His wicked grin blooms entirely on reflex alone (say what you will about Astarion— most, if not all of it’s entirely true— but he thrives inherently in being met in all his mischief), reveling in the thrill of knowing someone else can keep pace with his strides.
“Well I’d wanted to make your loss quick, but if you insist on being savvy...”
His lunge is as vicious as his own sense of humor, not an ounce of sympathy or hesitation spared for a soul fresh off the heels of recovery, dagger leading the charge as he slips low— serpentine— aiming to press Fenris back on his heels before he has a chance to react.
“We’ll just have to do this the hard way—”
And if Fenris isn’t careful, he’s going to find himself flat on his back with a blade at his throat just as quickly as he lends the opportunity.
Astarion is quick, faster than Fenris anticipates. Rather than trying to back away, Fenris darts to the side, spinning out of the way as he lashes out with the dagger. He tries to pull the attack, not actually wanting to cut into the man who's spent the better part of a month keeping him alive.
"You'll have to do better than that."
The welcome rush of adrenaline lights a vicious smile. He may not win, but it feels good to move, to feel something other than helpless and bored. He stumbles as he recovers his footing, trying to keep Astarion in his line of sight. Fenris isn't as fast as he might be without injury, but he is dogged in the way he approaches combat. He really won't stop until Astarion gets him on his back and keeps him there.
It's the latter part that's the trick.
He tries to avoid Astarion slamming into him whenever he can, convinced that he will go down if the pale elf manages to hit him.
“Luckily— ” he pants, smirking through his fangs on the third attempt at cutting off Fenris’ fierce capacity for putting distance between them each time Astarion thinks success is snared just within his grasp.
It leads into rushed feign left, weight sunk so low his ankles ache— and then suddenly Astarion darts right, open hand outstretched to try and catch Fenris’ momentum at its height, twisting into it, throwing the whole of the elf’s balance off with his own weight and subsequently slinging the both of them to the ground.
And when the thick dust settles, Astarion straddles him. Blade pinching as it settles just against the base of Fenris’ throat. Biting, but not yet breaking the skin.
Yet, being the important part.
“I can, darling.”
And low as he's slumped to leverage his weight against it, Fenris eclipsed in the whole of his own shadow, almost nothing in the way of distance now lingers between them.
(Of course, don't let that stop you from fighting back, Fenris.)
Fenris hits the ground and the breath is forced out of him. It takes a few seconds for his world to stop feeling, plenty of time for Astarion to get on top of him. He can feel the sharp edge of a blade against his throat like a warning and and weight pressing him in place. His green eyes are bright as he focuses on the man above him and tries to catch his breath.
There's a faint, sharp prick against Astarion's side where Fenris has angled his own blade up against the pale elf's ribs. It might not be as devastating an injury as a slit throat, but it certainly would give someone a really bad day. He might be down, but he certainly isn't going out alone.
Fenris keeps his grip on the hilt firm even as he tries to slow his heart. His body aches and he is aware of every injury and every over-exerted muscle, but he feels better than he has in weeks. White hair clings to his face where he's started to sweat and his body is quite warm beneath his opponent's.
His hips move as he draws a leg up, trying to get his foot planted.
"Is that a knife in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"
World's most awful joke there, but it lands all the same— if charisma counts for anything at all.
...which admittedly, it might not.
"Ah ah. Don't you dare." That shift prompts a heavy re-settling of Astarion's weight, leg snaking around the underside of Fenris' own. It equates to a loss of total leverage— prompts the tip of Fenris' borrowed dagger to dig, nipping at Astarion's side— but in the grand scheme of things it feels worth it. Doubly so when his free hand works its way around Fenris' unarmed wrist, testing the elf's ability to work back against his own vampiric strength.
The blade slips higher, flat edge cold as it tips Fenris' chin higher, closer to his own mouth.
His voice is honey. A throaty purr dripping with contentment.
"Say you yield."
Edited (it's me, king of redundancy) 2022-01-21 07:21 (UTC)
Even if the pressure comes from the flat of the blade, Fenris tips his head back and realizes it gets his mouth closer to Astarion's. His lips remain parted even as his breathing gets deeper, steadier. A hand closes around his wrist and Fenris immediately forces tension, pulling against the hold without immediately trying to break it.
"No," he growls in answer, and the single word carries a heavily implied make me. Fenris is intent on ignoring the rush of heat pooling low in his body, the threat of desire for something other than a fight. Or something with fight.
He lets the blade he holds shift, still pressing dangerously against Astarion's ribs but no longer in danger of slipping between them if either of them makes a quick movement. As riled up as he is, Fenris does not want to end this fight needing to tend a punctured lung or worse. With another quiet sound of frustration, Fenris tries to move his other leg, not quite sure he can get it up enough to plant it on Astarion's chest, not with the way they're positioned and not with his current injuries already burning with warning.
He’s like a viper when he twists— taking the penalty of a cut to his side as he snaps Fenris’ wrist to the earth, using that as an anchor— as leverage— for the sake of shifting the lower half of his own body. The leg he’d intertwined with Fenris’ suddenly dropping to nestle beneath it instead: his legs drawn wider, his hips pinned down tight against Fenris’ own, fit between the narrow span of his thighs.
And in the beat of silence that follows, he exhales cool and steady across Fenris’ lower lip, teasing. The slow drip of blood from his own side pattering light as it falls. A nominal little drip drip drip.
“Say it, darling.” He breathes, without the intoxicated coyness of a serpent this time.
It’s lust. It’s only lust that lives there, punctuated by the subtle shift of his own hips.
“Tell me I’ve won so that I can sink my teeth into your neck and rut down into you so fiercely there won’t be a soul in these woods that doesn’t know the sound of your voice.”
Fenris tries to kick, but it's pointless with the way the other man has settled close and tight between his thighs. Evidence of sparked arousal now trapped between them, he can feel heat creeping into his face and down his neck as Astarion leans low.
The sound of Astarion's voice does not help his condition, the sheer desire pressing him down as surely as the body above him. For that alone he might yield, for the promise in that smooth voice dripping wickedness. The next time he moves, his hips cant towards the pale elf. Through it all he is keenly aware of the sharp edge near his throat and he's quite certain he's cut Astarion, who seems undeterred despite the sting of a shallow cut. Lips part to breathe and his blood is singing.
He considers his position and the likelihood that he can press his luck without risking Astarion changing his mind. It is unreasonable how quickly the rush of adrenaline has shifted from fight to--this. His pulse pounds and yet he cannot bring himself to just yield. Nor will he beg. So he shifts his hips again with a far more deliberate rock, grinding up against Astarion as he keeps his eyes on his opponent's face.
"I'm not sure you've earned my concession," he breathes, voice heavier than he thought it would be when he finally musters the words.
“Then I’ll find my own way to convince you,” Astarion concludes at last, voice nearly hitching for the way Fenris pushes back against him. A momentary flicker of sensation, turned instead into momentum: the dagger falls away from Fenris’ jaw, trailing down along his throat, his chest— nestling against the looser clasps of his shirt, slipping seamlessly through as it cuts right into the attaching threads with only the faintest tug of resistance each time.
Another inch of bared skin, another subtle pop as more fabric’s torn away, the blade stopping just short of the space above Fenris’ waistband.
He’s sitting upright now, mostly. Or at least that’s where the whole of his weight rests, deliberate and almost obscene, levered against the space between pinned thighs— fingers still splayed wide across Fenris’ wrist.
Maybe he’s wrong, but he swears he can almost feel the elf beneath him stiffening through fabric.
The first lace of those trousers loops tight around the tip of Astarion’s dagger. Twisting.
Fenris shivers as sharp metal cuts through thread and fabric. It falls away, revealing marked skin as Astarion works his way lower.
"You owe me a shirt," he says dryly, trying to hide his rising excitement in a deadpan response. His body betrays him, though, and there is only so long he'll be able to hide the way his cock is stiffening. Stubbornly, he keeps his gaze locked on Astarion's face, as if looking down would be conceding as surely as saying the words. His jaw ticks when he feels the press of the dagger.
He flexes his arm beneath the splayed hand, testing the pale elf's resolve in keeping him pinned. Hardly a true test, though, as the fact of the matter is that there is a blade near a part of himself he'd rather not lose to careless struggling. It's certainly incentive to remain relatively still. There's a defiant tilt to his head yet, a refusal to fully surrender.
"I think I can accuse you of the same." A more daring roll of his hips then, trusting that Astarion is invested enough in keeping him intact. His heart is beating hard again and there's a flutter of anticipation in his stomach.
"How badly do you want to rut into me?"
Fenris keeps his own voice as smooth and steady as he can, but even he can't quite keep the edge out of it as he replays Astarion's request - demand - for him to yield. He almost resents his own sudden pivot. A quiet anxiety yet lingers, the possibility that the touch he craves will cross from tantalizing to torture. But that hasn't stopped him wanting it. Not yet.
He could lie. The possibility is right within his reach, affording him the opportunity to feign indifference and leave his own facade intact, rather than let Fenris check him in oh so many ways (the flex of that wrist, and how Astarion has to push forward not to let him slip free by any real measure; the roll of those hips, so damned fearless— or maybe trusting) in this little game of theirs.
But the moment those hips buck high, Astarion exhales sharply through his own nose, yanking the dagger back to keep from cutting his companion— though the laces of those trousers suffer dearly for how he's forced to draw the blade away at an angle, ceding his advantage.
His tongue clicks against the back of his own fangs, though there's such a thready undertone to his voice. The kind of sound that might hint at longing. Need.
All of it just barely contained.
"Don't push your luck," he warns, already attempting to shift back into a point of control via bearing down harder against Fenris' arm. His hips, where the front of Fenris' trousers have come completely undone, twisting his own body with serpentine fluidity.
If he can't fully pin down the marked elf caught beneath him, at the very least, he intends to come near it.
His breath catches quietly when he realizes the laces have been cut through, easing the pressure but also no longer able to conceal his desire quite so well. Astarion was going to find the reality of it eventually, though Fenris hadn't anticipated it would be at the expense of his clothes. He can repair them later.
"All I am hearing are threats," he says with a grin. A quiet groan rises as Astarion offers more pressure against his arm and between his thighs, reminding him of his position while trying to restrain his own obvious need.
Something about being pinned like this, back to the ground and a blade in hand, makes it easier to allow himself to want. And for all of his sarcasm and dry dismissal, the way Astarion talks to him when he gets like this is just as arousing as the strained friction between them.
"Would it help if I cut you again?" He thinks he could, even with Astarion leaning into him. He would just have to be quick. And forceful.
The smell of his own blood is negligible— spawn blood tastes like ash to vampiric tongues, so what blooms in the air between them now is as nothing to Astarion’s senses aside from the thrilling sting it provides— but Fenris’?
The thought dilates his eyes again as he considers it in retaliation to Fenris’ own commentary, a reprise of the night they’d first met. Dangerous and dark and deep, that temptation, and his exhale is feathering this time. Slower.
It’s made all the more potent when Fenris groans.
Hells.
“It’d help if you realized just how much I don’t intend to lose.” He murmurs sharply, forcing the words through the jagged edges of his fangs— the momentary pause that comes before he seizes Fenris’ mouth with his own, hungry and wanting to the point of wildness: tongue scraped over teeth, canines catching against Fenris’ lips. Heat for heat. Friction for friction.
He doesn’t care if he’s cut. Or fought. Or flipped. He doesn’t care if he loses his leverage, the whole of his mind fixated on bucking in a voiceless demand.
Yield, as Astarion mirrors through the barrier of clothing just how madly he’d fuck down into the marked elf beneath him— if only he surrendered himself to it.
Fenris growls under the kiss but he returns it just as fiercely. The sharp drag of Astarion's teeth sends a rush through him and he tries to bite him back. A more ragged sound escapes him as Astarion ruts against him, making clear his intention should he be allowed to get what he wants.
"Fasta vass," he hisses. Fenris wants it. Gods, he wants it in a way he never thought he could. The rush of need is sudden and sharp, much like the pale elf's attacks. But he finds himself more willing to yield, even if he cannot do so with grace. He grabs at Astarion's trousers with his free hand, gripping hard at his hip like he could actually get more like this. No, that's going to require removing at least a layer between them. Fenris keeps talking in snapping Tevene, but he's no longer trying to slip a blade between Astarion's ribs.
"Yes," he bites out, struggling to resist a full surrender.
"I've come to love the sound of those words falling from your lips, you know."
Spoken against those lips, still touched with lingering heat. Glossed with longing and spit and the salt of their own sweat from fighting.
Yes, Fenris says at last, and though it's not what it could be, it's enough.
He uses his hold on Fenris' wrist to pull him forward then, wrenching him onto his hands and knees— the shortest interim of utter freedom before that knife finds its way back to Fenris' throat. Before the fingers of his free hand hook high to draw those unlaced trousers down somewhere around Fenris' knees, and in skirting back, becomes a game of drawing the edges of his knuckles along the innermost edges of Fenris' thighs— the dim swaths of bare skin between strips of curling lyrium— the underside of his cock, skimming light across feverish contours. Agonizingly slow and mercilessly teasing, a steep contrast to the cold bite of flattened metal. Tame, and not tame in the slightest.
Always he keeps his oil on hand.
Perhaps it's not really a surprise when his freed fingers are quickly slickened. When they slide back down along the curvature of Fenris' ass, just as gradually as before— only this time when he stops, it's with the pads of his forefinger and middle pressed tentatively right on the verge of actual entry. A subtle, edging dip. A near-push that slips back out again.
Fenris growls in answer, but the edge is taken off by a groan building beneath it. Before he can snap at Astarion again - verbally or with teeth - he's dragged and pushed into a new position. It'd be easier to get out of this particular position if he didn't find himself with a knife to his throat. He tips his head to avoid the edge and his eyes nearly close as an impatient hand drags his pants down. He tries to tip his hips toward the wicked hand brushing beneath his cock and teasing his thighs. His fingers dig into the grass in an attempt to show some restraint as he reminds himself he does want this. The throb between his thighs is clear enough evidence, as is the fact that he hasn't done more damage in trying to get loose.
Still, his heart is pounding with more than just desire. He catches the scent of lilacs and breathes a shivering exhale. He bares his teeth as fingers tease without following through. He resists the urge to bow his head, not wanting to risk the edge of the blade so soon.
His jaw tightens and he mutters another string of curses - Astarion's name featuring in there at least once - as the pale elf over him tries to coax more than mere consent from him.
And it's there that he drops the blade entirely, replacing its frigid span with the warmer fit of his own fingers: letting them perch wide across the underside of Fenris' jaw— almost dotingly, a mirror to the way he leans forward and, through the fabric of Fenris' split shirt, presses his lips along the dip between shoulderblades.
This is a game, after all.
And while it's true that he's presently reveling in the wicked satisfaction of a held advantage (or, in his own mind, that he's won), he stays senselessly enamored with the sight laid out in front of him— around him by way of his own spreading fingertips, coaxing out openness as they start to work their way in with a steady, delving rhythm.
His own heart beats, elated despite its comparative sluggishness. Adrenaline sings in his veins.
"I know you do." Astarion hums out sweetly beneath his breath.
He sighs as the blade leaves, replaced by strong fingers holding his jaw. Fenris nearly closes his eyes as lips press against his back, the fabric too thin to dull any of the sensation.
Fenris swallows thickly, trying to hold back another moan as Astarion's fingers work him open, coaxing his body to accept, to yield. He braces himself against the ground, panting from the exertion of the fight and now the rush of adrenaline plunging into need to get closer. His thighs slide further apart, far more welcoming than the last time they tried this.
He curses again when Astarion murmurs so sweetly the truth: he could have won if he wasn't so eager for this. This is, in fact, surrender no matter how much he bites or growls. His shoulders sink lower and his cock is aching, but he makes no attempt yet to touch himself.
There’s something so beautiful about it, the way Fenris shifts beneath him. Spreading himself wider, spine bowing low rather than twisting itself upwards into mistrusting shapes. Even beneath the curses, the snarling, throaty rasps, none of it is distinctly barbed or warning. None of it is a true demand for Astarion to pull away in obedient retreat.
And Astarion, having been laid low too many times before, knows the difference keenly.
Salt sweat prickling across his skin, shuddering on all fours— this is trust, still.
Working in its shadow, Astarion trails his mouth down along Fenris’ back as his fingers all but begin driving down into pliant heat, dragging and curling, working him open right in the open midday air. And when at last his mouth reaches the curve of Fenris’ ass, his grip on that jaw has long since abated, settling instead across his hip. Tongue ever so deviously slow (preceded by breath, teasing cool across feverish skin) dips between his parted fingertips, slipping inside Fenris and flicking— curling serpentine and adoring, adding his own slickness to the fainter taste of lavender.
And then he draws back. Doting still, when he slips the heavy span of his cock against Fenris instead, fingers riding along the ridge as one replaces the other inch by widening inch.
His exhale is narrow. Audible. A groan of a thing as his own neck tips back, mottled sunlight flicking bright orange against the shadow of his eyelids where they’ve slipped shut. As his other hand meets Fenris’ hip as well, guiding him down against rigid contours. Hot and hungering and still throbbing with the thrill of their fight.
"Slow," Astarion promises, breath nearly dripping from his tongue as he pants softly. Clinging to the supple give of Fenris' bewitching submission.
There's a balance here, a careful reading between two souls who have been in this position through no true choice of their own far too often to ever really forget. There is negotiation, finding lines that Fenris didn't even known existed until someone else stumbled across them. Biting at every wound, even accidental, meant learning to keep distance. Meant becoming numb to the ache of wanting to be known and touched. Like slipping into warm water after being too cold, the first sensation is pain. But then it soothes, and even if Astarion is fucking him with his fingers, taking care not to be delicate with him, that's precisely what this is.
Fenris arches his back at the flicker of Astarion's tongue inside him, working alongside clever and insistent fingers. Tension ripples through him and he drags at the grass beneath his palm. It's gone before he can think to seek more, and just as soon replaced. The blunt brush of Astarion's cock makes his breath stutter as his body yields to this, too.
Head down, the marked elf tries to keep his breathing deep as Astarion grips his hip, pulling, guiding. Fenris realizes he is sinking back, encouraging, taking what is being given with a similar (though in this, more hesitant) hunger. Slow. Even if it is unasked for, he is grateful for Astarion's awareness of what he might need. A far, far cry from the last moment he was face-down like this. Even the praise, good boy, lands differently. His forearms slide forward, stretching his back even as he follows the guiding hands. He did not think he could ever welcome this fullness again.
When his voice slips out again it is in a soft slur of Tevene with none of the harder edges of his cursing. Perhaps praise. Whatever it is, Fenris apparently cannot be bothered to translate himself.
Edited (had to fix a sentance) 2022-02-03 04:17 (UTC)
Astarion doesn’t need a translation. He can feel it in every claimed inch of Fenris’ body, how it aches, how it arches— bringing them closer together, fitting tighter with each passing second.
Astarion’s hand, still curled around Fenris’ hip (and soon joined to frame him on either side by its twin) does nothing but steer, setting the angle, the maddeningly stilled pace, but the rest is only Fenris. Only the need that drives him down against bent grass, body stretched out long and lean and arched towards Astarion himself.
And gods, it is blissful. Beyond the physical alone, to feel the sting in his bloodied side and the pressure of Fenris clenched hot around him and know that both are stitched into the shape of trust between them.
Given and granted alike.
“I wondered if I’d still get to rut with you if I lost, you know...” murmured as he leans back to watch in those last few seconds where Fenris closes in on fitting him to the hilt. A sight that’ll live on well after this moment passes, clinging irresistibly to the fringe edges of his mind.
“If I could still tempt you into spreading your legs for me and lowering yourself with such delicious hunger.”
A hitching exhale blooms between sharp teeth as he feels himself caught flush against the press of Fenris’ ass. As he shivers, stiff and heavy, surrounded by wet heat.
Fenris moans as Astarion's hips press up against him, making clear he's taken him as far as he can. He muffles the sound with his mouth pressed against his arm. It also keeps him from trying to snap something in answer to the murmuring taunts. He thinks he might have still allowed this if he won. Perhaps it would look different, but the thought has been on his mind, embers kept burning with regular but more restrained attention.
Now, Astarion's fingers are tight on his hips, holding him where he is. Whatever he might think to say is utterly wiped from his mind as the man behind him gives a hard thrust that forces Fenris forward, makes him brace more against the grass to keep from sliding. The sound of skin against skin is obscene and satisfying and there is no quieting the sound he makes this time. He won't beg. He can't yet. But gods, he wants more.
"Yes--"
He can take that as he likes. A confession that Fenris would have allowed this regardless of the outcome, or another rush of enthusiastic consent for what that hard push promises. He isn't delicate. And while care must be taken, there is certainly a difference between care and coddling. He is hungry. He's starving, and he didn't fully realize it until having what he wants and needs held in front of him.
And just so he isn't misunderstood, Fenris pushes himself back against the cradle of Astarion's hips, ensuring that he is buried again. Not passively receptive, but actively encouraging.
It isn’t necessary, that little push, no matter how pleasant it is; Astarion already knows its intended message by now, cast in the sweet shape of Fenris’ buckled groan, tumbling from pretty lips before there’s room enough for assent to follow.
Precious thing. Captivating thing. Familiar thing, Fenris. How far Astarion’s fallen for the elf straining beneath him now. How enamored he's become with watching him shiver and rise to meet every doting touch shared between them. The way green eyes watch him throughout even the most mundane of tasks, measuring what they are. What they want from each other.
Wherever this might lead.
Yes, Fenris gasps, and there isn't a difference in intent and interpretation, regardless of what it is, because Astarion moves in the very next beat to grant Fenris everything he'd asked for with it: not a single thrust this time, but a rough-set pace that builds and quickens— rushing into the vulgar, unmistakable sound of sex entirely unmasked. Damp and damning, bearing down into Fenris through that tightened hold on narrow hips and he's hammering this time with strength that hardly matches his own frame, ensuring every bruising buck forward is caught and drawn back against him, keeping Fenris locked around the heavy dig of his own cock as it grinds its way down against the grain.
His teeth are bared, though Fenris can't see it. Sharp and overlong, catching the ragged sounds of his own breathing over an obscenely percussive din.
Fenris cannot recall if there's ever been a timed that he was fucked quite like this. Danarius could be rough, cruel, but rarely vigorous. He'd not been a young man, after all. This? Is pure rutting. This is life-affirming. And he feels alive in ways he hasn't.
All of that is rather abstract thought, though, none of it lasting long. Fenris pants for breath, thighs skidding further apart as if that might help Astarion get deeper. He braces himself against the grass to keep from being forced forward with every hard, unrelenting thrust. In ways unimaginable once, Fenris is intensely aware of his own body: the dig of Astarion's fingers against his hips, surely leaving bruises in the shape of his fingertips; the hard, obscene sound of skin against skin as their bodies meet; the ache in his own cock and the unexpected pleasure of Astarion grinding just right inside him.
His own ragged breathing the loudest thing in his head, barely aware that exhales are edged with moans. He might be embarrassed for how needy he sounds, reduced to this. He doesn't care. He doesn't want to care.
The marked elf's back arches and his weight shifts as one hand reaches down, circling his cock to give himself relief. The first strokes makes him tense around Astarion as he grinds deep.
Oh, to feel Fenris lower himself. To feel him tighten, body shuddering with the keen reverberation of being driven down into the earth itself, wet and wanting in all the best ways. Astarion hardly needs to look (though he does, oh he does) to know Fenris has already strained to work at his own prick between buckling thrusts that run high and heady across the map of his senses each time they catch, buried so deeply he couldn't possibly take more.
But Astarion's avaricious at heart. Greed stitched into his bones, his blood. And when Fenris' moans grow to their own fever pitch, Astarion pulls him back, dragging the marked elf to his chest by a distinctly impatient measure: leaving his legs splayed wide around Astarion's own, the whole of his body bared as he's fucked up into— obscene and vulgar and so distinctly beautiful to Astarion's mind.
His teeth find their way to an overlong ear, sharp fangs nipping through the edges of ragged, panting breaths, voice gone rough and dark with the blooming rush of pure, unfiltered lust.
"You're nearly there, aren't you darling." Breath warm as it snakes along the shell of Fenris' ear, slithering down his neck. A single hand wraps its way around Fenris' cock, fingers intertwining with lyrium-marked counterparts, squeezing against the drawing shuttle of every stroke.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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His wicked grin blooms entirely on reflex alone (say what you will about Astarion— most, if not all of it’s entirely true— but he thrives inherently in being met in all his mischief), reveling in the thrill of knowing someone else can keep pace with his strides.
“Well I’d wanted to make your loss quick, but if you insist on being savvy...”
His lunge is as vicious as his own sense of humor, not an ounce of sympathy or hesitation spared for a soul fresh off the heels of recovery, dagger leading the charge as he slips low— serpentine— aiming to press Fenris back on his heels before he has a chance to react.
“We’ll just have to do this the hard way—”
And if Fenris isn’t careful, he’s going to find himself flat on his back with a blade at his throat just as quickly as he lends the opportunity.
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"You'll have to do better than that."
The welcome rush of adrenaline lights a vicious smile. He may not win, but it feels good to move, to feel something other than helpless and bored. He stumbles as he recovers his footing, trying to keep Astarion in his line of sight. Fenris isn't as fast as he might be without injury, but he is dogged in the way he approaches combat. He really won't stop until Astarion gets him on his back and keeps him there.
It's the latter part that's the trick.
He tries to avoid Astarion slamming into him whenever he can, convinced that he will go down if the pale elf manages to hit him.
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It leads into rushed feign left, weight sunk so low his ankles ache— and then suddenly Astarion darts right, open hand outstretched to try and catch Fenris’ momentum at its height, twisting into it, throwing the whole of the elf’s balance off with his own weight and subsequently slinging the both of them to the ground.
And when the thick dust settles, Astarion straddles him. Blade pinching as it settles just against the base of Fenris’ throat. Biting, but not yet breaking the skin.
Yet, being the important part.
“I can, darling.”
And low as he's slumped to leverage his weight against it, Fenris eclipsed in the whole of his own shadow, almost nothing in the way of distance now lingers between them.
(Of course, don't let that stop you from fighting back, Fenris.)
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There's a faint, sharp prick against Astarion's side where Fenris has angled his own blade up against the pale elf's ribs. It might not be as devastating an injury as a slit throat, but it certainly would give someone a really bad day. He might be down, but he certainly isn't going out alone.
Fenris keeps his grip on the hilt firm even as he tries to slow his heart. His body aches and he is aware of every injury and every over-exerted muscle, but he feels better than he has in weeks. White hair clings to his face where he's started to sweat and his body is quite warm beneath his opponent's.
His hips move as he draws a leg up, trying to get his foot planted.
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World's most awful joke there, but it lands all the same— if charisma counts for anything at all.
...which admittedly, it might not.
"Ah ah. Don't you dare." That shift prompts a heavy re-settling of Astarion's weight, leg snaking around the underside of Fenris' own. It equates to a loss of total leverage— prompts the tip of Fenris' borrowed dagger to dig, nipping at Astarion's side— but in the grand scheme of things it feels worth it. Doubly so when his free hand works its way around Fenris' unarmed wrist, testing the elf's ability to work back against his own vampiric strength.
The blade slips higher, flat edge cold as it tips Fenris' chin higher, closer to his own mouth.
His voice is honey. A throaty purr dripping with contentment.
"Say you yield."
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"No," he growls in answer, and the single word carries a heavily implied make me. Fenris is intent on ignoring the rush of heat pooling low in his body, the threat of desire for something other than a fight. Or something with fight.
He lets the blade he holds shift, still pressing dangerously against Astarion's ribs but no longer in danger of slipping between them if either of them makes a quick movement. As riled up as he is, Fenris does not want to end this fight needing to tend a punctured lung or worse. With another quiet sound of frustration, Fenris tries to move his other leg, not quite sure he can get it up enough to plant it on Astarion's chest, not with the way they're positioned and not with his current injuries already burning with warning.
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And in the beat of silence that follows, he exhales cool and steady across Fenris’ lower lip, teasing. The slow drip of blood from his own side pattering light as it falls. A nominal little drip drip drip.
“Say it, darling.” He breathes, without the intoxicated coyness of a serpent this time.
It’s lust. It’s only lust that lives there, punctuated by the subtle shift of his own hips.
“Tell me I’ve won so that I can sink my teeth into your neck and rut down into you so fiercely there won’t be a soul in these woods that doesn’t know the sound of your voice.”
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The sound of Astarion's voice does not help his condition, the sheer desire pressing him down as surely as the body above him. For that alone he might yield, for the promise in that smooth voice dripping wickedness. The next time he moves, his hips cant towards the pale elf. Through it all he is keenly aware of the sharp edge near his throat and he's quite certain he's cut Astarion, who seems undeterred despite the sting of a shallow cut. Lips part to breathe and his blood is singing.
He considers his position and the likelihood that he can press his luck without risking Astarion changing his mind. It is unreasonable how quickly the rush of adrenaline has shifted from fight to--this. His pulse pounds and yet he cannot bring himself to just yield. Nor will he beg. So he shifts his hips again with a far more deliberate rock, grinding up against Astarion as he keeps his eyes on his opponent's face.
"I'm not sure you've earned my concession," he breathes, voice heavier than he thought it would be when he finally musters the words.
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Another inch of bared skin, another subtle pop as more fabric’s torn away, the blade stopping just short of the space above Fenris’ waistband.
He’s sitting upright now, mostly. Or at least that’s where the whole of his weight rests, deliberate and almost obscene, levered against the space between pinned thighs— fingers still splayed wide across Fenris’ wrist.
Maybe he’s wrong, but he swears he can almost feel the elf beneath him stiffening through fabric.
The first lace of those trousers loops tight around the tip of Astarion’s dagger. Twisting.
“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you darling.”
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"You owe me a shirt," he says dryly, trying to hide his rising excitement in a deadpan response. His body betrays him, though, and there is only so long he'll be able to hide the way his cock is stiffening. Stubbornly, he keeps his gaze locked on Astarion's face, as if looking down would be conceding as surely as saying the words. His jaw ticks when he feels the press of the dagger.
He flexes his arm beneath the splayed hand, testing the pale elf's resolve in keeping him pinned. Hardly a true test, though, as the fact of the matter is that there is a blade near a part of himself he'd rather not lose to careless struggling. It's certainly incentive to remain relatively still. There's a defiant tilt to his head yet, a refusal to fully surrender.
"I think I can accuse you of the same." A more daring roll of his hips then, trusting that Astarion is invested enough in keeping him intact. His heart is beating hard again and there's a flutter of anticipation in his stomach.
"How badly do you want to rut into me?"
Fenris keeps his own voice as smooth and steady as he can, but even he can't quite keep the edge out of it as he replays Astarion's request - demand - for him to yield. He almost resents his own sudden pivot. A quiet anxiety yet lingers, the possibility that the touch he craves will cross from tantalizing to torture. But that hasn't stopped him wanting it. Not yet.
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But the moment those hips buck high, Astarion exhales sharply through his own nose, yanking the dagger back to keep from cutting his companion— though the laces of those trousers suffer dearly for how he's forced to draw the blade away at an angle, ceding his advantage.
His tongue clicks against the back of his own fangs, though there's such a thready undertone to his voice. The kind of sound that might hint at longing. Need.
All of it just barely contained.
"Don't push your luck," he warns, already attempting to shift back into a point of control via bearing down harder against Fenris' arm. His hips, where the front of Fenris' trousers have come completely undone, twisting his own body with serpentine fluidity.
If he can't fully pin down the marked elf caught beneath him, at the very least, he intends to come near it.
"I'm liable to bite."
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"All I am hearing are threats," he says with a grin. A quiet groan rises as Astarion offers more pressure against his arm and between his thighs, reminding him of his position while trying to restrain his own obvious need.
Something about being pinned like this, back to the ground and a blade in hand, makes it easier to allow himself to want. And for all of his sarcasm and dry dismissal, the way Astarion talks to him when he gets like this is just as arousing as the strained friction between them.
"Would it help if I cut you again?" He thinks he could, even with Astarion leaning into him. He would just have to be quick. And forceful.
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The thought dilates his eyes again as he considers it in retaliation to Fenris’ own commentary, a reprise of the night they’d first met. Dangerous and dark and deep, that temptation, and his exhale is feathering this time. Slower.
It’s made all the more potent when Fenris groans.
Hells.
“It’d help if you realized just how much I don’t intend to lose.” He murmurs sharply, forcing the words through the jagged edges of his fangs— the momentary pause that comes before he seizes Fenris’ mouth with his own, hungry and wanting to the point of wildness: tongue scraped over teeth, canines catching against Fenris’ lips. Heat for heat. Friction for friction.
He doesn’t care if he’s cut. Or fought. Or flipped. He doesn’t care if he loses his leverage, the whole of his mind fixated on bucking in a voiceless demand.
Yield, as Astarion mirrors through the barrier of clothing just how madly he’d fuck down into the marked elf beneath him— if only he surrendered himself to it.
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"Fasta vass," he hisses. Fenris wants it. Gods, he wants it in a way he never thought he could. The rush of need is sudden and sharp, much like the pale elf's attacks. But he finds himself more willing to yield, even if he cannot do so with grace. He grabs at Astarion's trousers with his free hand, gripping hard at his hip like he could actually get more like this. No, that's going to require removing at least a layer between them. Fenris keeps talking in snapping Tevene, but he's no longer trying to slip a blade between Astarion's ribs.
"Yes," he bites out, struggling to resist a full surrender.
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Spoken against those lips, still touched with lingering heat. Glossed with longing and spit and the salt of their own sweat from fighting.
Yes, Fenris says at last, and though it's not what it could be, it's enough.
He uses his hold on Fenris' wrist to pull him forward then, wrenching him onto his hands and knees— the shortest interim of utter freedom before that knife finds its way back to Fenris' throat. Before the fingers of his free hand hook high to draw those unlaced trousers down somewhere around Fenris' knees, and in skirting back, becomes a game of drawing the edges of his knuckles along the innermost edges of Fenris' thighs— the dim swaths of bare skin between strips of curling lyrium— the underside of his cock, skimming light across feverish contours. Agonizingly slow and mercilessly teasing, a steep contrast to the cold bite of flattened metal. Tame, and not tame in the slightest.
Always he keeps his oil on hand.
Perhaps it's not really a surprise when his freed fingers are quickly slickened. When they slide back down along the curvature of Fenris' ass, just as gradually as before— only this time when he stops, it's with the pads of his forefinger and middle pressed tentatively right on the verge of actual entry. A subtle, edging dip. A near-push that slips back out again.
"Yes, what, my darling."
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Still, his heart is pounding with more than just desire. He catches the scent of lilacs and breathes a shivering exhale. He bares his teeth as fingers tease without following through. He resists the urge to bow his head, not wanting to risk the edge of the blade so soon.
His jaw tightens and he mutters another string of curses - Astarion's name featuring in there at least once - as the pale elf over him tries to coax more than mere consent from him.
"I want this," he bites out.
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This is a game, after all.
And while it's true that he's presently reveling in the wicked satisfaction of a held advantage (or, in his own mind, that he's won), he stays senselessly enamored with the sight laid out in front of him— around him by way of his own spreading fingertips, coaxing out openness as they start to work their way in with a steady, delving rhythm.
His own heart beats, elated despite its comparative sluggishness. Adrenaline sings in his veins.
"I know you do." Astarion hums out sweetly beneath his breath.
"You could've beaten me, otherwise."
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Fenris swallows thickly, trying to hold back another moan as Astarion's fingers work him open, coaxing his body to accept, to yield. He braces himself against the ground, panting from the exertion of the fight and now the rush of adrenaline plunging into need to get closer. His thighs slide further apart, far more welcoming than the last time they tried this.
He curses again when Astarion murmurs so sweetly the truth: he could have won if he wasn't so eager for this. This is, in fact, surrender no matter how much he bites or growls. His shoulders sink lower and his cock is aching, but he makes no attempt yet to touch himself.
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And Astarion, having been laid low too many times before, knows the difference keenly.
Salt sweat prickling across his skin, shuddering on all fours— this is trust, still.
Working in its shadow, Astarion trails his mouth down along Fenris’ back as his fingers all but begin driving down into pliant heat, dragging and curling, working him open right in the open midday air. And when at last his mouth reaches the curve of Fenris’ ass, his grip on that jaw has long since abated, settling instead across his hip. Tongue ever so deviously slow (preceded by breath, teasing cool across feverish skin) dips between his parted fingertips, slipping inside Fenris and flicking— curling serpentine and adoring, adding his own slickness to the fainter taste of lavender.
And then he draws back. Doting still, when he slips the heavy span of his cock against Fenris instead, fingers riding along the ridge as one replaces the other inch by widening inch.
His exhale is narrow. Audible. A groan of a thing as his own neck tips back, mottled sunlight flicking bright orange against the shadow of his eyelids where they’ve slipped shut. As his other hand meets Fenris’ hip as well, guiding him down against rigid contours. Hot and hungering and still throbbing with the thrill of their fight.
"Slow," Astarion promises, breath nearly dripping from his tongue as he pants softly. Clinging to the supple give of Fenris' bewitching submission.
"Good boy. Just like that."
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Fenris arches his back at the flicker of Astarion's tongue inside him, working alongside clever and insistent fingers. Tension ripples through him and he drags at the grass beneath his palm. It's gone before he can think to seek more, and just as soon replaced. The blunt brush of Astarion's cock makes his breath stutter as his body yields to this, too.
Head down, the marked elf tries to keep his breathing deep as Astarion grips his hip, pulling, guiding. Fenris realizes he is sinking back, encouraging, taking what is being given with a similar (though in this, more hesitant) hunger. Slow. Even if it is unasked for, he is grateful for Astarion's awareness of what he might need. A far, far cry from the last moment he was face-down like this. Even the praise, good boy, lands differently. His forearms slide forward, stretching his back even as he follows the guiding hands. He did not think he could ever welcome this fullness again.
When his voice slips out again it is in a soft slur of Tevene with none of the harder edges of his cursing. Perhaps praise. Whatever it is, Fenris apparently cannot be bothered to translate himself.
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Astarion’s hand, still curled around Fenris’ hip (and soon joined to frame him on either side by its twin) does nothing but steer, setting the angle, the maddeningly stilled pace, but the rest is only Fenris. Only the need that drives him down against bent grass, body stretched out long and lean and arched towards Astarion himself.
And gods, it is blissful. Beyond the physical alone, to feel the sting in his bloodied side and the pressure of Fenris clenched hot around him and know that both are stitched into the shape of trust between them.
Given and granted alike.
“I wondered if I’d still get to rut with you if I lost, you know...” murmured as he leans back to watch in those last few seconds where Fenris closes in on fitting him to the hilt. A sight that’ll live on well after this moment passes, clinging irresistibly to the fringe edges of his mind.
“If I could still tempt you into spreading your legs for me and lowering yourself with such delicious hunger.”
A hitching exhale blooms between sharp teeth as he feels himself caught flush against the press of Fenris’ ass. As he shivers, stiff and heavy, surrounded by wet heat.
And then bucks.
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Now, Astarion's fingers are tight on his hips, holding him where he is. Whatever he might think to say is utterly wiped from his mind as the man behind him gives a hard thrust that forces Fenris forward, makes him brace more against the grass to keep from sliding. The sound of skin against skin is obscene and satisfying and there is no quieting the sound he makes this time. He won't beg. He can't yet. But gods, he wants more.
"Yes--"
He can take that as he likes. A confession that Fenris would have allowed this regardless of the outcome, or another rush of enthusiastic consent for what that hard push promises. He isn't delicate. And while care must be taken, there is certainly a difference between care and coddling. He is hungry. He's starving, and he didn't fully realize it until having what he wants and needs held in front of him.
And just so he isn't misunderstood, Fenris pushes himself back against the cradle of Astarion's hips, ensuring that he is buried again. Not passively receptive, but actively encouraging.
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Precious thing. Captivating thing. Familiar thing, Fenris. How far Astarion’s fallen for the elf straining beneath him now. How enamored he's become with watching him shiver and rise to meet every doting touch shared between them. The way green eyes watch him throughout even the most mundane of tasks, measuring what they are. What they want from each other.
Wherever this might lead.
Yes, Fenris gasps, and there isn't a difference in intent and interpretation, regardless of what it is, because Astarion moves in the very next beat to grant Fenris everything he'd asked for with it: not a single thrust this time, but a rough-set pace that builds and quickens— rushing into the vulgar, unmistakable sound of sex entirely unmasked. Damp and damning, bearing down into Fenris through that tightened hold on narrow hips and he's hammering this time with strength that hardly matches his own frame, ensuring every bruising buck forward is caught and drawn back against him, keeping Fenris locked around the heavy dig of his own cock as it grinds its way down against the grain.
His teeth are bared, though Fenris can't see it. Sharp and overlong, catching the ragged sounds of his own breathing over an obscenely percussive din.
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All of that is rather abstract thought, though, none of it lasting long. Fenris pants for breath, thighs skidding further apart as if that might help Astarion get deeper. He braces himself against the grass to keep from being forced forward with every hard, unrelenting thrust. In ways unimaginable once, Fenris is intensely aware of his own body: the dig of Astarion's fingers against his hips, surely leaving bruises in the shape of his fingertips; the hard, obscene sound of skin against skin as their bodies meet; the ache in his own cock and the unexpected pleasure of Astarion grinding just right inside him.
His own ragged breathing the loudest thing in his head, barely aware that exhales are edged with moans. He might be embarrassed for how needy he sounds, reduced to this. He doesn't care. He doesn't want to care.
The marked elf's back arches and his weight shifts as one hand reaches down, circling his cock to give himself relief. The first strokes makes him tense around Astarion as he grinds deep.
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But Astarion's avaricious at heart. Greed stitched into his bones, his blood. And when Fenris' moans grow to their own fever pitch, Astarion pulls him back, dragging the marked elf to his chest by a distinctly impatient measure: leaving his legs splayed wide around Astarion's own, the whole of his body bared as he's fucked up into— obscene and vulgar and so distinctly beautiful to Astarion's mind.
His teeth find their way to an overlong ear, sharp fangs nipping through the edges of ragged, panting breaths, voice gone rough and dark with the blooming rush of pure, unfiltered lust.
"You're nearly there, aren't you darling." Breath warm as it snakes along the shell of Fenris' ear, slithering down his neck. A single hand wraps its way around Fenris' cock, fingers intertwining with lyrium-marked counterparts, squeezing against the drawing shuttle of every stroke.
"...let me help you."
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