"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.
He isn't expecting to be dragged up against Astarion's chest. Fenris nearly chokes on his breath as the angle changes and his head nearly falls back against the other elf's shoulder as sharp teeth nip at his ear. The sound of Astarion's desperate breathing is unexpectedly intense and Fenris reaches back to get a hand in Astarion's pale hair now that he's been deprived of grass to grip.
"Yes," he pants, voice heavy as a hand wraps around his, the new touch electric. Fenris arches his back and he trusts Astarion to stay grounded as he fucks him and drives him toward his end. "Fuck--"
Sometimes the common tongue is best for cursing. Tension rolls through his body and he tries not to cry out (and fails, miserably) as Astarion's intense attention finishes him. His cock pulses against their palms, come smattering over his stomach and their joined hands. He goes tight around the hard length buried in him, dizzy with how it feels to be fucked through this. Muscles tremble and the hand in Astarion's hair tightens as he tries to resist the urge to curl forward, to give in to that feeling.
It doesn't just spread throughout the whole of Fenris' arched, straining form, but through Astarion's as well: kindled by the way Fenris' hips shudder, as his muscles tighten and lock and clench and oh— oh how they ease, too, compounding the magnitude of each friction laced thrust— turning Astarion's throaty purr into something louder, and hungry, and more than anything else ragged with lingering need.
He feels Fenris catch his curls, knuckles tight across his scalp, pulling. He feels their positioning shift, and no, he doesn't let Fenris fall. Even as he pumps harder still, his own thighs slicked with sweat (and trace streaks of Fenris' ambrosian come) trembling from spent effort.
Oh, he's nearly there— and with that moment of rushing pressure his fangs press themselves along the edge of Fenris' throat—
Only to slip aside in the very next moment, instead scuffing light along vulnerable skin as he gasps, choked-off, against how fiercely his composure breaks beneath the spell of his own climax. Messy and entirely, utterly unraveled, slickness spilling in pattering droplets each time he forces their hips to meet.
Chasing the last little slivers of that numbing high.
The arch in his back tightens as Astarion's indulgent purr turns into something more ragged. He can feel the press of sharp teeth against his throat before they drag away. He shudders in Astarion's arms and another low moan escapes him as the pale elf finishes inside him.
Fenris remains somewhat tense in Astarion's arms, purely to keep himself from falling forward the way he wants to. Too soon, his hand slips from pale curls and he drops back to the ground, hands pressed to the ground as he tries to keep his hips back against the cradle of Astarion's. He's panting, ragged and heavy, as he slowly melts lower. It's through sheer will and Astarion's grip that his hips stay up at all. But he doesn't want to lose that feeling yet, the sated fullness.
Pale hair clings to his face and the lyrium marks seem a little more vivid as he tries to catch his breath.
It's been so long since he felt this good, this... in control? All of this happened by his choice, from start to finish his body has been fully his own. And for the first time in just as long, he has been fully present throughout, no attempts to let his mind escape what his body could not.
Fenris rests his head against own arm, trying not to collapse completely.
He glows. Radiant and warm in the midday sun, yes, but more than that, he glows— those lyrium brands cast so brightly even in their fainter thrumming that Astarion (slender fingers still clutching at those hips to keep him fit tight around him even as he relaxes— as the steady drip drip drip of wet heat trickles sweetly from that single point of connection between them) can’t help but watch in breathless awe. Bone-deep admiration.
This, this beautiful creature, strange and elusive and utterly wild in its make, lies so content beneath him.
And then, with a subtle pull, tension between them slipping away all at once, Astarion lets himself slide free, one cinching little grunt of acclimation squeezed between his fangs. The air is so much colder, the loss of touch less satisfying, but as he half tucks himself away it’s for the best, he decides, given that it means he can lie down beside Fenris instead. A few fingers lifting to brush aside the sweat-soaked span of a few locks of hair.
“Listen to me, darling.”
If he can. If he’s present enough, or if his ears aren’t still ringing from climax.
“That was wonderful— you were wonderful— but there’s something you should know.” Soft-spoken, slow and patient. A little dizzied still from that ebbing high, but there’s a gravity that lives just beneath the surface, let loose in the very next beat.
“About me. What I am. Or...I should say, what my master made me into.”
Fenris makes a quiet, slightly undignified sound as Astarion pulls out, leaving him empty and very aware of the come dripping from him. It's with heavy, lazy movements that he drags his pants back up, at least covering his ass before he sinks down onto the grass completely. He looks at Astarion as the other elf joins him.
Listen to me, isn't what he's expecting, and given that it's unexpected he focuses in sharply through the pleasant haze of his afterglow. It's the tone that catches him. Immediately his mind starts conjuring possibilities, none of them good, regarding what he might have to listen to.
But he stays silent, waiting for Astarion to continue. Fenris also stays still, flat on his stomach with his arms now folded beneath his head, gaze intent though his body yet seems relaxed. Better to keep his tension hidden, if he can.
He is not comforted by the rest. Fenris pushes himself up slowly until he's sitting, though for the moment his weight is resting more on his hip and thigh to spare himself the mild discomfort. It will fade, he knows that.
"What did he make you?" he asks, guarded but--not entirely closed off. Astarion is looking at a creature made by a master, after all. The marks forever burned into his skin. Fenris waits, quiet and fully pulled from the pleasant feeling of a few moments ago.
Shame, Astarion thinks in the midst of his own strained tension, he liked that view.
But they can’t go on like this— no, correction: he can’t go on like this, feeling his wicked heart beat again without knowing whether or not he’ll be chased off once the truth comes into full focus. Caring, without—
“I’m sure you’ve noticed it by now, given that you’re not blind,” he lifts a pale hand and— oh, no. That one has come on it, he realizes, chuckling only briefly as he wipes it along the edge of his shirt.
And then the smile fades.
This time he motions again, towards his face. His own pale visage. “My eyes. My fangs. Abnormal traits all, even amongst albinic creatures. The curse my master infected me with— alongside a nasty little caveat, too.”
His hand, the one that’d been scuffing along Fenris’ scalp, withdraws at last; he isn’t quite certain Fenris will want his touch with what comes next in play.
“The night he changed me, Cazador bound me to him, both body and soul, so that I could never flee his side. So that I’d become a monster, cursed to feed on blood alone, never aging. Never dying. Leashed to his every whim for two hundred years.” Endlessly. Always.
And then not.
“I escaped only because something here broke his puppeting control over me. I don’t know what, and I won’t ever stop to fret over why. But...”
But.
“Now, for the first time in all those years, I’ve finally found myself not wanting to leave someone else’s side.”
Fenris isn't blind. He's spent the better part of his life believing that most people can and will hurt him to one extent or another, and so he's accustomed to looking for threats everywhere. He'd noticed the sharper teeth (seen them, felt them), the strange color of Astarion's eyes. His acceptance of those strange traits came mostly with the begrudging trust that grew with being nursed back to health. Astarion has had plenty of opportunity to do him true harm and hasn't.
So what would eye color or strange teeth matter to him?
He listens, intent and still and quiet in a way some have found eerie. The stillness of one who has wanted to go unseen, unnoticed in plain sight. The name - Cazador - means nothing to him, but it doesn't need to. Hearing it aloud sends an unpleasant chill trickling down Fenris's spine, chasing away any lingering warmth. It's replaced by cold rage and memory of terror. The faint lyrium glow fades. This is not his story, and yet elements of it strike too close. Too familiar.
Bound. Trapped. A monster. Leashed to every whim. Fenris's own life has been very short by comparison, nor can he quite fathom what it is to live that long. He isn't sure he would want to, if those were the conditions of it.
Astarion finishes and Fenris knows he should speak. He considers how long - and how often - he's had open, bleeding wounds around Astarion. If he is truly fated to live on blood alone, that he hasn't taken advantage or lost any sort of control is all the more impressive. He has questions, but those are best reserved for later.
He takes a deeper breath and lets it go slowly. Remaining silent too long would be cruel, he knows that.
"And so you're telling me this because... you want to stay with me?"
Yes, that is the part he's honing in on. He's still letting the rest percolate.
“If you’re not inclined to chase me off, now that you know the truth.” He jokes, thready in the way that anything that isn’t really a joke sounds when bared to the naked air: paper thin, fragile— maybe a little scared.
But he wears it with a smile. An easy one, his own chin tipped low in something akin to animalistic deference.
Something that’d been absent when he’d been battling for control, or fucking Fenris ever so feverishly into the warm, dew-slicked earth. A clear difference in demeanor.
Fenris thinks of the people he's hurt, ones who took him in and protected him until everything fell apart. He will regret always his weakness then, following orders like a dog that doesn't know better. He hears the uncertainty in Astarion's voice, a fragility that hasn't been shown before. The pale elf is exposing his belly, as it were, vulnerable and tense should there be a violent reaction.
Fenris doesn't want Astarion to be afraid of him.
He moves closer, telegraphing his movements as much as he can to avoid seeming like a threat. He eases into the circle of Astarion's space, bodies touching again. A small, faltering smile appears.
"I've been told I'm not charming enough to refuse friends," he says as he meets Astarion's gaze. "I apparently need anyone who will have me. And I think I know something of what it's like to have your own body or nature as a reminder of... that."
Astarion will never, ever be able to forget what was done to him, fundamentally changed by what his master did. Danarius didn't keep Fenris for a hundred years, but his mark is permanent. Neither of them could possibly be the same creatures they were before some sadist got their hands on them. Fenris leans closer and gently bumps his brow against Astarion's.
"If I haven't chased you off yet, I don't plan to start now. Unless there's some gods-forsaken annoying habit you've been hiding. I've made my peace with the rest."
“Annoying aside from drinking blood, you mean?” Asked both featherlight and wryly in equal measure, Astarion's profile nosing its way in against Fenris’ own, even as that slight smile of his ebbs. Touch for touch— impossibly relieved, even if he isn’t outwardly showing it.
His fingers curl along the edges of torn fabric, feeling out the little nicks and jagged marks left behind from their roughhousing.
“Still, for whatever it’s worth, I find you charming. All those sullen glances, melting away into half-hidden grins." Sharp teeth set themselves gently along Fenris' lower lip, teasing at him— and acclimating him once more to their feel, this time with renewed context.
"Admitting that only makes you question your taste," he mutters, though there is quiet amusement there. He stills as sharp teeth graze his lip. It's impossible not to notice them, especially since he's had Astarion's mouth all over him by now. But those teeth had never been a threat and so he'd looked past them. Wondered, but not enough to bring it up. He can't decide now if he's glad that he didn't, or if it would have given Astarion the opportunity to share all this sooner and thus relieve him of the burden he's been carrying.
"How have you been feeding yourself?" he asks, almost absently - a matter of curiosity (for now) rather than deep concern. Obviously Astarion is finding a way. "Animals?"
Fenris assumes Astarion hunts for the same reason he does, only the parts of an animal they need to survive are a bit different.
There's a reason why Fenris is so well fed. Why none of the hares or birds or even— on occasion— boar he's been brought in his recovery tasted excessively gamey despite the make of the beasts themselves. He might've guessed it already.
One last kiss for good measure and Astarion withdraws slightly into his own space, keeping Fenris' hand tucked light across his chest, held in place by arched fingers that sit light between the edges of those pale blue brands.
And there, he nods. Just once.
"My master forbid me from drinking the blood of anything cognizant. Self-aware. Thinking, as he put it: humans, elves, dwarves— that sort of thing." One more insult suffered as his slave, atop all the rest. "He made sure I only fed on dying rats. Dead flies. Always enough to keep me starved, and all of it as wretched as you'd imagine."
He says it offhandedly. Distantly, even. As if the more passively or happily he talks about old scars, the less real they inevitably become.
"And I still haven't fed on anyone since I broke free. Though I'd be lying if I didn't admit you looked absolutely delectable once or twice, all flush with satisfaction, right up to the tips of those pretty little ears of yours."
Or when he'd bled. Suffered. Ached. Then, too, Astarion was there at his side, battling his own hunger for the sake of seeing Fenris through. It hadn't always been selfless; he'd been certain he'd needed Fenris strong and whole to survive the wilds— let alone the world itself.
Fenris lets Astarion withdraw, but doesn't move himself, especially given that the pale elf is keeping his hand against his chest. He tries not to sneer in distaste - not at Astarion, but at his master's behavior - as he's told about the rats and whatever else Astarion could scrape by on. His thumb strokes over the other man's skin.
His gaze shifts and he meets the strange eyes looking at him, with the firm reassurance that he is in no danger. Fenris thinks he'd be in a worse state if Astarion decided to make a meal of him at any point. He had opportunity. There had been a time that Fenris was too weak to move, never mind fight or escape. But he is here and whole and cared for.
"Do you want to?" he asks, not quite offering but perhaps opening a door, at least, to that possibility. Against his better judgement, Fenris finds himself... curious.
The sidelong glances he casts, stare flickering away in unison with how his voice trails off, is so very telling a thing. Transparent in the most candid sense.
He blinks a little, the edge of his thumb digging slightly against Fenris’ bare palm— but when his attention roams back, something’s shifted in him. Settled, even. Like an unnatural resoluteness, his expression is stilled, his red eyes dark.
“Yes.”
Yes, he’s wanted to. Yes, he still does. How close he’d come to it in their rutting, teeth grazing only to be yanked back at the very last second.
“You’d be my first, you know. The only person I’ve ever bitten.”
A hypothetical scenario, and yet his voice is so deep. So low and humming in his throat, that it carries more gravity than supposition alone.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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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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"Yes," he pants, voice heavy as a hand wraps around his, the new touch electric. Fenris arches his back and he trusts Astarion to stay grounded as he fucks him and drives him toward his end. "Fuck--"
Sometimes the common tongue is best for cursing. Tension rolls through his body and he tries not to cry out (and fails, miserably) as Astarion's intense attention finishes him. His cock pulses against their palms, come smattering over his stomach and their joined hands. He goes tight around the hard length buried in him, dizzy with how it feels to be fucked through this. Muscles tremble and the hand in Astarion's hair tightens as he tries to resist the urge to curl forward, to give in to that feeling.
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It doesn't just spread throughout the whole of Fenris' arched, straining form, but through Astarion's as well: kindled by the way Fenris' hips shudder, as his muscles tighten and lock and clench and oh— oh how they ease, too, compounding the magnitude of each friction laced thrust— turning Astarion's throaty purr into something louder, and hungry, and more than anything else ragged with lingering need.
He feels Fenris catch his curls, knuckles tight across his scalp, pulling. He feels their positioning shift, and no, he doesn't let Fenris fall. Even as he pumps harder still, his own thighs slicked with sweat (and trace streaks of Fenris' ambrosian come) trembling from spent effort.
Oh, he's nearly there— and with that moment of rushing pressure his fangs press themselves along the edge of Fenris' throat—
Only to slip aside in the very next moment, instead scuffing light along vulnerable skin as he gasps, choked-off, against how fiercely his composure breaks beneath the spell of his own climax. Messy and entirely, utterly unraveled, slickness spilling in pattering droplets each time he forces their hips to meet.
Chasing the last little slivers of that numbing high.
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Fenris remains somewhat tense in Astarion's arms, purely to keep himself from falling forward the way he wants to. Too soon, his hand slips from pale curls and he drops back to the ground, hands pressed to the ground as he tries to keep his hips back against the cradle of Astarion's. He's panting, ragged and heavy, as he slowly melts lower. It's through sheer will and Astarion's grip that his hips stay up at all. But he doesn't want to lose that feeling yet, the sated fullness.
Pale hair clings to his face and the lyrium marks seem a little more vivid as he tries to catch his breath.
It's been so long since he felt this good, this... in control? All of this happened by his choice, from start to finish his body has been fully his own. And for the first time in just as long, he has been fully present throughout, no attempts to let his mind escape what his body could not.
Fenris rests his head against own arm, trying not to collapse completely.
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This, this beautiful creature, strange and elusive and utterly wild in its make, lies so content beneath him.
And then, with a subtle pull, tension between them slipping away all at once, Astarion lets himself slide free, one cinching little grunt of acclimation squeezed between his fangs. The air is so much colder, the loss of touch less satisfying, but as he half tucks himself away it’s for the best, he decides, given that it means he can lie down beside Fenris instead. A few fingers lifting to brush aside the sweat-soaked span of a few locks of hair.
“Listen to me, darling.”
If he can. If he’s present enough, or if his ears aren’t still ringing from climax.
“That was wonderful— you were wonderful— but there’s something you should know.” Soft-spoken, slow and patient. A little dizzied still from that ebbing high, but there’s a gravity that lives just beneath the surface, let loose in the very next beat.
“About me. What I am. Or...I should say, what my master made me into.”
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Listen to me, isn't what he's expecting, and given that it's unexpected he focuses in sharply through the pleasant haze of his afterglow. It's the tone that catches him. Immediately his mind starts conjuring possibilities, none of them good, regarding what he might have to listen to.
But he stays silent, waiting for Astarion to continue. Fenris also stays still, flat on his stomach with his arms now folded beneath his head, gaze intent though his body yet seems relaxed. Better to keep his tension hidden, if he can.
He is not comforted by the rest. Fenris pushes himself up slowly until he's sitting, though for the moment his weight is resting more on his hip and thigh to spare himself the mild discomfort. It will fade, he knows that.
"What did he make you?" he asks, guarded but--not entirely closed off. Astarion is looking at a creature made by a master, after all. The marks forever burned into his skin. Fenris waits, quiet and fully pulled from the pleasant feeling of a few moments ago.
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But they can’t go on like this— no, correction: he can’t go on like this, feeling his wicked heart beat again without knowing whether or not he’ll be chased off once the truth comes into full focus. Caring, without—
“I’m sure you’ve noticed it by now, given that you’re not blind,” he lifts a pale hand and— oh, no. That one has come on it, he realizes, chuckling only briefly as he wipes it along the edge of his shirt.
And then the smile fades.
This time he motions again, towards his face. His own pale visage. “My eyes. My fangs. Abnormal traits all, even amongst albinic creatures. The curse my master infected me with— alongside a nasty little caveat, too.”
His hand, the one that’d been scuffing along Fenris’ scalp, withdraws at last; he isn’t quite certain Fenris will want his touch with what comes next in play.
“The night he changed me, Cazador bound me to him, both body and soul, so that I could never flee his side. So that I’d become a monster, cursed to feed on blood alone, never aging. Never dying. Leashed to his every whim for two hundred years.” Endlessly. Always.
And then not.
“I escaped only because something here broke his puppeting control over me. I don’t know what, and I won’t ever stop to fret over why. But...”
But.
“Now, for the first time in all those years, I’ve finally found myself not wanting to leave someone else’s side.”
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So what would eye color or strange teeth matter to him?
He listens, intent and still and quiet in a way some have found eerie. The stillness of one who has wanted to go unseen, unnoticed in plain sight. The name - Cazador - means nothing to him, but it doesn't need to. Hearing it aloud sends an unpleasant chill trickling down Fenris's spine, chasing away any lingering warmth. It's replaced by cold rage and memory of terror. The faint lyrium glow fades. This is not his story, and yet elements of it strike too close. Too familiar.
Bound. Trapped. A monster. Leashed to every whim. Fenris's own life has been very short by comparison, nor can he quite fathom what it is to live that long. He isn't sure he would want to, if those were the conditions of it.
Astarion finishes and Fenris knows he should speak. He considers how long - and how often - he's had open, bleeding wounds around Astarion. If he is truly fated to live on blood alone, that he hasn't taken advantage or lost any sort of control is all the more impressive. He has questions, but those are best reserved for later.
He takes a deeper breath and lets it go slowly. Remaining silent too long would be cruel, he knows that.
"And so you're telling me this because... you want to stay with me?"
Yes, that is the part he's honing in on. He's still letting the rest percolate.
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But he wears it with a smile. An easy one, his own chin tipped low in something akin to animalistic deference.
Something that’d been absent when he’d been battling for control, or fucking Fenris ever so feverishly into the warm, dew-slicked earth. A clear difference in demeanor.
In expectation, too.
“...you won’t, will you?”
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Fenris doesn't want Astarion to be afraid of him.
He moves closer, telegraphing his movements as much as he can to avoid seeming like a threat. He eases into the circle of Astarion's space, bodies touching again. A small, faltering smile appears.
"I've been told I'm not charming enough to refuse friends," he says as he meets Astarion's gaze. "I apparently need anyone who will have me. And I think I know something of what it's like to have your own body or nature as a reminder of... that."
Astarion will never, ever be able to forget what was done to him, fundamentally changed by what his master did. Danarius didn't keep Fenris for a hundred years, but his mark is permanent. Neither of them could possibly be the same creatures they were before some sadist got their hands on them. Fenris leans closer and gently bumps his brow against Astarion's.
"If I haven't chased you off yet, I don't plan to start now. Unless there's some gods-forsaken annoying habit you've been hiding. I've made my peace with the rest."
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His fingers curl along the edges of torn fabric, feeling out the little nicks and jagged marks left behind from their roughhousing.
“Still, for whatever it’s worth, I find you charming. All those sullen glances, melting away into half-hidden grins." Sharp teeth set themselves gently along Fenris' lower lip, teasing at him— and acclimating him once more to their feel, this time with renewed context.
"Very alluring."
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"How have you been feeding yourself?" he asks, almost absently - a matter of curiosity (for now) rather than deep concern. Obviously Astarion is finding a way. "Animals?"
Fenris assumes Astarion hunts for the same reason he does, only the parts of an animal they need to survive are a bit different.
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One last kiss for good measure and Astarion withdraws slightly into his own space, keeping Fenris' hand tucked light across his chest, held in place by arched fingers that sit light between the edges of those pale blue brands.
And there, he nods. Just once.
"My master forbid me from drinking the blood of anything cognizant. Self-aware. Thinking, as he put it: humans, elves, dwarves— that sort of thing." One more insult suffered as his slave, atop all the rest. "He made sure I only fed on dying rats. Dead flies. Always enough to keep me starved, and all of it as wretched as you'd imagine."
He says it offhandedly. Distantly, even. As if the more passively or happily he talks about old scars, the less real they inevitably become.
"And I still haven't fed on anyone since I broke free. Though I'd be lying if I didn't admit you looked absolutely delectable once or twice, all flush with satisfaction, right up to the tips of those pretty little ears of yours."
Or when he'd bled. Suffered. Ached. Then, too, Astarion was there at his side, battling his own hunger for the sake of seeing Fenris through. It hadn't always been selfless; he'd been certain he'd needed Fenris strong and whole to survive the wilds— let alone the world itself.
It is now, though.
"...but I didn't. I wouldn't."
Or, more accurately:
"Not unless you asked."
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His gaze shifts and he meets the strange eyes looking at him, with the firm reassurance that he is in no danger. Fenris thinks he'd be in a worse state if Astarion decided to make a meal of him at any point. He had opportunity. There had been a time that Fenris was too weak to move, never mind fight or escape. But he is here and whole and cared for.
"Do you want to?" he asks, not quite offering but perhaps opening a door, at least, to that possibility. Against his better judgement, Fenris finds himself... curious.
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The sidelong glances he casts, stare flickering away in unison with how his voice trails off, is so very telling a thing. Transparent in the most candid sense.
He blinks a little, the edge of his thumb digging slightly against Fenris’ bare palm— but when his attention roams back, something’s shifted in him. Settled, even. Like an unnatural resoluteness, his expression is stilled, his red eyes dark.
“Yes.”
Yes, he’s wanted to. Yes, he still does. How close he’d come to it in their rutting, teeth grazing only to be yanked back at the very last second.
“You’d be my first, you know. The only person I’ve ever bitten.”
A hypothetical scenario, and yet his voice is so deep. So low and humming in his throat, that it carries more gravity than supposition alone.
Compounded when he adds, just a moment later:
“The only one I want to.”
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