[Lithe little minx, sinfully seductive as he tempts Fenris into ruination with every smouldering glance and drawling word. With a low moan Fenris' head turns, meeting every knocking press with a hungry answer: yes, yes, don't stop, for the specifics matter so much less than the desperately growing desire to touch. His hands run against sweat-slick skin, feeling out curves and narrow spans; he marvels at the way his hand fits around Astarion's waist and shudders for the feeling of thighs tightening around his hips. Almost without realizing it Fenris has stepped forward, pinning Astarion back against the wall for the sheer sake of better leverage, their hips rutting and grinding as shamelessly as anyone out on the dance floor.]

I'd rather splay you over the hood.

[He growls it against Astarion's ear, teeth flashing as he bites in the next moment. Rough, yes. Rough and mean and hungry, just like the way his fingers tighten their grip, ravenous to leave the echo of his fingerprints on fair skin.]

Spread you open and watch you melt around my cock as you moan for the attention and the filth both, tongue lolling for how satisfied you are to have something big and thick in you . . .

[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and he turns his head, teeth sinking in against the side of Astarion's neck, biting down once— twice— only to lap at the wound a moment later, every flick of his tongue smugly mocking. Delicate little thing.]

Then again . . . much as being fucked atop your Ferrari for all the world to see would thrill you, little exhibitionist, you've made me greedy.

[He tips his head back, regarding Astarion possessively.]

No one else gets to see you like that.

[No one else gets to see you like this.]

Down.

[And make no mistake: it's a heated order, not a worried demand, underscored by the way he licks a swift stripe up the line of Astarion's throat.]

Unless you want me to haul you out over my shoulder. I wouldn't mind. Either way, [he nips at Astarion's bottom lip,] I aim to be in you within ten minutes.

So pick.