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.]
[There are just some sentences you don't want to hear when you're midway through making out with someone. When you have just had their cock shoved down your throat and their fingers fucking into you, I might have exaggerated my age has to be one of the top ten.
He rears back, pulling away far enough that he can stare down at his ward. His eyes dart about his face, taking in the twisted expression of guilt and fluster, watching as those silver eyes dart away again and again.]
By how much, Astarion.
[Oh, his voice has gone very flat. Should he have guessed that Astarion would have lied about his age? Perhaps, but on the other hand, why on earth would he bother to lie? It's an easy enough thing for Fenris to find out sooner or later— but then again, if Astarion had thought he'd never see him again . . .
[Sitting up is an ordeal that buys them a handful of seconds, at least. Segue pulling decency back into his (mostly) upright lap alongside the hemlines of his shirt, leaving Astarion fighting for a few more beats by way of fiddling with his curls: the heels of his palms haphazardly shoving silver strands out of his own face to— you know, offer up a little less of a reminder in the here and now that they were just tangled up in one another, open-mouthed and nearly cock-to-naked-cock (especially when the look stuck on Fenris' face is something along the lines of oh gods, oh gods, what have I done).
So....not off to a great start there, as it so happens.]
Not much at all, I swear!
[And by elven standards? Technically true.
It's just that those standards are usually applied under a drastically different set of circumstances than facefucking your own bodyguard-et-teacher-et-sort-of-but-not-really-your-slave, at the very least.]
Just....a couple of decades here and there.
[A beat.]
Like, say: three of them?
....going in a direction closer to zero than a hundred.
[Look on the bright side: he didn't actually shout that. More of a loud speaking voice, really, echoing around the room (but likely not down the hall) as he stares at Astarion. Astarion, who looks so young; Astarion who fusses with his curls and stares at him clad only in a nightshirt, his mouth fuck-sore and his cheeks flushed—
Forty-five!
And there are assuredly worse ages to bed, but there are far better ones too, and he'd already thought Astarion a brat at a mere century. Forty-five— forty-five, his mind and body grown and yet still so damned sheltered. What does anyone know at forty-five? What can anyone know? Fenris barely remembers the age; only a vague sense of endless indignation and snarling rebellion, fueled by hormones and a lack of understanding of anything outside his master's estates. Forty-five, the number echoing endlessly in his head, and it's—]
Venhedis kaffan vas, festis bei umo canavarum—
[The Tevene slips past his lips sharply, growled to himself as he stares at his ward. At his ward. His forty-five year old brat, who sucks and fucks and spreads his legs to be the most tempting little thing in the Upper City— gods, no wonder he's so confident. No wonder he's so easy to fluster. No wonder all those tutors had gone for him (but oh, oh, he cannot think along those lines, not unless he wants to grow even more furious).
Fuck.
And what is there to do? He cannot take his actions back. He cannot say his heart's thrumming desire has lessened. Fenris shoves a hand through his hair, sweeping it back as he glances sharply away and then back again.]
[Eyebrow cocked as accomplice to an impatient little half-shrug— scrunching up the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth— unsure even in its stark naked honesty, which has the added bonus of making Astarion look that much slighter against the backdrop of an oversized headboard thanks to the way he's shuttling his shoulders underneath his sleeping shirt.
Constricted little frame already slithering right towards defensiveness now that the subject's swung back around to him.
Well.
More him. Less the concept of him as previously sold via aforementioned exaggerations.
(Don't @ him for this.)]
I don't know— it didn't really seem relevant until this morning.
Until after you shoved your cock down my throat, you mean.
[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.
[To be fair, none of this is fair; Astarion doesn't go hostile for that start.
Least of all because it's true.
As for the rest? There's a pair of warm arms circling him by the end of it, and a sturdy lap beneath him. There's a shoulder primed for his cheek to rest on, even if it's tense enough from turmoil to feel more like a rock than a pillow. There's a sense— or just a hunch on Astarion's side of things— that doesn't spell the end of their unnamed arrangement, or to quote Fenris, the end of this by way of 'if we are to do this', and that's the part he unexpectedly likes most.
So if that means taking the (rightful) blame for his behavior for the first time in his less-than-half-a-centuried life— maybe there's a second meaning to his smile. The pressure set across a faintly glowing shoulder.
Maybe he's also still a menace:]
I'm actually an ancient vampire trapped in an eternally young body, and held captive by an estate that only pretends to be my family. I have— [oh, what's a rounded number] six other siblings, none of them by blood, with you about to make the seventh.
[Punctuated by a chomp of his dull teeth into the shoulder he's draped on.
(No, he hasn't got anymore secrets.)]
I wasn't trying to lie to you after that night, you know. [First night? yes. Aftermath, well— span it a few weeks between the glowers and the attempts to seduce for cruelty and competition's sake, right up until cool, damp cloth sank kind against his skin.]
I just didn't think you'd last.
[No one else did, anyway.
Chin still pushed into that shoulder; gaze still unfixed for a beat.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.)]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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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He rears back, pulling away far enough that he can stare down at his ward. His eyes dart about his face, taking in the twisted expression of guilt and fluster, watching as those silver eyes dart away again and again.]
By how much, Astarion.
[Oh, his voice has gone very flat. Should he have guessed that Astarion would have lied about his age? Perhaps, but on the other hand, why on earth would he bother to lie? It's an easy enough thing for Fenris to find out sooner or later— but then again, if Astarion had thought he'd never see him again . . .
Oh, gods.]
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So....not off to a great start there, as it so happens.]
Not much at all, I swear!
[And by elven standards? Technically true.
It's just that those standards are usually applied under a drastically different set of circumstances than facefucking your own bodyguard-et-teacher-et-sort-of-but-not-really-your-slave, at the very least.]
Just....a couple of decades here and there.
[A beat.]
Like, say: three of them?
....going in a direction closer to zero than a hundred.
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[Look on the bright side: he didn't actually shout that. More of a loud speaking voice, really, echoing around the room (but likely not down the hall) as he stares at Astarion. Astarion, who looks so young; Astarion who fusses with his curls and stares at him clad only in a nightshirt, his mouth fuck-sore and his cheeks flushed—
Forty-five!
And there are assuredly worse ages to bed, but there are far better ones too, and he'd already thought Astarion a brat at a mere century. Forty-five— forty-five, his mind and body grown and yet still so damned sheltered. What does anyone know at forty-five? What can anyone know? Fenris barely remembers the age; only a vague sense of endless indignation and snarling rebellion, fueled by hormones and a lack of understanding of anything outside his master's estates. Forty-five, the number echoing endlessly in his head, and it's—]
Venhedis kaffan vas, festis bei umo canavarum—
[The Tevene slips past his lips sharply, growled to himself as he stares at his ward. At his ward. His forty-five year old brat, who sucks and fucks and spreads his legs to be the most tempting little thing in the Upper City— gods, no wonder he's so confident. No wonder he's so easy to fluster. No wonder all those tutors had gone for him (but oh, oh, he cannot think along those lines, not unless he wants to grow even more furious).
Fuck.
And what is there to do? He cannot take his actions back. He cannot say his heart's thrumming desire has lessened. Fenris shoves a hand through his hair, sweeping it back as he glances sharply away and then back again.]
And when were you planning on telling me, hm?
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Funny you should ask, Fenris:]
....now....?
[Eyebrow cocked as accomplice to an impatient little half-shrug— scrunching up the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth— unsure even in its stark naked honesty, which has the added bonus of making Astarion look that much slighter against the backdrop of an oversized headboard thanks to the way he's shuttling his shoulders underneath his sleeping shirt.
Constricted little frame already slithering right towards defensiveness now that the subject's swung back around to him.
Well.
More him. Less the concept of him as previously sold via aforementioned exaggerations.
(Don't @ him for this.)]
I don't know— it didn't really seem relevant until this morning.
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[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.
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Least of all because it's true.
As for the rest? There's a pair of warm arms circling him by the end of it, and a sturdy lap beneath him. There's a shoulder primed for his cheek to rest on, even if it's tense enough from turmoil to feel more like a rock than a pillow. There's a sense— or just a hunch on Astarion's side of things— that doesn't spell the end of their unnamed arrangement, or to quote Fenris, the end of this by way of 'if we are to do this', and that's the part he unexpectedly likes most.
So if that means taking the (rightful) blame for his behavior for the first time in his less-than-half-a-centuried life— maybe there's a second meaning to his smile. The pressure set across a faintly glowing shoulder.
Maybe he's also still a menace:]
I'm actually an ancient vampire trapped in an eternally young body, and held captive by an estate that only pretends to be my family. I have— [oh, what's a rounded number] six other siblings, none of them by blood, with you about to make the seventh.
[Punctuated by a chomp of his dull teeth into the shoulder he's draped on.
(No, he hasn't got anymore secrets.)]
I wasn't trying to lie to you after that night, you know. [First night? yes. Aftermath, well— span it a few weeks between the glowers and the attempts to seduce for cruelty and competition's sake, right up until cool, damp cloth sank kind against his skin.]
I just didn't think you'd last.
[No one else did, anyway.
Chin still pushed into that shoulder; gaze still unfixed for a beat.]
Or that I'd care.
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