[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.]
[No one in the history of the world has ever gone so fast from smugset crowing to running redder than the blood pooled hot beneath his skin.
All right, maybe someone else has, fine, but definitely not anyone inside these walls from his own winding lineage. No one sporting the last name Ancunín. No one descended from the oft mystified elven towers in a city full of mayfly humans. No one that spends his days chasing the lower class like chickens for a laugh, riling them up like a substitute for all the excitement that he lacks inside the stiff cage of his world, his life, his body. He's crushed dreams just to imbibe them. He's broken hearts and mixed them into his drink so that he can have a good story at the end of a long week where he can't bloody stand the looks his family gives him. Truth be told, he's already forgotten that mewling noble from the night before, too. Like there was no one in the room beside them while he groaned out Fenris' name, his memory punches holes all on its own— cutting out the unimportant just to feel the rest in full.
He feels it now.
That thumb pushes into his skin in the half-step to the bed (point scored), and it defies logic for the way it's sunken right through his curled spine, kicking at his rabbiting heart. Jumpstarting it when it's already overrun, and when he sinks into the mattress (pulled close enough to feel warm breath along his cheek), it stays exactly where it was: hovering three steps back in midair and thrumming without gravity.
Fuck.]
You.
[Oh, nope. No, that's not—
His tongue hits the back of his throat in a sort of bob, which— for better or worse— kind of sounds like a hitch when he's run dry from a night of drinking, smoking, orgasming, drooling, trembling....only to wake up and do it all again. In other words, he sounds about as rough-used as he feels, which has the added bonus of you reading more like a stuttered you— as in: it's his body that stops the thought before it gets out. As in: there was something else he wanted to say, even if that's a lie sold through the roughened bite he shoves against the front of Fenris' throat in steep aversion, letting his teeth slide over glassy brands.]
[You, and he doesn't know which is better: the thought that it was a complete sentence, genuine and hungry, and that Astarion bites at him in fretful need to lessen the emotional impact (you, it's you, I liked you, I liked having you near, I liked being with you, his face bright red and all of him afluster from the mere act of being picked up, oh, Fenris will assuredly do that again)— or that it wasn't. That it was a cut off little thing, you— with the ending of that sentence being something too great for him to utter just yet, altered and averted into something more playful. Both are thrilling to contemplate; both are terrifying to contemplate— and so though it isn't his style, still, Fenris doesn't chase after it just yet.
Instead, Fenris pulls Astarion in closer, grunting softly as teeth clamp down around his markings. Electricity sparks off the lyrium, more sensation than pain; soon enough he'll have to teach him how to mind his teeth. His fingers card through unruly curls from back to front, rucking them up affectionately as he settles into a sedate rhythm.]
There were easier ways, little noble. [Though far less pleasurable ones.] For my part, I liked the way you mewled for me when I spanked you . . . I could feel your cock leaking on my tongue each time my palm connected. You kept pushing back into it even as you begged me to stop . . .
[And though he knows one of them has to be the responsible one . . . still, he is not above playfulness. His head tips lower, his grin audible as he worries gently at the tip of one pale ear.]
Though I think I might like how you blush for me even more. Is that going to happen each time I pick you up?
[He hasn't been held like this in ages (not since his fingers were too small to wrap around an apple on one side: Talindra's patient touch smoothing through his hair as he wailed over a skinned knee, a shut door, a lost toy— something like that), far off pieces of himself stirring without input underneath those roaming fingers and the way they catch his curls, softening his bite. His puppish mouth.
He'd honestly forgotten. What it was like to have someone close. To be warmed by someone, instead of warming them.
His lids begin to shut, the exhale through his nose soft and mellow.
....and then he's flush again under the mention of those strikes.
Hells, he's redder than red, in fact. His bare toes twisting against themselves— working down against thin sheets at first, his bare knees pushed against Fenris' captive legs, cock twitching like it wants to wake and follow suit (still rough from the inner angles of that throat that purrs so sweetly underneath his lips; his breath catching, his cheeks clenching for the memory of that finger tugging over him. Melting, wanting)— feeling the urge to draw closer, and closer, and....]
[Snarling at the comment that wraps around his ear with cheshire teeth, nipping twice over at his flusterment.]
Shut up— [He grits back with a shove laid into the dead center of Fenris' chest. The segue that has his fingers twisting before they push again, harder this time: driving his guardian's corded frame onto its back atop the middle of the mattress, straddling him without a second thought for decency or shame (forgetting that he's crimson to the tips of his ears underneath his bone-white curls in a way that's almost comedic) for all its rowdiness, no matter how forcefully he grabs that tanned jaw front-wise with his fingers pressed around a still-glazed mouth. No matter how he has to lean to one side just to grab his phone and flick his thumb up once, angling the camera down to steal a single shot.
You want to talk about blushing, Fenris?
Talk about the red stain on your lips, first, and how it's now immortalized in his phone.
[It's stupid. That's the first thing he thinks as he splays there on his back, staring up at Astarion in wide-eyed surprise. It's stupid. Foolish. Petty. A child's reactionary response; a brat's taunting reply, now I won't ever forget what you look like when you're conquered, and it's nothing. It really isn't. After all that came before, Astarion's cock smothering him, fucking into him, his tongue bottling him up and driving him into ecstasies previously unknown, oh, what does one picture matter?
And yet for just a moment, Fenris flushes.
Not as obviously nor as brightly as his charge, and thank the gods for tanned skin. For half a second his eyes flick away, his ears flattening and tucking beneath the fringes of his hair as he tries to compose himself. It's foolish to be flustered; it's foolish to react in any kind of way to this childish goading, so why—?
But Astarion's fingers grip his jaw so tightly, forcing him to show off the glossy smear still coated across cock-sore lips; his grin is the perfect mixture of arrogant and mean, as playfully vicious as a cat that's found a particularly enticing mouse to torment. And there's something about that particular brand of social sadism that Fenris loathes in all other nobles, and yet finds so damningly intoxicating right now.]
Don't— delete that.
[His voice is rougher than he'd like it to be, though he valiantly ignores it.]
If we are to do this, we cannot leave any kind of evidence.
[And it's true, you know, but that's almost assuredly not why he says it. And funny, too, for he has not pulled away from that sharp grip around his jaw. Submit to me, and there are so many more ways to conquer a person than with one's prick.]
It's the first time Fenris has made it— anything. Real, even. Not since he had Astarion by the figurative neck and literal (panting) mouth did anything ever come close, swearing he'd have all of his given charge or none of him: no middle distance. No inbetween. All that tenderness long-forgotten now, all that vulnerability left twisting in the wind for weeks while they acted like it never happened, erasing the trackmarks of that first, tender little kiss. Brittle glass making up the whole of their proximity, uniquely far away from the cruel hounding they've enacted since.
No, if we are to do this is a different sort of commitment. It feels....broader, somehow. Uglier and less breakable.
More them, maybe.
Even if there's no indication of what this actually is (a fling? A rut? A kidnapping? An inevitable scandal involving a runaway heir, disappeared from his own home by a snatched-up slave); no definition to it outside fingerprints on jaws and dark-bruised thighs, the fact of the matter is— Astarion likes it. Something in his own pulse jumping as his lips pull into a wicked smile, its outline trapped inside the cage of smugness and pure want.]
Relax, old man.
[A test. A test when he shifts two fingers away from that striped chin and pushes them against (into) that mouth, phone tipped downwards by degrees.]
No one else will ever see them.
[Click— sings his phone, like the flick of a blade nicking thicker armor.
Angled lower, to where the tip of his cock meets bright tattoos through gauzy fabric.
—click.]
Besides, you're so pretty like this....
Sort of begs the question if it's what you looked like when I throatfucked you, doesn't it?
[Though there's always one way to find out.
(Grin twitching, toes shifting just to scoot himself higher up that narrow torso in a playful little threat that's not a threat— pale fingers pushing deeper.)]
[Like the flick of a blade nicking thicker armor; like a stiletto pushed beneath his chin, a fragile tension rising between them as sharp metal kisses his throat. Every instinct he has shrieks that this is a stupid idea and it doesn't matter, not when he's caught like this. Kept still and utterly enraptured by his master, his imagination sparking at each tap of Astarion's thumb. Swollen lips wrapped obediently around two pale fingers; the heavy weight of Astarion's prick, sedate and yet still drooling, resting atop the belly of his conquered prey. Look at how I won, look at how you melt for me, humiliation to be savored and offered later, and Fenris can feel his own cock twitch in response.
And oh, those words . . . relax, old man, and let Astarion decide if the grunt of displeasure that follows is for that careless instruction or the diminutive that follows. Either way, it earns a sharp stare: narrowed eyes above a mouth still eager to serve, Fenris' tongue sliding eagerly over soft fingerpads. And perhaps that would be the end of it. If he kept up that slow, meandering sadism; if he took picture after picture with his only intent being vouyeristic bullying . . .
But he inches forward. He presses his luck.
And Fenris strikes.
One hand wraps tight around Astarion's wrist, squeezing cruelly until he either drops that phone or at least lowers it; the other grips his hip as Fenris flips them both over. It's a messy action, far more about pinning than it is seduction; in an instant he has Astarion on his back, one arm pinned up over his head and his lithe legs splayed around Fenris' waist. His phone's screen is still unlocked, not that Fenris notices.]
Listen when I tell you something.
[White hair hangs messily around his face as he surveys his bratty ward.]
You spend your days telling me about how petty your friends are . . . how quick would they be to plaster such images anywhere they could just to get a laugh?
[Oh, he means it. He does. And yet it's no accident that his hips rock forward, grinding sedately against Astarion. Who knows when they'll next be left alone, after all? And while they still have to be quiet, now that the door is locked, well. There's little harm in indulgence, is there?
A kiss. A bite, his teeth sedately worrying at Astarion's lower lip, as he keeps a tight grip on his wrist. Murmured against his mouth, then:]
And stop calling me old man. You're practically a century old, you need not act as though I am so much your elder.
[But don't stop, actually, because he quite likes it.]
[Oh if you thought he'd be used to this by now, you'd be wrong.
Creature of habit that he is, his rabbiting pulse spikes so high it hits his ears before he hits the bed in harsh refrain— adrenaline dizzier than vertigo in a spinning room while his legs are tangled around lithe hips and his lower half pins snug inside their crux. Two seconds ago: he'd been leering at his sheets. Right now: the ceiling overhead. That snarling, handsome face. Those staggering green eyes, lit from within, and there— right in their center— his own reflection, angled back.
....and coming quickly into focus.
He's living for this as it crawls over him; he's alive inside its deep-cast shadow when it moves closer. Nothing like the palpitating rush that drug and drink bring on or how senselessly worked up Astarion gets after landing a worthwhile catch with a name worth touting (irony of ironies being that he's still swept up on his back), just— he doesn't know, it's different. Bloody Hells, it's different. Higher. Headier. More enticingly addictive at its core and infinitely more damning considering all the consequences he can't pay off if one of them so much as nudges his phone in the middle of this skirmish, meaning maybe there's something to be said for that old adage about risk and reward.
He's just too high on both to remember what it was. Smiling against the roughness scoring his hot mouth; Sparking electricity just to feel his bruised wrist whine in aching protest that threads right through his own— shirt rucked, teeth poised, snapping to try and reach (catch, bite) the sly fighter overtaking him: every narrow movement falling short, but that's exciting, too. They won't know, a lost admission in the middle of it all. They think I never fucked you.
And it's not really a lie.
And—
Oh.
O h.
Should he— should he tell him?
He should, right? After all, it's not like that first night anymore, back when he'd assumed his purchased watchdog of a wolf would only last a week inside these halls; the man will find out eventually if he stays here, anyway. Not to mention he'll be more than slightly pissed if that inevitable reveal comes slipping out from someone else's mouth.
Besides, they're friends....aren't they? Or....well, something like it, all things reasonably considered.
Fine, all right, yes. okay.]
Fenris—
[He mouths against yet another kiss, vying for a moment to confess (it has the unintended effect of sounding like a vulgar, hitching moan).]
[Murmured with a grin against Astarion's lips and punctuated with a bite. The tension from earlier still thrums hot within him, his pulse racing from Astarion's earlier sadism; even now, he's aware of that cell phone still clutched in one hand. But now that his prey is pinned, there's no harm in taking his time to thoroughly enjoy him. Strange and piecemeal as their relationship has been, this is only the second time they've gotten to kiss, and Fenris finds he likes learning the shape of Astarion's mouth. Like that, he likes it like that, a little harder, a little hungrier—
But Astarion doesn't stop. Fenris, Fenris, the noise vulgar and mewling, a thoroughly distracted gasp for attention that he can't deny forever. With one final little lick to his bottom lip, Fenris draws back just enough to smirk down at him.]
What, hm? I have every intention of tending to you, whether you believe me or not. Though if you wish to beg me for my cock, I will not decline.
[Never mind. He starts, stops. Never mind, that's all he thinks as that tongue pries him open more and more with every slow, exploratory lick— like patience is a thing he can even start to dredge up underneath something so immense and all-encompassing as what he's stealing mouthfuls of— oh, he doesn't want to stop. Gnawing at his own flush lips in the drawback like a weak continuation of their game, he'd start to whine if he could manage it: instead he's looking up at Fenris from caught sheets like he's a half step away from begging for that offered cock.
Hells, maybe he is.
He's certainly rethinking the whole confessing for a good cause part, after all.]
I erm—
Hm.
[Hm and mhm slipped out through his nose.]
The calling you old man thing— about that.
Specifically the part about it not applying. Specifically specifically about what I told you that first night.
[Maker, his prick is hard. It aches. Is there a word for the inbetween between guilt and horny as all hells?
If so: currently dying from it.]
When I said I was almost a century old....I....[ahahah....] well I might have been exaggerating.
A little.
[Just a....teeny. Tiny. Very very very unmentionably small bit.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
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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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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?]
no subject
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.
All right, maybe someone else has, fine, but definitely not anyone inside these walls from his own winding lineage. No one sporting the last name Ancunín. No one descended from the oft mystified elven towers in a city full of mayfly humans. No one that spends his days chasing the lower class like chickens for a laugh, riling them up like a substitute for all the excitement that he lacks inside the stiff cage of his world, his life, his body. He's crushed dreams just to imbibe them. He's broken hearts and mixed them into his drink so that he can have a good story at the end of a long week where he can't bloody stand the looks his family gives him. Truth be told, he's already forgotten that mewling noble from the night before, too. Like there was no one in the room beside them while he groaned out Fenris' name, his memory punches holes all on its own— cutting out the unimportant just to feel the rest in full.
He feels it now.
That thumb pushes into his skin in the half-step to the bed (point scored), and it defies logic for the way it's sunken right through his curled spine, kicking at his rabbiting heart. Jumpstarting it when it's already overrun, and when he sinks into the mattress (pulled close enough to feel warm breath along his cheek), it stays exactly where it was: hovering three steps back in midair and thrumming without gravity.
Fuck.]
You.
[Oh, nope. No, that's not—
His tongue hits the back of his throat in a sort of bob, which— for better or worse— kind of sounds like a hitch when he's run dry from a night of drinking, smoking, orgasming, drooling, trembling....only to wake up and do it all again. In other words, he sounds about as rough-used as he feels, which has the added bonus of you reading more like a stuttered you— as in: it's his body that stops the thought before it gets out. As in: there was something else he wanted to say, even if that's a lie sold through the roughened bite he shoves against the front of Fenris' throat in steep aversion, letting his teeth slide over glassy brands.]
2/2
—finally knowing how to stay beside me for once.
[Inhale. Exhale. Lock loose fingers in looser linen that stings around his cuticles from salt. Smile. Play it off. Play.]
Even if I had to fill you up to tie you down.
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Instead, Fenris pulls Astarion in closer, grunting softly as teeth clamp down around his markings. Electricity sparks off the lyrium, more sensation than pain; soon enough he'll have to teach him how to mind his teeth. His fingers card through unruly curls from back to front, rucking them up affectionately as he settles into a sedate rhythm.]
There were easier ways, little noble. [Though far less pleasurable ones.] For my part, I liked the way you mewled for me when I spanked you . . . I could feel your cock leaking on my tongue each time my palm connected. You kept pushing back into it even as you begged me to stop . . .
[And though he knows one of them has to be the responsible one . . . still, he is not above playfulness. His head tips lower, his grin audible as he worries gently at the tip of one pale ear.]
Though I think I might like how you blush for me even more. Is that going to happen each time I pick you up?
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He'd honestly forgotten. What it was like to have someone close. To be warmed by someone, instead of warming them.
His lids begin to shut, the exhale through his nose soft and mellow.
....and then he's flush again under the mention of those strikes.
Hells, he's redder than red, in fact. His bare toes twisting against themselves— working down against thin sheets at first, his bare knees pushed against Fenris' captive legs, cock twitching like it wants to wake and follow suit (still rough from the inner angles of that throat that purrs so sweetly underneath his lips; his breath catching, his cheeks clenching for the memory of that finger tugging over him. Melting, wanting)— feeling the urge to draw closer, and closer, and....]
2/2
Shut up— [He grits back with a shove laid into the dead center of Fenris' chest. The segue that has his fingers twisting before they push again, harder this time: driving his guardian's corded frame onto its back atop the middle of the mattress, straddling him without a second thought for decency or shame (forgetting that he's crimson to the tips of his ears underneath his bone-white curls in a way that's almost comedic) for all its rowdiness, no matter how forcefully he grabs that tanned jaw front-wise with his fingers pressed around a still-glazed mouth. No matter how he has to lean to one side just to grab his phone and flick his thumb up once, angling the camera down to steal a single shot.
You want to talk about blushing, Fenris?
Talk about the red stain on your lips, first, and how it's now immortalized in his phone.
Punctuated with a triumphant little smirk.]
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[It's stupid. That's the first thing he thinks as he splays there on his back, staring up at Astarion in wide-eyed surprise. It's stupid. Foolish. Petty. A child's reactionary response; a brat's taunting reply, now I won't ever forget what you look like when you're conquered, and it's nothing. It really isn't. After all that came before, Astarion's cock smothering him, fucking into him, his tongue bottling him up and driving him into ecstasies previously unknown, oh, what does one picture matter?
And yet for just a moment, Fenris flushes.
Not as obviously nor as brightly as his charge, and thank the gods for tanned skin. For half a second his eyes flick away, his ears flattening and tucking beneath the fringes of his hair as he tries to compose himself. It's foolish to be flustered; it's foolish to react in any kind of way to this childish goading, so why—?
But Astarion's fingers grip his jaw so tightly, forcing him to show off the glossy smear still coated across cock-sore lips; his grin is the perfect mixture of arrogant and mean, as playfully vicious as a cat that's found a particularly enticing mouse to torment. And there's something about that particular brand of social sadism that Fenris loathes in all other nobles, and yet finds so damningly intoxicating right now.]
Don't— delete that.
[His voice is rougher than he'd like it to be, though he valiantly ignores it.]
If we are to do this, we cannot leave any kind of evidence.
[And it's true, you know, but that's almost assuredly not why he says it. And funny, too, for he has not pulled away from that sharp grip around his jaw. Submit to me, and there are so many more ways to conquer a person than with one's prick.]
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It's the first time Fenris has made it— anything. Real, even. Not since he had Astarion by the figurative neck and literal (panting) mouth did anything ever come close, swearing he'd have all of his given charge or none of him: no middle distance. No inbetween. All that tenderness long-forgotten now, all that vulnerability left twisting in the wind for weeks while they acted like it never happened, erasing the trackmarks of that first, tender little kiss. Brittle glass making up the whole of their proximity, uniquely far away from the cruel hounding they've enacted since.
No, if we are to do this is a different sort of commitment. It feels....broader, somehow. Uglier and less breakable.
More them, maybe.
Even if there's no indication of what this actually is (a fling? A rut? A kidnapping? An inevitable scandal involving a runaway heir, disappeared from his own home by a snatched-up slave); no definition to it outside fingerprints on jaws and dark-bruised thighs, the fact of the matter is— Astarion likes it. Something in his own pulse jumping as his lips pull into a wicked smile, its outline trapped inside the cage of smugness and pure want.]
Relax, old man.
[A test. A test when he shifts two fingers away from that striped chin and pushes them against (into) that mouth, phone tipped downwards by degrees.]
No one else will ever see them.
[Click— sings his phone, like the flick of a blade nicking thicker armor.
Angled lower, to where the tip of his cock meets bright tattoos through gauzy fabric.
—click.]
Besides, you're so pretty like this....
Sort of begs the question if it's what you looked like when I throatfucked you, doesn't it?
[Though there's always one way to find out.
(Grin twitching, toes shifting just to scoot himself higher up that narrow torso in a playful little threat that's not a threat— pale fingers pushing deeper.)]
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And oh, those words . . . relax, old man, and let Astarion decide if the grunt of displeasure that follows is for that careless instruction or the diminutive that follows. Either way, it earns a sharp stare: narrowed eyes above a mouth still eager to serve, Fenris' tongue sliding eagerly over soft fingerpads. And perhaps that would be the end of it. If he kept up that slow, meandering sadism; if he took picture after picture with his only intent being vouyeristic bullying . . .
But he inches forward. He presses his luck.
And Fenris strikes.
One hand wraps tight around Astarion's wrist, squeezing cruelly until he either drops that phone or at least lowers it; the other grips his hip as Fenris flips them both over. It's a messy action, far more about pinning than it is seduction; in an instant he has Astarion on his back, one arm pinned up over his head and his lithe legs splayed around Fenris' waist. His phone's screen is still unlocked, not that Fenris notices.]
Listen when I tell you something.
[White hair hangs messily around his face as he surveys his bratty ward.]
You spend your days telling me about how petty your friends are . . . how quick would they be to plaster such images anywhere they could just to get a laugh?
[Oh, he means it. He does. And yet it's no accident that his hips rock forward, grinding sedately against Astarion. Who knows when they'll next be left alone, after all? And while they still have to be quiet, now that the door is locked, well. There's little harm in indulgence, is there?
A kiss. A bite, his teeth sedately worrying at Astarion's lower lip, as he keeps a tight grip on his wrist. Murmured against his mouth, then:]
And stop calling me old man. You're practically a century old, you need not act as though I am so much your elder.
[But don't stop, actually, because he quite likes it.]
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Creature of habit that he is, his rabbiting pulse spikes so high it hits his ears before he hits the bed in harsh refrain— adrenaline dizzier than vertigo in a spinning room while his legs are tangled around lithe hips and his lower half pins snug inside their crux. Two seconds ago: he'd been leering at his sheets. Right now: the ceiling overhead. That snarling, handsome face. Those staggering green eyes, lit from within, and there— right in their center— his own reflection, angled back.
....and coming quickly into focus.
He's living for this as it crawls over him; he's alive inside its deep-cast shadow when it moves closer. Nothing like the palpitating rush that drug and drink bring on or how senselessly worked up Astarion gets after landing a worthwhile catch with a name worth touting (irony of ironies being that he's still swept up on his back), just— he doesn't know, it's different. Bloody Hells, it's different. Higher. Headier. More enticingly addictive at its core and infinitely more damning considering all the consequences he can't pay off if one of them so much as nudges his phone in the middle of this skirmish, meaning maybe there's something to be said for that old adage about risk and reward.
He's just too high on both to remember what it was. Smiling against the roughness scoring his hot mouth; Sparking electricity just to feel his bruised wrist whine in aching protest that threads right through his own— shirt rucked, teeth poised, snapping to try and reach (catch, bite) the sly fighter overtaking him: every narrow movement falling short, but that's exciting, too. They won't know, a lost admission in the middle of it all. They think I never fucked you.
And it's not really a lie.
And—
Oh.
O h.
Should he— should he tell him?
He should, right? After all, it's not like that first night anymore, back when he'd assumed his purchased watchdog of a wolf would only last a week inside these halls; the man will find out eventually if he stays here, anyway. Not to mention he'll be more than slightly pissed if that inevitable reveal comes slipping out from someone else's mouth.
Besides, they're friends....aren't they? Or....well, something like it, all things reasonably considered.
Fine, all right, yes. okay.]
Fenris—
[He mouths against yet another kiss, vying for a moment to confess (it has the unintended effect of sounding like a vulgar, hitching moan).]
Mmnh, Fenris, I—
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[Murmured with a grin against Astarion's lips and punctuated with a bite. The tension from earlier still thrums hot within him, his pulse racing from Astarion's earlier sadism; even now, he's aware of that cell phone still clutched in one hand. But now that his prey is pinned, there's no harm in taking his time to thoroughly enjoy him. Strange and piecemeal as their relationship has been, this is only the second time they've gotten to kiss, and Fenris finds he likes learning the shape of Astarion's mouth. Like that, he likes it like that, a little harder, a little hungrier—
But Astarion doesn't stop. Fenris, Fenris, the noise vulgar and mewling, a thoroughly distracted gasp for attention that he can't deny forever. With one final little lick to his bottom lip, Fenris draws back just enough to smirk down at him.]
What, hm? I have every intention of tending to you, whether you believe me or not. Though if you wish to beg me for my cock, I will not decline.
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Hells, maybe he is.
He's certainly rethinking the whole confessing for a good cause part, after all.]
I erm—
Hm.
[Hm and mhm slipped out through his nose.]
The calling you old man thing— about that.
Specifically the part about it not applying. Specifically specifically about what I told you that first night.
[Maker, his prick is hard. It aches. Is there a word for the inbetween between guilt and horny as all hells?
If so: currently dying from it.]
When I said I was almost a century old....I....[ahahah....] well I might have been exaggerating.
A little.
[Just a....teeny. Tiny. Very very very unmentionably small bit.]
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