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.
Casual, his middling response. Mostly throat, mouth tugging upwards just at the corner— before it subsequently drops. The acclimation and agreement make sense, given the lack of context. All the roughened shape of their scars, all the ways they’ve railed against the figurative threads of fate, opting to tear themselves loose at the seams.
Huddled up now in the safe harbor of tireless determination. And it smells like warm woods and wet wood.
“Yes. But what I also mean is that in terms of— shall we say— doing the deed entirely of my own volition, with someone that I choose is— ” his lips purse when he stops, attention flicking back towards Fenris and then upwards again, long fingers gesturing idly in midair. “Well it’s.”
Sharp green eyes cut back to the man beside him, immediately trying to discern if Astarion is fucking with him. Immediately prepared to get his hackles up. But there is no derision there, no mocking.
And it makes Fenris very aware that Astarion is his first in that, too. He doesn't want to think of this as momentous even if he should. For the first time in a very long time, being touched felt good. Too much at points, but not in a way that made him scream or beg for it to end. He's glad now that he rolled over, feeling less exposed this way.
Never mind that the way elegant fingers gesture in the air makes his face feel warm again.
"Why me?" he asks, because it seems like an obvious question even if it has an obvious answer. He's here, Astarion wanted to. But surely he's run into more agreeable people before running into Fenris bleeding out all over the grass. Surely it would be understandable if he waited until after whatever this is to do the same.
There are things Astarion has experience with in terms of charm and grace: petty flattery one of them, fawning adoration another. Vulgar overtures regarding late nights and hurried mornings. Whispered promises that whatever transpires, he'll make it uniquely divine.
Here, though, he doesn’t know what to expect. But what he finds isn’t rejection— and it settles something jagged in him by a few quiet degrees. Something knotted up and unnoticed, and it shows by way of the calm settling into the edges of his own expression, voice matching suit not long after.
Perhaps too imposingly, he reaches across that nonexistent space between them— to the point where Fenris had brushed against his hand just so— and weaves his little finger in around Fenris’ own, lifting it to his own lips while he thinks. Not so much a kiss, but equally as fond.
“At first? It was only about your strength. You’d clearly fought something vicious off on your own. You also clearly needed help just as much as I did.” The way Fenris had fought to bare his teeth even as blood rattled in his throat, defiant to the last.
“I thought if I rescued you, dragged you away to relative safety, you’d return the favor eventually.” His voice trails lightly, chin resting light against those knuckles. “But...”
Two weeks isn’t long. And yet it’d been long enough, maybe. Hours spent watching Fenris for days on end as he fought in his sleep for his life alone. As his breathing rose and fell, and Astarion there at his side all the while, wondering just how long it would last.
Thinking it’d be a shame if he didn’t survive.
“I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, something changed. I found myself enjoying it, having you nearby— even if you were in such a perpetually miserable state.”
There is something so achingly sentimental in the way their little fingers catch, in the way Astarion brings them to his lips. Fenris can feel heat creeping into his face, more startled by the gesture than anything else.
For two weeks, Fenris has been waiting for something to go wrong. He has struggled in his recovery only because it hasn't gone as fast as he wants it to. Being weak, feeling like he couldn't run even if he wanted to, is terrifying on a deep level. But Astarion had tended him faithfully in all that time, spending time and energy on him to see him mend. When he was coherent enough to do so, Fenris started wondering why.
This isn't the answer he expects, not entirely. The first part he understands, and there is a sense of obligation tugging at the back of his mind even now as he thinks about where he'd be if Astarion had left him to his fate.
More than anything, he's quietly distracted by the way the pale elf's chin brushes against his knuckles. That miniscule hold tightens a bit as his fingers curl.
"Get used to it," he says dryly. "Perpetually miserable is my natural state."
According to some, anyway. There's quiet amusement in his voice, though, a gleam in green eyes that suggests he might be capable of teasing. Perhaps not entirely miserable. Fenris looks down at the blanket beneath them.
"I will return the favor, if I can," he says after a moment. Astarion deserves that, doesn't he? He could have left him for dead or turned him over to any passing person of quick coin. But he hasn't. And now... this. Fenris isn't nearly ready to process this beyond something unexpected that he actually enjoyed.
"I... have appreciated your companionship." Not just Astarion's dedication to tending his injuries, but hearing him talk, having someone else close by to soothe the loneliness he so rarely acknowledges. "Even if you talk too much."
Astarion breathes in a narrow exhale, chasing the start of Fenris' promise that this hasn't been unenjoyable, and it sounds maybe a little like the very same blindsided shock that had Fenris asking why him. Caught unawares, lingering somewhere on the edge of disbelief, and it's not at all unpleasant.
"Oh." He adds again, flatter this time, when Fenris finishes.
(But his smile's wider, and that might be more telling in the grand scheme of things.)
Still, biting the unmarked edge of Fenris' thumb with sharp teeth in retribution, he lands right on his conversational feet only a moment later. "Don't pretend like that isn't part of it, too."
Here, listless and comfortable, bolstered by the subtler glint in green eyes, this feels almost...natural. Easy. Friendly, even, if he'd ever known what that was before now. Some nebulous concept lurking just beyond his reach.
"Come to think of it, I'm willing to bet you're starting to get addicted to the subtle sound of my notoriously soothing voice. Something to lull you back to sleep when those wounds of yours agitate."
Despite himself, Fenris feels a smile flicker to life as teeth catch his thumb. He can't remember having something like this, an unexpectedly casual intimacy. Maybe on Seheron, briefly. The smile fades as he thinks of what happened there. How long before he brings ruin here, too? One way or another.
"Yes," he deadpans. "I am infatuated with your flowery eloquence." He rolls his eyes but being able to tease brings that smile back, small as it is. He moves his thumb, brushing against Astarion's lip or his chin, whatever he can touch.
"Speaking of, I think I'm bleeding," he says almost absently as he lifts his other arm to look down at the bandaged wound on his side. This whole exercise raised his blood pressure and had him moving more than he has in days, maybe it was inevitable that they'd agitate some of his wounds.
His preening is instinctive. He fits his mouth along the side of Fenris' thumb, giving chase as it trails the way animals fixate on minute little focal points, though it doesn't detract from the honeyed hang of his own words.
"I knew it. Deadly and dashing and— wait, what?"
He presses past Fenris' hand, blinking as he moves to peer at the still-wound bandaging which—
"Shit."
All breath. All frustration as he sits up, already reaching for the kit tucked away within the nightstand, shoulders hunched sharply forward. It's a sidelong motion that beckons Fenris nearer, made with his fingers wrapped around a pot of ointment, gauze tucked between his teeth— already moving to pull the soiled bandage away from Fenris' side.
"Let's hope I didn't just set you back two weeks for the benefit of a blowjob."
Fenris can't help a quiet huff of amusement as Astarion curses and grabs for the kit he's been using all this time. He obediently moves closer, more careful than he has been since he was goaded into sitting up earlier.
"Mm, if you did, it might have been worth it," he says mildly, watching as the bloodied bandages are pulled away. The wound hasn't opened badly, at least. Seeping rather than freely bleeding. His gaze flicks up to Astarion's face.
"Does this mean you don't want to do it again?"
Might as well establish that, and if one didn't know better, they might accuse Fenris of being coy.
Or at least as far as Astarion can tell, it’s Fenris’ own dry-edged brand of cleverness peeking through. And really, it’s charming in its own way.
Which is to say it would be if not for the fact that he’s so cavalierly mocking his own seeping injury.
Deft, pale hands already beginning the careful task of cleaning away patches of welling crimson (slow and light, his touches: only ever just enough pressure as needed from the saturated gauze he’s using to wash) Astarion openly snorts.
He also doesn’t look up to give Fenris the satisfaction of seeing his own grin.
Incorrigible pup.
“Well I never said that.” Astarion snorts wryly, “Just because I’ve had your cock in my mouth doesn’t mean you can start putting anything else you like in there, too.”
Chin tucked low, curls slung in front of his eyes, he tosses the ruined gauze aside with a faint softening of his own intact smile.
“But I think if we rush back into exploring the thrill of the so-called little death too soon, we might run the risk of giving you the far bigger version.”
At least Fenris doesn't make Astarion's job difficult. He stays still, keeps his arm out of the way as the pale elf tends the seeping wound with deft touches and care. It doesn't trouble him and he does not flinch, used to enduring discomfort for less savory reasons than his own survival.
Astarion's grumbling earns a smile, small as it is, and some amusement in the keen eyes watching him.
"I'm not on death's doorstep anymore," he says with a roll of his eyes. "It might do me well to be more active."
He probably shouldn't push his luck, but Fenris isn't sure he needs to be bedridden any longer. The only way to decide one way or another, he feels, is more activity. And though he has been sleeping more than his usual rest, he's still been awake often enough to be getting bored, even with Astarion's stellar conversation skills.
“Well we certainly got it moving tonight— right out of your body, in fact.”
Spoken slyly as his own lips curl upwards by a narrow difference of degrees— the fault of Fenris’ own amusement, and it lingers still as he turns back to tending to the bandaging before him: salve applied once cleaned, packed with fresher gauze, another stretch of bandaging smoothed down with careful hands that purposefully avoid streaks of glowing silver.
And when it’s done, he scoots in closer to Fenris’ side, hovering over him fully this time, curls slung low from gravity, looming little more than a few inches from that unspeakably pretty face.
“Next time you can actually manage to sit up without toppling over, I’ll take you outside for a spin.”
What’s a spin qualify as, exactly? Who knows. Astarion opts to stoop low, catching Fenris’ mouth in a senselessly hungering kiss (one that still tastes of himself as much as lilac, he finds— and not at all unpleasant for it).
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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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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Casual, his middling response. Mostly throat, mouth tugging upwards just at the corner— before it subsequently drops. The acclimation and agreement make sense, given the lack of context. All the roughened shape of their scars, all the ways they’ve railed against the figurative threads of fate, opting to tear themselves loose at the seams.
Huddled up now in the safe harbor of tireless determination. And it smells like warm woods and wet wood.
“Yes. But what I also mean is that in terms of— shall we say— doing the deed entirely of my own volition, with someone that I choose is— ” his lips purse when he stops, attention flicking back towards Fenris and then upwards again, long fingers gesturing idly in midair. “Well it’s.”
Tongue clicking, he all but spits it out:
“You were my first.”
Technically.
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And it makes Fenris very aware that Astarion is his first in that, too. He doesn't want to think of this as momentous even if he should. For the first time in a very long time, being touched felt good. Too much at points, but not in a way that made him scream or beg for it to end. He's glad now that he rolled over, feeling less exposed this way.
Never mind that the way elegant fingers gesture in the air makes his face feel warm again.
"Why me?" he asks, because it seems like an obvious question even if it has an obvious answer. He's here, Astarion wanted to. But surely he's run into more agreeable people before running into Fenris bleeding out all over the grass. Surely it would be understandable if he waited until after whatever this is to do the same.
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Here, though, he doesn’t know what to expect. But what he finds isn’t rejection— and it settles something jagged in him by a few quiet degrees. Something knotted up and unnoticed, and it shows by way of the calm settling into the edges of his own expression, voice matching suit not long after.
Perhaps too imposingly, he reaches across that nonexistent space between them— to the point where Fenris had brushed against his hand just so— and weaves his little finger in around Fenris’ own, lifting it to his own lips while he thinks. Not so much a kiss, but equally as fond.
“At first? It was only about your strength. You’d clearly fought something vicious off on your own. You also clearly needed help just as much as I did.” The way Fenris had fought to bare his teeth even as blood rattled in his throat, defiant to the last.
“I thought if I rescued you, dragged you away to relative safety, you’d return the favor eventually.” His voice trails lightly, chin resting light against those knuckles. “But...”
Two weeks isn’t long. And yet it’d been long enough, maybe. Hours spent watching Fenris for days on end as he fought in his sleep for his life alone. As his breathing rose and fell, and Astarion there at his side all the while, wondering just how long it would last.
Thinking it’d be a shame if he didn’t survive.
“I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, something changed. I found myself enjoying it, having you nearby— even if you were in such a perpetually miserable state.”
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For two weeks, Fenris has been waiting for something to go wrong. He has struggled in his recovery only because it hasn't gone as fast as he wants it to. Being weak, feeling like he couldn't run even if he wanted to, is terrifying on a deep level. But Astarion had tended him faithfully in all that time, spending time and energy on him to see him mend. When he was coherent enough to do so, Fenris started wondering why.
This isn't the answer he expects, not entirely. The first part he understands, and there is a sense of obligation tugging at the back of his mind even now as he thinks about where he'd be if Astarion had left him to his fate.
More than anything, he's quietly distracted by the way the pale elf's chin brushes against his knuckles. That miniscule hold tightens a bit as his fingers curl.
"Get used to it," he says dryly. "Perpetually miserable is my natural state."
According to some, anyway. There's quiet amusement in his voice, though, a gleam in green eyes that suggests he might be capable of teasing. Perhaps not entirely miserable. Fenris looks down at the blanket beneath them.
"I will return the favor, if I can," he says after a moment. Astarion deserves that, doesn't he? He could have left him for dead or turned him over to any passing person of quick coin. But he hasn't. And now... this. Fenris isn't nearly ready to process this beyond something unexpected that he actually enjoyed.
"I... have appreciated your companionship." Not just Astarion's dedication to tending his injuries, but hearing him talk, having someone else close by to soothe the loneliness he so rarely acknowledges. "Even if you talk too much."
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Astarion breathes in a narrow exhale, chasing the start of Fenris' promise that this hasn't been unenjoyable, and it sounds maybe a little like the very same blindsided shock that had Fenris asking why him. Caught unawares, lingering somewhere on the edge of disbelief, and it's not at all unpleasant.
"Oh." He adds again, flatter this time, when Fenris finishes.
(But his smile's wider, and that might be more telling in the grand scheme of things.)
Still, biting the unmarked edge of Fenris' thumb with sharp teeth in retribution, he lands right on his conversational feet only a moment later. "Don't pretend like that isn't part of it, too."
Here, listless and comfortable, bolstered by the subtler glint in green eyes, this feels almost...natural. Easy. Friendly, even, if he'd ever known what that was before now. Some nebulous concept lurking just beyond his reach.
"Come to think of it, I'm willing to bet you're starting to get addicted to the subtle sound of my notoriously soothing voice. Something to lull you back to sleep when those wounds of yours agitate."
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"Yes," he deadpans. "I am infatuated with your flowery eloquence." He rolls his eyes but being able to tease brings that smile back, small as it is. He moves his thumb, brushing against Astarion's lip or his chin, whatever he can touch.
"Speaking of, I think I'm bleeding," he says almost absently as he lifts his other arm to look down at the bandaged wound on his side. This whole exercise raised his blood pressure and had him moving more than he has in days, maybe it was inevitable that they'd agitate some of his wounds.
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"I knew it. Deadly and dashing and— wait, what?"
He presses past Fenris' hand, blinking as he moves to peer at the still-wound bandaging which—
"Shit."
All breath. All frustration as he sits up, already reaching for the kit tucked away within the nightstand, shoulders hunched sharply forward. It's a sidelong motion that beckons Fenris nearer, made with his fingers wrapped around a pot of ointment, gauze tucked between his teeth— already moving to pull the soiled bandage away from Fenris' side.
"Let's hope I didn't just set you back two weeks for the benefit of a blowjob."
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"Mm, if you did, it might have been worth it," he says mildly, watching as the bloodied bandages are pulled away. The wound hasn't opened badly, at least. Seeping rather than freely bleeding. His gaze flicks up to Astarion's face.
"Does this mean you don't want to do it again?"
Might as well establish that, and if one didn't know better, they might accuse Fenris of being coy.
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Or at least as far as Astarion can tell, it’s Fenris’ own dry-edged brand of cleverness peeking through. And really, it’s charming in its own way.
Which is to say it would be if not for the fact that he’s so cavalierly mocking his own seeping injury.
Deft, pale hands already beginning the careful task of cleaning away patches of welling crimson (slow and light, his touches: only ever just enough pressure as needed from the saturated gauze he’s using to wash) Astarion openly snorts.
He also doesn’t look up to give Fenris the satisfaction of seeing his own grin.
Incorrigible pup.
“Well I never said that.” Astarion snorts wryly, “Just because I’ve had your cock in my mouth doesn’t mean you can start putting anything else you like in there, too.”
Chin tucked low, curls slung in front of his eyes, he tosses the ruined gauze aside with a faint softening of his own intact smile.
“But I think if we rush back into exploring the thrill of the so-called little death too soon, we might run the risk of giving you the far bigger version.”
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Astarion's grumbling earns a smile, small as it is, and some amusement in the keen eyes watching him.
"I'm not on death's doorstep anymore," he says with a roll of his eyes. "It might do me well to be more active."
He probably shouldn't push his luck, but Fenris isn't sure he needs to be bedridden any longer. The only way to decide one way or another, he feels, is more activity. And though he has been sleeping more than his usual rest, he's still been awake often enough to be getting bored, even with Astarion's stellar conversation skills.
He looks at Astarion again.
"Get the blood moving."
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Spoken slyly as his own lips curl upwards by a narrow difference of degrees— the fault of Fenris’ own amusement, and it lingers still as he turns back to tending to the bandaging before him: salve applied once cleaned, packed with fresher gauze, another stretch of bandaging smoothed down with careful hands that purposefully avoid streaks of glowing silver.
And when it’s done, he scoots in closer to Fenris’ side, hovering over him fully this time, curls slung low from gravity, looming little more than a few inches from that unspeakably pretty face.
“Next time you can actually manage to sit up without toppling over, I’ll take you outside for a spin.”
What’s a spin qualify as, exactly? Who knows. Astarion opts to stoop low, catching Fenris’ mouth in a senselessly hungering kiss (one that still tastes of himself as much as lilac, he finds— and not at all unpleasant for it).
Broken only when he adds:
“And after that, we’ll spar.”