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.
I've grown since we first met. [Tries to bypass the unclaimed truth in that exchange that they both know he can't argue against without lying— and pitifully at that. 'I was only flattering you' 'I was faking to entice you more'— please. Leave that peddled nonsense where it belongs with Petras and Violet: Astarion knows better.
And really, there's no shame in it. The reminder of being rut nine ways to the Hells themselves is something that most people would quite literally die for. And whilst the memory no doubt ringing hot and mouth-wateringly heavy in the back of Fenris' mind right now is of some whimpering, velveteen princeling shaking with sweat beneath his shadow, barely able to swallow around the sound of his groaned out name in vulgar repetition, Astarion knows what it is about him that appeals to Fenris' nature. Not the image of obedient docility, or good temperament, or fine breeding. (It's not even the little curl before his right ear that won't sit straight like the other one.) It's that he approaches this like he approaches anything in life that happens to fall into his lap:
He owns it.]
Was it you or I that didn't complain to stay hidden on his knees at Duchess Marizana's forty fifth birthday when the room we were enjoying was suddenly co-opted as a smoking den?
Who didn't mind having his ears toyed with or his mouth full whilst I had to nod along to some old cock's idea of a good story and pretend I wasn't half a step from spilling down your throat.
[His fingertips alight across his collar, scuffing loosely over nothing, only entertaining second after second of roaming friction as if it weren't his own.]
Or was I simply dreaming?
I've had you so many times in public that it's hard to remember.
[When had he stopped protesting that? Whether it was hissed out protests or rueful groans in the aftermath, he used to make a point to assert that they absolutely wouldn't be fucking in public again— only to feel his iron will rust in seconds whenever the next occasion arrived. Weak to Astarion, yes (the glint in golden eyes as his charge carelessly called on him to follow him out of the room; the note of strained impatience behind heavy lust as an arch voice called on him to get on his knees)— but weak, too, to the allure of risking so much. Especially if it's at some noble's house, for the thrill he gets out of acting so filthy in a place where he was once meant to revere his betters . . . oh, it's intoxicating.]
How badly do you wish I was there now, your prick on my tongue and all of you fighting not to scream in front of all your peers?
[(It was lust that made him tremble beneath the desk that night— but it was petty, merciless revenge that had him fixating the tip of his tongue against Astarion's slit, wicked satisfaction pulsing through him for every hitching breath and strained word).]
How wide can you spread your legs beneath that grand desk of yours? Wide enough that I could finger you too, I bet. Stretch you open and fingerfuck you until you're a drooling mess of a slut who cannot even remember his name, never mind all your laws and rulings.
Or is it you'd rather me bent over it, instead? Sprawled in your lap and speared on your cock, riding you and keeping you hot while you give up on dignity and decorum.
Why should I ever have to choose? They're my chambers— my word is practically law to anyone that hears it. [How badly does he wish Fenris was here? Bad enough to order it— send a runner home and fetch the only thing he can't stop thinking of right now (can't stop picturing on loop as his eyes retrace each concupiscent word, saturated with their impress; a shiver up his spine, an ache along his hips pantomiming sensation that he wishes he was feeling, stretched to the limits of his senses if not his own damned body)— stayed by the fact that he's grown too close to ever bandy about orders when it comes to Danarius' former charge.
But he would, if circumstances were different. If he didn't have restraint, no matter how thin the percentiles.]
I should strip you bare and see how flexible you are, if we're going to be shameless in this. Let you ride what you can't get enough of while you try to prise me open for you, as if you'll know what to do with a full belly and strained arms and fingers that can only beckon for their supper.
[An eyelet snakes around his finger, tugging back.]
[Sprawled out on his cot, his legs spread and faint droplets of sweat beading on tan skin . . . and make no mistake, it's hard for him to type with one hand, but Fenris couldn't stop touching himself right now even if Astarion paid him.]
Are you imagining me stripped utterly, or dressed up like one of those harem protagonists from Aurelia's romance novels? Or perhaps you're hoping I'm using one of your ill-hidden toys . . .
Pick one.
[He won't ever send a picture of himself, recognizable a thing that he is— but an array of some of Astarion's most favorite toys spread out on his blanket? Oh, that's a minimal risk, and one that he's more than willing to take. Curved vibrators meant to be discreetly worn and more vulgarly large ones; ones that change temperature or size or shape all with a simple press of a button. Ones that were meant to be affixed to a gag, or a strap; even ones that purport to secrete a steady supply of aphrodisiac, just to keep the user hot for hours and hours on end.]
Though you should know: you have not seen the full range of my flexibility just yet. Riding you and fingering you would not be a strain; task me to keep my ankles pinned above my head for more than an hour, and perhaps then you'll find me labored.
You interrupt my workday, threaten to take away my phone, worked my prick up to a frenzy and still expect me to limit myself to choosing according to your rules?
You've such cheek to you, you dogged thing.
I'll test that flexibility myself.
Tie yourself to the bed for me. One wrist. Naked or clothed I don't care so long as you're readied to be taken, and I do mean ready: wash yourself properly, use my oils. I already know you won't show proof, but when I call in ill and return home to shut myself away in my room before midday, I expect to be able to tell how thorough you've been.
But if you have done well, then cross my wicked little heart I give you my word I'll turn over my phone and take up sucking you off for as long as you can take it whilst letting you use any toy you please on me— provided you think you're skilled enough to do it one-handed.
You know, if that flexibility of yours is worth entertaining.
[And he loves it. He's already heading into Astarion's bathroom, opening cabinets and trying (somewhat blearily) to figure out what oil goes with what. It's just that there's so many steps to his beloved's routine— but no, no, he knows what to do. And (though he won't admit this to anyone but himself), there's something quite nice about indulging like this every so often. It's silly, but it's silliness that makes him smell of lilac and have soft skin.
There's a gap between one text and the next: just long enough for Fenris to have indulged— and, perhaps, for Astarion to actually get some work done. And hopefully he's behind a desk of some sort, even if he is sitting trial right now, for Fenris soon sends:]
And when I have you pried open and spread out before me, writhing and pulsing around the base of a toy meant to make you scream, and all the while muffled by my cock— am I allowed to use my tongue, too?
Only the sight of you melting around my tongue is almost as enticing as the sight of you desperately trying to squeeze and take even more of whatever I fuck you with, toy or finger or cock . . . you always seem as though you can't ever get enough.
What did you call that boy once? "Cock-hungry slut"?
Were you speaking from experience?
[And then: a single picture of a series of taut chain-links, and only Astarion will know what set of handcuffs that belongs to.]
[Oof, that shudder. The one that rockets through him like a feverflare, smouldering in rings around his throat beneath the layers of dressed finery still on him, chest heavy when he breathes out hard.
Not in a courtroom yet, thank the gods and Maker, all, but already on his way: and if nothing else it'll sell the idea of illness when he at last strides in (and out) to take his leave. (For now, they've time for one last bout of foreplay— he's already late, anyway. Three more minutes won't kill anyone.
....well.
Aside from the man on trial, slated for the noose.)]
You can use anything on me you please, provided you can actually reach.
But personal experience is right, you know. I just had someone else on my mind at the time. A handsome, difficult old cur who couldn't help but rile every time I prowled near. Couldn't bury the way he went hard with my breath on his neck, or my palm sunk hot between his hips, oil slick and ready to work him open if he'd only ask.
Not when Fenris is squirming already, that taunting bit of foreplay burning in the pit of his belly. Not when he's hard and aching and palming at himself does nothing to stave off all his lust; not when he's salivating and oiled up, ready for a lover who has the audacity to be responsible for once.
(And he shouldn't do this, not when Astarion is being responsible. Not when this is the very antithesis of Fenris' job as caretaker and bodyguard— but gods, the longer he spends with his lover, the more he's learning how to indulge himself, and that can't be a bad thing, can it? He's owed it after three centuries, surely).
It takes a while. He's awful at using this phone, never mind one-handedly. But just as Astarion's trial is coming to a close, his phone buzzes with a single picture: brown skin gleaming with oil, highlighting every curve and line of defined muscle sloping down his stomach and along raised thighs, and at the apex: his cock thick and upright, precome already beading at the tip.
[If it's the last photo he saves to this phone, then he'll call himself content across his deathbed. There's no funerary march towards surrendering his prized possession (aside from the way he limps out of the courthouse gates like a wounded animal up until he reaches his chauffeur), only the rush home to strip down into shirt and slacks by the time he's at his bedroom door— waving away servants with one hand and telling them to fuck off with the other.
Only Talindra gets a beseeching (albeit also impatient) glance without any accompanying fanfare attached: silently conveying to the woman that practically raised him that it isn't for distress that he wants to be left alone for the rest of the night.
The door opens with a click, locks with a louder one, and leaves Astarion grinning in unabashedly pleasant surprise once he glances sidelong at his bed— twice. His silver eyes (undecorated this time as he's not out at some fête or club where modifications speak to adrenal thrills) wider than his own slanted smirk as he takes in the sight of long, lean lines laid out fully on display. The familiar scent of perfumed oil and fine soap already seeping into his passive senses to tell him everything he needs to know, when he could be smelling the sharper catch of spent sweat and magic and old, spent gunpowder from the range (those assassins and hired bodyguards always reek of it— and when he visits with Fenris from time to time to brush up on his tactile skills, he does too— enough that he has to shower the second he gets home, because the locker rooms there are even worse for branding him with the pungent aroma of utility), something he should arguably never know.
But it excites him that he does.
Just as the opposite exhilarates the other way around, even if he were to find there's nothing else done to his exacting expectations....though he still lifts his focus to the headboard, hunting for any attached accoutrements or limbs, already prowling close enough to let warm fingers skirt along tanned skin (he starts at the knee first— featherlight contact only deepening as they slide higher.
[In truth, it's a sight he'd fussed over for the past few minutes. In those breathless moments between sending that last photo and the subsequent silence, when all his fears and dobuts were allowed to creep in. Not self-consciousness (he knows what he looks like, and Astarion has been more than vocal over his appreciation of it), but uncertainty. The oddest sense of past and present, some small part of him flinching over the act of laying around like a captive odalisque waiting for his master. That sours him like nothing else.
But the thought of doing it for Astarion thrills him to his core. And it's funny how all those fears simply melt away the moment Astarion slips through the door (locking it behind him, and he feels his heart pang in quiet endearment). Hello, you, and suddenly, the endless whirl of his mind quiets. The world becomes something impossibly distant, and the only things that matter are inside this room.]
Am I forgiven for riling you up at work?
[His left hand lies above his head, handcuffed to the headboard; his clothes are discarded on the floor, half-forgotten (and yet close enough to reach should the worst occur and Talindra come knocking). A few toys lay scattered about across a plush comforter, alongside one of the aphrodisiac oils that Astarion had bought last week. And there's other things, of course: a pretty little toy that Fenris has dashed beneath a pillow, eager to surprise Astarion with, but one thing at a time.
He cocks his head at him, thighs spreading willingly beneath that teasing touch.]
You seem a great deal less flustered than you were, certainly. Or do you only go red when I threaten to pin you down and breed you until you're dripping come from every hole?
[Oh, that's it. All it takes is the focused, knife-sharp tail end of that question and Astarion's paler cast runs red from the basin of his chest to the high points of his ears— even his fingers (where they've sunken into shadow) feel slaggishly molten where they hitch. Tighten. Dig into uncharacteristically soft skin for just a beat.
And pull.
Inches make the difference— and it takes effort, to be sure— dragging Fenris closer just a few degrees more by that hard grip on his thigh, silk sheets rucking underneath, but Astarion's been training. Hard. Every other weekend at the range....and every night and morning in his bed. It shows across his shoulders through his shirt, houndishly narrow frame sporting little flares of muscle tensing here and there. Moreso when he lifts his opposite hand to loosen his shirt from the top down, redoubling his poise.
Smirking just to play a hand he hasn't dealt yet: eyelids lowering. Posture following.] Tied down and yet stubbornly making it worse for yourself?
[He leans down over his own touch— exhale thick and feverish when it blooms along tanned contours, slipped along the underside of an anxious, swollen cock.]
....We're more alike than i thought.
[Taking his time to tease in close. To let his lips fall into palpable near-contact, letting the electric feel of skin-to-skin transference take hold without ever taking hold—
—and then stepping back.
The soft heel click that comes before he paces closer to his full length mirror, plucking loose the rest of his own buttons in the full blaze of a half-blocked midday sun: silver hair catching the brunt of its glare first, then the starker ripples of his back— lower, and lower to his hips, shifting just to catch green eyes with his reflection, fingers loose around the slacking of his open waistband.]
[The Tevene slips past his lips thoughtlessly, a purely instinctive exhalation as heat ghosts along his cock— and then disappears. Draws back cruelly to leave him panting with nothing but cold air and the memory of near-proximity, his prick throbbing all the more needily for the taste of it.
Merciless thing, and he groans softly, his hips rocking up in futile desire. Pretty, cruel little menace, and this is only the beginning, Fenris knows already. He sits up on one elbow, his eyes locked on the sight before him. Astarion is getting stronger, he notes with pleasure. There's more definition to the lines of his back and shoulders, muscles building through hours of hard work. It's thrilling, not just as a lover but as a teacher, too: his little magistrate is getting better at defending himself.]
If this is your idea of punishment, Astarion . . .
[He lets the sentence trail off as his eyes deliberately wander down, drinking in every inch of what his lover has to offer him. Pale skin that shimmers in the sunlight, his silver eyes gleaming as they stare at him through the mirrorglass; a tapered waist and jutting hips, and that's to say nothing of what's yet to be revealed . . . oh, it is a punishment, it really is, and yet the most indulgent kind. His back arches again in a faint squirm as another fat drop of precome drips down the line of his prick. He's aching for slick, searing heat; he's aching for the way Astarion looks as he wraps his lips around his cock, eyes dark and ass raised up, vulgarly submissive in the sweetest way.
Let it be punishment for both of them, then. He has no silver tongue, not the way Astarion does. But that blush was worth everything, and that, Fenris is certain, he can earn again.]
Did you touch yourself when you were in that courtroom? [His voice is roughened, but there's nothing but confidence in his tone.] I doubt it. You barely have time to breathe between trials, you told me once . . . and I'll admit, as sweet as the thought is of you furiously stroking yourself off between trials, I savor the opposite more.
You squirming in that high seat of yours, fighting not to whine and whimper and drool as you dream of spearing me atop your prick or falling to pieces atop my tongue . . . sucking on a pen in lieu of my cock, wishing for the taste of me dripping down your throat, crossing your legs as if the pressure of your thighs might relieve you . . .
[He cocks his head, a little smirk playing over his lips.]
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doggish) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
4/4
1/2
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.
no subject
1/2
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
2/2
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.
no subject
What, exactly, would you do to stop me? Be precise.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
And really, there's no shame in it. The reminder of being rut nine ways to the Hells themselves is something that most people would quite literally die for. And whilst the memory no doubt ringing hot and mouth-wateringly heavy in the back of Fenris' mind right now is of some whimpering, velveteen princeling shaking with sweat beneath his shadow, barely able to swallow around the sound of his groaned out name in vulgar repetition, Astarion knows what it is about him that appeals to Fenris' nature. Not the image of obedient docility, or good temperament, or fine breeding. (It's not even the little curl before his right ear that won't sit straight like the other one.) It's that he approaches this like he approaches anything in life that happens to fall into his lap:
He owns it.]
Was it you or I that didn't complain to stay hidden on his knees at Duchess Marizana's forty fifth birthday when the room we were enjoying was suddenly co-opted as a smoking den?
Who didn't mind having his ears toyed with or his mouth full whilst I had to nod along to some old cock's idea of a good story and pretend I wasn't half a step from spilling down your throat.
[His fingertips alight across his collar, scuffing loosely over nothing, only entertaining second after second of roaming friction as if it weren't his own.]
Or was I simply dreaming?
I've had you so many times in public that it's hard to remember.
no subject
How badly do you wish I was there now, your prick on my tongue and all of you fighting not to scream in front of all your peers?
[(It was lust that made him tremble beneath the desk that night— but it was petty, merciless revenge that had him fixating the tip of his tongue against Astarion's slit, wicked satisfaction pulsing through him for every hitching breath and strained word).]
How wide can you spread your legs beneath that grand desk of yours? Wide enough that I could finger you too, I bet. Stretch you open and fingerfuck you until you're a drooling mess of a slut who cannot even remember his name, never mind all your laws and rulings.
Or is it you'd rather me bent over it, instead? Sprawled in your lap and speared on your cock, riding you and keeping you hot while you give up on dignity and decorum.
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But he would, if circumstances were different. If he didn't have restraint, no matter how thin the percentiles.]
I should strip you bare and see how flexible you are, if we're going to be shameless in this. Let you ride what you can't get enough of while you try to prise me open for you, as if you'll know what to do with a full belly and strained arms and fingers that can only beckon for their supper.
[An eyelet snakes around his finger, tugging back.]
How naked are you right now?
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[Sprawled out on his cot, his legs spread and faint droplets of sweat beading on tan skin . . . and make no mistake, it's hard for him to type with one hand, but Fenris couldn't stop touching himself right now even if Astarion paid him.]
Are you imagining me stripped utterly, or dressed up like one of those harem protagonists from Aurelia's romance novels? Or perhaps you're hoping I'm using one of your ill-hidden toys . . .
Pick one.
[He won't ever send a picture of himself, recognizable a thing that he is— but an array of some of Astarion's most favorite toys spread out on his blanket? Oh, that's a minimal risk, and one that he's more than willing to take. Curved vibrators meant to be discreetly worn and more vulgarly large ones; ones that change temperature or size or shape all with a simple press of a button. Ones that were meant to be affixed to a gag, or a strap; even ones that purport to secrete a steady supply of aphrodisiac, just to keep the user hot for hours and hours on end.]
Though you should know: you have not seen the full range of my flexibility just yet. Riding you and fingering you would not be a strain; task me to keep my ankles pinned above my head for more than an hour, and perhaps then you'll find me labored.
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You've such cheek to you, you dogged thing.
I'll test that flexibility myself.
Tie yourself to the bed for me. One wrist. Naked or clothed I don't care so long as you're readied to be taken, and I do mean ready: wash yourself properly, use my oils. I already know you won't show proof, but when I call in ill and return home to shut myself away in my room before midday, I expect to be able to tell how thorough you've been.
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You know, if that flexibility of yours is worth entertaining.
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[And he loves it. He's already heading into Astarion's bathroom, opening cabinets and trying (somewhat blearily) to figure out what oil goes with what. It's just that there's so many steps to his beloved's routine— but no, no, he knows what to do. And (though he won't admit this to anyone but himself), there's something quite nice about indulging like this every so often. It's silly, but it's silliness that makes him smell of lilac and have soft skin.
There's a gap between one text and the next: just long enough for Fenris to have indulged— and, perhaps, for Astarion to actually get some work done. And hopefully he's behind a desk of some sort, even if he is sitting trial right now, for Fenris soon sends:]
And when I have you pried open and spread out before me, writhing and pulsing around the base of a toy meant to make you scream, and all the while muffled by my cock— am I allowed to use my tongue, too?
Only the sight of you melting around my tongue is almost as enticing as the sight of you desperately trying to squeeze and take even more of whatever I fuck you with, toy or finger or cock . . . you always seem as though you can't ever get enough.
What did you call that boy once? "Cock-hungry slut"?
Were you speaking from experience?
[And then: a single picture of a series of taut chain-links, and only Astarion will know what set of handcuffs that belongs to.]
I'm waiting.
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Not in a courtroom yet, thank the gods and Maker, all, but already on his way: and if nothing else it'll sell the idea of illness when he at last strides in (and out) to take his leave. (For now, they've time for one last bout of foreplay— he's already late, anyway. Three more minutes won't kill anyone.
....well.
Aside from the man on trial, slated for the noose.)]
You can use anything on me you please, provided you can actually reach.
But personal experience is right, you know. I just had someone else on my mind at the time. A handsome, difficult old cur who couldn't help but rile every time I prowled near. Couldn't bury the way he went hard with my breath on his neck, or my palm sunk hot between his hips, oil slick and ready to work him open if he'd only ask.
Or in this case, ready to cuff himself to my bed.
Wait for me.
I won't be long.
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Not when Fenris is squirming already, that taunting bit of foreplay burning in the pit of his belly. Not when he's hard and aching and palming at himself does nothing to stave off all his lust; not when he's salivating and oiled up, ready for a lover who has the audacity to be responsible for once.
(And he shouldn't do this, not when Astarion is being responsible. Not when this is the very antithesis of Fenris' job as caretaker and bodyguard— but gods, the longer he spends with his lover, the more he's learning how to indulge himself, and that can't be a bad thing, can it? He's owed it after three centuries, surely).
It takes a while. He's awful at using this phone, never mind one-handedly. But just as Astarion's trial is coming to a close, his phone buzzes with a single picture: brown skin gleaming with oil, highlighting every curve and line of defined muscle sloping down his stomach and along raised thighs, and at the apex: his cock thick and upright, precome already beading at the tip.
And then he starts counting the minutes.]
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Only Talindra gets a beseeching (albeit also impatient) glance without any accompanying fanfare attached: silently conveying to the woman that practically raised him that it isn't for distress that he wants to be left alone for the rest of the night.
The door opens with a click, locks with a louder one, and leaves Astarion grinning in unabashedly pleasant surprise once he glances sidelong at his bed— twice. His silver eyes (undecorated this time as he's not out at some fête or club where modifications speak to adrenal thrills) wider than his own slanted smirk as he takes in the sight of long, lean lines laid out fully on display. The familiar scent of perfumed oil and fine soap already seeping into his passive senses to tell him everything he needs to know, when he could be smelling the sharper catch of spent sweat and magic and old, spent gunpowder from the range (those assassins and hired bodyguards always reek of it— and when he visits with Fenris from time to time to brush up on his tactile skills, he does too— enough that he has to shower the second he gets home, because the locker rooms there are even worse for branding him with the pungent aroma of utility), something he should arguably never know.
But it excites him that he does.
Just as the opposite exhilarates the other way around, even if he were to find there's nothing else done to his exacting expectations....though he still lifts his focus to the headboard, hunting for any attached accoutrements or limbs, already prowling close enough to let warm fingers skirt along tanned skin (he starts at the knee first— featherlight contact only deepening as they slide higher.
And deeper.)]
My my, what a sight you've left out for me.
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But the thought of doing it for Astarion thrills him to his core. And it's funny how all those fears simply melt away the moment Astarion slips through the door (locking it behind him, and he feels his heart pang in quiet endearment). Hello, you, and suddenly, the endless whirl of his mind quiets. The world becomes something impossibly distant, and the only things that matter are inside this room.]
Am I forgiven for riling you up at work?
[His left hand lies above his head, handcuffed to the headboard; his clothes are discarded on the floor, half-forgotten (and yet close enough to reach should the worst occur and Talindra come knocking). A few toys lay scattered about across a plush comforter, alongside one of the aphrodisiac oils that Astarion had bought last week. And there's other things, of course: a pretty little toy that Fenris has dashed beneath a pillow, eager to surprise Astarion with, but one thing at a time.
He cocks his head at him, thighs spreading willingly beneath that teasing touch.]
You seem a great deal less flustered than you were, certainly. Or do you only go red when I threaten to pin you down and breed you until you're dripping come from every hole?
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And pull.
Inches make the difference— and it takes effort, to be sure— dragging Fenris closer just a few degrees more by that hard grip on his thigh, silk sheets rucking underneath, but Astarion's been training. Hard. Every other weekend at the range....and every night and morning in his bed. It shows across his shoulders through his shirt, houndishly narrow frame sporting little flares of muscle tensing here and there. Moreso when he lifts his opposite hand to loosen his shirt from the top down, redoubling his poise.
Smirking just to play a hand he hasn't dealt yet: eyelids lowering. Posture following.] Tied down and yet stubbornly making it worse for yourself?
[He leans down over his own touch— exhale thick and feverish when it blooms along tanned contours, slipped along the underside of an anxious, swollen cock.]
....We're more alike than i thought.
[Taking his time to tease in close. To let his lips fall into palpable near-contact, letting the electric feel of skin-to-skin transference take hold without ever taking hold—
—and then stepping back.
The soft heel click that comes before he paces closer to his full length mirror, plucking loose the rest of his own buttons in the full blaze of a half-blocked midday sun: silver hair catching the brunt of its glare first, then the starker ripples of his back— lower, and lower to his hips, shifting just to catch green eyes with his reflection, fingers loose around the slacking of his open waistband.]
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[The Tevene slips past his lips thoughtlessly, a purely instinctive exhalation as heat ghosts along his cock— and then disappears. Draws back cruelly to leave him panting with nothing but cold air and the memory of near-proximity, his prick throbbing all the more needily for the taste of it.
Merciless thing, and he groans softly, his hips rocking up in futile desire. Pretty, cruel little menace, and this is only the beginning, Fenris knows already. He sits up on one elbow, his eyes locked on the sight before him. Astarion is getting stronger, he notes with pleasure. There's more definition to the lines of his back and shoulders, muscles building through hours of hard work. It's thrilling, not just as a lover but as a teacher, too: his little magistrate is getting better at defending himself.]
If this is your idea of punishment, Astarion . . .
[He lets the sentence trail off as his eyes deliberately wander down, drinking in every inch of what his lover has to offer him. Pale skin that shimmers in the sunlight, his silver eyes gleaming as they stare at him through the mirrorglass; a tapered waist and jutting hips, and that's to say nothing of what's yet to be revealed . . . oh, it is a punishment, it really is, and yet the most indulgent kind. His back arches again in a faint squirm as another fat drop of precome drips down the line of his prick. He's aching for slick, searing heat; he's aching for the way Astarion looks as he wraps his lips around his cock, eyes dark and ass raised up, vulgarly submissive in the sweetest way.
Let it be punishment for both of them, then. He has no silver tongue, not the way Astarion does. But that blush was worth everything, and that, Fenris is certain, he can earn again.]
Did you touch yourself when you were in that courtroom? [His voice is roughened, but there's nothing but confidence in his tone.] I doubt it. You barely have time to breathe between trials, you told me once . . . and I'll admit, as sweet as the thought is of you furiously stroking yourself off between trials, I savor the opposite more.
You squirming in that high seat of yours, fighting not to whine and whimper and drool as you dream of spearing me atop your prick or falling to pieces atop my tongue . . . sucking on a pen in lieu of my cock, wishing for the taste of me dripping down your throat, crossing your legs as if the pressure of your thighs might relieve you . . .
[He cocks his head, a little smirk playing over his lips.]
Am I right?
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