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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"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.
no subject
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.”
no subject
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."
no subject
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.”