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.]
[Taken by surprise by that avidity— Fenris' mouth is on Astarion before he can do anything but stumble for an acclimating second, his efforts as avaricious as a suckling yearling with its mouth around a bottle.]
G-good boy, there you go.
[Strewth— he'd be laughing if he wasn't groaning in animal reflex as he melts to feel that throat begin to flutter in surrender: the squeeze of it abyssal and lightless in those first few driving inches while their bodies rearrange. The ones that have his blunted crown rammed right into the slope along the back of Fenris' tongue with only a second or two to spare, those obscured lips caught wringing as they slick with rising drool, their grip embracing every jerk and fevered jolt his little lordling's prick decides to offer. Broad contours swallowed like a sheathe, though the slide of hungry pressure's too raw to be finessed given the stop-start bobbing climbing upwards between slim thighs— and maybe that's just Fenris' way. He's a mercenary killer, when all's been said and done. A bodyguard. A fighter. Whatever he did in dark backrooms was probably as rough as Astarion pictured in his dreams (waking and imagined, both), stitched together from the cloth of fisted fingers and lightless eyes pinched shut so hard they'd redden at their edges. Nothing pretty. Nothing refined— at least not when the participants' skin would be smeared around every open cut with a patina of salt and copper blood, burning brighter than the markings on pale legs.
Astarion wishes he could remember those spectral rasps from the night before just to use them now.
....but maybe he won't need them.
Submerged halfway, his cock suddenly feels caught in a vice. A flickering, roiling rush of trembling strain, Fenris' body bucking off what's taming him in a fit that shoves them violently to shore— ]
Fuck, Fenris! A-ah— !!
Shit shit shit. [His thumbs slip across their perch. His palms go next— their edges seething with the scrape of twisting broadcloth before he forces those legs down to stop their struggling: having to use the angled weight of his chest to manage it (and even then, he almost flattens completely— cheek utterly dropping with a sudden smack against that open waistband), groaning into the arch of it all while his vision flecks with spattered stars— strong hands pushing him still into an opening that's too tight, reflexes not yet having caught on that he's too flustered to take him. And then a laugh at last. Breathy, dizzied. His lungs pulsing with air the throat beneath him longs for, making this a battle all its own (two new things struggling in parallel only a handful of hours apart).]
Easy....easy.
[Amused. Said with as much gentleness as a rider tugging the reins of a skittish horse, his hips already lifting to reroute the worst of his intrusion.]
Mmph. Never had a challenge like this before, have you?
All that smug talk about firsts and experience and worldliness I'd never know.... [and oh, oh, you're no better:] laid out flat across your back beneath me, gagging like Petras on his very first cigarette.
[Or his very first cock, for that matter.]
But don't worry, I'll be as gentle as you were to me.
I'll even help keep you quiet so that you don't get caught. [He knows how big he is. Never once doubt that he knows it. It's a point of vulgar pride, after all, and he uses it to his advantage even now: pulling himself back towards the front of Fenris' slickened mouth until his ridgeline sits against the back of pursing lips— a patient pause. One that settles in tangent with his hand diving beneath the waistband of those boxers (elastic scraped across his skin) and seizing their swollen prize just to make sure Fenris won't have the bandwidth to put up any sort of fight. His rooted touch no longer coaxing: it's manhandling. ]
Now inhale like the good little slut I know you can be....and relax your throat this time.
[Gods, but part of him wants to snarl. To bite. To answer every smug, arrogant, humiliating little taunt with a retort of his own, breathed out in Astarion's ear as he flips him over and takes him the way he deserves—
And yet he wants this, too.
More than to fight back. More than anything, humiliation a dizzyingly potent aphrodisiac that crashes over him and shakes him to his core, leaving him slavering and starved for more. A dark flush floods his face and creeps down his chest, his lips and tongue aching from the slow, slick slide of Astarion's prick as he draws his hips up. No, and there's a whimper there, protesting despite the dampness in Fenris' eyes, overexertion still burning his throat. No don't, the tip of his tongue sliding pleadingly against Astarion's slit, begging him not to take his treat away.
Inhale, and he does: raggedly, wetly, his throat struggling to relax even as some part of his mind seethes in snarling defeat. Fury tangles with desire so potent it all but drowns him, leaving him resentful even as he trembles in anticipation. His ears dark at the tips and his fingers flexing as he grips one pale thigh, blunt nails digging in as he waits impatiently—
And when that first plunge comes, it's overwhelming.
It's everything, it's everything, overloading his every sense, smothering him in the sweetest way— Fenris moans as he feels Astarion's cock slowly but steadily penetrate him, every passing inch thicker than the last. His jaw is forced open achingly wide, his tongue flattened with dizzying ease— he can't breathe and he doesn't care, for the bitter taste of precome that drips down his throat is so much sweeter than any gasp of air he's ever inhaled. The muscles of his throat ripple as they expand, squeezing tight each time he desperately swallows (again again again), suckling and drooling around the girth of him as his eyes roll back. More please more, his prick so heavy, so thick, so searingly hot as it claims every inch of his mouth and throat—
And then draws back.
Only to plunge in again. Again. Again,, teasing little dips that force Fenris to acclimatize each time, learning the rhythm of relaxing his throat and jaw at command. There you are, and he doesn't know if he hears his voice or merely imagines he does, humiliating praise leaving him trembling either way. My good little slut, and this time Fenris does moan—
Only to belatedly understand Astarion's taunt about being quiet. It isn't fingers that muffle this time, but the swollen length of his prick— so heavy and thick that it smothers his vocal chords, reducing him to needy gags and spit-slick gurgles of pleasure. Reduced to little more than whorish cocksleeve, and he fights for that position— his cheeks going hollow as he sucks, his lips a searingly tight cinch around the width of that cock. His tongue drags as best it can beneath that heavy weight, all of him too hungry to finally taste his little patriar to care about positions—
And yet some spark of rebellion remains. A better attempt at retort than any word or sound: how his hand draws back and strikes at one pale cheek, his palm stinging as it lands against soft flesh. Again, again again again, rapidfire and eager, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing around the room too loudly, and yet Fenris can't find it in him to regret it. Not when he feels that thick cock jolt within the confines of his throat; not when every blow has been more than earned. And it isn't the punishment he still dreams of enacting on his brat, sprawling him out over his lap and patiently spanking him until he sobs—
[Why it feels so much better than usual, Astarion will never have time to ask.
Smack—
And that first blow nearly breaks him.
The second one succeeds. A rush of tears welling in his eyes right as they stutter and roll back, harsh pressure like a hammer pounded over a nail no matter how he locks his knees, driving him so much deeper into base of Fenris' throat until it turns into dangerous facsimile of thrusting when he tries to pull back out. Shallow, suspended, stilled— smack—
Smack—
And the friction of the plunge shakes him to his core each time. Starburst pangs of pain blossoming into pleasure as they flood his synapses like a shockwave, tasting gunpowder under his flattened tongue; he's so close to howling that the next strike has him barking from the air that rushes from his lungs, but it's not a conscious effort. Not willing. He's hearing his own voice instead of feeling even a shiver of its reverberation, and the second that it hits his ears in a mewling cry he knows he has to sink his teeth into something. Anything, otherwise— otherwise—
(Otherwise nothing: he never gets that far before self preservation saves them both.) There's only one hard yank of his jaw clamping onto dampened boxers right beside the cock he fights to service while his own hips rattle under impact spanning either of his upturned cheeks— be calm, be calm— as if soothing some wild beast with trembling strokes pinched tight between his forefinger and shuttling thumb.
Oh, it can't last forever. Fenris will need air, or that virgin throat of his will start to struggle, gagging and bobbing again soon enough the way it did before. It can't last, he tries to tell himself as he braces for the next oncoming hit. It can't—
But between the mouth wrapped tight and suckling around him, between the stinging of his cheeks beneath a thin veneer of cloth that scuffs at every welling handprint, he might not make it, either.]
Fenris— [he hisses out, a muffled whisper that dips into a whine for just a second, elastic slipped hard between clenched teeth and pulled (but is he yanking on Fenris' bit to stop him, or is he chewing on his own?)]
F-fff....[Fuck. Fuck. Gods below and Maker, all. His forehead scuffs against that thigh, draped and scrubbing with his curls, eyes still tightly shut. It's more controlled than the canting of his hips, at least, or the way his thickened crown beats against the hollow of its sheathe.] —the- the door.
[And like an offer barely managed, he tries to fit his mouth around the thing he's working: tender length made rock-hard and straining when he brings his lips to kiss its salivating crown, glossing them with ardor. Please. Please. Be good (be smart). It can be a truce, not a bloody battle, can't it? They've gotten in their blows, their wicked little warning shots: take the figurative sussur branch. The offering he'll trade, since nothing comes for free.
Not of self-destruction, but of desire. How could it not be? Forget all the centuries of forging an iron will to face the onslaught of slavery, for it crumples like ash in face of all this lust. The fire had begun last night, but what was a merry blaze now becomes an inferno, crashing over Fenris and consuming him, burning him from the inside out. Astarion's cock stuffs him full, thick and claiming and cruel as he ruts deeper and deeper into his throat, grinding and plugging him up so tight that there isn't a chance for air, and all Fenris wants is more. He mewls out that little warning and Fenris finds his first thought isn't he's right, but beg me.
Beg me to stop. Beg me so that your father doesn't catch you with your ass in the air and your eyes full of tears, wholly tamed beneath my hand. Beg me, little patriar, and the words thunder wildly through his mind. Colored spots have begun to dance in front of his eyes from the lack of oxygen, for that doesn't matter anymore. All the terrors of the outside world, all his earlier hesitations and uncertainty, even the damned need to breathe, he doesn't care. Centuries of celibacy in his mind if not his body are suddenly put to the test— for the things that Danarius had made him do were always so rote. Unpleasant, yes, and sometimes nauseatingly so, but never once did Fenris think it anything more than a duty. Getting to his knees or spreading his legs wide, mouthing the right words and making the right noise until at last his master was satisfied: just another way that his body was put to use.
Never once was it about his pleasure. Never once was it about what he wanted. Never once has he known just how good it could feel to tumble with someone like this. To play with them, tangling together and exchanging an endless series of back-and-forth blows— oh, it's addicting. It's intoxicating—
And every barking cry and muffled mewl still rings so sweetly in his ears. His palm stings even as his throat burns, his jaw aching for how his noble punishes him. The thought of how red that pretty ass must have gotten drifts through his mind. He wants so badly to keep going, spanking him until he begs for it to stop, watching the outline of his own hand glow brightly against pale skin— and he will. He will, no matter that it cannot happen today. Astarion's tongue is such a sweet thing as he mouths needily at the crown of his cock, his lips glossy with precome and his meaning clear. And though it takes nearly everything in him, Fenris moans out an agreement.
All at once his cock slides out of his throat, a sharp inhale following. Fenris' head tips back, his next swallow such a wet thing as he hollows his cheeks once more. He'll be good, oh, yes, but he cannot be still, not now. Not when desire burns through him so intently: with a little moan his head tips back, his tongue fluttering up as he laps at him, tracing against bumps and ridges with open desire.
And his hands settle.
Not on the mattress, but on supple cheeks: both palms heavy as they settle atop Astarion's ass. His fingers waste no time in squeezing and groping, calloused fingers exploratory as he tests the give of his little noble's assets— and oh, it must sting. His body is so warm beneath Fenris' hands, after all, and no matter that he hadn't gotten to spank him half as much as he deserves, for even one blow is overwhelming to someone unused to it. Sore muscles groped and pinched and toyed with, squeezed and spread open—
Until at last he works his way in. Spreading him open wide, his thumbs exploratory as one skims over that unguarded little stretch. He won't pry him open just yet, not when that's a treat to be savored— but there's such curiosity in the way he rubs insistently at it, teasing Astarion with what he won't give him today.]
Hmm . . .?
[Better? He'd done just as he was asked. And he isn't smug, not with a mouthful of cock and a burning throat, his body outright trembling in desire— but there's a certain measure of teasing woven within his rumbling hum.]
In that throat, in the rising push and pull of his lithe form in the center of a rolling set of hands, in the way he feels his center splay around that singularly testing thumb, almost begging it to enter. His cock is hard, driven into lightless heat that twitches and ensnares and gulps, making his thrusts quick and dagger-sharp— an undulating ripple of rabbiting pumps gliding back and forth across dense friction— but the rest of him? Molten as sugar in hot water. Malleable as chocolate in a palm.
His legs feel loose and barely present; his muscles hazy and undefined. His hands and arms amorphous under his shoulders, the only thing keeping him upright beyond the bobbing of his head as it entreats what slots into him—
As he—
That hum spreads through him with a shiver. A shudder, starting deep inside his own throat to form a loop— as if like some ouroborosian serpent they're both devouring each other, or at least devouring themselves: two parts of the same whole. The same, wicked, vulgar, insatiable whole. A slender noble perched cock-deep and slung across his keeper's abused mouth; a slave freed and endebted to the walls of his place, mocking what he's meant to safeguard by leaving imprints on smooth skin (and stealing the bitter taste of precome with every gulp).
Smug bastard.
Oh, he'll kill him after this— if there is an after this, considering the way things are going. Buried to the hilt like he's never been before, frustrated and elated all at once. Because he can't guide him like this. Or instruct him. They can barely guide each other, his cheeks stuffed full and watering to leave whole streaks of spit cascading down towards the root of Fenris' prick, characterized by wet snaps each time he stumbles over swollen contours. Heavy in his mouth and heavier when it closes in along his throat, discomfort buzzing electric around its slope, dispersed as something better. Pale fingers palming down beneath the waistband of those boxers with the heel of his hand, his other effectively a brace: he doesn't use it to stroke past the barrier of his lips each time that he pulls back; his advantage isn't in rote competency, after all.
He's a godsdamned patriar after all.
He's better than that. He's better than anything or anyone. Divine right, in so many words: hitched in his engorged weight. The blunt, unconquerable heat of his prick as it pins Fenris to the conceptual mat, boring its encindered way into the back of a mouth forced wide and waiting, caught muscle wetter each time he pushes in— smothering that sense of smug control while sinking his own lips flush to rich-tanned skin, suctioning his throat. The full outline of his cheeks and tongue forced in until they tremble, proving for all his worth how much surrendering to him suits his proud companion.
Before now, Astarion had been pacifying him: suckling on his cock like the good little patriar he is, caught off-guard and all the sweeter for it. Stroking him and teasing him, and yes, of course he'd had his prick shoved deep into Fenris' throat, but still: it was retaliatory, a staggered blow offered as Astarion had reeled. He'd whimpered and moaned, tears in his eyes from how he was spanked (oh, they will talk about that once they're through), so desperate not to be caught that he'd do anything to make the lustful beast beneath him settle. Please, that was the tune of that messy, drooling capitulation.
Pacification meant that Fenris had a fighting chance.
But competition . . . oh, competition destroys him.
There's no thought of defense, for the moment Astarion drops his head down Fenris groans involuntarily, the sound rumbling low in his throat. It's a fight not to writhe, to squirm and wriggle and thrash from the sudden onslaught of pleasure— oh, he's too new at this. He knows how to suck and bounce and rut, but never once had Danarius' lessons include how to withstand pleasure. His mind goes blank, his eyes unfocused as all thoughts of revenge disappear. Yes, that's the sound of his whining now. Yes please more don't stop, his thumb suddenly stuttering as it drags against his hole, blunt fingernails digging too tightly into one pale cheek as he fights not to spill.
For it's so much all at once: the overwhelmingly tight confines of Astarion's throat, a feverishly hot hole that devours his cock again and again, swallowing him to the hilt and sending him reeling— only to be followed by the suctioning suckling as Astarion's head draws up. His lips are sealed around the width of Fenris' cock, vulgar wet noises accompanying every dizzying pull. And that's to say nothing of how he teases: drawing back just to use his tongue, swirling around the crown and lingering against his slit, earning a desperate sort of whimper that he couldn't swallow if he tried. Like that, like that, and his hips follow the rhythm that Astarion's mouth sets, instinctively desperate little rocks that amount to nothing.
But it's the cruel smother of Astarion's cock that earns true submission. Searing heat rests so heavily on his tongue, forcing his jaw open so wide it aches, filling his mouth and penetrating his throat, claiming space that's never once been so thoroughly violated— oh, there will be no one else after this. Who could compare? No one else will fill him so completely that he swears he can feel his throat bulging. No one else will smother him so sweetly, consuming every one of his senses and forcibly redirecting them: his eyes blinded by lust and the fallen hang of that gauzy nightshirt, the sex of sweat and sex and come thick in the air, and all the while he can feel searing droplets of precome dripping down his throat in taunting promise: soon you'll be full, and it's a question of when, not if. The first time one of them lays claim, proper claim, to the other, Astarion breeding his mouth and throat and belly, teaching his bodyguard just what it is to really be owned—
And Fenris will never, ever admit that that's the thought that shoves him teetering to the very edge of orgasm. It hits him like a hammer, like a bullet, ripping through him and sending him into overdrive— and yet even as his cock throbs in desperate hunger Fenris tries to drag himself back, for he wants that fantasy. He wants Astarion to win, he wants to be claimed—
For when he returns that possessive favor, shoving Astarion face-down and breeding him until he shrieks, he wants it to be on his terms.]
Despite the vulgar beauty of it all, despite the sleek sweeps of pallid suppleness working down into hessonite again and again and again, it doesn't do anything to lessen the battle underneath. Expand— snap— he can feel it before he sees it: the muscle beneath him clenching once— twice— his vision blurring wildly as he feels his hole stretch against a quaking grip, but it can't knock out the sharpness of his instincts; he'd recognize that pulsating lock anywhere, ingrained as it is after so many midnight trysts that taught him where to put his tongue or roll his spine. He recognizes it like the acrid scent that spells out a full-bodied red or a flowery white, even without looking down inside the bottle that's been held. Force of habit such a potent thing even in abstract periphery, still lapping up overheated salt and the glazing backwash of his own spit while his senses flare inside close quarters.
Fenris is about to come.
Fenris comes.
Expand— snap— and gods, tightness has him in a vice grip from the cock up; inside his mouth, he feels that thickness swell across sore lips until his throat is plunged into the first thundering gush of roaring heat. A splash that sinks like swallowed embers down into the basin of his chest, scalding him until he seizes— until his own thrusts stutter hard against the squeeze that suctions and gurgles hot between his thighs, forcing his legs to grind against the source of all those smothered groans like he aims to choke them out right at the root— bottomed out and bouncing instead of thrusting; unwilling to sacrifice an inch. There's no slowing. No relent.
That's how it stays a fight, not a coaxing negotiation.
Fenris folds and stumbles— and it takes everything in the middle of that scuffle not to do the same, pressure whirling in Astarion's slight ears. Vertigo hitting him low inside his belly, near where he feels strained lips fight just to wriggle around his submerged girth. Obscene. Undignified. Impatient as the spurt of white-hot slickness he's only just begun to swallow—
His tongue thrust hard against that slit before a second splash ensues, forcing his tongue against its trembling little line.
His, now. His.
His payback. His triumph. Call it what you want, and don't discount he's barely managing it— but all the same: he is managing it. His cheeks suddenly running gaunt as he bobs and twists his head, rolling from his shoulders first in noisy, moaning patterns. Sucking, exhaling rattling vibrations, it doesn't pull his tongue away from the crest in the slightest no matter where he wends or what he does— he bottles the orgasm he stokes, unable to stop smooth pumps of frantic pearl from gushing past his tongue completely, but keeping them wedged harsh. Making them splash instead of pour into uncontrollable bliss. And underneath: young fingers dive beneath the cusp of what they work(ed) at, riving hard between clothed cheeks to knock and tap and piston at their center— waiting for one little slip— one little, slight, careless contraction, where that hole just so happens to run open....
His middle finger's already so wet, you see.
He'd coated it in spit while working right under that cock. He'd coated all of them, in fact....ready to fingerfuck his keeper underneath him in his bedroom till he whimpers through welled tears.
Ready for the inevitable plunge that'll bring on all the rest.]
The thought echoes in time with his thundering heart, drowning gasps sputtered rhythmically without end. Too much, and it's dazed delight, not a cry to stop. Too much too much too much, he's so far out of his depth, he's so overwhelmed, he's so turned on he thinks he's going to lose his mind, and it doesn't stop.
Too much: the endlessly sadistic rhythm of Astarion's cock as it violates his throat, plumbing into depths as-yet untouched; the student forcibly teaching his gagging tutor just what it is to truly take someone else. Again and again he fucks Fenris' mouth with sadistic cruelty, his hips pumping with a bouncing rut that ensures whatever desperate breaths of air Fenris manages to inhale are incidental, not planned. Desperately he writhes beneath him, his eyes filling with tears each time the sound of gagging fills the air, his body instinctively fights against what Fenris knows to be inevitable— and yet still his lips seal tight around the swell of his prick, suctioning pressure pulling at his cock that must be maddening each time Astarion rears back. Fenris moans so eagerly in those scarce seconds when Astarion's cock draws back, drool and precome dripping down his chin as he tries to swallow him back down— greedy to the core for every drop of precome he can milk out of his master.
Too much: a hot tongue pressing wickedly against his slit even as the slick suckle of Astarion's lips coaxes his orgasm forward with every damning pulse— and Fenris sees white. His cock surges as it never has before, and every thundering wave feels more intense than the last, drawn out and wracking through his thrashing body; his baying is muffled, smothered, cut short with an undignified thrust as Astarion's cock sinks deeper.
Too much— and it is not the lesser of the three, but the one he expects the least: the sudden pump of two spit-slick fingers thrusting into him, forcing him open wide in one burning movement. Scissoring and curling and fucking him, uncaring for how he writhes, uncaring that every wicked curl leaves Fenris baying around the swell of his cock— too much, and overstimulation and brutal pleasure mount, blinding him, deafening him, burning him from the inside out—
And he returns the favor. As bitter droplets of pearl drool across Astarion's tongue, Fenris fumbles to coat his fingers, swiping them through the frothing rivulets of precome and spit that drip down his chin. His cock is swelling again, half-stiff in the snarling grasp of Astarion's lips, and make no mistake: Fenris mewls as he blindly slips his hand between his cheeks. Two fingers rub clumsily against his hole, a split-second warning before Fenris pushes them forward so hungrily.
He's so tight.
So tight, so hot, so tempting— and make no mistake, for Fenris has lost. He has lost so badly that he does not even remember there's a game going on, not anymore. He's a creature of pure sensation right now, pleasure and pain twining together and tangling within him, wracking through him, leaving him little more than overeager slut so needy for more. His wrist snaps forward rapidly, two fingers buried to the knuckle in tight heat as he fucks his master. You won, scissoring wide and curling forward, trembling as he tries to pleasure his master as best he can. You won, his throat swallowing desperately, his eyes wet with tears, so desperately hungry for that final moment of claiming. Spill in me, claim me as yours, take me, all of him such a submissive little mess.]
His mouth is full, his throat is slick (his throat is full), he can't cry (out). He can't shriek that it's too much the second unforgiving fingers dig in and pry him open to start fucking him for all he's worth; a maddened score hammering in so deep that his vision starts to blank under those tremoring thrusts, the kind of blunt pressure he'd have killed for last night if his hunger stood a chance against fatigue— thank the gods they're buried in each other now. Thank everything in existence that his muffled whines never see the other side of his lips where they're worked flush against tanned skin, plugging every last one of his faltering shockwaves.
He never had much time before this inevitability found him, but now that it's here....
Fuck—
Fuck—
He tastes so good inside him. He tastes like electricity— like salt— like Astarion's sinking his teeth into a grounding wire and biting down until he hears whole atoms crack like hard-shelled candy, even though all he does is suckle. He tastes like everything: submission and attraction and resentment and arousal intertwined, and the glassy swell of something primordial and deep, as if there's a case to be made for the idea that those markings all root down in Fenris' blood. His spit. His come. His sweat— everything. Everything. Its boiling essence poured deeper and deeper into Astarion to comingle, swirling in the lightless basin of his body and pushed in by those fingers.
Barely even able to hold on before convulsions start to claim him, bottled by the very thing he's bottling: cock forced tight to the mouth that's gagging on its prize— one more forced tight to another mouth still gulping. Still shaking around roping bellyfuls of scathing lust that force him wider with their presence—
At by end of it all, pale outline limp through slumped hips in morning sunlight and draped around his fucked-out teacher, Astarion lifts one trembling hand....
....and strikes the leg he's draped on. (Somnolent, that useless swat). Painless. Listless. Barely a shove, but if all else fails, at least it gets the point across:
I blame you for this.]
I should sic the guards on you.
[He rasps out loosely through the rattled hiss of his own sandpaper throat. A terrible joke, but a joke without even the thinnest margin for mistaking it: one scream is all it'd take and half the wing would come running. Maybe even half the estate.
Instead, there's just the click of the doorlatch fastening once he's somehow sloughed out of bed on shaking legs— having to slump his back against it once it's well and truly locked just to keep from falling over, his nightshirt only barely managing to cover up the tip of his sore cock.
His ruined legs not so much.]
Edited 2023-11-18 23:34 (UTC)
god that icon tho i am DYING about all these new ones
It's the first thought that manages to roll through Fenris' fucked-out mind, a hoarse whisper that's more dazed than anything. He feels the swatting strike of Astarion's palm, hears that awful joke (the click of the lock smothering any sparks of panic that might have otherwise flared to life), but though he wants to, Fenris can't bear to glance over just yet. It's asking too much. Breathing is nearly asking too much, overwhelmed as he is. All he can manage is to lie there, his gaze unfocused as he stares at the ceiling, trying to come back to himself.
It doesn't take long, though it feels that way. His body still echoes with all the sensations of before: Astarion's fingers plunging into him as his cock slams down his throat, searing heat pouring into his belly . . . but it's a pleasing reminder. A thrilling reverberation and reflection all in one, each sensation presenting yet another searing reminder of the past hour . . . but gods, he'll need so much time to go over it. To think about what it means, not just for them (a conversation much more urgent, and one that he's already struggling to verbalize), but for him. Sex that isn't just pleasurable in a rote way, but something so utterly ecstatic as to consume him . . . he has never felt such things before. He has never once dreamed it could be this good.
The hawking cries of merchants and hum of electricity that drifts in from outside is strange to his ears. It seems impossible that anything could exist outside of this moment . . . but ah, that's not right, is it? Fenris sits up on one elbow, wincing a little as he turns to face his errant student. It's not that it's so shocking that the world should continue to spin . . . it's just that everything is so different now. There is no going back, not for him and not for them— and every moment that passes only hammers that home.]
You were the one who accosted me . . .
[It's vague protest, muttered half-heartedly as he begins to get his bearings back. Fenris' gaze sweeps over his student, and despite himself— despite the towering weight of responsibility that threatens to topple over his head, all the questions they need to ask and boundaries they need to draw, the measures he'll need to set in place to ensure they aren't caught, if indeed Astarion still wants him— he smiles in satisfaction. If he's a wreck, so is Astarion, and that takes the sting off his wounded pride.]
And if that is your intention, I suggest you do so. Otherwise . . . come here.
[Come here. Not an invitation to cuddle, but at least they can both lie here comfortably while they speak. With a little groan Fenris shifts his weight, settling on his side as he makes room for his student.]
[Inlaid wood's already digging into his shoulders.
The look Fenris gives digs deeper.
Come here— and those words might be the hook that snags its mark if one flicked-up pair of pupils has anything to say about it, but his bodyguard is the attached line pulled taut (or....is he the lure? The fisherman yanking him in, maybe— no, just— something poignant about metaphors goes here by otherwise functional design, squeezed into the whirring blank of Astarion's skull), adhered against the draw of common sense: all of him slumped there in hot sunlight staring at what beckons him back to bed less like a lover and more like a thing well-loved.
Meaning: he's mismatched against nice sheets, for starters.
His pants are still on. Cheap leather caked with age-old wear and tear around frayed hems in spite of the way they've been cared for, slicked with darker spots across their waistband. His legs are open, his ankles broadly braced against the mattress probably exactly where he'd left them— which is only nominally less vulgar than the fact that his cock still hangs out: its measure listless and yet thickened in surrender under the tight band of those boxers, drooling slow against tanned skin. Never mind that his hair's a feathered mess; his cheeks red and his lips made redder with the lingering blush of lacquered obscenity, and that's not mentioning the glazed shine across his chin or along the underside of his throat. The place Astarion was buried to the breathless hilt barely even a full two minutes prior.
....he's beautiful, in short.
And for a moment Astarion can't seem to look away as he talks, straining towards that soft reverberation like a plant angling for sunlight— the only strange thing in this picture being that he wants to.
It's....just that his knees won't work.
His sore (presently screaming) thighs won't either, let alone his useless calves. His aching toes. His friction-burned fingers. And to his credit, Astarion tries to play it off with a coy grin that comes on quick and sideways, fighting to make it seem like a show of playfulness instead of—
Well, exactly what it is.]
Like how you gagged like a virgin when I had you under me?
[(There. There it is. Go for the throat, Astarion— literally. Put him on his heels inside fresh memories, and he won't have time to think straight while you remember how to walk straight.)
Chin lifting higher by the second, one broad flash of teeth halfway masked by a mess of unstrung curls.] Because I liked that part, you know.
[Oh, his brat. His charming, sweet, lonely, vicious little brat, his tongue sharp and his eyes glittering as he teases. Fenris scoffs softly in reply, his mouth twisted in a wry smile even as the tips of his ears flush a little darker. Point scored, little one, and he will not argue, not when the taste of Astarion's come still lingers on his tongue.
But ah: if Astarion won't go where he's bid, Fenris will simply have to meet him. With a low groan he forces himself to sit up, bare feet hitting the wooden floor heavily as his head spins. In one sluggardly motion he strips off his sweat-soaked shirt, then vaguely fixes his trousers as he rises. He's so tired, spent in a way that goes beyond bodily limits, but he's always been a deft hand at pushing past exhaustion. Fenris crosses the room in two strides, coming up short only when he stands in front of his charge.
Then, so quick that it's impossible to realize what's happening before it's done, he sweeps Astarion up in his arms, hefting him up in a bridal carry. And to his credit, he tries (sort of) not to be smug about the motion, for it isn't meant to be another vengeful point scored in their endless battle. It's just that anyone with eyes could see the way those lithe legs tremble in exhaustion; it's just that sweat still drips down Astarion's temple and neck, making that sleepshirt cling to him as he heaves for breath.]
I imagine you did, yes.
[It's low, more amusement than fluster in his tone as he turns on his heel. One thumb rubs idly between the other elf's shoulderblades, an absent bit of affection.
His eyes slide slowly over Astarion as he carries him back to bed. He's beautiful and he knows it. He's beautiful, but that is the least of him as far as Fenris is concerned, for he has seen many beautiful people in his three centuries. Friends of his master or courtesans hired to put on a show, and don't misunderstand, for it isn't as if he's above such things. But that isn't what draws him to Astarion.
He doesn't know what it is, only that it exists. Some electrified line between them, magnetic and inescapable, born from that one fateful night. They aren't perfect for each other. They aren't perfect for anyone, maybe; Fenris such a broken thing, scarred and angry and bewildered by all that demi-freedom offers him, and Astarion still so entrenched within his class, too caught up in their complexities to understand the real world and too miserable to dream of breaking away. They're both made up of sharp edges, biting and scratching and clawing just to say I won, and it will take a long time before they find a rhythm that works. It will take countless corrections for them to learn how to get along, how not to grate, how to understand what the future holds (I'll protect you is still not the same as I'll free you, after all), but—
Still, Fenris thinks as he carefully lays Astarion out on his bed. Still, there is trust. And there is connection. And that will keep them together until they can forge a stronger bond.]
Tell me what else you liked.
[It's quiet, rumbling as he climbs in next to him. And oh, to hell with it: one arm slings around his noble's hips, gathering him in close. Come here, equal parts possessive and protective, an old wolf putting a paw on a squalling cub, hushing his eager nipping. Settle.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
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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.)]
no subject
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— ]
no subject
[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?
no subject
[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— )]
no subject
[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?
no subject
[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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[Taken by surprise by that avidity— Fenris' mouth is on Astarion before he can do anything but stumble for an acclimating second, his efforts as avaricious as a suckling yearling with its mouth around a bottle.]
G-good boy, there you go.
[Strewth— he'd be laughing if he wasn't groaning in animal reflex as he melts to feel that throat begin to flutter in surrender: the squeeze of it abyssal and lightless in those first few driving inches while their bodies rearrange. The ones that have his blunted crown rammed right into the slope along the back of Fenris' tongue with only a second or two to spare, those obscured lips caught wringing as they slick with rising drool, their grip embracing every jerk and fevered jolt his little lordling's prick decides to offer. Broad contours swallowed like a sheathe, though the slide of hungry pressure's too raw to be finessed given the stop-start bobbing climbing upwards between slim thighs— and maybe that's just Fenris' way. He's a mercenary killer, when all's been said and done. A bodyguard. A fighter. Whatever he did in dark backrooms was probably as rough as Astarion pictured in his dreams (waking and imagined, both), stitched together from the cloth of fisted fingers and lightless eyes pinched shut so hard they'd redden at their edges. Nothing pretty. Nothing refined— at least not when the participants' skin would be smeared around every open cut with a patina of salt and copper blood, burning brighter than the markings on pale legs.
Astarion wishes he could remember those spectral rasps from the night before just to use them now.
....but maybe he won't need them.
Submerged halfway, his cock suddenly feels caught in a vice. A flickering, roiling rush of trembling strain, Fenris' body bucking off what's taming him in a fit that shoves them violently to shore— ]
Fuck, Fenris! A-ah— !!
Shit shit shit. [His thumbs slip across their perch. His palms go next— their edges seething with the scrape of twisting broadcloth before he forces those legs down to stop their struggling: having to use the angled weight of his chest to manage it (and even then, he almost flattens completely— cheek utterly dropping with a sudden smack against that open waistband), groaning into the arch of it all while his vision flecks with spattered stars— strong hands pushing him still into an opening that's too tight, reflexes not yet having caught on that he's too flustered to take him. And then a laugh at last. Breathy, dizzied. His lungs pulsing with air the throat beneath him longs for, making this a battle all its own (two new things struggling in parallel only a handful of hours apart).]
Easy....easy.
[Amused. Said with as much gentleness as a rider tugging the reins of a skittish horse, his hips already lifting to reroute the worst of his intrusion.]
Mmph. Never had a challenge like this before, have you?
All that smug talk about firsts and experience and worldliness I'd never know.... [and oh, oh, you're no better:] laid out flat across your back beneath me, gagging like Petras on his very first cigarette.
[Or his very first cock, for that matter.]
But don't worry, I'll be as gentle as you were to me.
I'll even help keep you quiet so that you don't get caught. [He knows how big he is. Never once doubt that he knows it. It's a point of vulgar pride, after all, and he uses it to his advantage even now: pulling himself back towards the front of Fenris' slickened mouth until his ridgeline sits against the back of pursing lips— a patient pause. One that settles in tangent with his hand diving beneath the waistband of those boxers (elastic scraped across his skin) and seizing their swollen prize just to make sure Fenris won't have the bandwidth to put up any sort of fight. His rooted touch no longer coaxing: it's manhandling. ]
Now inhale like the good little slut I know you can be....and relax your throat this time.
....all the way down.
[What comes next, it's going to run deep.]
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[Gods, but part of him wants to snarl. To bite. To answer every smug, arrogant, humiliating little taunt with a retort of his own, breathed out in Astarion's ear as he flips him over and takes him the way he deserves—
And yet he wants this, too.
More than to fight back. More than anything, humiliation a dizzyingly potent aphrodisiac that crashes over him and shakes him to his core, leaving him slavering and starved for more. A dark flush floods his face and creeps down his chest, his lips and tongue aching from the slow, slick slide of Astarion's prick as he draws his hips up. No, and there's a whimper there, protesting despite the dampness in Fenris' eyes, overexertion still burning his throat. No don't, the tip of his tongue sliding pleadingly against Astarion's slit, begging him not to take his treat away.
Inhale, and he does: raggedly, wetly, his throat struggling to relax even as some part of his mind seethes in snarling defeat. Fury tangles with desire so potent it all but drowns him, leaving him resentful even as he trembles in anticipation. His ears dark at the tips and his fingers flexing as he grips one pale thigh, blunt nails digging in as he waits impatiently—
And when that first plunge comes, it's overwhelming.
It's everything, it's everything, overloading his every sense, smothering him in the sweetest way— Fenris moans as he feels Astarion's cock slowly but steadily penetrate him, every passing inch thicker than the last. His jaw is forced open achingly wide, his tongue flattened with dizzying ease— he can't breathe and he doesn't care, for the bitter taste of precome that drips down his throat is so much sweeter than any gasp of air he's ever inhaled. The muscles of his throat ripple as they expand, squeezing tight each time he desperately swallows (again again again), suckling and drooling around the girth of him as his eyes roll back. More please more, his prick so heavy, so thick, so searingly hot as it claims every inch of his mouth and throat—
And then draws back.
Only to plunge in again. Again. Again,, teasing little dips that force Fenris to acclimatize each time, learning the rhythm of relaxing his throat and jaw at command. There you are, and he doesn't know if he hears his voice or merely imagines he does, humiliating praise leaving him trembling either way. My good little slut, and this time Fenris does moan—
Only to belatedly understand Astarion's taunt about being quiet. It isn't fingers that muffle this time, but the swollen length of his prick— so heavy and thick that it smothers his vocal chords, reducing him to needy gags and spit-slick gurgles of pleasure. Reduced to little more than whorish cocksleeve, and he fights for that position— his cheeks going hollow as he sucks, his lips a searingly tight cinch around the width of that cock. His tongue drags as best it can beneath that heavy weight, all of him too hungry to finally taste his little patriar to care about positions—
And yet some spark of rebellion remains. A better attempt at retort than any word or sound: how his hand draws back and strikes at one pale cheek, his palm stinging as it lands against soft flesh. Again, again again again, rapidfire and eager, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing around the room too loudly, and yet Fenris can't find it in him to regret it. Not when he feels that thick cock jolt within the confines of his throat; not when every blow has been more than earned. And it isn't the punishment he still dreams of enacting on his brat, sprawling him out over his lap and patiently spanking him until he sobs—
But it's a start.]
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Smack—
And that first blow nearly breaks him.
The second one succeeds. A rush of tears welling in his eyes right as they stutter and roll back, harsh pressure like a hammer pounded over a nail no matter how he locks his knees, driving him so much deeper into base of Fenris' throat until it turns into dangerous facsimile of thrusting when he tries to pull back out. Shallow, suspended, stilled— smack—
Smack—
And the friction of the plunge shakes him to his core each time. Starburst pangs of pain blossoming into pleasure as they flood his synapses like a shockwave, tasting gunpowder under his flattened tongue; he's so close to howling that the next strike has him barking from the air that rushes from his lungs, but it's not a conscious effort. Not willing. He's hearing his own voice instead of feeling even a shiver of its reverberation, and the second that it hits his ears in a mewling cry he knows he has to sink his teeth into something. Anything, otherwise— otherwise—
(Otherwise nothing: he never gets that far before self preservation saves them both.) There's only one hard yank of his jaw clamping onto dampened boxers right beside the cock he fights to service while his own hips rattle under impact spanning either of his upturned cheeks— be calm, be calm— as if soothing some wild beast with trembling strokes pinched tight between his forefinger and shuttling thumb.
Oh, it can't last forever. Fenris will need air, or that virgin throat of his will start to struggle, gagging and bobbing again soon enough the way it did before. It can't last, he tries to tell himself as he braces for the next oncoming hit. It can't—
But between the mouth wrapped tight and suckling around him, between the stinging of his cheeks beneath a thin veneer of cloth that scuffs at every welling handprint, he might not make it, either.]
Fenris— [he hisses out, a muffled whisper that dips into a whine for just a second, elastic slipped hard between clenched teeth and pulled (but is he yanking on Fenris' bit to stop him, or is he chewing on his own?)]
F-fff....[Fuck. Fuck. Gods below and Maker, all. His forehead scuffs against that thigh, draped and scrubbing with his curls, eyes still tightly shut. It's more controlled than the canting of his hips, at least, or the way his thickened crown beats against the hollow of its sheathe.] —the- the door.
[And like an offer barely managed, he tries to fit his mouth around the thing he's working: tender length made rock-hard and straining when he brings his lips to kiss its salivating crown, glossing them with ardor. Please. Please. Be good (be smart). It can be a truce, not a bloody battle, can't it? They've gotten in their blows, their wicked little warning shots: take the figurative sussur branch. The offering he'll trade, since nothing comes for free.
Better that than self destruction....isn't it?]
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And it is a struggle.
Not of self-destruction, but of desire. How could it not be? Forget all the centuries of forging an iron will to face the onslaught of slavery, for it crumples like ash in face of all this lust. The fire had begun last night, but what was a merry blaze now becomes an inferno, crashing over Fenris and consuming him, burning him from the inside out. Astarion's cock stuffs him full, thick and claiming and cruel as he ruts deeper and deeper into his throat, grinding and plugging him up so tight that there isn't a chance for air, and all Fenris wants is more. He mewls out that little warning and Fenris finds his first thought isn't he's right, but beg me.
Beg me to stop. Beg me so that your father doesn't catch you with your ass in the air and your eyes full of tears, wholly tamed beneath my hand. Beg me, little patriar, and the words thunder wildly through his mind. Colored spots have begun to dance in front of his eyes from the lack of oxygen, for that doesn't matter anymore. All the terrors of the outside world, all his earlier hesitations and uncertainty, even the damned need to breathe, he doesn't care. Centuries of celibacy in his mind if not his body are suddenly put to the test— for the things that Danarius had made him do were always so rote. Unpleasant, yes, and sometimes nauseatingly so, but never once did Fenris think it anything more than a duty. Getting to his knees or spreading his legs wide, mouthing the right words and making the right noise until at last his master was satisfied: just another way that his body was put to use.
Never once was it about his pleasure. Never once was it about what he wanted. Never once has he known just how good it could feel to tumble with someone like this. To play with them, tangling together and exchanging an endless series of back-and-forth blows— oh, it's addicting. It's intoxicating—
And every barking cry and muffled mewl still rings so sweetly in his ears. His palm stings even as his throat burns, his jaw aching for how his noble punishes him. The thought of how red that pretty ass must have gotten drifts through his mind. He wants so badly to keep going, spanking him until he begs for it to stop, watching the outline of his own hand glow brightly against pale skin— and he will. He will, no matter that it cannot happen today. Astarion's tongue is such a sweet thing as he mouths needily at the crown of his cock, his lips glossy with precome and his meaning clear. And though it takes nearly everything in him, Fenris moans out an agreement.
All at once his cock slides out of his throat, a sharp inhale following. Fenris' head tips back, his next swallow such a wet thing as he hollows his cheeks once more. He'll be good, oh, yes, but he cannot be still, not now. Not when desire burns through him so intently: with a little moan his head tips back, his tongue fluttering up as he laps at him, tracing against bumps and ridges with open desire.
And his hands settle.
Not on the mattress, but on supple cheeks: both palms heavy as they settle atop Astarion's ass. His fingers waste no time in squeezing and groping, calloused fingers exploratory as he tests the give of his little noble's assets— and oh, it must sting. His body is so warm beneath Fenris' hands, after all, and no matter that he hadn't gotten to spank him half as much as he deserves, for even one blow is overwhelming to someone unused to it. Sore muscles groped and pinched and toyed with, squeezed and spread open—
Until at last he works his way in. Spreading him open wide, his thumbs exploratory as one skims over that unguarded little stretch. He won't pry him open just yet, not when that's a treat to be savored— but there's such curiosity in the way he rubs insistently at it, teasing Astarion with what he won't give him today.]
Hmm . . .?
[Better? He'd done just as he was asked. And he isn't smug, not with a mouthful of cock and a burning throat, his body outright trembling in desire— but there's a certain measure of teasing woven within his rumbling hum.]
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In that throat, in the rising push and pull of his lithe form in the center of a rolling set of hands, in the way he feels his center splay around that singularly testing thumb, almost begging it to enter. His cock is hard, driven into lightless heat that twitches and ensnares and gulps, making his thrusts quick and dagger-sharp— an undulating ripple of rabbiting pumps gliding back and forth across dense friction— but the rest of him? Molten as sugar in hot water. Malleable as chocolate in a palm.
His legs feel loose and barely present; his muscles hazy and undefined. His hands and arms amorphous under his shoulders, the only thing keeping him upright beyond the bobbing of his head as it entreats what slots into him—
As he—
That hum spreads through him with a shiver. A shudder, starting deep inside his own throat to form a loop— as if like some ouroborosian serpent they're both devouring each other, or at least devouring themselves: two parts of the same whole. The same, wicked, vulgar, insatiable whole. A slender noble perched cock-deep and slung across his keeper's abused mouth; a slave freed and endebted to the walls of his place, mocking what he's meant to safeguard by leaving imprints on smooth skin (and stealing the bitter taste of precome with every gulp).
Smug bastard.
Oh, he'll kill him after this— if there is an after this, considering the way things are going. Buried to the hilt like he's never been before, frustrated and elated all at once. Because he can't guide him like this. Or instruct him. They can barely guide each other, his cheeks stuffed full and watering to leave whole streaks of spit cascading down towards the root of Fenris' prick, characterized by wet snaps each time he stumbles over swollen contours. Heavy in his mouth and heavier when it closes in along his throat, discomfort buzzing electric around its slope, dispersed as something better. Pale fingers palming down beneath the waistband of those boxers with the heel of his hand, his other effectively a brace: he doesn't use it to stroke past the barrier of his lips each time that he pulls back; his advantage isn't in rote competency, after all.
He's a godsdamned patriar after all.
He's better than that. He's better than anything or anyone. Divine right, in so many words: hitched in his engorged weight. The blunt, unconquerable heat of his prick as it pins Fenris to the conceptual mat, boring its encindered way into the back of a mouth forced wide and waiting, caught muscle wetter each time he pushes in— smothering that sense of smug control while sinking his own lips flush to rich-tanned skin, suctioning his throat. The full outline of his cheeks and tongue forced in until they tremble, proving for all his worth how much surrendering to him suits his proud companion.
Pacification. Competition.
What's the difference anyway?]
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Before now, Astarion had been pacifying him: suckling on his cock like the good little patriar he is, caught off-guard and all the sweeter for it. Stroking him and teasing him, and yes, of course he'd had his prick shoved deep into Fenris' throat, but still: it was retaliatory, a staggered blow offered as Astarion had reeled. He'd whimpered and moaned, tears in his eyes from how he was spanked (oh, they will talk about that once they're through), so desperate not to be caught that he'd do anything to make the lustful beast beneath him settle. Please, that was the tune of that messy, drooling capitulation.
Pacification meant that Fenris had a fighting chance.
But competition . . . oh, competition destroys him.
There's no thought of defense, for the moment Astarion drops his head down Fenris groans involuntarily, the sound rumbling low in his throat. It's a fight not to writhe, to squirm and wriggle and thrash from the sudden onslaught of pleasure— oh, he's too new at this. He knows how to suck and bounce and rut, but never once had Danarius' lessons include how to withstand pleasure. His mind goes blank, his eyes unfocused as all thoughts of revenge disappear. Yes, that's the sound of his whining now. Yes please more don't stop, his thumb suddenly stuttering as it drags against his hole, blunt fingernails digging too tightly into one pale cheek as he fights not to spill.
For it's so much all at once: the overwhelmingly tight confines of Astarion's throat, a feverishly hot hole that devours his cock again and again, swallowing him to the hilt and sending him reeling— only to be followed by the suctioning suckling as Astarion's head draws up. His lips are sealed around the width of Fenris' cock, vulgar wet noises accompanying every dizzying pull. And that's to say nothing of how he teases: drawing back just to use his tongue, swirling around the crown and lingering against his slit, earning a desperate sort of whimper that he couldn't swallow if he tried. Like that, like that, and his hips follow the rhythm that Astarion's mouth sets, instinctively desperate little rocks that amount to nothing.
But it's the cruel smother of Astarion's cock that earns true submission. Searing heat rests so heavily on his tongue, forcing his jaw open so wide it aches, filling his mouth and penetrating his throat, claiming space that's never once been so thoroughly violated— oh, there will be no one else after this. Who could compare? No one else will fill him so completely that he swears he can feel his throat bulging. No one else will smother him so sweetly, consuming every one of his senses and forcibly redirecting them: his eyes blinded by lust and the fallen hang of that gauzy nightshirt, the sex of sweat and sex and come thick in the air, and all the while he can feel searing droplets of precome dripping down his throat in taunting promise: soon you'll be full, and it's a question of when, not if. The first time one of them lays claim, proper claim, to the other, Astarion breeding his mouth and throat and belly, teaching his bodyguard just what it is to really be owned—
And Fenris will never, ever admit that that's the thought that shoves him teetering to the very edge of orgasm. It hits him like a hammer, like a bullet, ripping through him and sending him into overdrive— and yet even as his cock throbs in desperate hunger Fenris tries to drag himself back, for he wants that fantasy. He wants Astarion to win, he wants to be claimed—
For when he returns that possessive favor, shoving Astarion face-down and breeding him until he shrieks, he wants it to be on his terms.]
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Despite the vulgar beauty of it all, despite the sleek sweeps of pallid suppleness working down into hessonite again and again and again, it doesn't do anything to lessen the battle underneath. Expand— snap— he can feel it before he sees it: the muscle beneath him clenching once— twice— his vision blurring wildly as he feels his hole stretch against a quaking grip, but it can't knock out the sharpness of his instincts; he'd recognize that pulsating lock anywhere, ingrained as it is after so many midnight trysts that taught him where to put his tongue or roll his spine. He recognizes it like the acrid scent that spells out a full-bodied red or a flowery white, even without looking down inside the bottle that's been held. Force of habit such a potent thing even in abstract periphery, still lapping up overheated salt and the glazing backwash of his own spit while his senses flare inside close quarters.
Fenris is about to come.
Fenris comes.
Expand— snap— and gods, tightness has him in a vice grip from the cock up; inside his mouth, he feels that thickness swell across sore lips until his throat is plunged into the first thundering gush of roaring heat. A splash that sinks like swallowed embers down into the basin of his chest, scalding him until he seizes— until his own thrusts stutter hard against the squeeze that suctions and gurgles hot between his thighs, forcing his legs to grind against the source of all those smothered groans like he aims to choke them out right at the root— bottomed out and bouncing instead of thrusting; unwilling to sacrifice an inch. There's no slowing. No relent.
That's how it stays a fight, not a coaxing negotiation.
Fenris folds and stumbles— and it takes everything in the middle of that scuffle not to do the same, pressure whirling in Astarion's slight ears. Vertigo hitting him low inside his belly, near where he feels strained lips fight just to wriggle around his submerged girth. Obscene. Undignified. Impatient as the spurt of white-hot slickness he's only just begun to swallow—
His tongue thrust hard against that slit before a second splash ensues, forcing his tongue against its trembling little line.
His, now. His.
His payback. His triumph. Call it what you want, and don't discount he's barely managing it— but all the same: he is managing it. His cheeks suddenly running gaunt as he bobs and twists his head, rolling from his shoulders first in noisy, moaning patterns. Sucking, exhaling rattling vibrations, it doesn't pull his tongue away from the crest in the slightest no matter where he wends or what he does— he bottles the orgasm he stokes, unable to stop smooth pumps of frantic pearl from gushing past his tongue completely, but keeping them wedged harsh. Making them splash instead of pour into uncontrollable bliss. And underneath: young fingers dive beneath the cusp of what they work(ed) at, riving hard between clothed cheeks to knock and tap and piston at their center— waiting for one little slip— one little, slight, careless contraction, where that hole just so happens to run open....
His middle finger's already so wet, you see.
He'd coated it in spit while working right under that cock. He'd coated all of them, in fact....ready to fingerfuck his keeper underneath him in his bedroom till he whimpers through welled tears.
Ready for the inevitable plunge that'll bring on all the rest.]
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The thought echoes in time with his thundering heart, drowning gasps sputtered rhythmically without end. Too much, and it's dazed delight, not a cry to stop. Too much too much too much, he's so far out of his depth, he's so overwhelmed, he's so turned on he thinks he's going to lose his mind, and it doesn't stop.
Too much: the endlessly sadistic rhythm of Astarion's cock as it violates his throat, plumbing into depths as-yet untouched; the student forcibly teaching his gagging tutor just what it is to truly take someone else. Again and again he fucks Fenris' mouth with sadistic cruelty, his hips pumping with a bouncing rut that ensures whatever desperate breaths of air Fenris manages to inhale are incidental, not planned. Desperately he writhes beneath him, his eyes filling with tears each time the sound of gagging fills the air, his body instinctively fights against what Fenris knows to be inevitable— and yet still his lips seal tight around the swell of his prick, suctioning pressure pulling at his cock that must be maddening each time Astarion rears back. Fenris moans so eagerly in those scarce seconds when Astarion's cock draws back, drool and precome dripping down his chin as he tries to swallow him back down— greedy to the core for every drop of precome he can milk out of his master.
Too much: a hot tongue pressing wickedly against his slit even as the slick suckle of Astarion's lips coaxes his orgasm forward with every damning pulse— and Fenris sees white. His cock surges as it never has before, and every thundering wave feels more intense than the last, drawn out and wracking through his thrashing body; his baying is muffled, smothered, cut short with an undignified thrust as Astarion's cock sinks deeper.
Too much— and it is not the lesser of the three, but the one he expects the least: the sudden pump of two spit-slick fingers thrusting into him, forcing him open wide in one burning movement. Scissoring and curling and fucking him, uncaring for how he writhes, uncaring that every wicked curl leaves Fenris baying around the swell of his cock— too much, and overstimulation and brutal pleasure mount, blinding him, deafening him, burning him from the inside out—
And he returns the favor. As bitter droplets of pearl drool across Astarion's tongue, Fenris fumbles to coat his fingers, swiping them through the frothing rivulets of precome and spit that drip down his chin. His cock is swelling again, half-stiff in the snarling grasp of Astarion's lips, and make no mistake: Fenris mewls as he blindly slips his hand between his cheeks. Two fingers rub clumsily against his hole, a split-second warning before Fenris pushes them forward so hungrily.
He's so tight.
So tight, so hot, so tempting— and make no mistake, for Fenris has lost. He has lost so badly that he does not even remember there's a game going on, not anymore. He's a creature of pure sensation right now, pleasure and pain twining together and tangling within him, wracking through him, leaving him little more than overeager slut so needy for more. His wrist snaps forward rapidly, two fingers buried to the knuckle in tight heat as he fucks his master. You won, scissoring wide and curling forward, trembling as he tries to pleasure his master as best he can. You won, his throat swallowing desperately, his eyes wet with tears, so desperately hungry for that final moment of claiming. Spill in me, claim me as yours, take me, all of him such a submissive little mess.]
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His mouth is full, his throat is slick (his throat is full), he can't cry (out). He can't shriek that it's too much the second unforgiving fingers dig in and pry him open to start fucking him for all he's worth; a maddened score hammering in so deep that his vision starts to blank under those tremoring thrusts, the kind of blunt pressure he'd have killed for last night if his hunger stood a chance against fatigue— thank the gods they're buried in each other now. Thank everything in existence that his muffled whines never see the other side of his lips where they're worked flush against tanned skin, plugging every last one of his faltering shockwaves.
He never had much time before this inevitability found him, but now that it's here....
Fuck—
Fuck—
He tastes so good inside him. He tastes like electricity— like salt— like Astarion's sinking his teeth into a grounding wire and biting down until he hears whole atoms crack like hard-shelled candy, even though all he does is suckle. He tastes like everything: submission and attraction and resentment and arousal intertwined, and the glassy swell of something primordial and deep, as if there's a case to be made for the idea that those markings all root down in Fenris' blood. His spit. His come. His sweat— everything. Everything. Its boiling essence poured deeper and deeper into Astarion to comingle, swirling in the lightless basin of his body and pushed in by those fingers.
Barely even able to hold on before convulsions start to claim him, bottled by the very thing he's bottling: cock forced tight to the mouth that's gagging on its prize— one more forced tight to another mouth still gulping. Still shaking around roping bellyfuls of scathing lust that force him wider with their presence—
At by end of it all, pale outline limp through slumped hips in morning sunlight and draped around his fucked-out teacher, Astarion lifts one trembling hand....
....and strikes the leg he's draped on. (Somnolent, that useless swat). Painless. Listless. Barely a shove, but if all else fails, at least it gets the point across:
I blame you for this.]
I should sic the guards on you.
[He rasps out loosely through the rattled hiss of his own sandpaper throat. A terrible joke, but a joke without even the thinnest margin for mistaking it: one scream is all it'd take and half the wing would come running. Maybe even half the estate.
Instead, there's just the click of the doorlatch fastening once he's somehow sloughed out of bed on shaking legs— having to slump his back against it once it's well and truly locked just to keep from falling over, his nightshirt only barely managing to cover up the tip of his sore cock.
His ruined legs not so much.]
god that icon tho i am DYING about all these new ones
It's the first thought that manages to roll through Fenris' fucked-out mind, a hoarse whisper that's more dazed than anything. He feels the swatting strike of Astarion's palm, hears that awful joke (the click of the lock smothering any sparks of panic that might have otherwise flared to life), but though he wants to, Fenris can't bear to glance over just yet. It's asking too much. Breathing is nearly asking too much, overwhelmed as he is. All he can manage is to lie there, his gaze unfocused as he stares at the ceiling, trying to come back to himself.
It doesn't take long, though it feels that way. His body still echoes with all the sensations of before: Astarion's fingers plunging into him as his cock slams down his throat, searing heat pouring into his belly . . . but it's a pleasing reminder. A thrilling reverberation and reflection all in one, each sensation presenting yet another searing reminder of the past hour . . . but gods, he'll need so much time to go over it. To think about what it means, not just for them (a conversation much more urgent, and one that he's already struggling to verbalize), but for him. Sex that isn't just pleasurable in a rote way, but something so utterly ecstatic as to consume him . . . he has never felt such things before. He has never once dreamed it could be this good.
The hawking cries of merchants and hum of electricity that drifts in from outside is strange to his ears. It seems impossible that anything could exist outside of this moment . . . but ah, that's not right, is it? Fenris sits up on one elbow, wincing a little as he turns to face his errant student. It's not that it's so shocking that the world should continue to spin . . . it's just that everything is so different now. There is no going back, not for him and not for them— and every moment that passes only hammers that home.]
You were the one who accosted me . . .
[It's vague protest, muttered half-heartedly as he begins to get his bearings back. Fenris' gaze sweeps over his student, and despite himself— despite the towering weight of responsibility that threatens to topple over his head, all the questions they need to ask and boundaries they need to draw, the measures he'll need to set in place to ensure they aren't caught, if indeed Astarion still wants him— he smiles in satisfaction. If he's a wreck, so is Astarion, and that takes the sting off his wounded pride.]
And if that is your intention, I suggest you do so. Otherwise . . . come here.
[Come here. Not an invitation to cuddle, but at least they can both lie here comfortably while they speak. With a little groan Fenris shifts his weight, settling on his side as he makes room for his student.]
We have things to discuss, I think.
good because more are on the way for YOU >:]
The look Fenris gives digs deeper.
Come here— and those words might be the hook that snags its mark if one flicked-up pair of pupils has anything to say about it, but his bodyguard is the attached line pulled taut (or....is he the lure? The fisherman yanking him in, maybe— no, just— something poignant about metaphors goes here by otherwise functional design, squeezed into the whirring blank of Astarion's skull), adhered against the draw of common sense: all of him slumped there in hot sunlight staring at what beckons him back to bed less like a lover and more like a thing well-loved.
Meaning: he's mismatched against nice sheets, for starters.
His pants are still on. Cheap leather caked with age-old wear and tear around frayed hems in spite of the way they've been cared for, slicked with darker spots across their waistband. His legs are open, his ankles broadly braced against the mattress probably exactly where he'd left them— which is only nominally less vulgar than the fact that his cock still hangs out: its measure listless and yet thickened in surrender under the tight band of those boxers, drooling slow against tanned skin. Never mind that his hair's a feathered mess; his cheeks red and his lips made redder with the lingering blush of lacquered obscenity, and that's not mentioning the glazed shine across his chin or along the underside of his throat. The place Astarion was buried to the breathless hilt barely even a full two minutes prior.
....he's beautiful, in short.
And for a moment Astarion can't seem to look away as he talks, straining towards that soft reverberation like a plant angling for sunlight— the only strange thing in this picture being that he wants to.
It's....just that his knees won't work.
His sore (presently screaming) thighs won't either, let alone his useless calves. His aching toes. His friction-burned fingers. And to his credit, Astarion tries to play it off with a coy grin that comes on quick and sideways, fighting to make it seem like a show of playfulness instead of—
Well, exactly what it is.]
Like how you gagged like a virgin when I had you under me?
[(There. There it is. Go for the throat, Astarion— literally. Put him on his heels inside fresh memories, and he won't have time to think straight while you remember how to walk straight.)
Chin lifting higher by the second, one broad flash of teeth halfway masked by a mess of unstrung curls.] Because I liked that part, you know.
A lot.
AA BOO THANK YOU once again you spoil me :>
But ah: if Astarion won't go where he's bid, Fenris will simply have to meet him. With a low groan he forces himself to sit up, bare feet hitting the wooden floor heavily as his head spins. In one sluggardly motion he strips off his sweat-soaked shirt, then vaguely fixes his trousers as he rises. He's so tired, spent in a way that goes beyond bodily limits, but he's always been a deft hand at pushing past exhaustion. Fenris crosses the room in two strides, coming up short only when he stands in front of his charge.
Then, so quick that it's impossible to realize what's happening before it's done, he sweeps Astarion up in his arms, hefting him up in a bridal carry. And to his credit, he tries (sort of) not to be smug about the motion, for it isn't meant to be another vengeful point scored in their endless battle. It's just that anyone with eyes could see the way those lithe legs tremble in exhaustion; it's just that sweat still drips down Astarion's temple and neck, making that sleepshirt cling to him as he heaves for breath.]
I imagine you did, yes.
[It's low, more amusement than fluster in his tone as he turns on his heel. One thumb rubs idly between the other elf's shoulderblades, an absent bit of affection.
His eyes slide slowly over Astarion as he carries him back to bed. He's beautiful and he knows it. He's beautiful, but that is the least of him as far as Fenris is concerned, for he has seen many beautiful people in his three centuries. Friends of his master or courtesans hired to put on a show, and don't misunderstand, for it isn't as if he's above such things. But that isn't what draws him to Astarion.
He doesn't know what it is, only that it exists. Some electrified line between them, magnetic and inescapable, born from that one fateful night. They aren't perfect for each other. They aren't perfect for anyone, maybe; Fenris such a broken thing, scarred and angry and bewildered by all that demi-freedom offers him, and Astarion still so entrenched within his class, too caught up in their complexities to understand the real world and too miserable to dream of breaking away. They're both made up of sharp edges, biting and scratching and clawing just to say I won, and it will take a long time before they find a rhythm that works. It will take countless corrections for them to learn how to get along, how not to grate, how to understand what the future holds (I'll protect you is still not the same as I'll free you, after all), but—
Still, Fenris thinks as he carefully lays Astarion out on his bed. Still, there is trust. And there is connection. And that will keep them together until they can forge a stronger bond.]
Tell me what else you liked.
[It's quiet, rumbling as he climbs in next to him. And oh, to hell with it: one arm slings around his noble's hips, gathering him in close. Come here, equal parts possessive and protective, an old wolf putting a paw on a squalling cub, hushing his eager nipping. Settle.]
POINTS. AT. YOU.
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