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.
Fenris's fingers dig against Astarion's hip, chest heaving as he's fucked without restraint, just like this. His thighs strain further apart and the sounds between them are utterly obscene. Fenris cannot remember the last time his body felt like this. He can feel his cock pulse in Astarion's mouth and his back arches as that delicious tension builds, twisting tighter low in his body. He can even feel the vibration of the other man's voice.
He feels hard warmth brush his cheek as Astarion shifts his hips and he knows he has been neglecting him. Fenris guides Astarion back into his mouth, muting a low moan that escapes him as fingers plunge deep. It's been--it's been more than a decade since he's felt anything even remotely like this. If Danarius allowed any pleasure, it was quickly smothered with deep shame and humiliation in feeling it in the first place. That had never been of his choosing, not really. This is. More than that, it's with a man who seems to understand Fenris's fraught relationship with his own body. Somehow, that helps.
Astarion's fingers move just right inside him and Fenris nearly chokes as the tension in him snaps. He clings to the man above him as he comes, feeling only passing shame that he does so without warning.
At the very least, he tries to keep his mouth on Astarion's cock, trying to offer even half as much as he's being given as that delirious pleasure rolls through him.
He hadn't expected the night to go like this, if he's entirely honest in looking back. The taste of his companion spilled so sweetly across his tongue that for a moment Astarion loses himself entirely to it, sinks himself down tight around those beautifully defined contours as his fingers stay buried to the hilt— the whole of Fenris' body constricting fiercely enough Around Astarion to ache. Pressing back against every pulse with splayed fingertips, working against them with a practiced, greedy touch. He drinks like a thing starved, sucking without a thought given to exhalation until the last twitching little buck of Fenris' hips drops away— his own still flirting with the supple heat of Fenris' mouth. His tongue. An alternating pattern of testing thrusts and controlled plunges doing so damned little to alleviate the overwhelming pangs of his own arousal.
Much as he'd like to simply settle into a rhythm that'd be nothing short of relentless, fucking down into those parted lips, he tames that hungering instinct with decisive care.
Not until he's certain Fenris won't choke on it.
Or...perhaps not until he's certain Fenris is willing to.
Tension ripples through him as that delicious feeling spreads, making him feel heavier. He's touched himself in the intervening years, but even that was considerably rare. Hard to take pleasure in a body he is so at odds with, hard to even muster the desire to act on urges. Easier to just let them pass and stew in the bitterness of another thing that's somehow been taken from him.
No longer.
Fenris trembles beneath Astarion, voice muffled by the cock in his mouth as the other man fucks and sucks him through his release. He's still taut beneath the other man, trying to breathe without actually giving up the hard flesh in his mouth. There's no finesse in what he does and finally he has to drop his head back so that he can breathe deeper.
"Fuck," he pants and his thigh hits Astarion's shoulder as he jerks beneath him, just this side of oversensitive. There is a flash of memory, unpleasant but brief, of being pushed far past this point. But Astarion isn't that man, and Fenris isn't nearly at that point yet. As he recovers a bit of coherency, his hand circles Astarion's straining erection to stroke, attempting to make up for the sudden withdrawal of his mouth. "Fasta vass, Astarion--"
That is the best he can manage for a few seconds. He licks at the leaking head, offers a brief suck at the end of a stroke. Determined, Fenris tries to let him slide deeper, heavy and perfect on his tongue.
Astarion rasps in mirroring echo, testing out the feel of it on his own tongue as he measures the feel of Fenris’ in turn. Lyrium-laced thigh butting just against his shoulder, and unlike before it seems more ecstasy than disdain— so he’s slow when his fingers withdraw, inch by slipping inch, careful not to agitate senses that’ve no doubt been blissfully blown out.
A means for him to pull himself up and off of Fenris’ lower half where his weight had settled for the sake of swallowing him down, and it ends with Astarion angled more squarely across Fenris’ shoulders, posture lowered through his own narrow hips.
There’s opportunity in it. A chance for Fenris to take hold of his waist or the edges of his thighs and feel out the rhythm that settles in, or to dig his nails and request it cede, or slow—
But he’s throbbing through his hips, the pit of his stomach twisting in hungering knots, and starved as he is for his own satisfaction he takes that offered mouth as a luxury now: shallower thrusts turning pistoning, his own breathing turned higher. Harsher. The corded muscle of his shoulders taut and tightened as he groans for the simpler pleasure of having something warm and wet so willing to meet him, erasing whatever conscious thought he might've held beyond pistoning his own body into it with senseless abandon.
Gods, Fenris—
Another moan, pinned low in his throat, rumbling in his chest. And despite knowing how sensitive Fenris must’ve been left, one hand moves to roll itself across the base of Fenris’ prick, scuffing more than kneading just for the satisfaction of holding him somehow.
As Astarion's weight shifts back, resting more in his legs, Fenris feels him slide deeper. He tips his head back and his hands run over thighs and hips like that might help predict what comes next.
Lightheaded as shallow thrusts grow more insistent, Fenris tries to relax into it, tries to make it easier for Astarion to take what he needs. To offer it to him. For just a moment he is uncertain if it is mindless response or desire. But this man's scent and taste and feel are different, far different. Enough to clear the shadowy cobwebs in his mind until it feels blissfully empty.
Fenris makes effort to change his angle, to allow Astarion to slide deeper. Not a novice, after all.
A whimper rises in his throat as a hand slides over his spent cock. There is no attempt to stop him or to pull away, no interest in ceasing the impressively gentle touch. It feels good just to be held like that. Astarion's hands have been--everything. They've tended his wounds with care and now they've been an unexpected source of ecstasy. For all his annoying sass, this man, a strange stumbled upon by chance, has been good to him.
And there is something to be said for knowing that he is the cause of all that moaning and sighing, the attractive growl in Astarion's chest and his breathless cursing.
The noise he makes is choking. Tangles high against his tongue, shuddering deep within his own throat— chased by a sharper gasp that’s lost to empty air only a moment later. No words, no curses no attempts at coyness, now.
His hold on Fenris twitches, but he keeps from bearing down even as the whole of his own body locks into a contorted hunch: all spine and lean muscle, all trembling right down to the air squeezed out between the gaps in his fangs as he spills himself shamelessly across the flat of Fenris’ tongue—
Shuddering still once it’s done. Panting so softly that it’s more ambient than present sound, lost to his ringing ears.
And it only occurs to him then that this is the first time he’s done this for himself.
The first time he’s let someone have him for themselves alone. For the simple pleasure of it. For satisfaction without puppeting strings attached. Careful when he pulls himself away.
It's good. With his hands where they are, he can feel the shaking release through the shift of muscle as much as he can in the throb and pulse in his mouth. He swallows reflexively, trying not to choke as Astarion spills without pause or hesitation. Without warning, even, but Fenris can forgive that.
The intensity passes and Fenris drops his head back against the bed as Astarion withdraws. He's panting for air and his hands go weak, sliding down the other man's legs until they too hit the bed. Eyes open as the weight above him shifts, and suddenly the presence is gone entirely. Fenris lolls his head to look at Astarion, vaguely aware of how he must look: slick mouth, flushed face, utterly boneless. He swallows again, easier now with his mouth clear.
There are no words, no immediate attempt to speak. Nor is there any reaching from the body leaving his, but is in part from the deliciously heavy feeling spreading through him.
He doesn't know if he should speak, if he is expected to. There are no words on the tip of his tongue, only the taste of lilac and come.
It’s beautiful, really. The sight settled just across from him by way of an upturned jawline and lips gone scandalously flush, glossy with slickness that matches the look dwelling in unfixed green eyes. Long lashes. Slow breaths, lung-deep.
And for a while, Astarion— so prone to chattering just to fill the troublesome void— doesn’t say a word.
He can’t. Or he doesn’t want to. Or—
It doesn’t matter.
And with his long legs tangled over one another he exhales once more as his eyes slide shut. As he reaches for the half-drunk bottle still resting on the side table, pulling from it for a beat, before turning so that they rest near shoulder-to-shoulder, barely an inch between them.
He offers the wine, neck first.
“You know,” he starts, voice thready with relief, “we’re not all that different, if you think about it.”
Fenris stares at the thatch-and-timber roof above them and he realizes that he is not in pain. Not the kind that singes across his nerves, raw lasting. A heavy hand lifts to wipe saliva and possibly come away from his mouth before he lolls his head to look at the man beside him. He thinks Astarion looks pleased.
He accepts the bottle when it's offered to him and pushes himself up enough that he's able to drink from it without choking on its contents. Before tonight, Fenris might have been keen to point out their many differences. Whether he likes it or not, Astarion isn't wrong. Perhaps their experiences are not identical, but they have both been scarred and marked by others against their will, there are men out there who did their damnedest to break them.
"No," he agrees quietly, voice a bit raw from his effort earlier. "I guess we aren't."
Another swig from the bottle, thinking that the taste is familiar and unable to tell if he hates that or if that is the appeal. He offers it back to Astarion before dropping down beside him again. His gaze returns to the roof, but the hand between them moves slightly, brushing whatever part of Astarion is nearest him.
Fenris shifts slightly, more aware now of feeling empty since the withdrawal of urgent and precise fingers. With a little noise - not discomfort and not annoyance, but something else - Fenris turns onto his stomach, arms folded beneath his head as his body stretches out alongside the pale elf.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
no subject
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.
no subject
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.”
no subject
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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He feels hard warmth brush his cheek as Astarion shifts his hips and he knows he has been neglecting him. Fenris guides Astarion back into his mouth, muting a low moan that escapes him as fingers plunge deep. It's been--it's been more than a decade since he's felt anything even remotely like this. If Danarius allowed any pleasure, it was quickly smothered with deep shame and humiliation in feeling it in the first place. That had never been of his choosing, not really. This is. More than that, it's with a man who seems to understand Fenris's fraught relationship with his own body. Somehow, that helps.
Astarion's fingers move just right inside him and Fenris nearly chokes as the tension in him snaps. He clings to the man above him as he comes, feeling only passing shame that he does so without warning.
At the very least, he tries to keep his mouth on Astarion's cock, trying to offer even half as much as he's being given as that delirious pleasure rolls through him.
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Much as he'd like to simply settle into a rhythm that'd be nothing short of relentless, fucking down into those parted lips, he tames that hungering instinct with decisive care.
Not until he's certain Fenris won't choke on it.
Or...perhaps not until he's certain Fenris is willing to.
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No longer.
Fenris trembles beneath Astarion, voice muffled by the cock in his mouth as the other man fucks and sucks him through his release. He's still taut beneath the other man, trying to breathe without actually giving up the hard flesh in his mouth. There's no finesse in what he does and finally he has to drop his head back so that he can breathe deeper.
"Fuck," he pants and his thigh hits Astarion's shoulder as he jerks beneath him, just this side of oversensitive. There is a flash of memory, unpleasant but brief, of being pushed far past this point. But Astarion isn't that man, and Fenris isn't nearly at that point yet. As he recovers a bit of coherency, his hand circles Astarion's straining erection to stroke, attempting to make up for the sudden withdrawal of his mouth. "Fasta vass, Astarion--"
That is the best he can manage for a few seconds. He licks at the leaking head, offers a brief suck at the end of a stroke. Determined, Fenris tries to let him slide deeper, heavy and perfect on his tongue.
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Astarion rasps in mirroring echo, testing out the feel of it on his own tongue as he measures the feel of Fenris’ in turn. Lyrium-laced thigh butting just against his shoulder, and unlike before it seems more ecstasy than disdain— so he’s slow when his fingers withdraw, inch by slipping inch, careful not to agitate senses that’ve no doubt been blissfully blown out.
A means for him to pull himself up and off of Fenris’ lower half where his weight had settled for the sake of swallowing him down, and it ends with Astarion angled more squarely across Fenris’ shoulders, posture lowered through his own narrow hips.
There’s opportunity in it. A chance for Fenris to take hold of his waist or the edges of his thighs and feel out the rhythm that settles in, or to dig his nails and request it cede, or slow—
But he’s throbbing through his hips, the pit of his stomach twisting in hungering knots, and starved as he is for his own satisfaction he takes that offered mouth as a luxury now: shallower thrusts turning pistoning, his own breathing turned higher. Harsher. The corded muscle of his shoulders taut and tightened as he groans for the simpler pleasure of having something warm and wet so willing to meet him, erasing whatever conscious thought he might've held beyond pistoning his own body into it with senseless abandon.
Gods, Fenris—
Another moan, pinned low in his throat, rumbling in his chest. And despite knowing how sensitive Fenris must’ve been left, one hand moves to roll itself across the base of Fenris’ prick, scuffing more than kneading just for the satisfaction of holding him somehow.
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Lightheaded as shallow thrusts grow more insistent, Fenris tries to relax into it, tries to make it easier for Astarion to take what he needs. To offer it to him. For just a moment he is uncertain if it is mindless response or desire. But this man's scent and taste and feel are different, far different. Enough to clear the shadowy cobwebs in his mind until it feels blissfully empty.
Fenris makes effort to change his angle, to allow Astarion to slide deeper. Not a novice, after all.
A whimper rises in his throat as a hand slides over his spent cock. There is no attempt to stop him or to pull away, no interest in ceasing the impressively gentle touch. It feels good just to be held like that. Astarion's hands have been--everything. They've tended his wounds with care and now they've been an unexpected source of ecstasy. For all his annoying sass, this man, a strange stumbled upon by chance, has been good to him.
And there is something to be said for knowing that he is the cause of all that moaning and sighing, the attractive growl in Astarion's chest and his breathless cursing.
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His hold on Fenris twitches, but he keeps from bearing down even as the whole of his own body locks into a contorted hunch: all spine and lean muscle, all trembling right down to the air squeezed out between the gaps in his fangs as he spills himself shamelessly across the flat of Fenris’ tongue—
Shuddering still once it’s done. Panting so softly that it’s more ambient than present sound, lost to his ringing ears.
And it only occurs to him then that this is the first time he’s done this for himself.
The first time he’s let someone have him for themselves alone. For the simple pleasure of it. For satisfaction without puppeting strings attached. Careful when he pulls himself away.
And perhaps a little reluctant to let go.
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The intensity passes and Fenris drops his head back against the bed as Astarion withdraws. He's panting for air and his hands go weak, sliding down the other man's legs until they too hit the bed. Eyes open as the weight above him shifts, and suddenly the presence is gone entirely. Fenris lolls his head to look at Astarion, vaguely aware of how he must look: slick mouth, flushed face, utterly boneless. He swallows again, easier now with his mouth clear.
There are no words, no immediate attempt to speak. Nor is there any reaching from the body leaving his, but is in part from the deliciously heavy feeling spreading through him.
He doesn't know if he should speak, if he is expected to. There are no words on the tip of his tongue, only the taste of lilac and come.
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And for a while, Astarion— so prone to chattering just to fill the troublesome void— doesn’t say a word.
He can’t. Or he doesn’t want to. Or—
It doesn’t matter.
And with his long legs tangled over one another he exhales once more as his eyes slide shut. As he reaches for the half-drunk bottle still resting on the side table, pulling from it for a beat, before turning so that they rest near shoulder-to-shoulder, barely an inch between them.
He offers the wine, neck first.
“You know,” he starts, voice thready with relief, “we’re not all that different, if you think about it.”
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He accepts the bottle when it's offered to him and pushes himself up enough that he's able to drink from it without choking on its contents. Before tonight, Fenris might have been keen to point out their many differences. Whether he likes it or not, Astarion isn't wrong. Perhaps their experiences are not identical, but they have both been scarred and marked by others against their will, there are men out there who did their damnedest to break them.
"No," he agrees quietly, voice a bit raw from his effort earlier. "I guess we aren't."
Another swig from the bottle, thinking that the taste is familiar and unable to tell if he hates that or if that is the appeal. He offers it back to Astarion before dropping down beside him again. His gaze returns to the roof, but the hand between them moves slightly, brushing whatever part of Astarion is nearest him.
Fenris shifts slightly, more aware now of feeling empty since the withdrawal of urgent and precise fingers. With a little noise - not discomfort and not annoyance, but something else - Fenris turns onto his stomach, arms folded beneath his head as his body stretches out alongside the pale elf.
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