin, maybe conversely he wouldn't have wound up in that side room passed out cold with an aching cock across his lap.
But then they wouldn't have ended up here, either.
Attacking each other with the ragged outlines of their arousal; entirely aware the longer this drags on, the more he finds his lips twitching closer to a sneer than a snarl.]
A spoiled patriar tugging at your ears, demanding that you take him seriously.
[After last night (flashes of lingering sensation peppering his mind if he closes in too much: blurry recollection just an overwrought surge of numbness blaring between clenched teeth, catching hard between his legs in mirrored bursts, no real memory tacked on— only raw pressure and the burnmarks on his thighs, still there when he dares to flex them), the point is, who could blame Fenris? He won. Not even by a meter, by a mile; it's not remotely close to a debate when doubt died three times over in those arms— you don't work someone to unconsciousness without getting to forever gloat.
That said, it's always dangerous to score a point first in a fencing match.
Your opponent learns your moves.
In the middle of just one more pair of predictably enticing bucks, Astarion lunges forward to force the whole of his weight into his palms (leveraged hold buckling those slight arms) as he hooks one toe in the hemline of his trousers and then pulls: displacement and leonine agility taking them clean off in the middle of transitioning— straddling Fenris the other way round. Toes snapped to where his touch had been, mouth angled just over where his hips had been grinding for the last few scattered minutes: only his nightshirt and its lengthy-yet-closing-in-on-sheer border left to cover the whole of his raised body, his most vulgar assets barely obscured alongside friction marks and peppered bruises— or left to subltly slide along the center of Fenris' chest.
One flick of his chin— the same insistent teeth still warm from hounding branded skin— and the waistband of his guardian's defenses pops effortlessly free.
Every word whispered through the barely parted outline of a zipper.]
You don't ruin twenty five careers through good looks alone, old man.
Foolish, and all the more so because every word Astarion hisses out is true: he did underestimate him. So smug over his victory from last night, so assured that his centuries of experience put him miles ahead of anything Astarion had ever done, he'd forgotten just why he'd said no in the first place. It wasn't for Lord Ancunín's sake, valuing his employer's wishes above his charge's desires. It wasn't just for the purposes of protecting his own heart, though that wasn't a lie. It wasn't even because of how damned dangerous it is for the two of them to rut, and all the consequences that might crash around their ears as a result.
It was because he'd known, somewhere deep in his soul, that once they begun, he wouldn't ever want to stop.
He began it last night, and here, now, he reaps what he sowed, for there's no part of Fenris that isn't screaming in desire as Astarion plays with him. That clever little seductor that knows just how to tempt another, offering an unrivaled view that Fenris wastes no time in drinking in. His eyes flit over the pale span of his thighs, lingering along the faint traces of bruises and frictionmarks that remain, each one sparking a hint of a memory. (Astarion moaning. Astarion drooling. Astarion with his head tipped back and his ass bouncing against Fenris' hips, eyes rolling back as he'd come again, again, again, and oh, how merciless his bodyguard was, refusing to stop no matter how many times he'd tried to plead).
And then up. Up to where the hazy hang of that nightshirt only serves to entice Fenris more: soft curves all but visible as they settle atop his chest, cheeks spreading open with blatant intent. His hands rise, his fingers flexing, because he wants to— gods, he wants to, half a dozen filthy ideas springing to his mind. He wants to grope and fondle that pretty ass until Astarion is mewling for him once more; he wants to drag him even closer so that he might shove that nightshirt up and set his tongue to that needy hole. Fucking him first with the slickened span of his tongue and then, once he's good and wet, with his fingers: stretching him open one by one, watching him whine and writhe and mewl for it—
Fuck.
His cock tents his boxers, dark droplets already revealing his arousal, and the pant of hot air as Astarion speaks doesn't help. Nor does the way he taunts— gods, but that sends the worst kind of arousal pulsing through him, his cock outright twitching in needy response as it does.]
Fasta vass . . .
[He hisses it under his breath, his head slumping back against the pillow as he tries valiantly to rally himself. There are reasons not to do this, you know. Good ones. Very, very important ones, and if he could just remember what they were—]
The door is unlocked.
[It's too weak. Too much a mewling protest that means nothing— one that Fenris is sure Astarion has heard before. And shamefully, that above all else drives him to grab at those lithe hips. There's no way to wriggle free without ruining it all, and gods, he doesn't quite want that, but just— wait, blunt fingernails digging into Astarion's hips as he grits his teeth.]
And there is no saving me if someone walks in here with my cock in your mouth, Astarion!
[And it's a real protest. It truly is. But not as real, maybe, as what follows.]
Wait— wait—
[Not because he doesn't want to, but because now the thought is planted in his mind. Twenty-five careers, and what is he if not the twenty-sixth? What is he if not everything he loathed in the past few weeks? Oh, he can justify it plenty, but so could they— and it's different, yes, but . . . he needs to know it. He needs some confirmation that this isn't just a bright, brief spark before it all fizzles out.
(He needs to know that this is wanted, not just a means of achieving a goal).]
[He feels taut muscle underneath him, barely masked by cheap linen. Narrow ribs and their attached ripples of houndish sinew expanding with sharp shudders that exhale— and sigh. Lock. Stiffen. Expand. Break— a sturdy animal subdued by spreading bliss, no doubt salivating where Astarion can't see and hardening where he can. All of it proving that after everything that's happened, the little patriar's finally wrapped his hands around the edge he'd wanted. Control.
Intoxicating, pitch-perfect, dangerous control.
And the thing he's always liked about its shape is that like any overruling force, it doesn't care about a fair fight: lust won't tilt over who's strongest or fastest or— against the run of last night's disconnected whispers (a pulse of phantom breath along his ear that hitches in his stomach even now)— who's oldest. Open-mouthed, it's ugly. It grabs, and in Astarion's experience? Usually by the throat first, leaving barely any slack for thought, let alone breath. It's why last night had been Fenris' win in the end, and why today's going to be different. He can feel it already, caught squirming between his knees. (Go on Fenris crowed a minute or so ago, so damned content with himself at the time after dining on easy friction and a win he could pin to his sleeve.) Now curled toes wrap against the jut of that moon elf's wrists, his torso slacking into something more convex to lift into the angle of his rising cock— and—
Wait.
—Wait.
The jagged little warble puffed between his thighs that isn't hotter than his skin, even settled close. But where was that mercy for Astarion last night? (Ah, but where was Astarion's mercy for Fenris, first?)
Around the angle of his shoulder, he grins:]
Oh, so now that I'm winning you want to fret about the door, is that it? [It's a smart move, at least. Sharp enough to give Astarion maybe half a second of snorting amusement if nothing else, teeth already back to harassing settled cloth.]
Tsk. I wasn't born yesterday, despite what you might think.
I'm not falling for that.
[He sits back stubbornly in a substitute for countering punishment, and there— pleasant and overwarm— comes the smooth slide of Fenris' profile drawn against the base of his cock. Catching the tip of that strong nose, finding the soft pillow of his lips on the next sidling roll of his hips. His shirt still falling loose around it all, and he can feel the way it forms a sort of cage around the act— obscuring it like any civilized in-humor in conversation: right there in plain sight, only thinly veiled. Shamelessly arranged.
His legs are spread, his knees are buckled. His hips are risen over the line of Fenris' face, teasing and dipping in exploratory patterns that don't leave room for talk even without penetrating that striking mouth, his own left nuzzling at the sheltered outline of his guardian's stiff lust, dampness kissing at his nose to make this a perfectly mirrored affair: someone could slap censor blurs across the whole of it and there still would be no mistaking it for what it is.
A little slattern at his favorite craft.]
Edited (it me: sick as a dog and trying to remember how words work ) 2023-11-04 19:49 (UTC)
[It wasn't a ploy. Truly it wasn't, for Fenris' mind is fixated on that door now, long ears twitching as he desperately tries to listen for footsteps. For the sound of a key turning or a latch lifting, something, anything to give him forewarning. Enough that he can throw Astarion off him and—
And what?
Leap to his feet? Claim that he was helping Astarion undress, and never mind the sizable swell in his trousers? There's no hiding it. There's no avoiding it. He cannot have the middle ground he's hunting for— just as Astarion couldn't last night. And it isn't the same, some stubborn part of him insists, for the humiliating indignity of being a noble caught at a bodyguard's mercy is far, far different than the consequence of being thrown to the wolves and back into his master's clutches, but . . . nor can Fenris deny that Astarion isn't wholly wrong, either.
For though he also balks for more intimate reasons, what was last night if not a refusal to adhere to them? If he is to be the twenty-sixth— and he is too cynical, too jagged, too raw not to fear such a thing— he has already crossed that line. The moment he yanked Astarion into that dark room he made his choice, and now all that remains is to see where the debris settles.
There's no way but forward. No choice but the one he made hours and hours ago. And so though his nerves still whimper softly in fear—
The next noise that rings between them isn't a protest, but a groan. Low and hungry despite its owner's better instincts; a crumbling sense of willpower accompanying the way his cock twitches once more as Astarion nuzzles against it. Yes, and it isn't about consent so much as submission. Yes, yes, and it's the same reason he doesn't throw Astarion off him. It's the same reason he squirms beneath the shadow of those pale thighs, arousal thundering through him as the plush crown of Astarion's prick drags against his face. Yes, and he isn't giving up the fight just yet—
But gods, if he doesn't love this.
It's so crude. So mean, a petty punishment from a bratty little slut that's furious that he lost his favorite game, and yet Fenris finds himself all but trembling in desire as he suffers it. Precome glimmers in the morning light as it smears against his cheek, the heavy weight of his prick palpable as it drags against his lips. He hadn't gotten a good look last night, not really, but oh, his little noble has ample reason to be proud, for his cock is even prettier in daylight. A heavy hang sits between his thighs, big enough to be intimidating to someone virginal— and a mouth-watering treat to those too used to something smaller. Fenris' next exhale is an overheated thing, his own prick straining avidly at his boxers as he contemplates what's being held before him—
And lets his lips part.
(Lets them part, and in a battle such as this, such distinctions matter).
His tongue is already slick with saliva, his prick straining needily at his boxers— but the moment Astarion's cock slips into his mouth, Fenris feels some part of himself ignite. That fierce competitiveness and pent-up desire crashes over him all at once, a resurgence that leaves him starving for more— more, and how can he resist when Astarion's prick is all but in his mouth? His tongue flits eagerly over his slit, working to tease at the crown of his prick— more, give me more, and he doesn't care if it makes him look weak. He doesn't care if Astarion takes it as a victory, a submissive bodyguard finally brought to heel—
For it isn't that.
Oh, it's submission, do not mistake him— but what would be the point if he gave up so early?
Now he pulls his arms free, wrenching at least one away so that he can grip Astarion's hip, forcing that lithe frame down. More, urged instead of taken, his jaw straining and his throat audibly gulping as he swallows down inch after searing inch—
Until he can't anymore. Until perhaps Astarion jerks himself free, momentum and leverage in his favor— or until Fenris' throat suddenly closes, the guttural sound of gagging and thrashing legs humiliating evidence that he has never once taken a cock this big.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
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Don't, Fenris thinks now, and it is not a refusal, but a last, desperate gasp. Don't, because I cannot resist you, not really, not if you try.
Their hips rub together, dull friction sending sparks shooting through his frame— but though his hips buck in instinctive desire, that isn't what tears at his resolve. Astarion's voice sounds so desperate as he pleads. Not a brat unwilling to accept he won't get his way, no, for that would not sway Fenris. Rather: it's the cry of a person locked away in the darkness for so long, one who has finally had the briefest glimpse of sunlight: please, please, I cannot go back, not again.
He knows that fear. He knows that grief, for some days it feels as if he has spent his entire life silently screaming with that same pain. When you feel as though you're alone in a crowd, and everyone around you is too cruel or hateful or stupid for words . . . and it isn't about being understood, not really. It isn't about being known, or having some special soulmate that reads your thoughts before you've even begun to think. It's about being seen. Listened to.
It's about whispering how miserable you are— and hearing someone whisper that they, too, know that grief.]
Shh— shh, shh—
[Another kiss, shallow and swift. And then another, their mouths meeting clumsily, as he tightens his grip around Astarion's frame. Don't, don't, but can he be blamed for what he takes anyway? Like a drowning man gasping for air, and a few lungfuls surely won't shatter them.]
I am not going anywhere— shh, little star. Settle. I am not leaving.
[The bridge of his nose bumps against Astarion's own, their foreheads pressing together even as Fenris shifts, til he's resting atop his charge. I am not leaving, and he does not try and dissuade those fingers knotted in his hair. I'm here, and it isn't the same as yes— but it's something.
And he'll clarify later. When that racing heart beneath him has settled and there isn't such panic in the room, he'll explain. But for now . . . shh, and the nosing kiss he presses against Astarion's cheek is as much for himself as it is the pale elf.]
Not tonight. Not like this. Trust me, for my age if nothing else— and trust, too, that I want as badly as you do.
no subject
Funny, that.
Like he didn't just pride himself for years now on toying with the lives of his servants, his tutors, his friends— if one could even call them that. Before tonight, he could practically see the puppet strings tied tight around each and every last one his fingers, prompting everyone and everything beneath him to dance. That was the joy of it. The only thing he had aside from pretty clothes. Expensive faff.
Now, they read as something else. So brittle he worries they could snap from even the slightest movement, and his fingertips twitch against a febrile scalp to that same end (feathersoft ribbons of hair knifing at his circulation, digging deeper into his skin), every part of him trying to keep still.
He does trust him. Against everything that screams, he does. But every scuff is incendiary. Subtle waves of coiling breath kiss the edges of his aching lips in ways he wishes their origination would. Centimeters feel like lifetimes. Hot air, hot need, hotter pinpricks of sensation threatening the outline of his vision every time he blinks. Wanting like a blaze. Needing like a yawning pit.
It'll be morning soon.
Not the stroke of midnight, but daylight erasing what this is, when— if he doesn't want to lose whatever they've found (and he doesn't, trust that he doesn't despite all his restless fidgeting)— they have to crawl back into the narrowness of their roles. A noble that doesn't know the smell of sandalwood or sword oil. A guard that keeps his distance with stiffened, cold indifference. For a while they'll go back to being nothing but museums of themselves. Shut doors letting nothing inside escape.
And for a while (no matter how awful that night is, their backs angled towards each other by the end. Frustrated in a way that isn't angry), it works.
For a while, anyway.
'What's his type?' Aurelia asks in that clear-cut way of hers. Two drinks in and already watching Fenris from the corner of her vision.
'As if Astarion would know.' Answers Leon before the high elf can open his mouth, ending with the most narrowed expression imaginable.
'Maybe he doesn't have one.'
Petras, of course. At last.
(At this rate, Astarion's never going to have a chance to actually answer the damned question— which is par for the course for nights like these, actually.) Drink in hand and the party around them mutedly stirring into a later rhythm than the one that came before sunset; respectable enough in theory that even dear Lord Ancunín, pleased to have peace for a scarce few weeks, didn't bother to object to.
'Of course he does. Everyone does.' Violet. Stubborn as ever, and trying to size up the topic of conversation from a distance, as is her usual wont.
'Not everyone.'
Dal.
Who brings a flicker of a smirk to Astarion's lips for that, if only because it's the first time in a good long while she's been wrong.
Fenris does have a type. And it's sitting, for all Astarion's bold, impulsive certainty, right at the heart of this discussion.]
He's going to hear you thirsting from a mile away, if you keep this up. And then none of you will know his type.
['Bullshit.' Snaps Petras around the edge of his drink— following it up with a long pull from a cigarette that (in theory) makes him look older than he is. If he didn't suck on it like a bottle, maybe it actually would.
The smoke from it trailing when he adds with one low cough, 'Bet he loves it when it's forwards.'
That Astarion kicks his chair after that is just coincidence.]
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It's funny, for the attention doesn't bother him quite so much as it normally might. Normally he despises parties like this for just that reason: countless nobles gawking at him as if he's an exotic and delightfully intimidating bit of entertainment, caring not for how their too-loud whispers or pointed objectification makes him feel. The women giggle and the men deride, and though he is too old to be hurt by their comments anymore, still. It makes for a long and unpleasant evening.
And indeed: he isn't happy to feel six sets of eyes burning holes into his frame. But some combination of Astarion's presence and (oh, admit it) their collective age leaves Fenris feeling vaguely amused. They're so obvious in the way they gawk and gossip, and he cannot decide which is worse: the arrogant looking girl who stares at him so coldly (oh, he knows her type: the ones that want to be wanted, and think that he'll be all the more intrigued by her because she doesn't slaver over him), or the pale, petulant boy who keeps sneaking glances at him when he thinks Fenris is unaware (smoking as though he's a practiced hand and nearly burning his fingers in the process). Children, all of them, in general life experience if not true age.
And in the middle of it all: Astarion. Not quite as young as his peers (and there's surely no bias showing there, thank you), but brighter and more vivid than any of them could hope to be. Fenris glances over just in time to see him kick Petras' chair, and despite himself, smiles for just a moment.
Strange to be endeared to the sight of one's charge. Stranger still to realize that, in his own way, he's acting protectively, safeguarding his bodyguard from wagging tongues and cruel jibes.
But that group isn't the only one paying him mind.
'Here's your chance to find out,' Leon says, nodding back towards Fenris. No longer is the bodyguard facing them; instead, his attention has been captured by a tiefling woman who leans up against the wall next to him. Large is the first word that comes to mind when looking at her: tall and broad both, with swelling biceps and thighs tensed with well-honed muscles. One horn peaks out beneath a shock of black hair; the other is broken, the edges filed down and softened.
She speaks animatedly to him, her hands gesturing emphatically in front of her as she tells her story. Loud as she is (attracting no small host of stares, the wealthy elite so disapproving of the help making itself known), it's hard to make out individual words. Gortash, maybe, but then again, maybe not— it's not as if anyone really knows or cares about the name of some arms dealer.
But Fenris seems interested in her. His body is half-turned, his gaze warming as he focuses on her. Occasionally he'll speak, contributing only a little compared to her enthusiastic deluge— but he does not pull away when she grips his shoulder, smiling as she yanks him in closer.
'So he likes women who are stronger,' Violet declares with a judgemental little sniff. 'Figures.'
'It's one conversation,' Dal interjects. Her brow is creased, her expression caught between vague amusement and mild incredulity. 'Just because he's speaking to her doesn't mean—'
'Look at him. He's clearly invested,' Violet argues. 'And isn't he supposed to be looking after you, Astarion? And yet he's distracted.' So there, and she shrugs one shoulder. Takes a sip of her wine— and then, quite pointedly, adds: 'Have you even managed to seduce him yet?'
As if that's some kind of litmus test— but you know, perhaps it is. After all: she's so different than Astarion, and if Fenris seems more interested in one than the other, well. It has to come down to type, doesn't it?
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In other words: everything Astarion isn't.]
Shut up. [He doesn't look at Violet when he snaps it, his eyes boring straight ahead towards the pair against the wall, their bodies angled towards each other in mirrored unison. Bringing himself to blink is like an exercise in trying to unglue his lids, when even a second might mean watching his bodyguard (his bodyguard) tilt a few centimeters closer to her— and farther away from him.]
You saw that I did.
['We saw you cheat and run away with him.' Petras grunts in the middle of stamping out what's left of his cigarette on the side table his chair's still wedged against, clearly taking Violet's side in the debate. 'That's what we all saw. Doesn't count.'
'Could've just walked it off.' Adds Yousen. Neutral only for the way he's stating nothing more than the facts themselves, punctuated by a shrug.
Astarion's eye twitches. A byproduct of his nostril twisting when it flares.
He's seeing red. Literally. Figuratively. And the chatter around him smears accordingly.
'I mean we all know how fast Astarion burns through hired help. If he really did anything, he'd have a new bodyguard already.'
'Maybe the mutt just doesn't care for boys.']
I said. Shut. Up.
['Dalyria's right. Enough, you two.' Leon cuts through at last like yet one more voice of reason, recognizing the bolded outline of Astarion's telltale temper burning hotter than the Hellish eyes he's watching from across the room.
The problem is he adds, unkindly: 'It's bad form to pick on children.'
And like a viper, Astarion's lunged over his knees in his seat, baring contempt in lieu of fangs. Something that'd be more effective if he had a target for it; the pack's turned against him, he realizes too late.]
I could hire someone to kill you and they'd never find the body—
['Ooh. Such words from a Magistrate.' Pale petras shivers, eliciting a rumbling chuckle from at least half the present party, though it dithers in at least a few specific margins.
The point is, however long it takes, by the time Leto shores up any lingering conversation, that circle of waiting silhouettes will be missing one.
The one he's meant to be guarding.
'No luck, Fenris?' Asks one pale not-elf from where he's sprawled himself in drinking— boots up, ankles crossed— over two adjacent seats, now. Head resting on the edge of Violet's shoulder. Hard to say which of the lot is vying harder for Fenris' attention on return.
Little songbirds straining on a sill.]
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Though frankly, Fenris thinks as he approaches that wolf pack in noble attire, even if he was utterly convinced that was why Astarion ran off, he still would keep it to himself. He does not like Astarion's friends. Likely he'll never like any of them individually (except maybe Dalyria, and even then, he likes her for her ability to hold her tongue more than anything), but gods, he especially despises them when they're together. There's such an air of sneering, airy judgement about them— childish compared to Danarius and his ilk, but all the more vicious for it. They've nothing to blunt their teeth upon just yet, and so they turn upon one another— or any other luckless victim too powerless to properly fight back.
It's not that Fenris is intimidated as he stands before them. Even if he was, he's too practiced at making his face stone to give away any hint of anxiety or fear. But it's uncomfortable watching them watch him. Hunger in their gaze and nothing but malicious sport in their hearts— and no matter what he says or does next, there's nothing that can save him from it.
But really, what can they do? Actually do? Not much. They can't bed him, not without earning not just Astarion's wrath, but that of his father. They can't bully him into running some embarrassing errand, or force him to get drunk . . . all they have is their words, and what can they say that hasn't already been whispered in Fenris' ear? How far down does that lyrium go, what a savage beast, what a thrilling bit of sport, oh, he's heard it all. So what's there to be afraid of?
He wishes that thought helped.]
Luck?
[He regrets it the moment it slips past his lips, but the question takes him by surprise. There's smirks all around— and despite himself, despite all that he'd just assured himself on, still, Fenris feels a rush of hot embarrassment. He isn't stupid, but this lot will take his question as proof of it nonetheless.
'Yes, luck,' Violet drawls. Her head tips back, her hair tossed artfully over her free shoulder. 'From your little conquest— well. I say little . . .'
'We had a debate, you see.' Petras again, his words slow but deliberate. 'On what your type was. Astarion seemed confident he knew it, but then again . . . perhaps he didn't count on you having a taste for the strong, savage type.'
And the puzzle pieces fall into place. Fenris exhales slowly, his mouth thinning as he glances around the room. There's no shock of white hair that pops out immediately, but then again, this estate is a grand thing. There's plenty of rooms where he might be hiding.]
Where is he?
['Settle our argument first,' Violet commands— and it is a command, snapped out so effortlessly that Fenris feels his spine instinctively straighten. 'Did you end up bedding him? He keeps telling us you did.']
I—
[He knows why Astarion asserts that. He really does. It's so easy to lose standing among your peers no matter who they are, and this lot is the worst of them. Of course he said such a thing; there's no advantage to admitting that all you did was jerk off in an alley.
But suddenly Fenris is tired of this. These stupid games played by these idiotic children who have nothing better to do than endlessly speculate . . . well, let them. But there's nothing that says Fenris need play along.
Still: their eyes are gleaming. Still: they hang on to his every word, and will only laugh in spiteful mockery if he simply stalks off. And chalk it up to Astarion's influence, maybe, or his own newfound freedom— but Fenris feels something in him quietly snap.]
It was not a conquest. Simply because you six have little else going on in your lives beyond lustful machinations does not mean the rest of us do. And as for your argument—
[Gods. He hesitates for half a moment before finally continuing abruptly:]
— settle it yourselves. You have little else going on tonight.
[It won't win any awards for cleverest comeback of the year, but on the other hand, it's deeply satisfying to say. And certainly not what they expected: Violet's expression snaps into shocked indigence, while Petras (to his mild credit) snorts at that bucking bit of backtalk. Fenris doesn't bother to check the rest, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
The party spills into countless rooms, some more quiet than others. It takes him a few tries before he finds Astarion. His charge is sprawled in a chair in the middle of the room, a drained glass at his side and more than a few people gathered around him, chattering and laughing at something he says. And in his lap—
The son of the host himself, and oh, what a pretty thing he is. Giggling as he leans in to whisper in Astarion's ear, his cheeks flushed beneath tanned skin and teeth so white they gleam. A darling, daring little thing, drunk off champagne and all the bolder for it.
And it's all Fenris can do not to stalk over and tear the boy's throat out.
Somehow, impossibly, he makes his way over to a nearby wall. It's a miracle he doesn't bump into anyone, for he refuses to take his eyes off the sight of Astarion and this boy. This child, this drunken idiot who thinks it's the height of coy cleverness to splay his fingers against Astarion's chest, loudly admiring the supposed detailing on his buttons.
And unlike last time, he's no leave to grab Astarion and march him out. A bit of unsubtle flirting isn't enough to warrant any kind of scolding. And so he simply stands there, seething silently, his expression stone and his eyes thunderous, glaring fiercely at the brat in his brat's lap.
But oh— he has leave to say something, doesn't he? Innocuous and not untrue, and it's a flimsy excuse, but he'll take what he can get. His jaw clenched, Fenris slips between partygoers, glaring down at his errant charge.]
You should have told me you were leaving the room.
[There's a thousand statements layered beneath that, jealous and seething, angry and upset— but to the guests around them, he simply appears like an overly serious bodyguard. Enthusiastic, yes, but not particularly inappropriate.]
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First: Petras gasping in cold shock after his snort wears away, Violet's settled outline still planted partway underneath him with increasingly stiffened contours: her slackened anger the picture of a fish somehow drowning in its native stream, petty counterpart to his bemused incredulity with the rest of the group following suit.
'Can he do that?' A question to which no one present has a definitive answer for once asked. Something that, in a way, makes it an answer unto itself (though it'll take them the better part of the next hour to reach that same conclusion in a somewhat drink-addled deliberation between adolescent hearts).
Second: Astarion.
Drawing den a charcoal map of pipesmoke and half-lit walls while something bassy plays on loop in either this room or the next; his audience thicker than the atmosphere that flanks him, more amenable than the cocksure pack he'd left behind. More willing to be regaled, particularly when the one talking isn't shy about making it a show.
Not to mention the weight on his lap's a pleasant distraction when he otherwise lacks for it in the minutes before footsteps pad close enough to break relative silence. Tangled friction lending itself to a sense of acclimated control that— like a drug— quenches the restlessness in his veins: inflamed jealousy already fading into pleasant numbness under the places where clothed bodies meet, embracing the delicate care of those fingers as they move to fuss along his buttons (ignoring that same attention when the drunken little thing strains higher every now and then, trying to fit spice-scented lips against his own). A game, not a rejection. Why let fantasy hold the reins? This isn't about neophytic love, after all, no matter what his catch might think with every soft attempt to kiss— all redirected to Astarion's neck or cheek or shoulder through tepid tilts of his own head, and like the good little find the host's son is, he obediently takes to it with lavish capitulation (he is a darling little thing. So well behaved. Astarion could free his cock from his trousers right now and tease him to orgasm in front of every set of eyes in the room, and he'd no doubt purr for more).
Which makes this conversation easier, actually.
Left free to frame his focus around that pretty patriar's shoulder while dull teeth nip and worry at his throat, smelling of brandy and too much wine. The ensuing sight of Fenris (oh, still handsome as ever when dark brows shadow green eyes in rage), bristling like a taphouse cat and snapping out sharp irritations that only curl that much sweeter within Astarion's own embittered gut. Different day, same old, destructive habit: l'appel du vide— he likes the attention more than he cares about its type.
Matting its hedonistic spite with a palm slid along the inline of spread legs starting at the knee just to feel fine threadwork pull. His every blink slow. Smolderingly placid. A half-smile on his lips.
Oh.
Hello, Fenris.]
You were busy, last I checked.
[As Astarion is busy now.
Thumb squeezed into the junction between thigh and inseam— punctuated by a panting moan— the slight thing in his lap curled higher.]
Besides— you found me, anyway.
[Didn't you?]
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Petulant little brat. One night between them had done wonders to improve Fenris' opinion of his charge, but he is a fool to be shocked by this behavior. Astarion is cut from the same cloth as that wolf pack he calls a social circle, after all, and his mannerisms and impulses are just the same as any of them. He's not used to being told no. He's not accustomed to the prickle of unpleasant emotions (at least as far as Fenris knows, and someday he'll learn better). He struts boldly and acts out in an audacious manner, for he knows just what will garner him attention. But gods, the ploy isn't subtle. It's laughably clumsy, a child's stamping foot translated into a more salacious act. I saw you talking to someone else— well, I've found someone else too, now aren't you jealous? It's pathetic.
The trouble is: it's working.
Never mind that it's unfair. Never mind that this is all a misunderstanding. Never mind even the fact that Astarion really ought to behave like this, lest everyone wonder why the notoriously hungry heir to the Ancunín name has suddenly gone celibate. Right now Fenris can't think. There's a tiny voice in the back of his mind roaring to be heard, listing out all the reasons he ought to just walk away and show Astarion that this ploy isn't working—
But he can't. Not when the sight of Astarion's hand slipping between slender thighs sears itself into his mind's eye; when the sound of that excitable little moan (pathetic, a pent-up little slut of a boy that's too stupid to know he's nothing more than a prop in a larger play, oh, Fenris is scathing in his thoughts) echoes endlessly in his ears. He can't leave and he can't bear to stay— and so he stands there, jealousy and anger pulsing through his body with every thundering beat of his heart.]
I was speaking to a friend, yes.
[A friend, though he isn't so obvious as to emphasize the word. His glare does that for him.]
Yours are looking for you. Perhaps you should—
['He's needed here,' the boy declares. His head is still tipped towards Astarion, reddened lips lingering against his skin. Liquor makes the edges of his words slur softly, but there's no mistaking the amusement in his tone.]
Be that as it may—
[The boy scoffs as he turns, nosing needily at Astarion's neck. 'Do you always let your bodyguard order you around like this? He seems more nursemaid than protector . . . unless he's trying to keep you safe from me.' A drunken laugh, low and hungry, as the boy arches his back and presses himself against Astarion's hand.
It's all Fenris can do not to roll his eyes. But his attention is fixated on Astarion, refusing to divert for even a moment. Stop it, and the thought echoes seethingly in his mind, a snarling command that he longs to enact. Two strides forward, yanking that boy out of his charge's lap so he might haul him out of the room (just as he had at that party), and then—
A wall. An alcove. A brutal undressing as their mouths met, expensive cloth tearing and buttons clattering as they hit the floor. Astarion's goading laughter melting into breathless whines as Fenris spins him around and pins him there, making him tremble as he waits for blunt heat to spread him open and fill him up the way he craves—
Over and over, fucking into him with all the blunt brutality of a beast. Until that arrogant composure doesn't just melt but shatters, Astarion's voice breaking as he cries out again and again. His own cock untouched and his writhing growing desperate, until at last he pleads, slick-mouthed and desperate (Fenris please, and he knows what that pretty voice sounds like when it begs). Touch me, please touch me, and he will. He will. The palm of his hand striking at supple curves over and over, teaching his little brat exactly what a foolish idea it was to ever underestimate his bodyguard. Until his ass is bright red from abuse; until even the slow, steady slap of their bodies meeting is enough to leave him trembling in painful aftershocks. Until he learns his lesson, and can repeat it back with wet eyes and a drooling cock: I won't play games, not with you.
And then he'd fuck him again.
Over and over, pistoning in and out of that tight little cinch til his cock is streaked with pearl; until Astarion's thighs are shaking with desire, his back arched and his eyes unfocused, so thoroughly intent on being bred that he's forgotten his own pleasure. Until at last the roaring rage and jealousy simmers down with Fenris, and he's left with a pliant, pretty little charge once more . . .
. . . who will take nothing from that lesson save that acting out gets him exactly the kind of treatment he longs for.
Fenris' tongue runs over his teeth, a swift motion.]
. . . find me when you are ready to depart, then.
[His voice is pitched lower, his tenor's tone gone rough and gravely from his thoughts. He wonders if Astarion can guess at them. He wonders if Astarion knows just how frayed Fenris' self-control truly is.
(He wonders, quietly and without really wondering at all, if Astarion cares overly much for how his newfound companion just spoke to him).]
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[Astarion hums quietly to the lordling in his lap, directly addressing an earlobe— or the soft muscle of his conquest's jaw— obeying the law of the figurative jungle to keep from spoiling the first real taste of freedom he's had in weeks: answer the patriar, shun the hireling, but it's only his wicked mouth that pays its respects. Only his teeth, his tongue, his throat and attached lungs, and the crooked pressure of his fingers—
His eyes are drawn to Fenris.
The rest of him is, too.
Unreadable. Lidded. Unmoving as his own mouth after those murmurs, caught in a half-blink that never closes, only twitches. Watching the only creature that watches him rather than the show he's putting on: Fenris, who stands there and implores his reckless charge. Fenris, who's stubborn enough to linger stock-still with both fists balled at his sides, letting his teeth grit across themselves to howl out everything he can't.
The problem is, there's not enough smoke in the world to make them psychic, let alone this room. (Or maybe that's the point.)
Whatever Fenris is thinking of, Astarion doesn't seem to notice: the word friend elicits nothing between languid, palming strokes, and no verbal reply slips in either— just something passing for a nod that languidly tilts the little pale elf's head more than it angles it in acknowledgment. He'll find him in the end no doubt, like a coat or a checked wallet; an accessory doesn't warrant anything else in a place like this. (So go on, then. Stay and watch or leave and pretend it isn't happening.)
And in the interim: fingers fist tighter in the other boy's hair. A giddy laugh erupting from that splash of pain as it likely catches in his belly, high and heady and slurred. Sweet as the alcohol he's drunk on, and barely anything but dazed.
And the farther away Fenris gets, Astarion grows mean.]
Look at you.
[An offered command, not commentary. Look down. Look at how you're enjoying this.]
Performing in front of everyone like some common whore. Does your mother know you're the entertainment? [How he palms at him. How he tugs, ensuring fabric's just an afterthought when he can still fully wrap his hand around a swollen, straining little cock (already leaking for all its worth beneath richly tailored silk if sight is any indication: grey threadwork stained two shades darker, and coursing headlong for coalish black), no part taken to fighting back.]
Should I tell her what you're doing?
[Time drags as conversation's relegated to little whispers that flit around them, struggling to ignore the filth he fits against that young thing's mouth in lieu of the kisses that it tirelessly continues straining for, always hungrily swallowing the next best thing. If not love: humiliation. If not flattery: crude debasement in front of a salivating crowd that tries— and always fails— not to give that fact away.
Astarion knows the boy's name through hearsay; he never once uses it.
The thing spread out in his lap till rucked clothing strains to rip. Angled directly towards that not-so-distant shadow in the corner, rather than his highborne flock: slender back arched high, sloped backwards— every inch of that graceful body poured over Astarion's shoulder, down along his chest, his stomach, his legs— caught around the front of his neck with a single, pallid hand that looks like smooth marble against pinched skin, dimpling it through the force it takes to pull him closer. To make grinding the only option left (because he is grinding, that ensnared patriar. Made to play the captive odalisque while Astarion hisses in his ear):]
If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut, I might just offer you a treat next time I see you.
....and we can all take bets on how long you hold your breath. [Boldness that on any other night would end with a sucked prick and a heeled shoe to shove him off once finished, Astarion's hunt ending with a worthwhile prize.
He's close, now.
He's so close.
Instead— ]
—Ready to go?
[Lord Ancunín asks with a flash of teeth as he pulls away, his hands briefly planted on the wall on either side of the moon elf's hips— warmth from all that lavish friction still radiating through his palms in a way Fenris can very nearly feel— and then does feel, once the high elf catches his wrist to pull him towards the door. Prowling like a cat on weightless strides.
('Wait—'
That disheveled (and-yet-entirely-unfinished) little patriar calls out before a few of the other guests catch him with a tepid laugh, urging him to stay sitting before he cracks his own head stumbling across the room in pursuit of the two silhouettes taking their leave.)
It's probably no shock to confess that they don't wait.]
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It's a fervent thought whispered in the back of his mind as Fenris stares at Astarion's little display. Not a coherent one, and certainly not one he wants to have, but there nonetheless. As a lithe figure twists and writhes beneath clever fingers and the most whorish little moans drift from across the room to slip into pointed ears— don't stop, hoarse and hungry, drifting like lightning beneath the scarlet and black frustration coursing through him.
It's too easy to imagine himself in the same position.
He doesn't want to. He wants to linger in that dominant role, relishing the fantasy of hauling Astarion off and fucking him into shrieking, drooling compliance, docile once he's filled and kept warm with a body full of come. He wants to think about how he'll drag Astarion over his knee for this little stunt, palms striking at his cheeks until he sobs for forgiveness; he wants to think about tying his lord to his bed and putting his tongue to him until he comes untouched. Merciless, and yet not cruel, teaching this uppity noble what it means to truly give himself over to pleasure . . .
And he does want to. And he will.
But something deep in the pit of Fenris' stomach jerks as Astarion's voice cuts through the air. If you can keep from coming in your pants, you cockstarved little slut— and the rest doesn't matter, for those words are more than enough to wipe his mind blank. His mouth goes dry as heat floods through him— and it's not like before. It's not like the desire he had when they were in bed together, nor even at the gun range. Those were mere candles in the dark compared to the sudden inferno that's caught him— inflamed him, his knees weak and his cock heavy and hard, rigid against his leg (and thank gods for a long jacket).
He wants to be that boy. The realization strikes at him even as something in him curdles at the thought, loathing it (loathing himself) for even having it. He shouldn't want Astarion— at least not like this. Not when he's mean and merciless and cruel, spiteful in his arrogance and awful in his mannerisms . . . it's everything Fenris hates. It's the exact opposite of that lonely boy he'd held close nights ago, the one who'd reached out and ignored reality in favor of companionship (it's not fair, and there will never be a day when he doesn't hear the echo of those words in the back of his mind).
But lust doesn't listen to sense, and the fantasy that arises pulses through him: Astarion, arrogant and beautiful, perched upon his mattress with a leash drawn taut in one hand and his cock in the other, drawling out such a filthy thing. Staring at his bodyguard who strains stubbornly at the collar locked around his throat— and yet who stares and pants and drools for the overheated prick hanging just out of reach. Letting him taste the agony of being forced into patience for once, scorning him for his lust even as he deigns to sate it, such a good boy, now show me your tongue—
Fuck.
He's still half-hard when Astarion sets his hands on his hips. Still fuming and furious when he takes him by the wrist, and yet his skin still sings with the echo of that warmth. Lingering against his hips, his wrist, and it's telling that he doesn't wrench his arm back until they're well outside that smoking room. Then it's a fist grabbing that silk shirt, yanking it roughly to one side as he hauls Astarion into an empty room— come here, a seething hiss as he slams the door shut behind them, shoving Astarion up against the wall with a growl.]
Are you satisfied with yourself?
[Silk creaks warningly within his fist as he grips it too tightly; his other hand grabs for Astarion's hip, pinning him flat against the wall. Don't you dare move.]
Showing off to everyone— and for what? Because you were bored? Because they goaded you?
[No, this won't do— with a growl he spins him around, shoving him face-first against the wooden beam— no moving, no squirming, and a heavy hand pressed against the flat of his back ensures that his prey stays still. Astarion's back arches, his pert little ass sticking out— and oh, far be it for Fenris to resist looking. Soft and supple, and those leather trousers do nothing to conceal what lies beneath . . .
His next swallow is audible.]
Or are you so desperate to be touched you'll take any slut who offers?
[Mine, and the possessive howling in his heart drowns out any good sense he might have. Mine you're mine you're meant to be mine, and only later will he hear the hurt beneath the anger. He crowds forward, forcing Astarion flat against the wall as he shields him and pins him all at once— stay put, his breath ghosting hot against the line of Astarion's ear. Don't move as his hands reach down, finding Astarion's own and pinning them up against the wall. Obedient thing whispered roughly as Fenris rocks his hips forward— and grinds.
Again and again, slowly and yet all the more deliberate for it: a hot, heavy rut as his cock fits between supple cheeks, eagerly claiming every inch of what Astarion cedes to him. There's two layers between them, but Fenris swears he can still feel heat radiating off of the younger elf— all the lust from before still coiling in him, perhaps, and the thought only spurs Fenris on further, his next movement a mean snap of his hips as he presses as far in as those trousers will allow. Deeper, deeper, his cock aching to reach that tight little cinch, precome soaking into the fabric of his boxers as he strains— and then back. Back to that slow, deliberate rhythm, using Astarion's body just to satisfy himself.
And it's such a selfish motion, for there's no thought given to poor Astarion's straining prick, oh, no. Pinned flat between the wall and his belly, and there's not a chance that Fenris will let him reach for it— oh, no, not tonight. Not when he's proven to be so good at teasing others— petty little thing, surely he can handle being on the other side. Again and again, his eyes fluttering as his fingers tighten and loosen in echoing rhythm, his harsh breathing melting into a rumbling groan more felt than heard.]
I am not in the habit of sharing, my charge . . .
[My brat. My elf. Mine, mine, mine . . .]
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He's drenched in Fenris' shadow before he knows where he is. Snapped up against a featureless wall, barely visible, subsumption doesn't even begin to cover the sight of them (it covers all of him outside the twitching span of pale white fingers, pink flush staining their useless tips and spreading lower every second, angling for the places where they meet). And in the other room someone's whining loudly for attention. In the other room someone's wishing for what Fenris has caught between his jaws— or more accurately: what Astarion has. Its audible memory loitering dangerously nearby, feet planted in the present through the thinnest barrier of a dividing wall, muffled voices crawling through plaster and dense-carved polished wood, scraped hard against the shell of Astarion's own ear.
(Don't stop.)
—oh.
Oh.
The winding breed of depravity that'd circled Astarion's mind long before the door snapped shut catches like a spark again and again and again inside his belly for every milestone they blaze past in a roiling blur of frustration. Seconds doing the work of minutes to rearrange them both and yank him higher into outpours of groaning lust already well-incited: jagged and cruel and sweeter than the most expensive wine— punctuating a point he'd only half-imagined under his own bedding until now.
How he loves to be his.
It hits him hard enough to blank his senses in that first, degrading push. It glazes his eyes on the second, dragging bluntness fitfully seeking shelter in the tangle of tight cloth as it wrinkles until it snags rough across his obscured cinch— yes yes yes. Like that. Just like that, gods, please— too much and not enough: he's wanted this from the second he saw Fenris talking to that woman. From weeks ago, in fact, dark wine staining at his lips while he stood on fine carpet and sized up gold-green eyes. Obedient thing is right (and he's glad not to have a choice when those growls wash over his curls in close proximity), considering he does everything he can right down to the rounding of his spine to draw it in with only centimeters to his name. Answering with his own vulgar moan for pressure he could swim in, and proud to play the part better than the patriar he'd had in his arms not two minutes ago, working at like tinder. Trying to catch a spark at a distance.
A long shot.
One that paid off, as it so happens.
(His laugh is a low, razed thing. It shudders in between his shoulder blades to the sound of rustling fabric twisting. Creaking.)]
So you say— but you couldn't stop staring, could you?
[Oh, it's a growl of his own. The nastiest cast to a voice that can't quite match Fenris' rumble, though it's enviably sharp, and only just cut through by panting breaths.]
You're....you're salivating, old man.
....I can hear it.
[He's braced against the wall so tight— no, he's pinned, his cock squirming anxiously against his inseam (his belly) each and every time those bucks dig harder, wringing the air out of his lungs with roughened groans. Barely able to keep himself upright against pressure that has him seeing stars by the end of every blink.
And yet he makes the stupid choice (it isn't a choice) to hook his left ankle back around Fenris' own, twisting his leg to draw his guardian in when there's nothing else left to spare. Goading him the only way he knows how when agency might as well be back in the other room with that heaving little patriar.]
Maybe you should slow down. [The soft, dry click of licked lips, before:] Get a drink.
We wouldn't want you to overexert yourself just— to rut against a pair of pants like the starving thing you are. [He has to be creative. He has to make it count, through the rucking of his trousers and the knitted prickle of his sock set to scraping in the narrow gap it offers: as prudish an invitation as his father's father's courtship (all wound up in the wrists; the ankles), with a still-clothed prick sunk thick between his cheeks and stalking for slick prey.
He tries to pull at that grip (fuck, he's strong). He tries to twist or arch or buck to unclasp the measure of his waistband (fuck, he's pinned too tight), his features scuffing at the wall like a lover all the while, sore and cold against hot skin. Cheeks stinging for its scratch. And yet— and yet and yet and yet— it's intoxicating.
He'd never expected the bait to work so well, but....]
Put yourself on your knees....and I'll let you do to me what I left him panting for.
[Come on, wolf.
Come on.]
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But it amuses. This arrogant pup strutting around on paws too big for him, barking loudly as he tries to pretend he's won . . . Fenris chuckles breathlessly against the sharp line of Astarion's ear, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.]
What an offer.
[Emphasis punctuated by the slow roll of his hips.]
Get to your knees and I will grant you the honor of sucking my cock . . . little noble, your seduction needs work. That kind of offer might fly in these gilded halls among your peers, but you'll have to do better than that if you want to see me on my knees.
[Not tonight, though. Cold air rushes between Astarion's frame and the wall as Fenris draws him back by an inch— just far enough for him to slip deft fingers against his slender frame. Blindly he plucks at his belt buckle, uncinching it swiftly and shoving Astarion's trousers down to his mid-thigh. His cock springs out, heavy heat brushing against the back of his knuckles, and it's so tempting to take it in his palm, to squeeze and stroke and tease—
Instead, Fenris yanks hard at Astarion's belt, cinching it as tight as it will go around pale thighs. It's little more than a makeshift binding, crude but effective, forcing him to keep his legs firmly closed (and trust that there's a smirk on Fenris' lips, the joke too obvious to bother saying aloud). Then that same hand plants itself against Astarion's back, inexorable force urging his back into a sharp arch, his ass pushing out even as his face is pressed closer against the wall— just like that, Fenris whispers, and grips his hips tightly even as he steps back.
And oh, what a sight he makes.
Fenris' charge is a vain thing, but that vanity is well earned— for the sight of him half-naked and trembling leaves Fenris breathless, the air rushing out of his lungs in one harsh burst. His mouth goes dry, his eyes locked on the sight before him: pale skin all but glowing in the darkness, his ass so perfectly pliant before him. Almost in a daze he gropes at him, tanned fingers digging into soft flesh and squeezing hungrily as it melts beneath his palm. He spreads one cheek open, his eyes locking on to the sight of that tight little hole— gods, and it takes everything in him not to tease. To tap the tips of his fingers against that waiting cinch, his thumb rubbing tauntingly without ever once pushing in, but ah— later.
For he wants to relish the sight of Astarion like this. Undignified. Unkempt— no longer is Astarion the proud figure of before. There's not a trace to be found of that arrogant noble who so loves to toy with his peers, baiting them and teasing them until they're worked up in a frenzy, offering him the attention he so obviously craves. That man is a dignified thing, cold and untouchable in all his sadistic glory. Petty in his power and clever in his manipulations, hungry only to see the world bow before him.
This brat is nothing like that. His body half-exposed and his bearing awkward; his hands freed and yet all of him still utterly trapped. Too weak to push the predator slavering over his form away— and in truth, far too hungry to try. He's no noble now. He's not even the odalisque that idiot outside had been, dignified in his seductive air— oh, no. He's little more than a slut in heat now. A boy all but drooling in his desire, wriggling and twisting as he offers himself up, and all the while still trying desperately to pretend he's every inch the proud lord he presents himself as . . .
They'll fix that soon enough.]
Pretty thing . . . you won't come at all tonight.
[It's a warning and a command all at once, issued as Fenris grabs for Astarion's wrist, twisting his arm back behind him. The other he leaves only for support— and so that his little brat might choose what he wants more. To stop himself from being shoved up against the wall like a common slattern, his cheek pressed against wood and his ear listening to all the drifting voices of his peers . . . or to touch himself. To eke out an orgasm clumsily with his left hand, or at least try.
(For the truth is, Fenris won't let him come. Not tonight. If he has to cinch his fingers around the base of that hefty prick or wrench his hand back, he will— for there's no use in rewarding brats when they act out).
From there, his movements are insulting languid. His fingers fish into Astarion's vest, finding the oil tucked there and flicking it open, drizzling it generously atop his cock. Artificial warmth floods through him, a cloying tingle that he shudders to feel— of course it's laced with aphrodisiacs, and he cannot say he didn't expect it.]
Enjoy this, now. Your reward for all your petty manipulations . . .
[A sudden edge to his rumbling voice as Fenris discards the bottle and grips Astarion's hip. Yanks him back as he presses forward, his cock smearing slickly against that unguarded little hole. Blunt heat presses against it, oil smearing against that cinch as it starts to cede beneath inexorable pressure—
And stops.
Dripping and suddenly untouched, and before Astarion has time to cry out, Fenris' cock slips lower, swiftly forcing itself between pale thighs. Fenris groans low in his throat as lithe muscles squeeze at him so tight, the warmth of Astarion's skin more than enough to sate him— especially as his hips pick up a swift rhythm. His cock slams forward, the blunted crown only occasionally tapping roughly against Astarion's own forgotten hang; again and again he fucks his student's thighs, rutting him with all the inelegant grace of a brute fighter, practical and messy. Oil drips down pale thighs that can't part, the slap of their hips meeting echoing throughout the room— each noise cruel reminder of what Astarion might have gotten, as all the while cold air stings as it drifts over his untouched cinch. Again and again Fenris drags him back as he slams forward, growling low in his throat as he takes his prize— and it's not what he wants, it's not tight heat squeezing his cock, it's not being buried to the hilt in his errant student, claiming him in the most primal way— but it's enough. It's enough, it's enough, every thrust a sharp rebuke against that stupid boy's giggle, every squeeze of Astarion's thighs validation that there is nowhere his student would rather be. Just with me, just with me, Fenris' fingers leaving bruises against fair hips, mine mine mine—]
Is this what you envisioned? Is this what you wanted, little brat? I hope so, for it's all you've earned . . .
[And like this, perhaps, the lesson from teacher to student becomes clear: act out and I still won't give you what you want, little one.]
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No—
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—
Joke or not (how he feels that smear of breath across his neck that signals Fenris' self-satisfied smirk— the one that makes Astarion's legs go numb below the knees, yanking his foot back in line against any and all resistance— ) it's the first time in his short life he's been up against the wall with his legs kept intentionally shut; his mouth unused and open in their place, wet with hunger and dry from sucked-in air. Thickslung arousal throbbing from whatever pent-up pressure already streaks along gilt wallpaper, bouncing as it sways sharply back and forth.
He groans to feel his ass lift without his input. Cheek a half-breadth away from scraping its way to a messy sort of bruise.
Fumbling with an open palm that slaps more than it braces; he doesn't have time to think between the footnotes, crying out for the slick across his hole, left damningly abandoned.
He's slipped (his toes slip inside his patent shoes, shoving him— nearly slamming him— against cold plaster on the next reverberating pump of iron hips). Arrogance made him clumsy. Makes him prey when he's a lion's lauded cub: trounced in an empty room and made into a little wriggling furrow for some unimportant servant's perfumed cock. Oh, the talk would ruin if word somehow managed to get out. Fine to be an apex thing that pumps one's length or sates one's cunt on the squealing use of lesser game, for supremacy makes everything viable, but the other way around? That's weakness. That's unworth. That's—
—perfect.
Relentless and perfect. Infuriating and perfect. Violating and demeaning and perfect, perfect, perfect. Tongue shoved against the backs of his own teeth while his head lolls and the world runs white, incapable of blinking. Thinking. Name it and he can't: a rutting hole won't be picky for its use, and ignoring the finery he's dressed in (tailored coat enough to feed a family for months; the leather belt drawing livid welts across his skin that burn like snapping sparks more expensive than a car; his sweatsoaked pants painstakingly stitched by peerless hands, gilt thread unraveling by the second as it frays), that's all he is under hands that feel like sandpaper and glass and heat. Raw, commanding heat. Held steady to the rock-hard thresh of slickness pushing harsh between his thighs over and over the way someone stokes a fire, fierce momentum feathering the underside of plush curves and closing in against his drooling prick, almost enough to— to—
He gets as far as the first bump before his nerves all but shriek in outrage, fever pitch taking him gut-first and using his throat as its conduit: howling like a rabbit seized by its own neck— trying to thrash just as effectively, in fact, meaning only that it isn't. Just a jolt between trapped shoulders. A painful twisting of his arm. He can't see behind him (Fenris a blur of silver-blue and white in the farthest corner of his watering left eye), but he can feel that rhythm keeping pace with the way the room is shifting, and fucking Hells, he's rocking with it. Groaning and mewling and sweating and whining in inglorious near-ecstasy, the narrow little span of his entry grasping at nothing at all between his battered cheeks.
Free hand whipped back to yank nails first at whatever part of his keeper's within reach.]
F— Fen— !!
[Barely a minute in, and Fenris is about to prove himself wrong.
Not about it being what Astarion wants, or what he's even earned, that wicked instigator still choking on his imperious fantasies unmade. Not even about enjoying it, because oh, he's doing that more than he ever thought he could in every vulgar, outright spasming sense. But when the stakes are this high and the friction sweet as liquid sugar to a thing so bloody young— ah.
The slide of it's too much, channeling between his legs. Knocking into his prick (oh, that's what does it in the end: a single, passing nudge struck just beneath his crest).
Astarion comes.
One warning pulse of rippling tension the only sign of what comes next, and if his bodyguard isn't swift enough to tamp it before it starts— ]
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And Fenris, for all his talk of before, allows it. It's a split-second impulse, one that pays off in an instant— for Astarion is so pretty as he tumbles headfirst over the edge. His prick (heavy, and Fenris' eyes greedily drink in the sight, heavy and thick and hot, oh, he will relish wrapping his lips around that cock someday) bobs in the air as the force of his orgasm wracks through him. Thick ropes of pearly come splatter messily against the wall in heaving rhythm, drooling down messily from his slit and smearing against pale thighs, as all the while Astarion lets slip the sweetest noises. Mewling moans and ragged cries, sweat lining his forehead as his body goes so rigid in Fenris' arms— oh, it wracks through the whole of him, tip to toe, a shuddering little mess that can't help himself.
Pretty thing. Pretty loud thing; Fenris releases his arm in favor of slipping his hand up, two fingers thrusting into that drooling mouth as it howls its pleasure. And you know, it's a pity to lose all those whimpers and moans&dmash; but there's something fantastic about the wet gurgle of Astarion's voice as calloused fingers flatten his tongue and knock against his teeth.
They stay like that: interlocked, intertwined, Fenris' cock still slowly pumping between pale thighs. Until at last that heavy cock pulses one last time, meager droplets pattering onto the marble beneath them, and all those drooling howls ebb into something softer. He leans forward then, nuzzling sweetly behind the line of one upturned ear, his fingers slowly matching the rhythm of his hips as he languidly claims Astarion's mouth.]
Oh, little noble . . . I forgot how new this must be for you.
[It's the purring delight of a predator who found unexpected prey, the fondness in his tone corrupted by the sadism woven deep within. Fenris chuckles, and it is a mean thing, dark and depthless. All the frustration of the past few weeks thrums within his body; all the humiliation he suffered at Astarion's hands, forgiven but never forgotten, roars up to fuel this mood. Get on your knees and entertain us, oh, arrogant little pup . . .]
Excitable thing . . . is this the first time you've ever been taken like this? Not like a spoiled little princeling who gets to dip his cock in anyone and know they'll beg for more, but like the mewling slut in heat you really are . . .
[His fingers keep pumping into Astarion's mouth, edging deeper and deeper with every slow pulsing push. Heels click rapidly as they pass the doorway, a sharp break to the steady murmur of voices and laughter that lies just a doorspan away.]
Keep quiet, now. My fingers will only muffle so much, and we don't want your precious friends to find you, hm? Ah— they're hunting for you already.
[For the owner of those heels is speaking, and Violet's arrogant tones are impossible to mistake. He can't make out what she's demanding, but it barely matters: it's enough she's near. It's enough that Astarion shivers in his arms, his legs still tied together and his cock drooling in the aftermath of his inelegant denouncement. With a little groan Fenris' hips pick up the pace, the soft slap of skin against skin music to his sadistic ears.]
Perhaps I should let them watch . . .
[(Oh, he would never. He would never, not just because he wouldn't wish such humiliation on anyone, but because he wouldn't do that to his Astarion. But his noble need not know that. He need not know that the door is locked; that Fenris would whisk him away in an instant if need be. Let him squirm. Let him wriggle and writhe and mewl in belated payback for the way he'd made Fenris little more than humiliating spectacle that first night.)]
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Freed fingers already scrabbling at Fenris' thighs, his eyes still partway rolled beneath his lids, jaw open and quivering for the next encroaching thrust of coarsegrained fingers (that taste so good— like oaken casks or sandalwood and the crispness prior to a storm), filled up with the scrape of bitter salt dragging hot along the back of his tongue in a rhythm that won't settle, pushing him further and further into the crook of Fenris' waiting shoulder without so much as a breathy, whimpered fuss: every bit of him remolded with senseless ease in the way something wild knows to settle when it's scruffed. And really, what difference is there? Kept upright beneath Fenris' arm and the measure of that rigid cock pushed snug around the bottom of his cheeks: he'd be on the floor if that teetering sense of pleasurable fatigue had its way with him, not that it changes much. His limbs are still limp. His neck's still craning under the pleading urge for more— playing witness to how Fenris fucks steadily into the channel that barely divides his legs— his own spent span splayed across his upper thighs and flush for how it throbs in gravity's harsh grip; he's shuddering under its palpitating aches more than the halfhearted gushes of pearl that languidly crawl down to channel against leather and sore skin in their own time, framing each of those sawing pumps with the sight of everything they've made. Wet between his legs and proven wet behind the ears.
Excitement and exhilaration making him sweet against an onslaught that he purrs for as it tears him into shreds.
Overstimulated. Understoked— all that he can think of is that he's grateful his cock's gone too limp to be of use. That he can't sink further into this game (oh, little elf, how wrong you are....) when the click of heels and familiar voices mingle with Fenris' reverberating chastisement against the shell of his ear, and the low, muffled keen Astarion makes out of contentment (for that's what it is, mistake it for nothing else but that) never makes it past his lips: pumped right back down by the pads of fingers that could crawl into his stomach if they wanted. Into his chest. His heart. His veins. Fuck— he doesn't care, so long as they don't leave; sinking his teeth in cruelly for the overriding burst of a few seconds where his mind stutters hard enough to hurt (to feel beyond wonderful)— swallowing the crook of his knuckles, though that's as far as it goes. Length, alas, only lets fingertips slide so far back, and no matter how he works his throat for more, he can't have it. Can't have anything, in fact, the shuttling of that prick still teasing the underside of him so that he's riled but not close, and yet he could, he thinks— or only realizes, maybe. He could come like this. He could, he could, he could. Just with a little more....and more....and....
(He could.)
To just the patter of those feet and the brace of Fenris' strong chest. To the way his heels are useless: buckled and reduced to a static buzz that underscores every jostle of his overwhelmed cock. To the way he reaches back again, raw momentum leading, to hook his fingers in those pants behind him, twisting against fabric with his pristine nails until they anchor, threatening to break beneath bright lacquer. His mind a roaring blaze of empty heat, dissembling everything into more of that contagious, vacant shriek that cracks between his teeth, welcoming grotesque vulgarity instead of pressure.
And then he—
(Comes.)
Bites down.
Again.
Synaptic crackle searing away minutes (or seconds?) a second, reeling time: sensation sounding like the high-pitched soughing of plastic against metal as it churns inside his skull into a violent snap that he can taste— he's thrashing in his mind and stilling in reality; his cock the only thing that jerks just once, throat a gurgling mess of extant bliss— imagining this, craving this, for exactly what it is. Everything. Everything. Everything he could want and everything he needs, swallowing him pride-first two steps away from his friends. His peers. Ten away from his conquests. Mewling and moaning for the meal he hasn't even had yet that keeps on taunting and tempting him to ruinous despoilment.
So it's the third bite that brings him back enough to sink his figurative fangs in like a twitch of half-strung awareness clinging to fractured reflexes.
A twinge of pressure before his jaws finally clamp tight around thick knuckles, bearing down until they shake. Until his tongue begins to lathe between caught digits in a stumbling pattern. Still whining, still wanting, still heaving on the verge of consciousness itself, but stubborn in it. Unwilling to let go when there's nothing left to give.
Staying latched through trembling palms and working with his own numbed hips no matter how his body screams. He will take this. He will prove he's not some pampered thing in need of service. That he can rut harder. Fight better. The echo of some dark, damp alleyway ringing in his ears alongside the bone-deep shock of orgasm, spurring him against himself. Don't pity him. Don't you dare— ]
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[He hisses it against Astarion's ear, his vicious grin all but audible as fledgling fangs sink into calloused flesh. Pain erupts behind Fenris' eyes, a bright white flash that sings up his nerves, piercing right through the pleasure in three sharp rapidfire bursts. And the guiding trick in Fenris' life has always been to learn to love pain— and so it's a slick, low moan that chases after that mocking praise. The shrieking pulse of pain weaves its way into the rhythmic symphony already thundering through his body, pulsing in time with the unrelenting throb of his cock squeezed between lean thighs, the rapid slap of flesh against flesh, all of it only ever growing faster, hotter, hungrier.
And then there's that tongue.
Overheated and sinfully clever as it lathes its way between Fenris' fingers, proving once again that Astarion might be young, but he isn't virginal— oh, no, not with a tongue like that. His lips suckle at Fenris' knuckles as the tip of his tongue teases so pointedly, caressing every whorl along his fingerpads, teasing against old scars and blunted nails. Look what I can do, his charge all but whines, look at how well I could treat you, and far be it for Fenris to ignore such a dexterous show of spirit.]
All that talk about having me get on my knees, but oh, little noble . . . it seems like it might suit you more. Look at how eager you are . . . does it feel good, having that weight on your tongue? Sucking at my fingers as you drool for them— I can feel you salivating, boy, [and trust that's an intentional echo.]
Just think of how much more you could have had.
[The hungry snap of his hips suddenly picks up the pace, his cock thrusting slickly between Astarion's thighs— in and out, in and out . . .]
My cock flattening that pretty tongue of yours— a gag that finally suits you and shuts you up all at once. Sinking so deep in you that I wouldn't just claim your mouth, but your throat: watching you swallow desperately around me, fighting not to gag, for you're far too experienced for that, aren't you? And yet . . . so eager to be dominant. So eager not to get on your knees . . . so perhaps not. Perhaps I'll have to teach you what it is to suck on a prick properly, breaching your throat again and again until at last you learn to take it all . . .
[His tongue drags over the edge of one pointed ear, his teeth sharp as he bites at the tip.]
And that's to say nothing of when I finally fuck you the way you deserve— splitting that little hole of yours open atop my prick and breeding you until you're docile for me— begging me for more even as you drip my come from both ends . . .
[Oh, he's so close. He's so close, his cock pumping so swiftly between those pretty thighs and the fantasy of Astarion drooling with come sharp in his mind's eye, but ah, not yet, not yet. Fenris forces his hips to slow, his cock pumping steadily as he adds with a roughened chuckle:]
Are you going to come again?
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[Which sounds like a muffled mmph.
His protest lost beneath those fingers, an expert working at his craft and yet unmade by it— vulgarity devouring him alive with avid interest. No, he won't come, he tells himself, denial framed by the thought of rough-edged fingertips replaced by something softer and heavier, expansive in the sweetest sense. Gazing up at that magnificent creature from the center of those legs, knees aching, pulse racing while his fingers pump in and out swiftly (throat bobbing) in obscene shadow, mind numb.
It's running numb again.
Dangerously numb, in fact. Under the sway of temptation and the snap of thrusting hips, he's faltering like there's nothing else besides it to sink into— not victory, not the fight, just bliss and comfortable mockery that curls inside his stomach, telling him to stay. To behave.
Ask anyone and they'll call it impossible a task as ever, convincing the long-impetuous Lord Ancunín to curb his want for someone else's, and what he'd wanted tonight was a grander thought: Leto sucking mouthfuls from his cock in a closed room, already suckled into warming on that bout of prior foreplay he didn't even feel. His stern visage gone obedient and pretty as it sank down to the floor in slow petition, falling prey to the old tried and true tricks kept locked within Astarion's sharp arsenal, left tamed as surely as any bit or bridle would insist— tongue shining white just to pour out of his mouth in drooling patters. Look at what I've done for you. How much I've given you at last.
Instead they aren't even fucking, and he's running out of willpower faster than he's running out of air, albeit by the thinnest margin. He hasn't been touched— not properly. Not like he'd expected. Not like he deserves. His knees taken to shivering for the feeling that they lack while he wrestles just to offer up small pumps of swift manipulation, driving Fenris' thickglazed prick along the slender channel dividing entry and soft swells, his hands shaking, knuckles screaming, nails biting. It's a miracle he hasn't lost his balance in the battle, but maybe he can thank the brace of Fenris' shoulder combined with the thrust of heated fingers for that cruel, humiliating (satisfying) anchor.
The door could swing right open and his friends would never believe it. This isn't how things work. This isn't how he works—
And as he cants himself into the next precipitating buck, imagining every last profane image of himself split wide across what won't even deign to use him in this moment (his body stretched to all its limits, glutted on his guardian's offered signature), all he can think of— the last thing that he thinks, in fact— is that it's perfect.
He wakes up later with a start.
A jolt of sharp awareness that's disorienting, fingers rushing to his mouth, his jaw, his legs—
It's daylight. He's in bed. Clean. Dressed, but only in his sleeping clothes. He doesn't smell like sex or Fenris. Not even that puerile little noble's perfume lingers when he gives his own wrist a perfunctory sniff just to be sure. No. No, just himself.
But it can't have been a dream (it damned well better not have been), glancing around his room for the one person with insight— and barring that (finding Fenris' windowside seat frustratingly vacant), his own phone, searching for messages. Timestamps. Photos. Anything.
Where is Fenris?
(Had they actually— )]
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[To be fair to Fenris: it's the third time he's checked in on his charge. The first two times were spaced an hour apart: the first in the morning, when he'd woken from what was really more of a nap than a proper sleep, and then later, after he'd gone through his morning exercises and begged a bit of breakfast from one of the kitchen girls who seems to be soft on him. It's nearly eleven now— late, perhaps, for Fenris, but early enough for his night-loving charge.
Closing the door behind him, he comes to sit on the edge of Astarion's bed. And at first blush, perhaps Astarion does wonder if it was a dream, for there's no real change in his bodyguard's countenance. There's still the same stern expression, albeit a little softer around the edges as he settles in. His teeth don't bare in vicious mockery, and there's no sense of smugness as he stares down at his reclining charge—
But perhaps there's a glint in his eye. A little curl in the curve of his lips. Some belittling (doting) echo in the way he reaches down to sweep Astarion's hair out of his eyes.]
You will not find anything there.
[His phone, he means, indicating the glowing screen with a little nod. ]
You went dark after a few more trips into ecstasy, [and for a moment there's the strangest sense of déjà vu, but he ignores it.] I cleaned you up and snuck you out— no easy task, I assure you, for your friends wondered where you went. But after I assured them I was equally as keen to find you, they assumed you'd snuck off for some round of indulgent debauchery, and I was able to ferry you out.
[Fenris leans down, carefully arranging himself so he lies on his side next to Astarion, his head braced along one hand. And oh, he is smug about it, for now a smirk lays properly along his lips, his eyes glinting playfully as he settles near his charge.]
You came at least twice more, though I wouldn't be surprised if it was more than that— you keened so loudly around the swell of my fingers by the third time. All but choking on them as you tried to beg me for more and then toppled headfirst into yet another chained orgasm . . . such a needy thing. Trembling and drooling, come dripping all down your thighs as you fought for consciousness and more all at once . . . and yet your cock still twitched even as you passed out in my arms.
[A flashbang grin steals over his face, there and gone— oh, he doesn't regret a second of it.]
How much do you remember, little noble?
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[It isn't balking, it's a growl, snaking from his throat in the seconds prior to a lunge that has him coiled over his sprawled bodyguard (never mind that his cock's already stiffened from suggestion, caught hot against his thigh like a brand, insisting on a memory he won't soon manage to outrun), never mind that he can almost taste those fingers if he dares to shut his eyes— watching them disappear along the back of Fenris' own head only to chase them with his hand: grabbing that smug excuse for a servant by both his wrists and wrenching them to the sheets through leverage alone, silvered stare gleaming like a knife in sunlight.
It was kind, that Fenris didn't rub it in. He had to have been patient just to wait so long, lying and feigning at what he didn't know just to shake the bloodhounds from their scent, not to mention how difficult it would've been to clean Astarion as a servant in the middle of an overlavish affair.
But if Astarion was the sort for gratitude, it's more than late to the party, now.]
You cheated.
[Oh, it wasn't fair, cries the player that'd rigged the game well before they'd ever even begun. The one with a head start, who then shoves his forehead hard against the center of Fenris' own with one more insistent snap of air let out from rousing lungs, posturing like a lion over prey, though it's only the depiction in his mind.]
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[It won't always be like this. He will not always be so damnedably smug, flaunting caution in favor of smirking up at Astarion— but for now, let him revel in it. Let him thrill in the hot puffs of air against his cheek, the sweet scent of Astarion surrounding him as their foreheads press together and the tight squeeze of slender fingers sears itself into Fenris' memory. He grins blindly and tips his head back, baring his throat in a mockery of surrender: oh, you got me, little cub. As he wriggles impotently against the bed, straining against a grip he could shatter if it pleased him, oh, you did it, you triumphed, laughter shining in his gaze all the while.]
If I did, you seemed to enjoy it . . . perhaps submission suits you more than you think. You certainly moaned up a storm around my fingers . . . or did I cheat my way into that, too?
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But what rules were they, really?
That a patriar's supposed to carry weight? That the house always wins? That's childish. Stupid. Blind, above all else, but it doesn't change the fact that it's what Astarion knows— and has known— for far, far too long. And the only creature questioning it is....]
You were afraid to let me lead. [He pushes back, shoving roughly against that turning cheek before taking the offer of that throat, teeth-first: not remotely above getting in a head start the second that it's given with his shirt draped loose and his cock edged hard along the merger of their hips, craning his neck to bite, and scrape, and rock with all his angled strength down against the places where they meet. Forefingers lifted on either side of grapped wrists to push into the center of marked palms, proving that traits like submission, dominance— both, all— are more than just a matter of brute force or advantage.
And he knows it.
He knows that if nothing else, smugness included, thoughts of last night have probably been smoldering ever since inside that handsome skull, no matter how good he's been when left to tend a dozing master. Self-satisfied and warranted, but unless he tucked himself into a closet or bruised that sense of pride? Oh, unfinished.
This isn't over yet.]
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He shouldn't. All it would take would be a single set of eyes— some overeager maid or errant bootboy who can't help but wag their tongues in amusement the moment they realize what's happening. Lord Astarion's bedding another tutor, at least this one lasted a full month, and he'd be out on his ass before dusk. He'd be thrown to the wolves, and no matter that Astarion promised to protect him, for it wouldn't matter, not when it was his word against his lord father's. The safest thing right now would be to throw him off and back away, and yet—]
Fasta vass . . .
[He breathes it out hotly, his eyes fluttering closed as his fingers curl in their nominal bindings. Fucking hell, for Astarion isn't wrong: whatever began last night isn't over. He'd fooled himself into thinking that it was, assuming today would be full of redrawn boundary lines and earnest discussions, but more fool him, for his charge is a wild thing. Stubborn and competitive, petulant and selfish, and he wants what he wants when he wants it. His fierce pride stung thanks to all that happened last night, and of course he wants to set the score straight—
And Fenris wants him to.
Not like this. Oh, he can do better, Fenris is sure; this is a mere warm-up. If they are to fight, let his charge show his claws: not these feeble nibbles against Fenris' throat (ones that leave his breath hitching, his Adam's apple bobbing heavily as he swallows), but something truly fierce.]
Dominance is earned, little patriar.
[His voice has dropped low into his throat, more a warning rumble than the sweetly sarcastic tones of before. He's straining at his trousers already, stars bursting behind his eyes each time that plush ass rocks and grinds against his cock; it isn't long before his hips rock up in answering echo. Like that, just like that, heat suffusing through him as he stares at nothing.
It had been so hard last night. He'd been every inch the diligent bodyguard, careful in how he cleaned claiming pearl off the span of those pretty thighs and dutifully tugging his trousers up— but gods, his desires had run dark. Vicious and mean and petty, born of all his simmering resentment and heady dominance not yet sated— for just a bit of rutting wasn't nearly enough. Not for this brat. Again and again Fenris' gaze had gone to the slackened span of those pretty lips, dreaming of what it would be to straddle Astarion's shoulders and viciously fuck that mouth the way it deserves. Unresisting wet heat suddenly become resistant the moment Astarion woke, choking on the intimidating swollen span of him, his eyes wet with unshed tears and the most undignified noises vibrating low in his throat as he swallowed again and again—
Only to melt into it. To realize that what he wants, truly wants, is to be put in his place at last: his eyes rolling back in pleasure as his head bobs feebly, lips tightening in dogged effort to contribute. Whining and whimpering and mewling until at last he'd fed the way he deserves, left to pant and gasp around a tongue coated in pearl.
And that's to say nothing of how badly Fenris wants to claim him from the other end. Spreading plush cheeks and sinking his cock deep into that tempting little cinch . . .
Gods, and his next exhale is a harsh thing. His pulse thrums beneath Astarion's fingers, and yet he doesn't move to throw him off just yet. Let the lesson play out. After all, he is meant to be his tutor.]
You imagine I'm afraid . . .? Of what?
[Another lazy grin, this one meaner than the last.]
The nipping of your teeth? Your insistence on grinding atop my cock? I will admit, I would have let you take the lead before if I'd known your flavor of dominance was so dedicated to servicing another . . .
[Do better.]
Go on: slide down and take my prick in your mouth. Suck me off and really put me in my place.
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You think I'm an idiot, don't you?
[The edges of his teeth lead that question, ruthlessly clamping down on Fenris' lower lip just in time to get an entire mouthful of exhaled air— and it says something (not now: later. Later it'll say something) that Astarion has no idea which one of them it came from, what with heat busy striking up more heat somewhere deep in the steady shoves of skin against skin. Cloth over cloth. Where every time that lordling twists to get a better angle on his next harassing snap his thumbprints scrub until they're hot, punctuating just how much tension's still stuck in them that it's already at a fever pitch despite this only being foreplay, his knuckles sore for how tight he's locked them, turning the tanned skin across corded wrists bone white— at least around the indents of his grip.
And does Astarion really think Fenris imagines him as a fool? Not really. Not exactly. It wasn't as if they weren't playing last night, too, albeit with figurative knives out. In fact the moral of this story could be that if Astarion had opted to be kind about his bodyguard's clarification instead of dry-humping a noble prick just to get under his skin, maybe conversely he wouldn't have wound up in that side room passed out cold with an aching cock across his lap.
But then they wouldn't have ended up here, either.
Attacking each other with the ragged outlines of their arousal; entirely aware the longer this drags on, the more he finds his lips twitching closer to a sneer than a snarl.]
A spoiled patriar tugging at your ears, demanding that you take him seriously.
[After last night (flashes of lingering sensation peppering his mind if he closes in too much: blurry recollection just an overwrought surge of numbness blaring between clenched teeth, catching hard between his legs in mirrored bursts, no real memory tacked on— only raw pressure and the burnmarks on his thighs, still there when he dares to flex them), the point is, who could blame Fenris? He won. Not even by a meter, by a mile; it's not remotely close to a debate when doubt died three times over in those arms— you don't work someone to unconsciousness without getting to forever gloat.
That said, it's always dangerous to score a point first in a fencing match.
Your opponent learns your moves.
In the middle of just one more pair of predictably enticing bucks, Astarion lunges forward to force the whole of his weight into his palms (leveraged hold buckling those slight arms) as he hooks one toe in the hemline of his trousers and then pulls: displacement and leonine agility taking them clean off in the middle of transitioning— straddling Fenris the other way round. Toes snapped to where his touch had been, mouth angled just over where his hips had been grinding for the last few scattered minutes: only his nightshirt and its lengthy-yet-closing-in-on-sheer border left to cover the whole of his raised body, his most vulgar assets barely obscured alongside friction marks and peppered bruises— or left to subltly slide along the center of Fenris' chest.
One flick of his chin— the same insistent teeth still warm from hounding branded skin— and the waistband of his guardian's defenses pops effortlessly free.
Every word whispered through the barely parted outline of a zipper.]
You don't ruin twenty five careers through good looks alone, old man.
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Foolish, and all the more so because every word Astarion hisses out is true: he did underestimate him. So smug over his victory from last night, so assured that his centuries of experience put him miles ahead of anything Astarion had ever done, he'd forgotten just why he'd said no in the first place. It wasn't for Lord Ancunín's sake, valuing his employer's wishes above his charge's desires. It wasn't just for the purposes of protecting his own heart, though that wasn't a lie. It wasn't even because of how damned dangerous it is for the two of them to rut, and all the consequences that might crash around their ears as a result.
It was because he'd known, somewhere deep in his soul, that once they begun, he wouldn't ever want to stop.
He began it last night, and here, now, he reaps what he sowed, for there's no part of Fenris that isn't screaming in desire as Astarion plays with him. That clever little seductor that knows just how to tempt another, offering an unrivaled view that Fenris wastes no time in drinking in. His eyes flit over the pale span of his thighs, lingering along the faint traces of bruises and frictionmarks that remain, each one sparking a hint of a memory. (Astarion moaning. Astarion drooling. Astarion with his head tipped back and his ass bouncing against Fenris' hips, eyes rolling back as he'd come again, again, again, and oh, how merciless his bodyguard was, refusing to stop no matter how many times he'd tried to plead).
And then up. Up to where the hazy hang of that nightshirt only serves to entice Fenris more: soft curves all but visible as they settle atop his chest, cheeks spreading open with blatant intent. His hands rise, his fingers flexing, because he wants to— gods, he wants to, half a dozen filthy ideas springing to his mind. He wants to grope and fondle that pretty ass until Astarion is mewling for him once more; he wants to drag him even closer so that he might shove that nightshirt up and set his tongue to that needy hole. Fucking him first with the slickened span of his tongue and then, once he's good and wet, with his fingers: stretching him open one by one, watching him whine and writhe and mewl for it—
Fuck.
His cock tents his boxers, dark droplets already revealing his arousal, and the pant of hot air as Astarion speaks doesn't help. Nor does the way he taunts— gods, but that sends the worst kind of arousal pulsing through him, his cock outright twitching in needy response as it does.]
Fasta vass . . .
[He hisses it under his breath, his head slumping back against the pillow as he tries valiantly to rally himself. There are reasons not to do this, you know. Good ones. Very, very important ones, and if he could just remember what they were—]
The door is unlocked.
[It's too weak. Too much a mewling protest that means nothing— one that Fenris is sure Astarion has heard before. And shamefully, that above all else drives him to grab at those lithe hips. There's no way to wriggle free without ruining it all, and gods, he doesn't quite want that, but just— wait, blunt fingernails digging into Astarion's hips as he grits his teeth.]
And there is no saving me if someone walks in here with my cock in your mouth, Astarion!
[And it's a real protest. It truly is. But not as real, maybe, as what follows.]
Wait— wait—
[Not because he doesn't want to, but because now the thought is planted in his mind. Twenty-five careers, and what is he if not the twenty-sixth? What is he if not everything he loathed in the past few weeks? Oh, he can justify it plenty, but so could they— and it's different, yes, but . . . he needs to know it. He needs some confirmation that this isn't just a bright, brief spark before it all fizzles out.
(He needs to know that this is wanted, not just a means of achieving a goal).]
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Intoxicating, pitch-perfect, dangerous control.
And the thing he's always liked about its shape is that like any overruling force, it doesn't care about a fair fight: lust won't tilt over who's strongest or fastest or— against the run of last night's disconnected whispers (a pulse of phantom breath along his ear that hitches in his stomach even now)— who's oldest. Open-mouthed, it's ugly. It grabs, and in Astarion's experience? Usually by the throat first, leaving barely any slack for thought, let alone breath. It's why last night had been Fenris' win in the end, and why today's going to be different. He can feel it already, caught squirming between his knees. (Go on Fenris crowed a minute or so ago, so damned content with himself at the time after dining on easy friction and a win he could pin to his sleeve.) Now curled toes wrap against the jut of that moon elf's wrists, his torso slacking into something more convex to lift into the angle of his rising cock— and—
Wait.
—Wait.
The jagged little warble puffed between his thighs that isn't hotter than his skin, even settled close. But where was that mercy for Astarion last night? (Ah, but where was Astarion's mercy for Fenris, first?)
Around the angle of his shoulder, he grins:]
Oh, so now that I'm winning you want to fret about the door, is that it? [It's a smart move, at least. Sharp enough to give Astarion maybe half a second of snorting amusement if nothing else, teeth already back to harassing settled cloth.]
Tsk. I wasn't born yesterday, despite what you might think.
I'm not falling for that.
[He sits back stubbornly in a substitute for countering punishment, and there— pleasant and overwarm— comes the smooth slide of Fenris' profile drawn against the base of his cock. Catching the tip of that strong nose, finding the soft pillow of his lips on the next sidling roll of his hips. His shirt still falling loose around it all, and he can feel the way it forms a sort of cage around the act— obscuring it like any civilized in-humor in conversation: right there in plain sight, only thinly veiled. Shamelessly arranged.
His legs are spread, his knees are buckled. His hips are risen over the line of Fenris' face, teasing and dipping in exploratory patterns that don't leave room for talk even without penetrating that striking mouth, his own left nuzzling at the sheltered outline of his guardian's stiff lust, dampness kissing at his nose to make this a perfectly mirrored affair: someone could slap censor blurs across the whole of it and there still would be no mistaking it for what it is.
A little slattern at his favorite craft.]
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And what?
Leap to his feet? Claim that he was helping Astarion undress, and never mind the sizable swell in his trousers? There's no hiding it. There's no avoiding it. He cannot have the middle ground he's hunting for— just as Astarion couldn't last night. And it isn't the same, some stubborn part of him insists, for the humiliating indignity of being a noble caught at a bodyguard's mercy is far, far different than the consequence of being thrown to the wolves and back into his master's clutches, but . . . nor can Fenris deny that Astarion isn't wholly wrong, either.
For though he also balks for more intimate reasons, what was last night if not a refusal to adhere to them? If he is to be the twenty-sixth— and he is too cynical, too jagged, too raw not to fear such a thing— he has already crossed that line. The moment he yanked Astarion into that dark room he made his choice, and now all that remains is to see where the debris settles.
There's no way but forward. No choice but the one he made hours and hours ago. And so though his nerves still whimper softly in fear—
The next noise that rings between them isn't a protest, but a groan. Low and hungry despite its owner's better instincts; a crumbling sense of willpower accompanying the way his cock twitches once more as Astarion nuzzles against it. Yes, and it isn't about consent so much as submission. Yes, yes, and it's the same reason he doesn't throw Astarion off him. It's the same reason he squirms beneath the shadow of those pale thighs, arousal thundering through him as the plush crown of Astarion's prick drags against his face. Yes, and he isn't giving up the fight just yet—
But gods, if he doesn't love this.
It's so crude. So mean, a petty punishment from a bratty little slut that's furious that he lost his favorite game, and yet Fenris finds himself all but trembling in desire as he suffers it. Precome glimmers in the morning light as it smears against his cheek, the heavy weight of his prick palpable as it drags against his lips. He hadn't gotten a good look last night, not really, but oh, his little noble has ample reason to be proud, for his cock is even prettier in daylight. A heavy hang sits between his thighs, big enough to be intimidating to someone virginal— and a mouth-watering treat to those too used to something smaller. Fenris' next exhale is an overheated thing, his own prick straining avidly at his boxers as he contemplates what's being held before him—
And lets his lips part.
(Lets them part, and in a battle such as this, such distinctions matter).
His tongue is already slick with saliva, his prick straining needily at his boxers— but the moment Astarion's cock slips into his mouth, Fenris feels some part of himself ignite. That fierce competitiveness and pent-up desire crashes over him all at once, a resurgence that leaves him starving for more— more, and how can he resist when Astarion's prick is all but in his mouth? His tongue flits eagerly over his slit, working to tease at the crown of his prick— more, give me more, and he doesn't care if it makes him look weak. He doesn't care if Astarion takes it as a victory, a submissive bodyguard finally brought to heel—
For it isn't that.
Oh, it's submission, do not mistake him— but what would be the point if he gave up so early?
Now he pulls his arms free, wrenching at least one away so that he can grip Astarion's hip, forcing that lithe frame down. More, urged instead of taken, his jaw straining and his throat audibly gulping as he swallows down inch after searing inch—
Until he can't anymore. Until perhaps Astarion jerks himself free, momentum and leverage in his favor— or until Fenris' throat suddenly closes, the guttural sound of gagging and thrashing legs humiliating evidence that he has never once taken a cock this big.]
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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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