[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.]
[His hand grips the mirror— tilting it to show the full splay of Fenris' spread thighs across soft sheets, hard prick surrendered to the air and yet gleaming with mouth-watering slick; cuffed wrist drawn behind that vulgarity like a serpent, cuff chain taut and heavy— his white-knuckled hold on its frame barely visible at the distance they're maintaining, but if Fenris' eager eyes are sharp, he might notice the little lordling's grip betrays the passiveness behind silver eyes and a steadied expression. The same poker face he uses when he isn't hammered to the hells and back during rounds of Wicked Grace: swearing that his feathers aren't ruffled— that he isn't affected in the slightest by the goading they enact in all their tussling back and forth.
He's good at that. Deception, misdirection.
....but his cock isn't.
Stiff with a need that started hours ago. Drooling with the memory of every last one of those texts, compounded with the sight before him now— the obscenity crawling up a prickling spine to slink down deep into his ears. All caught quick between thumb and forefinger (squeezed) to tamp it down as his slacks fall away and he shifts again back on his heels, turning to the side, offering a fuller glance of just how long he is. Just how broad he is, shameless in his bluntness from the soft curvature of limber hips, to the supple plushness just below, to the wicked, swollen prick beneath his fingers, jolting like a worked up animal when his thumbprint catches just the right spot.
And he exhales.
Long and slow, like the loose smoke expelled from a cigarette.]
About you liking the idea of me flustered in my seat, panting like a pup and palming at myself, unable to keep from imagining you there....? [His smirk is smooth yet wrenchingly sincere; he knows that's not really what Fenris had been asking, but in prowling closer the bottom line might be obvious: it's fun to tease each other.]
I kept it together. [He says once he's close enough to lay his phone across the bedside table— the softest little transactional thunk, emulating the punch of a taken ticket.] Just barely.
And I don't forgive you, to answer your earlier question.
[For taking his phone. For scolding him. For working him up and bringing him here and having him looming naked over his own bed at noon—
He grins wider when he dips forward, sinking his teeth into the low slope of Fenris' throat— tasting the sweet tang of salt and softer cologne, and the floral spread of his own scent up close in ways he rarely gets to find; feels the shudder of electric thrill caught hot between his teeth before his tongue gives chase; the snare of magic-branded thighs just against his cock as he moves to straddle his bodyguard head-on, slipping over him in a matter of slow seconds.
A burst of air exhaled when he withdraws.]
Yet.
[Not yet, he grins, spitshine on his lips.]
....but I will if you do a good enough job distracting me again.
[Quick as anything Fenris' free hand darts up, fingers wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck and drawing him down for a hungry kiss. Oh no you don't, as playful as it is demanding, and yet every hungry push and pull of his lips against Astarion's isn't about dominance, but need. I missed you, I missed this: the soft plushness of Astarion's mouth and the sweetened taste of him. His shoulder throbs pleasantly, reddened teethmarks already bruising around marks that brighten and dim in time with the rise and fall of his chest.]
You see me lying in wait for you, chained to your bed with my legs spread and my cock hard, and that isn't enough to earn forgiveness? Never mind my crime was holding you accountable for being such a brat . . .
[He breathes the words out against Astarion's mouth, close enough that their lips brush together, his tongue flicking out with every word to trace over swollen flesh. His hand drifts down, releasing his neck in favor of slipping between his legs: roughened knuckles so terribly gentle as he brushes against Astarion's thickened length. There you are, long and broad and so missed that it's all Fenris can do not to whimper and whine for a taste.
He is salivating, though. Enough that he has to swallow thickly before he continues, part of him already imagining what's to come.]
Spoiled thing.
[He nips sharply at his bottom lip as his fingers wrap around his cock, squeezing tight just once before he begins a slow, indulgent stroke. They've built this up, teased one another far past the point of riling, but this is playful, and Fenris means to enjoy it. His thumb smears over the head of his cock, rubbing indulgent circles over his slit, savoring every hitched breath and flutter of his eyes.]
But I cannot help but indulge you, wicked that you are. So . . . [Another deliberate rub of his thumb, teasing against his slit just to watch him melt.] If I am to earn your good favor . . . turn around now, so I can slick you up with my tongue before spreading you open with a toy— or inch upwards, so I can take your cock in my mouth and suck on you until you fall to pieces in front of me.
[Oh, it's only dominance in the way that dug-in nails and a bowed spine equates to absolute control: they're follow the cues now, shifting between predator and prey and aggressor and inciter, adjusting their taken roles just to cater to the rush of penning out the pleasant, adrenal high this game of theirs invokes.
Both, something crowish him him barks out again, a voiceless mantra. Both, it presses like it did before during those texts, quaking with palpable greed along the places where they touch: he's shuddering again. Flexed hard through all his muscle, his cock swollen and drooling in a perch comprised of steady hands and spread legs and the way he sits himself on both— heavy, and slow, and like the hitch in breath before answering a question that's been posed. Only it's not a question, is it? It's a demand. A beseechment. An entreaty based solely on desire that they take turns staving off otherwise it'd go too quick for exhilaration to catch up to (but come here. Come here, come ride me, rut me, fuck me), because if they sank into the mire of anxious hands and quickened thrusts it'd all be over before he has a chance to even savor what this is.
What it's worth.
That for the first time he can remember, he's come home when called to; that there's metal on a former servant's undeniably strong wrist; that Fenris looks damned devourable laid out like this up close in willing obeisance (narrow counterbalance to one formerly 'irrepressible' Astarion Ancunín having abandoned his own phone, precious as it is for the unseen freedom that it brings), and that it all might prove lethal if he doesn't remember that he still needs to breathe.
He rocks up.
Onto his knees at first, then all fours— palms to the headboard, stomach arched and prick raised over Fenris in deep shadow, slick and hot above his lips (and if he hasn't slid that grip away, his roughened touch still prompts the occasional rich shiver from his agile charge); eyelids weighted so close to closing, each exhale burning in his throat. Everything's electric now, alive with anticipation and the dizzying thought of what it might look like to watch his bodyguard's mouth press in flush against his belly, throat a vice. A steel, undulating trap that'll take and take and take until there's nothing more to give outside of molten bliss.
But that wouldn't mean they're done.]
Fine. [He tries to say, all air and little sound. A toothless murmur akin to licked chops. Pitch dark eyes.
Less cub, more lion.
Fine.]
Use your tongue, then. [A buck. A charting roll of his slim hips, laying friction hard across soft skin— toying with Fenris' patience. Teasing him. Scuffling.
And then sitting higher, pale knees pressed to tanned shoulders.]
Start with the cock you've been begging to suckle on for hours, and finish by warming me for yours. [His hand moves, sliding along the bed frame to rest over the cuff (and its captive arm), fingerprints latching down over a pulse he wants to track.]
....or do you want your penitent noble to beg forgiveness before his supper?
[Oh, there he is. Pushed past the point of flustered uncertainty into becoming something arrogant and dominant once more, voice low and drenched in ravenous desire— there he is, and beneath the glide of soft fingertips, Fenris' pulse begins to thunder. There's something so uniquely thrilling about this side of Astarion, sadistic in his lust and merciless in the way he fights; Fenris licks his lips, his eyes locked upon the sight of him. More, I want more, and it's all he can do not to squirm and whine and beg in heated response.]
Both.
[An unintentional echo of the hungry mantra running through his lover's mind now rumbled as Fenris cranes his neck forward. His fingers are still wrapped around his cock, his wrist moving with heavy, slow deliberation, tugging him off with aching slowness. And there: soft lips meet velvet skin as Fenris presses his mouth against the tip of his cock, ensuring every word vibrates straight to his core.]
I want to take you in my mouth and feel you spill down my throat while you beg me for forgiveness for all your arrogance and bratty behavior.
[Hot breath caresses him with every word; precious droplets of precome smear and gloss against his lips, his tongue flicking out to lap and tease and worship with every slow syllable.]
I want to hear what Lord Astarion Ancunín thinks is a good apology . . . and hope that my mood becomes more merciful while I have you on my tongue.
[But oh, enough foreplay: without warning his hand releases his cock, darting to brace against the small of his back instead. Abruptly he yanks him forward by the barest of inches, the motion far more about display than it is practicality: I can move you even like this, and Fenris' eyes are glittering with anticipation as he stares up at his charge. One hand or not, you come at my beckoning, little one.
His head tips, his lips parting as he prepares to wrap them around his cock, but oh—]
Don't forget to say please.
[Then he takes him into his mouth: one swift swallow as his jaw drops open and his tongue is abruptly flattened, searing weight filling his mouth completely. Fenris groans, his hips bucking up despite himself; he has to swallow once, twice, his next exhales labored as he fights not to gag. The angle works against him and he doesn't care, not a bit, for Astarion wasn't wrong: he has spent hours begging for this. Longing for the familiar taste of precome dripping down his throat as his jaw is forced open to its limit, his tongue sliding up desperately in an overeager attempt to map out veins and ridges, lips slick with drool already . . . oh, he loves this, and all the more so for how he is and isn't in control. His cheeks go hollow as slick, vulgar noises drift up between them— for though it's Astarion who controls the pace and speed, Fenris won't give up his own power so easily.
The tips of his fingers press against Astarion's back, urging him forward impudently: come fuck me, little princeling, goading and hungry both. Come take me, as his head bobs and he sucks hungrily, savoring the slow slide of slick skin against swollen lips.]
[He sees stars, that spoiled, stubborn thing perched long and lean atop Fenris' taut outline, shakily hunched over the headboard. So many that when his fingers curl and flex it's bright as daylight behind shut eyes, static electricity popping hotter by the second in the divots bored by ruddy fingertips over the well-flexed splay of branded thighs as he leans back— his own paler set preoccupied with the rise and fall between them: that weighted, steady pull brought on by an eager mouth and agile musculature.
The noise he makes is loud (like cold shock, it bottles in his slackened throat, unstifled and unmuffled, threatening to rouse attention through what amounts to thin pane glass, locked doors), but obscenity is louder. Every smack and mouthwatering pop before a groan reverberates with squirming shamelessness, eager to take and swallow and fill and— though Astarion's first few bucks are only shallow based on reflex, it's merely the merger between Fenris' insistence and Astarion's own coming fitfully to bear; harshly hitching, and even more violent once it settles into a harmonic tremor squeezed in tight against those slickened lips gone pink with lurid effort. The thrilling rush they're both prey to, and there's no masking that he loves it.
Loves this.
Dark-eyed and open-mouthed, quaking through his teeth with every last unblinking exhale, oh he can't look away, and it's a miserably funny thought that he almost jerks towards that phone laid stagnant across his bedside table, not wanting to lose this image before it's gone.
(But he can live in the moment, can't he?)
One more rolling (roiling) buck forward, shoved to the unseen back of Fenris' throat; one more settled, untouched grind against the softened grain of inlaid contours— before the outstretched fingers of his left hand surge forwards like a snake, bedding themselves with an anchor's grasp on the roots of his bodyguard's own scalp, forcibly dragging them tighter. Closer. Flush and shivering, undulating, working through the leverage between their angled bodies and the space therein they lack, making sure the only thing his guardian can breathe is the suffocatingly sweet scent of perfumed oil....
....and the thickness in his throat.
Astarion's too young to growl properly; his vocal cords still run just about as lithe as each and every last one of those willowy little limbs that he employs, but there's a richness to it all the same, spurred on by the shuddering fantasy of this that's stayed moored in him for hours, coiling over itself until it grew and grew and grew beyond the borders of its housing:]
Please.... [Is what he then musters from the depths of that dark, hungry shelter, daring Fenris to broker for more.]
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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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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.
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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.
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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?
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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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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.
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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.
1/2
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.
2/2
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?
no subject
He's good at that. Deception, misdirection.
....but his cock isn't.
Stiff with a need that started hours ago. Drooling with the memory of every last one of those texts, compounded with the sight before him now— the obscenity crawling up a prickling spine to slink down deep into his ears. All caught quick between thumb and forefinger (squeezed) to tamp it down as his slacks fall away and he shifts again back on his heels, turning to the side, offering a fuller glance of just how long he is. Just how broad he is, shameless in his bluntness from the soft curvature of limber hips, to the supple plushness just below, to the wicked, swollen prick beneath his fingers, jolting like a worked up animal when his thumbprint catches just the right spot.
And he exhales.
Long and slow, like the loose smoke expelled from a cigarette.]
About you liking the idea of me flustered in my seat, panting like a pup and palming at myself, unable to keep from imagining you there....? [His smirk is smooth yet wrenchingly sincere; he knows that's not really what Fenris had been asking, but in prowling closer the bottom line might be obvious: it's fun to tease each other.]
I kept it together. [He says once he's close enough to lay his phone across the bedside table— the softest little transactional thunk, emulating the punch of a taken ticket.] Just barely.
And I don't forgive you, to answer your earlier question.
[For taking his phone. For scolding him. For working him up and bringing him here and having him looming naked over his own bed at noon—
He grins wider when he dips forward, sinking his teeth into the low slope of Fenris' throat— tasting the sweet tang of salt and softer cologne, and the floral spread of his own scent up close in ways he rarely gets to find; feels the shudder of electric thrill caught hot between his teeth before his tongue gives chase; the snare of magic-branded thighs just against his cock as he moves to straddle his bodyguard head-on, slipping over him in a matter of slow seconds.
A burst of air exhaled when he withdraws.]
Yet.
[Not yet, he grins, spitshine on his lips.]
....but I will if you do a good enough job distracting me again.
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You see me lying in wait for you, chained to your bed with my legs spread and my cock hard, and that isn't enough to earn forgiveness? Never mind my crime was holding you accountable for being such a brat . . .
[He breathes the words out against Astarion's mouth, close enough that their lips brush together, his tongue flicking out with every word to trace over swollen flesh. His hand drifts down, releasing his neck in favor of slipping between his legs: roughened knuckles so terribly gentle as he brushes against Astarion's thickened length. There you are, long and broad and so missed that it's all Fenris can do not to whimper and whine for a taste.
He is salivating, though. Enough that he has to swallow thickly before he continues, part of him already imagining what's to come.]
Spoiled thing.
[He nips sharply at his bottom lip as his fingers wrap around his cock, squeezing tight just once before he begins a slow, indulgent stroke. They've built this up, teased one another far past the point of riling, but this is playful, and Fenris means to enjoy it. His thumb smears over the head of his cock, rubbing indulgent circles over his slit, savoring every hitched breath and flutter of his eyes.]
But I cannot help but indulge you, wicked that you are. So . . . [Another deliberate rub of his thumb, teasing against his slit just to watch him melt.] If I am to earn your good favor . . . turn around now, so I can slick you up with my tongue before spreading you open with a toy— or inch upwards, so I can take your cock in my mouth and suck on you until you fall to pieces in front of me.
no subject
Both, something crowish him him barks out again, a voiceless mantra. Both, it presses like it did before during those texts, quaking with palpable greed along the places where they touch: he's shuddering again. Flexed hard through all his muscle, his cock swollen and drooling in a perch comprised of steady hands and spread legs and the way he sits himself on both— heavy, and slow, and like the hitch in breath before answering a question that's been posed. Only it's not a question, is it? It's a demand. A beseechment. An entreaty based solely on desire that they take turns staving off otherwise it'd go too quick for exhilaration to catch up to (but come here. Come here, come ride me, rut me, fuck me), because if they sank into the mire of anxious hands and quickened thrusts it'd all be over before he has a chance to even savor what this is.
What it's worth.
That for the first time he can remember, he's come home when called to; that there's metal on a former servant's undeniably strong wrist; that Fenris looks damned devourable laid out like this up close in willing obeisance (narrow counterbalance to one formerly 'irrepressible' Astarion Ancunín having abandoned his own phone, precious as it is for the unseen freedom that it brings), and that it all might prove lethal if he doesn't remember that he still needs to breathe.
He rocks up.
Onto his knees at first, then all fours— palms to the headboard, stomach arched and prick raised over Fenris in deep shadow, slick and hot above his lips (and if he hasn't slid that grip away, his roughened touch still prompts the occasional rich shiver from his agile charge); eyelids weighted so close to closing, each exhale burning in his throat. Everything's electric now, alive with anticipation and the dizzying thought of what it might look like to watch his bodyguard's mouth press in flush against his belly, throat a vice. A steel, undulating trap that'll take and take and take until there's nothing more to give outside of molten bliss.
But that wouldn't mean they're done.]
Fine. [He tries to say, all air and little sound. A toothless murmur akin to licked chops. Pitch dark eyes.
Less cub, more lion.
Fine.]
Use your tongue, then. [A buck. A charting roll of his slim hips, laying friction hard across soft skin— toying with Fenris' patience. Teasing him. Scuffling.
And then sitting higher, pale knees pressed to tanned shoulders.]
Start with the cock you've been begging to suckle on for hours, and finish by warming me for yours. [His hand moves, sliding along the bed frame to rest over the cuff (and its captive arm), fingerprints latching down over a pulse he wants to track.]
....or do you want your penitent noble to beg forgiveness before his supper?
no subject
Both.
[An unintentional echo of the hungry mantra running through his lover's mind now rumbled as Fenris cranes his neck forward. His fingers are still wrapped around his cock, his wrist moving with heavy, slow deliberation, tugging him off with aching slowness. And there: soft lips meet velvet skin as Fenris presses his mouth against the tip of his cock, ensuring every word vibrates straight to his core.]
I want to take you in my mouth and feel you spill down my throat while you beg me for forgiveness for all your arrogance and bratty behavior.
[Hot breath caresses him with every word; precious droplets of precome smear and gloss against his lips, his tongue flicking out to lap and tease and worship with every slow syllable.]
I want to hear what Lord Astarion Ancunín thinks is a good apology . . . and hope that my mood becomes more merciful while I have you on my tongue.
[But oh, enough foreplay: without warning his hand releases his cock, darting to brace against the small of his back instead. Abruptly he yanks him forward by the barest of inches, the motion far more about display than it is practicality: I can move you even like this, and Fenris' eyes are glittering with anticipation as he stares up at his charge. One hand or not, you come at my beckoning, little one.
His head tips, his lips parting as he prepares to wrap them around his cock, but oh—]
Don't forget to say please.
[Then he takes him into his mouth: one swift swallow as his jaw drops open and his tongue is abruptly flattened, searing weight filling his mouth completely. Fenris groans, his hips bucking up despite himself; he has to swallow once, twice, his next exhales labored as he fights not to gag. The angle works against him and he doesn't care, not a bit, for Astarion wasn't wrong: he has spent hours begging for this. Longing for the familiar taste of precome dripping down his throat as his jaw is forced open to its limit, his tongue sliding up desperately in an overeager attempt to map out veins and ridges, lips slick with drool already . . . oh, he loves this, and all the more so for how he is and isn't in control. His cheeks go hollow as slick, vulgar noises drift up between them— for though it's Astarion who controls the pace and speed, Fenris won't give up his own power so easily.
The tips of his fingers press against Astarion's back, urging him forward impudently: come fuck me, little princeling, goading and hungry both. Come take me, as his head bobs and he sucks hungrily, savoring the slow slide of slick skin against swollen lips.]
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The noise he makes is loud (like cold shock, it bottles in his slackened throat, unstifled and unmuffled, threatening to rouse attention through what amounts to thin pane glass, locked doors), but obscenity is louder. Every smack and mouthwatering pop before a groan reverberates with squirming shamelessness, eager to take and swallow and fill and— though Astarion's first few bucks are only shallow based on reflex, it's merely the merger between Fenris' insistence and Astarion's own coming fitfully to bear; harshly hitching, and even more violent once it settles into a harmonic tremor squeezed in tight against those slickened lips gone pink with lurid effort. The thrilling rush they're both prey to, and there's no masking that he loves it.
Loves this.
Dark-eyed and open-mouthed, quaking through his teeth with every last unblinking exhale, oh he can't look away, and it's a miserably funny thought that he almost jerks towards that phone laid stagnant across his bedside table, not wanting to lose this image before it's gone.
(But he can live in the moment, can't he?)
One more rolling (roiling) buck forward, shoved to the unseen back of Fenris' throat; one more settled, untouched grind against the softened grain of inlaid contours— before the outstretched fingers of his left hand surge forwards like a snake, bedding themselves with an anchor's grasp on the roots of his bodyguard's own scalp, forcibly dragging them tighter. Closer. Flush and shivering, undulating, working through the leverage between their angled bodies and the space therein they lack, making sure the only thing his guardian can breathe is the suffocatingly sweet scent of perfumed oil....
....and the thickness in his throat.
Astarion's too young to growl properly; his vocal cords still run just about as lithe as each and every last one of those willowy little limbs that he employs, but there's a richness to it all the same, spurred on by the shuddering fantasy of this that's stayed moored in him for hours, coiling over itself until it grew and grew and grew beyond the borders of its housing:]
Please.... [Is what he then musters from the depths of that dark, hungry shelter, daring Fenris to broker for more.]
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