In any case: you brought it up first. Don't throw fireballs in glass houses, Astarion. If you're itching for me to try something new in bed, you can simply say.
I'm not a dangerous criminal stealing your virtue instead of your silver, either, and yet you were excited enough to pretend I was when I was bending you over the bed last night. We can figure something out, I am sure.
Are you looking for a repeat performance tonight, little magistrate?
Shall I rip your clothes from your body when you get home? Pin you down and spread your legs open wide and take what I want from you, taking your mouth with my fingers as I fuck you into your mattress, claiming every last hole for myself? Breeding you in every which way I can, just to say I took you first . . .
I'll fuck you well enough tonight to fluster you for the next three days. You won't need a cell phone— but I promise you I'll whisper enough filth to sate you for the next three weeks, just to cease your fretting.
And I won't be waiting on your bed. What fun would that be? I'll grab you when you least expect it, throwing you over my shoulder so I can drag you to your bed.
Or perhaps a wall. You always turn so red when I remind you I can fuck you without your feet ever touching the ground.
and whilst there is a great deal the unwashed masses will endure for the sake of hierarchical piety, waltzing in on my next case with a stiff cock and a hunger for your parted legs held front and center might
but do you really think I'll ever let my guard down enough to let you? You've been training me to always be prepared for danger, after all.
[Isn't actually enough of a truth to ruin Fenris' suggestion, but like hells is he admitting that.]
Tell you, and give away my grand plan, thus rendering me helpless against your assault? I don't bloody think so sweetheart. No no no, you're going to have to wait and find out and hope that I don't turn the tables on you just to leave you panting with a watering mouth and an aching jaw the way you damned well deserve.
Get out of a pin of mine, little magistrate, and I'll get to my knees in an instant. I'll worship you while you sit in your office chair, dragging my tongue over every inch of you, memorizing your taste until you swear you can't stand it— and only then will I take you in my mouth. I'll warm you for hours on end, keeping you sated and on edge, until you decide you want me to take you in my throat and suck you off into blissful completion.
If you can ever manage to wriggle away from a hold of mine.
How many times have I pinned you to the mats now and beaten you in your grappling lessons?
[It takes so long for him to respond. Hells' Teeth, there isn't any doubt as to why, either. Not after a message like that. Not when he's been flush to the core for more than fifteen minutes in a row, stiff through his joints right to the tips of his thumbs.
Thumbs that— after having retreated into his own private office— set to typing yet again.]
In a straight fight against you?
Not yet. [Possibly not ever.] But under less formal circumstances....? Like all those times I corner you in a smoky little backroom after one too many shots just to set my tongue along your neck and hear you groan, or let you watch as I let some buckish noble sate himself across my lap with your own table scraps, thinking they've made a feast of my skin, my mouth, my roaming, listless touch- not knowing how much more I give you at a glance, unpromted....
[Gods. Gods, and he's long since retreated to Astarion's room, settling on the little cot that's nominally his. (They share a bed more often than not, to the point where his back is too used to a soft mattress and downy pillows, but he goes on the cot for the same reason a dog doesn't dare go on his master's bed when he's away, too unsure of his place to try and breech it).
His pants are low on his hips, his feet braced up on the mattress and his cock squeezed tight in one palm. He strokes himself slowly, steadily, drawing out his own pleasure during that telling little pause— though he rushes to grab his phone the moment it buzzes once more.]
Do that to me a party and leave me unsated, and I swear, Astarion, I will fuck you against the wall and to hell with who can see.
[He means it (he doesn't). He's going to (he would never, and that's why he groans when Astarion corners him like that: his hands shaking from how badly he wants to grab him and throw him on the couch, his breath ragged as a hot tongue teasingly licks a line up the center of his throat).]
Tell me when you're returning home, so I might count down the minutes until I can throw you over the edge of this bed and fuck you the way you deserve?
For I am going to pin you down the moment you walk through that door, and I'll make you beg for me, little magistrate. Spread your legs and spear you on my prick and keep you from touching yourself all the while— until you're humping the bed in desperation, trying to get yourself off for an orgasm that won't ever come . . .
And when it does, I'll keep fucking you, just to see how many times I can overstimulate you until your voice breaks and you can't stand it any longer.
Middle of the day, artificially cooled environment, scant more than a middling layer of clothing on (perhaps less by the time this conversation is over), and he's sweating. Light dusting of condensation prickling up the back of his neck under tied-up silver curls, indicative of what he's thinking of— where he's thinking of being, and it's the farthest thing away from here, completing the accusations his father and attached stewards always scoffed his way. And you know, he doesn't mind it. Doesn't feel like considering anything but the smooth, hot memory of a wanton throat and a hungry tongue unfurled along the underside of him, curling and lathing and gagging while green eyes run dark, glazing over in thick shadow. All barely hidden behind some half-wall in the servant's quarters: a fearsome guardian on his knees, savoring scent and sight and suckled sweetness and the brush of pale, fine fingers just around his chin—
Astarion swallows hard as his fingertips push against plastic keys.]
You really think you could last that long, old man?
[He's thinking of leashes. Of collars. Of the sight of a well-bred little thing with his cheek pressed against wood and his back arched to an obscene angle, straining against the iron grip that has him by the throat. His charge squirming and panting and mewling as two well-oiled fingers fuck into him with at the most maddeningly slow pace, forcing him to learn patience as they stretch him open and curl in deep. And when he can't stand it anymore, when he swears he'll give his guardian anything just to feel his cock instead of his fingers, when Fenris can't stand it anymore and turns him around to impale him the way he deserves—
How the dynamic changes as swiftly as the tide. How, with a touch so delicate that it barely lands, he's brought to his knees once more. Praised mockingly by a boy for knowing to part his lips and extend his tongue without being told: a loyal dog shuddering in satisfaction for being brought to heel once more. (Latrem me, crooned down as golden eyes glittered with vicious sadism, patters of drool dripping between Fenris' thighs and the sound of gagging filling the air between them).]
Can you? Remind me . . .
[Gods. Gods, and he has to take a breath, steadying himself. Gods, he loves this. He loves the foreplay almost as much as the sex; the verbal sparring that's as invigorating as any bouncing rut.]
Was it you or I that came twice before passing out the first time we rut? Your memory is better than mine, little brat, but the sight of you with your thighs spread and covered in my come as you went limp in my arms is not one I'm soon to forget.
Old man, you call me— but better that than a fretful young thing who can't help but spill over the least little thing, glutting himself on orgasm over meager orgasm instead of learning how to savor a feast.
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doggish) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
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I don't know
maybe that's a fighter masochist sadist kind of thing you all share?
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What were they discussing, exactly? How many they'd seen? Or were they boasting about how they'd participated in some?
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what?
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you wouldn't be able to ANYWAY you're my bodyguard
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you
that was
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Shall I rip your clothes from your body when you get home? Pin you down and spread your legs open wide and take what I want from you, taking your mouth with my fingers as I fuck you into your mattress, claiming every last hole for myself? Breeding you in every which way I can, just to say I took you first . . .
Shall we play that game again?
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I
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you DEGENERATE
DEPLORABLE
INCORRIGIBLE
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And I won't be waiting on your bed. What fun would that be? I'll grab you when you least expect it, throwing you over my shoulder so I can drag you to your bed.
Or perhaps a wall. You always turn so red when I remind you I can fuck you without your feet ever touching the ground.
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Will that make this a punishment still?
....EH.
He won't bring that up if Fenris certainly isn't. Punishment is such a subjective concept, anyway. Swooning eye of the beholder and all that.]
WHY YES. I AM.
howthoughtfulofyoutoask
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but do you really think I'll ever let my guard down enough to let you? You've been training me to always be prepared for danger, after all.
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What, exactly, would you do to stop me? Be precise.
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[Isn't actually enough of a truth to ruin Fenris' suggestion, but like hells is he admitting that.]
Tell you, and give away my grand plan, thus rendering me helpless against your assault? I don't bloody think so sweetheart. No no no, you're going to have to wait and find out and hope that I don't turn the tables on you just to leave you panting with a watering mouth and an aching jaw the way you damned well deserve.
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Get out of a pin of mine, little magistrate, and I'll get to my knees in an instant. I'll worship you while you sit in your office chair, dragging my tongue over every inch of you, memorizing your taste until you swear you can't stand it— and only then will I take you in my mouth. I'll warm you for hours on end, keeping you sated and on edge, until you decide you want me to take you in my throat and suck you off into blissful completion.
If you can ever manage to wriggle away from a hold of mine.
How many times have I pinned you to the mats now and beaten you in your grappling lessons?
How many times have you won?
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Thumbs that— after having retreated into his own private office— set to typing yet again.]
In a straight fight against you?
Not yet. [Possibly not ever.] But under less formal circumstances....? Like all those times I corner you in a smoky little backroom after one too many shots just to set my tongue along your neck and hear you groan, or let you watch as I let some buckish noble sate himself across my lap with your own table scraps, thinking they've made a feast of my skin, my mouth, my roaming, listless touch- not knowing how much more I give you at a glance, unpromted....
well
I'd argue there, we're even.
no subject
His pants are low on his hips, his feet braced up on the mattress and his cock squeezed tight in one palm. He strokes himself slowly, steadily, drawing out his own pleasure during that telling little pause— though he rushes to grab his phone the moment it buzzes once more.]
Do that to me a party and leave me unsated, and I swear, Astarion, I will fuck you against the wall and to hell with who can see.
[He means it (he doesn't). He's going to (he would never, and that's why he groans when Astarion corners him like that: his hands shaking from how badly he wants to grab him and throw him on the couch, his breath ragged as a hot tongue teasingly licks a line up the center of his throat).]
Tell me when you're returning home, so I might count down the minutes until I can throw you over the edge of this bed and fuck you the way you deserve?
For I am going to pin you down the moment you walk through that door, and I'll make you beg for me, little magistrate. Spread your legs and spear you on my prick and keep you from touching yourself all the while— until you're humping the bed in desperation, trying to get yourself off for an orgasm that won't ever come . . .
And when it does, I'll keep fucking you, just to see how many times I can overstimulate you until your voice breaks and you can't stand it any longer.
no subject
Middle of the day, artificially cooled environment, scant more than a middling layer of clothing on (perhaps less by the time this conversation is over), and he's sweating. Light dusting of condensation prickling up the back of his neck under tied-up silver curls, indicative of what he's thinking of— where he's thinking of being, and it's the farthest thing away from here, completing the accusations his father and attached stewards always scoffed his way. And you know, he doesn't mind it. Doesn't feel like considering anything but the smooth, hot memory of a wanton throat and a hungry tongue unfurled along the underside of him, curling and lathing and gagging while green eyes run dark, glazing over in thick shadow. All barely hidden behind some half-wall in the servant's quarters: a fearsome guardian on his knees, savoring scent and sight and suckled sweetness and the brush of pale, fine fingers just around his chin—
Astarion swallows hard as his fingertips push against plastic keys.]
You really think you could last that long, old man?
no subject
How the dynamic changes as swiftly as the tide. How, with a touch so delicate that it barely lands, he's brought to his knees once more. Praised mockingly by a boy for knowing to part his lips and extend his tongue without being told: a loyal dog shuddering in satisfaction for being brought to heel once more. (Latrem me, crooned down as golden eyes glittered with vicious sadism, patters of drool dripping between Fenris' thighs and the sound of gagging filling the air between them).]
Can you? Remind me . . .
[Gods. Gods, and he has to take a breath, steadying himself. Gods, he loves this. He loves the foreplay almost as much as the sex; the verbal sparring that's as invigorating as any bouncing rut.]
Was it you or I that came twice before passing out the first time we rut? Your memory is better than mine, little brat, but the sight of you with your thighs spread and covered in my come as you went limp in my arms is not one I'm soon to forget.
Old man, you call me— but better that than a fretful young thing who can't help but spill over the least little thing, glutting himself on orgasm over meager orgasm instead of learning how to savor a feast.
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