“Disappoint me? Is that what you think?” There’s no stifling welling amusement even as he keeps the whole of his lurid mask intact, offering up only the coyest of scuffs from his nose along the broader side of Fenris’ own.
“That couldn’t be further from the truth.”
Still, he feels that difference. The almost violent jolt where Fenris' muscles tighten in an instinctive retreat— without anywhere to run to. It doesn't slow the weaving of Astarion's fingertips through knotted laces, but as they slip apart to the sweeter sight of slow-earned relaxation, he doesn't stop himself from pressing soft lips to the unmarred space just beside Fenris' ear. Throaty, darker than he has any right to be when he exhales just two words.
“Good boy.”
They both have their difficulties. Their own lingering traces of ownership. For Fenris, his body has become a map of arching leylines. Tangled points that Astarion assumes must be sharp as knives to his senses, though admittedy he can't quite picture what it's like. For Astarion, his fangs are ever a burdensome thing. Their hunger. Their wretched shape, twisting everything into a matter of necessary control. Of caution, when it comes to moments like this.
Fortunately, he’s had an eternity to perfect his craft.
Still harboring heat from that stolen kiss, the whole of his body slithers lower, arched down through his shoulders to free himself from Fenris’ hold, forearms sunk heavy against the mattress. Fingers perched broad atop him, thumb wound tight to the underside of Fenris’ thankfully unbranded length, riding high and soft until it catches sharp beneath the crest. Pinning it— beat by drawn out beat— between a steadily narrowing grip and the slick flat of his own tongue, jagged fangs kept at bay, though they glint in the light when his reddened stare lifts, reflective.
He wants to see it, after all. The effect he has on that captivating face.
Granted, given how long the man's presumably gone without something substantial sating his own bodily appetites, Astarion doesn’t expect the poor creature to last long. To that extent, he works more with his palm than his mouth, exhale gliding over vulnerable skin, lips and tongue the only barrier between bliss and ruin.
The words provoke such conflicting reactions that Fenris freezes for a moment. He's heard those words from a man he despises, one dead for years now, and yet the years of being his dog still drag on him, raw as any untended wound. Those words have been used to praise his violence and his obedience, to remind him of his place at his master's heel, to remind him that he is not his own. Those chains are long broken but they are not completely gone.
But hearing them from Astarion, said like that, stirs something hot in him that is not unwelcome. Fenris doesn't want to think about what that means. If he can feel good, is it a sin to pursue that? To allow it? His body has been nothing but a weapon for so long that he's almost forgotten how to enjoy it. He hasn't felt that he could.
Fenris's failure to react gives Astarion the chance to slide lower along his body and that movement wipes away any lingering shadows. He's hard beneath the other man's touch and by the time Astarion's tongue teases along his cock, Fenris is flat on the bed again.
"Fasta vass," he hisses. It feels like a blessing that his legs are still covered, keeping a barrier between the marks there and Astarion - for now. Fenris suspects that they will feel oppressive before long.
But, for now, his attention narrows to the hand stroking him, ensuring he is fully aroused if he wasn't there before. His hips shift restlessly, trying to get closer to the friction igniting a fire in him. He grips the blanket and the old sheets, taut and uncertain and yet still needy beneath Astarion's knowing touch.
What else do people like them have aside from what they choose to take? What else can Astarion offer but the start of the path he’s nursed along for years? That there’s freedom to be found in unwinding from the inside out. In ruthlessly reclaiming what's been stolen, piece by rapturous piece.
If this is how it takes shape beneath the slide of his tongue, curling wet to pool against feverishly hot contours— the rolling pressure of his hand, fluid as a serpent with every stroke— then all the better.
He is an avaricious thing. Covetous and insatiable in the pit of a heart gone black with denial. Those words (undecipherable as they are) spark embers in his gut, unquenchable, and in turn he acts on it: relaxed when he submerges the entirety of Fenris’ cock right to the heart of his own throat, a flash of false breath let out flush against skin. Unliving, he doesn’t need air. Or comfort. Or anything more than that deep-set, weighty pressure pinned achingly tight between them. His throat works around it, shoulders canting to force a rhythm into formation— while his hands, now blissfully unburdened, return to peeling away the barrier of fabric inch by steadier inch, fingers tangled high against the edges of Fenris’ pants.
Even with chains broken, Fenris has wondered how long it will be before he feels free. He's spent far more time trying to get past what was done to him rather than make any attempt at reclamation, forever thinking of his body as a tool, a weapon, a source of pain, proof of his survival.
A sharp, startled cry escapes him as Astarion draws him deeper. He lifts his hips, unthinking as he chases that feeling. He's not stopped and he can feel an exhale against his skin. Fenris shivers, goosebumps rising as Astarion reveals more skin, more marks. One hand drags away from the bed to push through the other man's pale hair, gripping harder than he means to as his throat works. His head falls back as Astarion takes him as deep as he can, drawing back just enough that Fenris can feel it when he bobs down again.
Fenris mutters another breathless curse as he tries to find a rhythm with Astarion. He lacks the grace of experience, but it's difficult to deny the momentum of his desire. Heat pours through him and he draws his legs up, bending them to allow his pants to slide lower with Astarion's guidance.
Already on a bed, there’s a certain luxury of ease to it: how, with Fenris tipping himself into the gravitational pull exerted, there's no fumbling for leverage or timing. No clumsy rush to disrobe.
That cry so uniquely pretty as it shatters the otherwise dour sound of Fenris' voice, that even Astarion’s brow pinches tight on a single, throaty exhale this time, resisting the urge to shudder as though touched. To his senses it’s as maddening as the scent of blood in the water, addictive and alluring, thrumming restlessly in his chest.
Still, he needs focus. Enough to counter Fenris’ nascent attempts at feeling out a rhythm. Not to control them, or to still them, but simply to keep the lithe creature safe when bucking could so easily prove dangerous across a vampire's tongue. When he has to balance out pulling the last of rough fabric aside, fitting his palm to the underside of Fenris’ thigh— thumb slipping in first to feel out smooth skin in the hopes that it might guide his hand away from whatever pale markings rest there. In the end, it’s a best guess scenario, with room left for Fenris to correct, before he’s pressed the elf's leg high over his own shoulder, the angle steep. Demanding.
Two fingers, the backs of lightly arched knuckles to the skin beneath Fenris’ cock (beneath his own mouth, in fact), thoroughly smoothing them against pooling slickness. The warmth of it.
There isn’t much warning when they move lower. One finger to start, nudging gently for access— and quick to slide deep the moment its found it, pinning Fenris between the joined attention of his mouth, his throat, the bearing of his own weight where it sinks into (and over and across) him at pace.
He’s forgotten already that he’s meant to be going easy on Fenris, apparently.
Easy went out the window the moment Astarion got his mouth on him. Fenris tenses beneath the other man's touch as a hand pushes his thigh up, and it takes him a moment to realize what he's doing. By then, his leg is over Astarion's shoulder, exposing more of him to the man between his thighs.
Fenris shifts his weight, trying to accommodate the new position as his muscles relax into the new demand - he's not been as active as he usually is but it's gratifying to realize he's not completely stiff. He barely registers the fingers brushing over the base of his cock, but he certainly notices when one presses against him, seeking access. His eyes flash open and his thigh tenses against Astarion's shoulder as his body yields. It's as unexpected as it is--pleasant? Alien? Fenris hisses another sharp curse as he pinned between Astarion's mouth and his hand and the next time his hips give a restless shift, he gasps in a sharper breath.
"Astarion--kaffas--" It sounds more like a curse than a plea to stop. Though he does follow up by kicking the other man's hip or side or whatever he can actually make contact with using the leg that isn't thrown over Astarion's shoulder.
"What are you doing?" Despite his best efforts, it comes out sounding like a groan as much as a growl, the answer a foregone conclusion but demanded all the same.
It's decadent, by Astarion's measure. The reverie found in strumming someone the way a skilled musician plucks delicate strings, lost entirely to the tune. He can feel that shift as the whole of Fenris' body tenses, hips drawn higher, undoubtedly open to being made pliant and nearer to the brink than ever—
And then he's kicked, of all things. Side jolting sharp as a spurred horse (his mouth thankfully still, having been drawn back to the tip of Fenris' cock just before he lets out a soft oof in letting go entirely), bewildered when he glances up, and entirely knuckle-deep in soft heat when he does.
"What— ow— what do you mean what am I doing?" Astarion all but gasps, trying to look past the alluring tangle of lean muscle laid out before him in order to quickly read Fenris' expression like a map in the hands of someone terminally lost.
"I'm getting you off, darling. Or isn't that what you—"
A careful pause. An even slower blink, almost animal like when he tips his head to one side, lips still flush with heat.
Slept near other people, Fenris had said. But does that mean...
Fenris doesn't anticipate the heat rising in his face and twisting in his chest. He isn't even sure what to call it: anger, shame, the pain of memory. Maybe all of it. It's the way it sounds like an accusation that's jabbed at a raw spot. His jaw tightens but he has the courtesy not to kick Astarion again.
There is no simple answer to the question. Not any that he is willing to provide right this second, while Astarion is still inside him and looking at him like that. There is something very alluring about his mouth, soft and slick with his effort, but even that isn't quite enough to drag Fenris back into the arms of desire. The elf doesn't move, and after a moment he looks away.
"I don't remember if there was anyone before the marks," he answers. There is hesitation there, edged with annoyance because that is a far easier thing to feel than anything else roiling in him right now. "And I have not--I have not sought anyone out since my escape. Who would I trust? I never stayed anywhere for very long."
Letting down his guard for even a second, especially in those early days, felt impossible. It's still up even now, and the fact that Astarion is this close to him while he is relatively vulnerable speaks to some level of trust, even if the other man seems prepared to take a mile when Fenris has barely offered an inch.
Not before, owing to a lack of memory— and not after— and that, that easily interpreted knowledge stings beyond anything reasonably bearable. Works its way under his ribs like the highly unsubtle dig of a knife.
Gods above, he feels like a prick. Expression sinking as he draws his hands away, exceedingly gentle throughout— though knowing Fenris thus far, Astarion imagines he isn’t particularly precious about discomfort. It’s done regardless for the meager mercy of dignity, just before he moves back to rest across his own heels, still perched just between Fenris’ thighs.
There’s no apology. No grasping platitudes. That sort of sentiment’s more insulting than cruelty at times, at least in Astarion’s experience.
It doesn’t change anything, after all. Doesn’t fix the past, or make the future any easier.
There’s a slowness to it like he’s stalling for time, or lost in his own thoughts, when he begins absently fiddling with the ties of his own loose blouse. Restless, deft fingers put to use by way of unfastening. Disarming perhaps for the fact that the whole of his focus doesn’t bear down on Fenris’ shoulders like a weight, save for the set of his own fixed stare.
“So. The last time you can remember...” He trails off, there, looking for some sort of affirmation rather than sniffing out figurative blood in the water.
There's a quiet catch in his breath as Astarion withdraws, leaving him empty again. After years of enduring whatever whim Danarius had, to have someone respond so quickly and with apparent remorse is--something. Not relief, but it dulls a sharp edge of memory. Nothing can change what was done to him, and the fact that Astarion offers no platitudes is a welcome change. Fenris doesn't want pity, and he absolutely does not want to listen to shallow words meant for the speaker more than him.
He watches as the other man starts to remove his shirt, uncertain tension written across his face and in the set of his shoulders. His attention flicks back to Astarion's face and his intent stare, meeting it steadily. His jaw ticks at the assumption made. Fenris does not deny it, but neither does he rush to speak further on the matter. Does he need to, when Astarion has hit the truth?
But those eyes are still on him. Fenris sighs and gives a slight nod of his head.
"My body was his," he says simply. Danarius made him an experiment, and the object of any other desires that were less academic.
He’d taken to reading signs rather than asking. Leaned into all the usual ways and means— but Astarion uses that system for people so very unlike them: the gilded, the cosseted, the ones who’ve never gone a day in their lives without living in lavish comfort or weeping over more than a bit of spilt cream. A pricked finger.
A mistake, in other words. Knowing what he knows now.
So. Just for a moment, better to be up front. Completely.
“Then I should probably ask: do you want this, Fenris?” Lacework undone, he shifts forward, bending enough to pull loose fabric over his head— briefly exposing a bone-deep network of interlocking scars, thick and knotted from mismanaged healing, or possibly lack thereof. It’s a brief flash, of course. Easily missed when he sets that wadded shirt aside, elbows settled across his own knees. Just comfortable. “Something other than what you’ve had. Everything you can’t remember.”
It’s not seductive, that question. Though Astarion can’t exactly help the way he’s built. The way words sound across his tongue.
“You can say no, you know. Just for the record.” It’s a twitch of a muted thing, mouth pulling, wan. The barest shred of levity when he adds, “Won’t break my heart.”
Maybe it's brief, but Fenris notices the scarring in the flash of exposure. He itches to see more of it, but his attention is redirected as Astarion discards his shirt.
Even if there is no seduction in the asking, there is something alluring in the question and in the offer. For so long his body has been a source of pain, nothing more than a way for him to move through the world. Killing Danarius didn't make him feel free. Fenris has been frustrated since then, trying to find something that would.
Reclaiming his body isn't something he'd really considered.
Fenris hesitates for another breath, then slowly eases closer to the man still settled between his legs.
"If no had been the answer from the outset, you would have a broken nose at the very least." Possibly worse if Fenris reacted without holding back. That isn't really an answer to the question Astarion is asking. But he thought it worth making clear.
"I would... like to remember something other than pain. Perhaps it isn't possible. But I am willing to try. Without surprises."
It might mean a bit more patience on Astarion's part, but Fenris isn't kicking him out of the bed. Perhaps his invitation is stilted, but it's clear.
The laugh that slithers loose between his teeth is as adoring as the glint catching in his stare. Not at the spark of reclamation, but the thought of a broken nose. That Fenris would opt to do more than bark or snap his teeth in figurative warning.
Good.
Always better to be sharper than thorns than to be cowed by anyone.
“Lucky me. I’d weep for the tragedy of losing this very handsome nose, after all.” And, for good measure, “You can always kick me again if I start to veer.”
A phial of something from his own pocket's laid— cork left intact— just to one side, resting at the edge of the mattress before he goes about toeing off his own trousers, his spine set fully against rucked bedding throughout. It stays there still when he moves to press one palm just along the supple set of his own cock, chin slung back at an intentionally vulnerable angle— making the rest of him run long by proxy. Lean muscle drawn taut as a strung bow.
“Just um.” Hard just, soft um. “Give me a moment, would you, beautiful?”
Another tightened flick of his fingers prompting a low, thready little exhale that escapes around the edges of his own smile.
“Something about all-too-familiar misery tends to make getting back to business a little hard at first— no pun intended.”
As Astarion settles back against the bed, Fenris... follows. His own arousal has flagged slightly with the shift in conversation, but given Astarion's skill and determination, he suspects that is only a temporary setback for both of them. He allows himself to admire the way the other man looks, pale and lean and--tempting. Fenris has noticed before, he isn't blind, but allowing himself to indulge in desire as anything more than a passing frustration is new. Given the way he's put himself on display, it would be impossible not to notice the progress of Astarion's hand.
Fenris lifts his gaze back to the elegant (and unbroken) face in front of him. He moves closer still, hesitant, and his hand drops to lightly cover Astarion's where it strokes over his cock. He doesn't think his touch would be unwelcome, but he'll let Astarion decide whether or not to allow it somewhere so vulnerable.
An eyebrow ticks up.
"Did you just call me beautiful?" he asks dryly, suspecting it's more of a pet name or endearment than an actual sentiment. Astarion has used the former before, much to Fenris's occasional annoyance.
Dark lashes drift shut as that delicate touch settles in around his own. He finds it with his index finger— wending it up against the side of Fenris’ knuckle. Later, he thinks to himself, the thought as drowsy as a distant dream, he’s going to have to memorize each and and every one of those markings. For the sake of practicality.
For the selfish shape of his own fascination.
Another beat, another finger slipped aside at the tail end of one mutual stroke, his ensuing groan a desirously pretty thing. He wants this, after all. To steal the whole of Fenris’ attention, drawing him in by the second. No passivity. No room to truly think— or to think too much. Better to feel.
He lets go, then. Slides his hand between Fenris’ legs in turn, his grip still warm with borrowed touch. Stirred circulation.
“You don’t know?” Astarion asks, the fingers of his opposite hand finding that phial. Drawing it to his lips to uncork it with the edge of a lone fang, the scent of lilac oil strong in the air between them.
A single drop. Two. Slicking just along Fenris’ crown, slipping down into his own shuttling grasp. The rest, he saves.
“That perfect nose, those delicate lips...graceful, to say the least, and unparalleled besides. I’d tease you,” that thought interrupted by a sigh that angles high, has him shivering just so, thumb slipping against the underside of Fenris’ length. Dragging. “But I’m doing more than enough of that already.”
His hips lift, canting in against Fenris’ palm. He’s not struggling for rigidity anymore.
All breath. All teeth.
“You’re a vision, darling. Couldn’t keep myself from you if I tried.”
Edited (Never tag when falling asleep) 2021-12-23 11:47 (UTC)
The scent of lilacs is unexpected, adding something to the unexpected moment. His lips part with a sharp breath as he's touched again. Fenris bows his head and grows more confident with his own mission, elegant fingers curling around Astarion. He isn't a novice, but this is the first time he's touched someone like this in--years.
"I think you're full of it," he mutters, but there is amusement on the edge of that remark and a flicker of a smile across his delicate lips. There's a pause, and then, "But you don't have to stop."
Fenris braces himself more fully over the other man, bringing them closer together and, perhaps, inviting more touch. It also allows him to rock his hips to meet the stroke of Astarion's knowing hand, seeking that slick friction. There is still tension written in his back, bracing for discomfort out of habit. But he is determined now. If this is possible, if this is something he can have for himself, then he wants it.
Admittedly it’s a little thin, his prior flattery. That he could do better doesn’t much matter half as much as the smile it elicits, clearly distracting his companion from the demands of finding his footing on unsteady ground.
Good.
“Are you calling me a liar?” He clicks his tongue softly against the backs of his own fangs, neck craning up to find his way to Fenris’ mouth. Stealing only the edge of a kiss, his breath pooling against those lips. The sound of every exhale, every groan, made so literally palpable.
His grip twists. He pulls, each stroke more lavish than the last—index finger and middle curling lower, catching sensitive curvature, though it’s all glancing. He promised to be patient, after all.
“Because if so— you’re right.”
The nip that finds its way to Fenris' lower lip is all sharp. Fangs careful not to break skin, though something in the back of his mind digs— always— in a demand for more. Ignored.
There are other ways to taste the man fit over him, coaxed ever closer. His aim to bring them to the point of pressure: so that he can work his hold across them both at the same time. One grip, one singular, manipulative merger, bucking his hips into it, heat curling in his gut. Racing beneath his ribs.
"Yes," he answers blithely, and he does not bother to hide the amusement in his voice before Astarion's lips brush his, barely a kiss but tantalizing all the same. The sharpness in the bite that comes next lights a fire in him and it makes Fenris dip down closer, trying to catch him in a full kiss. There is insistence behind it, a need drawn out by the offer in front of him. Need isn't a new feeling, but the promise of pleasure in it is.
Fenris gasps, breaking the kiss as the other man manages to get a hand around them both. His hand moves to accommodate Astarion's apparent mission and his other clutches the blanket beneath them as he thrusts forward. His lips remain parted and a harsher breath escapes him as they slide together. Warmth spreads across his cheeks and chest, it twists low in his body and he cannot help the moan that the slick friction coaxes from him. He can feel himself throb and a growing urgency creeping up his spine.
He will not say the plea rising in his throat, would rather choke on it than allow himself to beg. Not yet.
Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing— thoughts so far from lucidity compared to the primal urging of low, exhilarating hunger. It’s near that point now, when Fenris utters that unrestrained, guttural moan. Astarion wants more of it. He wants more. There’s so little friction to be had with that oil in play between them, turning Astarion’s grip into nothing but constricting, demanding, shifting pressure as Fenris cants his hips into it— as he squeezes his fingertips in an alternating pattern, making every bit of contact maddeningly unpredictable.
His body is tense even as it rolls with fluid grace. He’s forgotten caution, as he suspects Fenris might have, too—
Or, no. He hasn’t forgotten it entirely, only relegated it to the restraint that keeps his fangs in check as his tongue slides deep over Fenris’ own, chasing the wine-laced taste of a broken kiss as if seeking out his breath. His warmth. Restraint, by way of the fact that he hasn’t yet rushed to snare Fenris’ hips with both his hands in order to fuck him so furiously that lithe body might need weeks more to recover.
Because Astarion is, after all, content with this.
Content with the feeling of tangled covers pulled tight and coaxed sighs, and the promise that this uncharted, euphoric territory isn't an offering to anyone but themselves.
Yes, Fenris says, and it sounds like bliss and amusement all tangled together— and Astarion can’t help but laugh against the cradle of that perfect mouth. Sound of it lost the next second to a dizzying groan.
The sound of Astarion's laugh sends unexpected chills rushing through him, unexpected and pleasant and happier than any sound Fenris has managed tonight. And perhaps it sounds like forgiveness for the kick, or for his reticence.
Fenris whispers something, probably another string of curses in another language, as the slick slide between them makes hot tension coil tighter inside him. He's reduced to panting, hips working into the pressure of their combined grip.
He could finish like this, he realizes. He is so starved for touch that doesn't bring him pain and discomfort that he feels he has very little in the way of restraint left. His fevered imagination flies back to how it felt to have this man over him, penetrating him. Fenris has the decency to believe Astarion meant no harm, trusts that, and his mind drifts back to how this started.
Knees slide further apart, lowering him more over the body beneath him. Fenris leans more into his hand pressed to the bed, just over Astarion's shoulder. He keeps his head down, within range of another kiss should either of them try for it.
"Do you want what you started chasing?" he asks, quietly breathless and hoping that question makes sense now that he's managed it out loud. Every inch of him is a testament to how much has been taken from him. What would it feel like to start taking it back? Is it possible after so long?
Craving. Wanting to the point of gut-deep urging. That sudden feeling of painful emptiness once building pleasure reaches an inevitably heightened arc: Astarion knows it so well he doesn’t need to look to see it etched across Fenris’ face; doesn’t have to hear it in his voice as Fenris strains himself to put to words precisely what he needs.
“Mhm.” It’s a hum of a thing. Low and husky, caught up in the sharpness of his own teeth as he grins. As he exhales by some shivering, unsteady measure, giving his body an opportunity to slow its otherwise rushing focus.
Pulling away from his grip on them both, Astarion reaches high to fit his hands to the undersides of Fenris’ arms— thumbs nestled across the side of his chest in the gaps between silver leylines, using the whole of his corded strength to reverse their positions. Fenris’ spine meets the mattress, shadowed for a single beat—
Left momentarily cold for a moment longer before Astarion’s knees settle on either side of Fenris’ neck, framing his shoulders without contact— the inverted reflection of one another. His mouth meets velveteen skin as his tongue curls hot across Fenris’ tip, the taste of perfumed oil sharp to his senses. One arm slunk just beneath the lift of Fenris’ raised leg, ring finger pressed just so against feverish heat. Against that point of entry nestled right between the marked elf’s thighs, oil already having run low and deep into narrow contours from prior rutting.
“Tell me if it hurts, darling.”
Murmured in the prelude to pressure. A building difference of slowly plunging degrees.
Fenris grunts as he lands on his back and it takes him a few precious seconds to recover from the sudden change in position. By the time he does, Astarion is stretched out above him and his cock is much closer than it was. The smell of lilacs is going to have a very different meaning for him from now on. Spring is going to be very distracting.
He reaches up, letting his hand slide over Astarion's cock as the other man's mouth and tongue tease over him. He lifts his hips in a subtle rock toward Astarion's touch. He can feel the man's arm against his marks on his outer thigh, there is no real avoiding it if Astarion actually wants to hold onto him. The muscle flinches briefly, but there is no attempt to pull or push away. And, slowly, he relaxes more.
He stills beneath the gentle pressure of Astarion's touch. Distracted by that, his caress becomes slower but doesn't stop. He expects it now, at least, and rather than violence there is only a shivering sigh as the slick finger pushes into him. Within a few heartbeats Fenris gives a tentative roll of his hips, seeking that feeling and perhaps attempting to encourage the man on top of him. He might have reacted poorly, but he isn't made of glass and he does not wish to be treated like he is.
"Don't stop," he mutters. Fenris adjusts himself and leans to run his tongue up the length of firm flesh cradled in his hand.
That first, initial brush of tentative hands. The puff of air before a kiss. The penetrating slide of one lone digit nestling deep, and curling deeper— promising more still.
The testing slip of Fenris’ tongue, prompting the faintest shiver. A twitch. Tension spiking unimaginably high and settling low between his legs as he groans against supple skin.
Don’t stop, Fenris urges, and this time the building rhythm of Astarion’s slender finger is met by another at its side. He keeps his wrapping hold around Fenris’ leg, spurred on by a lack of wincing pain or the sound of discomfort, opposite hand fitted to the base of Fenris’ cock, shuttling smoothly while he takes to drawing the tip just past the heated barrier of his mouth, teasing. Tempting. Flirting with sensation and all the ways it might spark feverishly across the map of Fenris’ body.
His fingertips turn where they’ve buried themselves. He drags them high as they withdraw slowly, pads of his fingers upturned— before snapping them deep to the knuckle inside once more. Raw force, rather than finesse.
Measuring the call-and-response of Fenris’ own body. What tempts. What doesn’t.
Fenris feels trapped between Astarion's hands and mouth, but no desire to get away. The steady stroke and tease of his mouth urge hips to lift, aching for more, and he ends up sinking back toward the stretching penetration. There is no distress, restless movement that might indicate discomfort, now that he seems to have some expectations.
He has his own task, though. His lips slide the length of Astarion's cock before Fenris finally lets it slip into his mouth, barely more than the first inch. He heard that groan and he wants to hear more, determined now not to just lie here. His tongue is not tentative, neither is the hand that strokes the rest. A careful suck, and more daring scrape of teeth, then--
His head falls back against the bed and sharper moan escapes as Astarion's fingers twist, rubbing differently as they slide back. There is no time for him to fully recover: the thrust back in is sharp and deep. Unbidden, his hips jerk, forcibly meeting Astarion's hand as if there might be more for him. Raw force certainly seems to have gotten his attention. His leg jerks in Astarion's grip, thigh pushing against the other man's shoulder.
A few breathless curses fall from his lips and his cock throbs in Astarion's hand. That is the danger of having gone so long with so little: almost everything becomes temptation.
Not with the way his hips buck sharply, rushing to meet momentum. Not with the way Fenris finds the means to tease Astarion in turn, heat of his mouth there and gone again before he’s groaning out a sound so desirously obscene that Astarion feels himself twinge with a rolling wave of overriding need.
It stops him from thinking. Stops him from honing in on all his practiced instincts in favor of purely distilled greed, and this time as he cants his own hips lower towards Fenris’ lips again, it’s punctuated by the vivid— lurid— slap of skin against skin as the next thrust of his fingertips turns relentlessly severe.
And the next.
Quicker each time, plunging so deep it might ache once withdrawn, stretching Fenris out from the tautness of his own form. Audible repitition, slickened friction without any room to breathe, or stop, or even break away from for the barest of half-seconds. Hot and hard and blissfully high.
His mouth remains too full to whisper only the filthiest of vulgar obscenities.
His mind, though—
He’s thinking them all the same. Punctuated by every loud thrust, and underscored by the shameless, reverberating groans he exhales around Fenris himself.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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“That couldn’t be further from the truth.”
Still, he feels that difference. The almost violent jolt where Fenris' muscles tighten in an instinctive retreat— without anywhere to run to. It doesn't slow the weaving of Astarion's fingertips through knotted laces, but as they slip apart to the sweeter sight of slow-earned relaxation, he doesn't stop himself from pressing soft lips to the unmarred space just beside Fenris' ear. Throaty, darker than he has any right to be when he exhales just two words.
“Good boy.”
They both have their difficulties. Their own lingering traces of ownership. For Fenris, his body has become a map of arching leylines. Tangled points that Astarion assumes must be sharp as knives to his senses, though admittedy he can't quite picture what it's like. For Astarion, his fangs are ever a burdensome thing. Their hunger. Their wretched shape, twisting everything into a matter of necessary control. Of caution, when it comes to moments like this.
Fortunately, he’s had an eternity to perfect his craft.
Still harboring heat from that stolen kiss, the whole of his body slithers lower, arched down through his shoulders to free himself from Fenris’ hold, forearms sunk heavy against the mattress. Fingers perched broad atop him, thumb wound tight to the underside of Fenris’ thankfully unbranded length, riding high and soft until it catches sharp beneath the crest. Pinning it— beat by drawn out beat— between a steadily narrowing grip and the slick flat of his own tongue, jagged fangs kept at bay, though they glint in the light when his reddened stare lifts, reflective.
He wants to see it, after all. The effect he has on that captivating face.
Granted, given how long the man's presumably gone without something substantial sating his own bodily appetites, Astarion doesn’t expect the poor creature to last long. To that extent, he works more with his palm than his mouth, exhale gliding over vulnerable skin, lips and tongue the only barrier between bliss and ruin.
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The words provoke such conflicting reactions that Fenris freezes for a moment. He's heard those words from a man he despises, one dead for years now, and yet the years of being his dog still drag on him, raw as any untended wound. Those words have been used to praise his violence and his obedience, to remind him of his place at his master's heel, to remind him that he is not his own. Those chains are long broken but they are not completely gone.
But hearing them from Astarion, said like that, stirs something hot in him that is not unwelcome. Fenris doesn't want to think about what that means. If he can feel good, is it a sin to pursue that? To allow it? His body has been nothing but a weapon for so long that he's almost forgotten how to enjoy it. He hasn't felt that he could.
Fenris's failure to react gives Astarion the chance to slide lower along his body and that movement wipes away any lingering shadows. He's hard beneath the other man's touch and by the time Astarion's tongue teases along his cock, Fenris is flat on the bed again.
"Fasta vass," he hisses. It feels like a blessing that his legs are still covered, keeping a barrier between the marks there and Astarion - for now. Fenris suspects that they will feel oppressive before long.
But, for now, his attention narrows to the hand stroking him, ensuring he is fully aroused if he wasn't there before. His hips shift restlessly, trying to get closer to the friction igniting a fire in him. He grips the blanket and the old sheets, taut and uncertain and yet still needy beneath Astarion's knowing touch.
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If this is how it takes shape beneath the slide of his tongue, curling wet to pool against feverishly hot contours— the rolling pressure of his hand, fluid as a serpent with every stroke— then all the better.
He is an avaricious thing. Covetous and insatiable in the pit of a heart gone black with denial. Those words (undecipherable as they are) spark embers in his gut, unquenchable, and in turn he acts on it: relaxed when he submerges the entirety of Fenris’ cock right to the heart of his own throat, a flash of false breath let out flush against skin. Unliving, he doesn’t need air. Or comfort. Or anything more than that deep-set, weighty pressure pinned achingly tight between them. His throat works around it, shoulders canting to force a rhythm into formation— while his hands, now blissfully unburdened, return to peeling away the barrier of fabric inch by steadier inch, fingers tangled high against the edges of Fenris’ pants.
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A sharp, startled cry escapes him as Astarion draws him deeper. He lifts his hips, unthinking as he chases that feeling. He's not stopped and he can feel an exhale against his skin. Fenris shivers, goosebumps rising as Astarion reveals more skin, more marks. One hand drags away from the bed to push through the other man's pale hair, gripping harder than he means to as his throat works. His head falls back as Astarion takes him as deep as he can, drawing back just enough that Fenris can feel it when he bobs down again.
Fenris mutters another breathless curse as he tries to find a rhythm with Astarion. He lacks the grace of experience, but it's difficult to deny the momentum of his desire. Heat pours through him and he draws his legs up, bending them to allow his pants to slide lower with Astarion's guidance.
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That cry so uniquely pretty as it shatters the otherwise dour sound of Fenris' voice, that even Astarion’s brow pinches tight on a single, throaty exhale this time, resisting the urge to shudder as though touched. To his senses it’s as maddening as the scent of blood in the water, addictive and alluring, thrumming restlessly in his chest.
Still, he needs focus. Enough to counter Fenris’ nascent attempts at feeling out a rhythm. Not to control them, or to still them, but simply to keep the lithe creature safe when bucking could so easily prove dangerous across a vampire's tongue. When he has to balance out pulling the last of rough fabric aside, fitting his palm to the underside of Fenris’ thigh— thumb slipping in first to feel out smooth skin in the hopes that it might guide his hand away from whatever pale markings rest there. In the end, it’s a best guess scenario, with room left for Fenris to correct, before he’s pressed the elf's leg high over his own shoulder, the angle steep. Demanding.
Two fingers, the backs of lightly arched knuckles to the skin beneath Fenris’ cock (beneath his own mouth, in fact), thoroughly smoothing them against pooling slickness. The warmth of it.
There isn’t much warning when they move lower. One finger to start, nudging gently for access— and quick to slide deep the moment its found it, pinning Fenris between the joined attention of his mouth, his throat, the bearing of his own weight where it sinks into (and over and across) him at pace.
He’s forgotten already that he’s meant to be going easy on Fenris, apparently.
Alas.
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Fenris shifts his weight, trying to accommodate the new position as his muscles relax into the new demand - he's not been as active as he usually is but it's gratifying to realize he's not completely stiff. He barely registers the fingers brushing over the base of his cock, but he certainly notices when one presses against him, seeking access. His eyes flash open and his thigh tenses against Astarion's shoulder as his body yields. It's as unexpected as it is--pleasant? Alien? Fenris hisses another sharp curse as he pinned between Astarion's mouth and his hand and the next time his hips give a restless shift, he gasps in a sharper breath.
"Astarion--kaffas--" It sounds more like a curse than a plea to stop. Though he does follow up by kicking the other man's hip or side or whatever he can actually make contact with using the leg that isn't thrown over Astarion's shoulder.
"What are you doing?" Despite his best efforts, it comes out sounding like a groan as much as a growl, the answer a foregone conclusion but demanded all the same.
and here he thought this'd be easy
And then he's kicked, of all things. Side jolting sharp as a spurred horse (his mouth thankfully still, having been drawn back to the tip of Fenris' cock just before he lets out a soft oof in letting go entirely), bewildered when he glances up, and entirely knuckle-deep in soft heat when he does.
"What— ow— what do you mean what am I doing?" Astarion all but gasps, trying to look past the alluring tangle of lean muscle laid out before him in order to quickly read Fenris' expression like a map in the hands of someone terminally lost.
"I'm getting you off, darling. Or isn't that what you—"
A careful pause. An even slower blink, almost animal like when he tips his head to one side, lips still flush with heat.
Slept near other people, Fenris had said. But does that mean...
"Don't tell me you're a virgin."
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There is no simple answer to the question. Not any that he is willing to provide right this second, while Astarion is still inside him and looking at him like that. There is something very alluring about his mouth, soft and slick with his effort, but even that isn't quite enough to drag Fenris back into the arms of desire. The elf doesn't move, and after a moment he looks away.
"I don't remember if there was anyone before the marks," he answers. There is hesitation there, edged with annoyance because that is a far easier thing to feel than anything else roiling in him right now. "And I have not--I have not sought anyone out since my escape. Who would I trust? I never stayed anywhere for very long."
Letting down his guard for even a second, especially in those early days, felt impossible. It's still up even now, and the fact that Astarion is this close to him while he is relatively vulnerable speaks to some level of trust, even if the other man seems prepared to take a mile when Fenris has barely offered an inch.
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Gods above, he feels like a prick. Expression sinking as he draws his hands away, exceedingly gentle throughout— though knowing Fenris thus far, Astarion imagines he isn’t particularly precious about discomfort. It’s done regardless for the meager mercy of dignity, just before he moves back to rest across his own heels, still perched just between Fenris’ thighs.
There’s no apology. No grasping platitudes. That sort of sentiment’s more insulting than cruelty at times, at least in Astarion’s experience.
It doesn’t change anything, after all. Doesn’t fix the past, or make the future any easier.
There’s a slowness to it like he’s stalling for time, or lost in his own thoughts, when he begins absently fiddling with the ties of his own loose blouse. Restless, deft fingers put to use by way of unfastening. Disarming perhaps for the fact that the whole of his focus doesn’t bear down on Fenris’ shoulders like a weight, save for the set of his own fixed stare.
“So. The last time you can remember...” He trails off, there, looking for some sort of affirmation rather than sniffing out figurative blood in the water.
“Was with him, I take it.”
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He watches as the other man starts to remove his shirt, uncertain tension written across his face and in the set of his shoulders. His attention flicks back to Astarion's face and his intent stare, meeting it steadily. His jaw ticks at the assumption made. Fenris does not deny it, but neither does he rush to speak further on the matter. Does he need to, when Astarion has hit the truth?
But those eyes are still on him. Fenris sighs and gives a slight nod of his head.
"My body was his," he says simply. Danarius made him an experiment, and the object of any other desires that were less academic.
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A mistake, in other words. Knowing what he knows now.
So. Just for a moment, better to be up front. Completely.
“Then I should probably ask: do you want this, Fenris?” Lacework undone, he shifts forward, bending enough to pull loose fabric over his head— briefly exposing a bone-deep network of interlocking scars, thick and knotted from mismanaged healing, or possibly lack thereof. It’s a brief flash, of course. Easily missed when he sets that wadded shirt aside, elbows settled across his own knees. Just comfortable. “Something other than what you’ve had. Everything you can’t remember.”
It’s not seductive, that question. Though Astarion can’t exactly help the way he’s built. The way words sound across his tongue.
“You can say no, you know. Just for the record.” It’s a twitch of a muted thing, mouth pulling, wan. The barest shred of levity when he adds, “Won’t break my heart.”
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Even if there is no seduction in the asking, there is something alluring in the question and in the offer. For so long his body has been a source of pain, nothing more than a way for him to move through the world. Killing Danarius didn't make him feel free. Fenris has been frustrated since then, trying to find something that would.
Reclaiming his body isn't something he'd really considered.
Fenris hesitates for another breath, then slowly eases closer to the man still settled between his legs.
"If no had been the answer from the outset, you would have a broken nose at the very least." Possibly worse if Fenris reacted without holding back. That isn't really an answer to the question Astarion is asking. But he thought it worth making clear.
"I would... like to remember something other than pain. Perhaps it isn't possible. But I am willing to try. Without surprises."
It might mean a bit more patience on Astarion's part, but Fenris isn't kicking him out of the bed. Perhaps his invitation is stilted, but it's clear.
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Good.
Always better to be sharper than thorns than to be cowed by anyone.
“Lucky me. I’d weep for the tragedy of losing this very handsome nose, after all.” And, for good measure, “You can always kick me again if I start to veer.”
A phial of something from his own pocket's laid— cork left intact— just to one side, resting at the edge of the mattress before he goes about toeing off his own trousers, his spine set fully against rucked bedding throughout. It stays there still when he moves to press one palm just along the supple set of his own cock, chin slung back at an intentionally vulnerable angle— making the rest of him run long by proxy. Lean muscle drawn taut as a strung bow.
“Just um.” Hard just, soft um. “Give me a moment, would you, beautiful?”
Another tightened flick of his fingers prompting a low, thready little exhale that escapes around the edges of his own smile.
“Something about all-too-familiar misery tends to make getting back to business a little hard at first— no pun intended.”
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Fenris lifts his gaze back to the elegant (and unbroken) face in front of him. He moves closer still, hesitant, and his hand drops to lightly cover Astarion's where it strokes over his cock. He doesn't think his touch would be unwelcome, but he'll let Astarion decide whether or not to allow it somewhere so vulnerable.
An eyebrow ticks up.
"Did you just call me beautiful?" he asks dryly, suspecting it's more of a pet name or endearment than an actual sentiment. Astarion has used the former before, much to Fenris's occasional annoyance.
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For the selfish shape of his own fascination.
Another beat, another finger slipped aside at the tail end of one mutual stroke, his ensuing groan a desirously pretty thing. He wants this, after all. To steal the whole of Fenris’ attention, drawing him in by the second. No passivity. No room to truly think— or to think too much. Better to feel.
He lets go, then. Slides his hand between Fenris’ legs in turn, his grip still warm with borrowed touch. Stirred circulation.
“You don’t know?” Astarion asks, the fingers of his opposite hand finding that phial. Drawing it to his lips to uncork it with the edge of a lone fang, the scent of lilac oil strong in the air between them.
A single drop. Two. Slicking just along Fenris’ crown, slipping down into his own shuttling grasp. The rest, he saves.
“That perfect nose, those delicate lips...graceful, to say the least, and unparalleled besides. I’d tease you,” that thought interrupted by a sigh that angles high, has him shivering just so, thumb slipping against the underside of Fenris’ length. Dragging. “But I’m doing more than enough of that already.”
His hips lift, canting in against Fenris’ palm. He’s not struggling for rigidity anymore.
All breath. All teeth.
“You’re a vision, darling. Couldn’t keep myself from you if I tried.”
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"I think you're full of it," he mutters, but there is amusement on the edge of that remark and a flicker of a smile across his delicate lips. There's a pause, and then, "But you don't have to stop."
Fenris braces himself more fully over the other man, bringing them closer together and, perhaps, inviting more touch. It also allows him to rock his hips to meet the stroke of Astarion's knowing hand, seeking that slick friction. There is still tension written in his back, bracing for discomfort out of habit. But he is determined now. If this is possible, if this is something he can have for himself, then he wants it.
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Good.
“Are you calling me a liar?” He clicks his tongue softly against the backs of his own fangs, neck craning up to find his way to Fenris’ mouth. Stealing only the edge of a kiss, his breath pooling against those lips. The sound of every exhale, every groan, made so literally palpable.
His grip twists. He pulls, each stroke more lavish than the last—index finger and middle curling lower, catching sensitive curvature, though it’s all glancing. He promised to be patient, after all.
“Because if so— you’re right.”
The nip that finds its way to Fenris' lower lip is all sharp. Fangs careful not to break skin, though something in the back of his mind digs— always— in a demand for more. Ignored.
There are other ways to taste the man fit over him, coaxed ever closer. His aim to bring them to the point of pressure: so that he can work his hold across them both at the same time. One grip, one singular, manipulative merger, bucking his hips into it, heat curling in his gut. Racing beneath his ribs.
“Just not about this.”
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Fenris gasps, breaking the kiss as the other man manages to get a hand around them both. His hand moves to accommodate Astarion's apparent mission and his other clutches the blanket beneath them as he thrusts forward. His lips remain parted and a harsher breath escapes him as they slide together. Warmth spreads across his cheeks and chest, it twists low in his body and he cannot help the moan that the slick friction coaxes from him. He can feel himself throb and a growing urgency creeping up his spine.
He will not say the plea rising in his throat, would rather choke on it than allow himself to beg. Not yet.
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Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing— thoughts so far from lucidity compared to the primal urging of low, exhilarating hunger. It’s near that point now, when Fenris utters that unrestrained, guttural moan. Astarion wants more of it. He wants more. There’s so little friction to be had with that oil in play between them, turning Astarion’s grip into nothing but constricting, demanding, shifting pressure as Fenris cants his hips into it— as he squeezes his fingertips in an alternating pattern, making every bit of contact maddeningly unpredictable.
His body is tense even as it rolls with fluid grace. He’s forgotten caution, as he suspects Fenris might have, too—
Or, no. He hasn’t forgotten it entirely, only relegated it to the restraint that keeps his fangs in check as his tongue slides deep over Fenris’ own, chasing the wine-laced taste of a broken kiss as if seeking out his breath. His warmth. Restraint, by way of the fact that he hasn’t yet rushed to snare Fenris’ hips with both his hands in order to fuck him so furiously that lithe body might need weeks more to recover.
Because Astarion is, after all, content with this.
Content with the feeling of tangled covers pulled tight and coaxed sighs, and the promise that this uncharted, euphoric territory isn't an offering to anyone but themselves.
Yes, Fenris says, and it sounds like bliss and amusement all tangled together— and Astarion can’t help but laugh against the cradle of that perfect mouth. Sound of it lost the next second to a dizzying groan.
Strewth.
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Fenris whispers something, probably another string of curses in another language, as the slick slide between them makes hot tension coil tighter inside him. He's reduced to panting, hips working into the pressure of their combined grip.
He could finish like this, he realizes. He is so starved for touch that doesn't bring him pain and discomfort that he feels he has very little in the way of restraint left. His fevered imagination flies back to how it felt to have this man over him, penetrating him. Fenris has the decency to believe Astarion meant no harm, trusts that, and his mind drifts back to how this started.
Knees slide further apart, lowering him more over the body beneath him. Fenris leans more into his hand pressed to the bed, just over Astarion's shoulder. He keeps his head down, within range of another kiss should either of them try for it.
"Do you want what you started chasing?" he asks, quietly breathless and hoping that question makes sense now that he's managed it out loud. Every inch of him is a testament to how much has been taken from him. What would it feel like to start taking it back? Is it possible after so long?
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“Mhm.” It’s a hum of a thing. Low and husky, caught up in the sharpness of his own teeth as he grins. As he exhales by some shivering, unsteady measure, giving his body an opportunity to slow its otherwise rushing focus.
Pulling away from his grip on them both, Astarion reaches high to fit his hands to the undersides of Fenris’ arms— thumbs nestled across the side of his chest in the gaps between silver leylines, using the whole of his corded strength to reverse their positions. Fenris’ spine meets the mattress, shadowed for a single beat—
Left momentarily cold for a moment longer before Astarion’s knees settle on either side of Fenris’ neck, framing his shoulders without contact— the inverted reflection of one another. His mouth meets velveteen skin as his tongue curls hot across Fenris’ tip, the taste of perfumed oil sharp to his senses. One arm slunk just beneath the lift of Fenris’ raised leg, ring finger pressed just so against feverish heat. Against that point of entry nestled right between the marked elf’s thighs, oil already having run low and deep into narrow contours from prior rutting.
“Tell me if it hurts, darling.”
Murmured in the prelude to pressure. A building difference of slowly plunging degrees.
“Tell me when you need more.”
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He reaches up, letting his hand slide over Astarion's cock as the other man's mouth and tongue tease over him. He lifts his hips in a subtle rock toward Astarion's touch. He can feel the man's arm against his marks on his outer thigh, there is no real avoiding it if Astarion actually wants to hold onto him. The muscle flinches briefly, but there is no attempt to pull or push away. And, slowly, he relaxes more.
He stills beneath the gentle pressure of Astarion's touch. Distracted by that, his caress becomes slower but doesn't stop. He expects it now, at least, and rather than violence there is only a shivering sigh as the slick finger pushes into him. Within a few heartbeats Fenris gives a tentative roll of his hips, seeking that feeling and perhaps attempting to encourage the man on top of him. He might have reacted poorly, but he isn't made of glass and he does not wish to be treated like he is.
"Don't stop," he mutters. Fenris adjusts himself and leans to run his tongue up the length of firm flesh cradled in his hand.
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That first, initial brush of tentative hands. The puff of air before a kiss. The penetrating slide of one lone digit nestling deep, and curling deeper— promising more still.
The testing slip of Fenris’ tongue, prompting the faintest shiver. A twitch. Tension spiking unimaginably high and settling low between his legs as he groans against supple skin.
Don’t stop, Fenris urges, and this time the building rhythm of Astarion’s slender finger is met by another at its side. He keeps his wrapping hold around Fenris’ leg, spurred on by a lack of wincing pain or the sound of discomfort, opposite hand fitted to the base of Fenris’ cock, shuttling smoothly while he takes to drawing the tip just past the heated barrier of his mouth, teasing. Tempting. Flirting with sensation and all the ways it might spark feverishly across the map of Fenris’ body.
His fingertips turn where they’ve buried themselves. He drags them high as they withdraw slowly, pads of his fingers upturned— before snapping them deep to the knuckle inside once more. Raw force, rather than finesse.
Measuring the call-and-response of Fenris’ own body. What tempts. What doesn’t.
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He has his own task, though. His lips slide the length of Astarion's cock before Fenris finally lets it slip into his mouth, barely more than the first inch. He heard that groan and he wants to hear more, determined now not to just lie here. His tongue is not tentative, neither is the hand that strokes the rest. A careful suck, and more daring scrape of teeth, then--
His head falls back against the bed and sharper moan escapes as Astarion's fingers twist, rubbing differently as they slide back. There is no time for him to fully recover: the thrust back in is sharp and deep. Unbidden, his hips jerk, forcibly meeting Astarion's hand as if there might be more for him. Raw force certainly seems to have gotten his attention. His leg jerks in Astarion's grip, thigh pushing against the other man's shoulder.
A few breathless curses fall from his lips and his cock throbs in Astarion's hand. That is the danger of having gone so long with so little: almost everything becomes temptation.
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Not with the way his hips buck sharply, rushing to meet momentum. Not with the way Fenris finds the means to tease Astarion in turn, heat of his mouth there and gone again before he’s groaning out a sound so desirously obscene that Astarion feels himself twinge with a rolling wave of overriding need.
It stops him from thinking. Stops him from honing in on all his practiced instincts in favor of purely distilled greed, and this time as he cants his own hips lower towards Fenris’ lips again, it’s punctuated by the vivid— lurid— slap of skin against skin as the next thrust of his fingertips turns relentlessly severe.
And the next.
Quicker each time, plunging so deep it might ache once withdrawn, stretching Fenris out from the tautness of his own form. Audible repitition, slickened friction without any room to breathe, or stop, or even break away from for the barest of half-seconds. Hot and hard and blissfully high.
His mouth remains too full to whisper only the filthiest of vulgar obscenities.
His mind, though—
He’s thinking them all the same. Punctuated by every loud thrust, and underscored by the shameless, reverberating groans he exhales around Fenris himself.
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