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.
Fenris holds that red gaze, unflinching as Astarion confesses that he does want to. He recalls vividly the graze of sharp teeth, wonders how difficult it was for him to hold back while indulging in other things. For some reason, even after all the pale elf just said, Fenris is still surprised to hear he would be Astarion's first person. There's a strange excitement in that, one he wasn't expecting.
And somehow hearing that he is the first - only? - one Astarion has Wanted to bite fans that flame. Fenris huffs a laugh and looks away, feeling faint heat in his face.
"You have terrible taste," he mutters, but he does nothing to escape or pull away. His hand remains where it is, held lightly in place, and he does not put any distance between them. "But, if you want to, I... don't think I'm opposed to the idea."
He's curious. Normally far more cautious than this, he trusts Astarion not to kill him and he trusts his own resolute desire to live - if things go badly, he's confident he can end it. One way or another.
“Then come here.” He breathes, using his hold on that hand like a line: smooth when he pulls Fenris nearer, though it’s more fluidity and willing momentum than anything else more demanding— there’s no force behind it, no cruelty when he pushes himself to his knees and moves to lift Fenris up into his arms.
(A surprisingly gentle process, for there is so much vulnerability tangled up within it. So much sacrifice, and his own cold heart is leaping in his chest for it, awake in a way it hasn’t been in all the years he can remember.
A gift.
A precious, wondrous gift.
And he treats it with all due respect.)
Kisses the slope of Fenris’ neck, letting his lips trail along the softer beating of that pulse, feeling out where it sings strongest. Slow, and tender, the meandering path of his mouth. Doting from the base of his heart.
And then he strikes.
Long fangs quick as they slip through skin. Though muscle and tissue alike. Harsh as a shard of ice, cold and chilling to the bone— before it ebbs. Before numbness, blissful in its spreading mercy, settles in like a heavy blanket, stilling the gnawing response of Fenris’ nerves.
He tastes divine.
It’s like the finest wine dripped across the tongue of a beggar who’s only ever drank from street drains. Overwhelming in its potency. Incomparable in its make. Gods, it startles him, the live wire bite of it, stronger than any well-aged brandy, his mind swimming as it trickles smoothly down its throat, heady high thriving in his veins.
He’s never known anything like it. He’s never thought anything like it could exist at all—
And he wants so much more, one hand already slipping low between Fenris' thighs.
Fenris moves with easy grace into Astarion's arms, straddling the other man. His hands rest on strong shoulders, light but prepared to shove should he have need. He knows what it is to eat something fine after too long living off scraps and while he trusts this man, desperation makes dangerous creatures.
Still, he cannot help but tilt his head as Astarion's mouth trails down his neck. By virtue of his master's design, lyrium curves up the most vulnerable parts of his throat and it is sensitive. He ignores the sting, hoping it will fade. This has been so good til now, he doesn't want to retreat.
One hand strokes up the back of Astarion's neck and his fingers wind into pale hair. Fenris knows how thin the skin covering his pulse is, know how little it takes to do damage there. And even knowing Astarion must break through to get his prize, he still tenses as sharp, piercing pain sinks through him. His fingers go tight but he makes no attempt to drag Asatarion back. Fenris holds on.
He expects to endure the pain longer, but it fades as another feeling washes over him: pleasant and numb as he bleeds. His grip relaxes and Fenris sighs, draping his other arm over Astarion's shoulder. It feels like drifting, floating, and his mind wanders until he feels a hand pushing down between his thighs. The spark of arousal startles him, be Fenris doesn't resist it.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, though it sounds far more like affection than condemnation.
Drunk and dizzyingly content, and reveling in the heretofore unknown ecstasy of feeding— truly feeding— he draws back not long after he starts, tongue bathing those puncture marks in soft, stolen heat, coaxing them into coagulating as his fingers slip down beneath tattered laces, pulling softly at the base of Fenris’ prick. Slow. All of it slow. Drawn out to the last detail, breath pooling hot against the backs of his own teeth.
He tastes spice and heat. Ozone and— he doesn’t know. Magic, maybe? Intoxicating down to the last detail, drowning his focus like a siren song.
“For you? Always...” He pants, tongue curling slightly as his head tips down. “Open your legs for me, my darling.”
Another nip, sharp and snaring across the front of Fenris’ throat.
“Let me do more than taste you.”
Though what chases that murmur is another, far hungrier bite.
Fenris sighs as a hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly as Astarion licks the pinprick wounds left behind. The sound of his voice is heady and Fenris thinks nothing of it as he spreads his legs again, offering Astarion more access to whatever part of him he wants.
"Yes," he breathes, offering further permission should the pale elf want to hear him say it.
And then those fangs are biting into his throat again and Fenris makes a sharp, startled sound, fingers tight in the Astarion's hair as his back arches. The wave of tension that comes with the shock of pain passes again and Fenris rolls his hips, seeking that touch again with a quieter sound.
A few soft curses fall from his lips, Astarion's name on the tail end. Fenris tries to pay attention to his own body beyond the hands on him. His heart is beating harder, but that's as much due to arousal as the threat of sharp teeth at his neck. He isn't lightheaded just yet, not in a way that is truly concerning, though it is suddenly tempting to go limp in Astarion's hold.
It’s charming, how earnest Fenris is, even submerged beneath the throes of overwhelming sensation. Voice laced with ardor in that single exhale: yes. Yes, he says, as though Astarion might’ve wavered otherwise. As though he isn’t teetering on the edge of his own relentless hunger, a sanguine monster not meant to be trusted in the slightest.
And there’s such strange mercy in that. Such humanity spared for a thing like him.
If he hadn’t fallen for Fenris before this moment, he might’ve now.
His hold on the base of Fenris’ prick is fierce; his hold on his throat equally as demanding, and the two work in tangent to overwhelm. Deft fingers shuttling down, squeezing tight just before they drag upwards against the ridge line. A coaxing rhythm, warming him to the idea of relaxing into him completely.
When Astarion breaks away, lips still painted with dripping crimson, it’s only to kiss and suck with lazy attention at Fenris’ neck, mouthing praise down into vulnerable skin.
You’re delicious in so many ways, I could spend an eternity marking them all.
His movements stir faintly, that shuttling pace quickens.
How beautiful you look like this.
Because he is. He truly is, resting there entirely undone within Astarion's grasp.
Fenris breathes harder where he's held against the other elf, cock aching with every delicious stroke and for a moment it feels as if Astarion is demanding everything of him. His arm stays tight around Astarion's shoulders as the bite on his neck ends. He feels the praise falling from the pale elf's bloody mouth as much as he hears it.
He sinks into the man holding him, hips moving weakly to meet the steady, insistent stroke of his hand. Faster, until Fenris isn't entirely sure if the lightheadedness is due to a loss of blood - surely it hadn't been that much? - or the aching surge of arousal. A wordless moan escapes him and he shudders as that feeling builds in him.
Fenris practically drapes himself over Astarion, trusting him for support as he shudders in his release as it's dragged from him. Faster than he would have thought, but Astarion's determination and his undivided attention are more than enough to work him to his end. He breathes in sharply, tries to muffle his moan against the other man's shoulder as he shivers apart.
He croons it out in breathless wonderment, his fingers slicked with feverishly warm come, his lips slicked with maddeningly intoxicating blood (magic— magic, he’s sure of it now, that’s what he tastes in the back of his throat) as he draws Fenris further into his arms. The elf’s pulse is rabbiting now, of course, but it’s only from the dizzied high of an orgasm spent: there’s no tinge of fear to it.
Throughout the entire affair, there never was.
Astarion, who so often watched his master bring howling ruin to trusting prey, doesn’t quite know what to make of it beyond the subtle heat already swimming brightly in his chest. He feels lost to it for a time, busying himself with nuzzling his companion. Lapping him clean, bit by steady bit—
Which…all right, has the unintended side effect of making him look like an overgrown cat, but ask him if he minds.
“…how do you feel?”
How was it for you, he means, without saying it aloud.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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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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And somehow hearing that he is the first - only? - one Astarion has Wanted to bite fans that flame. Fenris huffs a laugh and looks away, feeling faint heat in his face.
"You have terrible taste," he mutters, but he does nothing to escape or pull away. His hand remains where it is, held lightly in place, and he does not put any distance between them. "But, if you want to, I... don't think I'm opposed to the idea."
He's curious. Normally far more cautious than this, he trusts Astarion not to kill him and he trusts his own resolute desire to live - if things go badly, he's confident he can end it. One way or another.
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(A surprisingly gentle process, for there is so much vulnerability tangled up within it. So much sacrifice, and his own cold heart is leaping in his chest for it, awake in a way it hasn’t been in all the years he can remember.
A gift.
A precious, wondrous gift.
And he treats it with all due respect.)
Kisses the slope of Fenris’ neck, letting his lips trail along the softer beating of that pulse, feeling out where it sings strongest. Slow, and tender, the meandering path of his mouth. Doting from the base of his heart.
And then he strikes.
Long fangs quick as they slip through skin. Though muscle and tissue alike. Harsh as a shard of ice, cold and chilling to the bone— before it ebbs. Before numbness, blissful in its spreading mercy, settles in like a heavy blanket, stilling the gnawing response of Fenris’ nerves.
He tastes divine.
It’s like the finest wine dripped across the tongue of a beggar who’s only ever drank from street drains. Overwhelming in its potency. Incomparable in its make. Gods, it startles him, the live wire bite of it, stronger than any well-aged brandy, his mind swimming as it trickles smoothly down its throat, heady high thriving in his veins.
He’s never known anything like it. He’s never thought anything like it could exist at all—
And he wants so much more, one hand already slipping low between Fenris' thighs.
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Still, he cannot help but tilt his head as Astarion's mouth trails down his neck. By virtue of his master's design, lyrium curves up the most vulnerable parts of his throat and it is sensitive. He ignores the sting, hoping it will fade. This has been so good til now, he doesn't want to retreat.
One hand strokes up the back of Astarion's neck and his fingers wind into pale hair. Fenris knows how thin the skin covering his pulse is, know how little it takes to do damage there. And even knowing Astarion must break through to get his prize, he still tenses as sharp, piercing pain sinks through him. His fingers go tight but he makes no attempt to drag Asatarion back. Fenris holds on.
He expects to endure the pain longer, but it fades as another feeling washes over him: pleasant and numb as he bleeds. His grip relaxes and Fenris sighs, draping his other arm over Astarion's shoulder. It feels like drifting, floating, and his mind wanders until he feels a hand pushing down between his thighs. The spark of arousal startles him, be Fenris doesn't resist it.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, though it sounds far more like affection than condemnation.
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Drunk and dizzyingly content, and reveling in the heretofore unknown ecstasy of feeding— truly feeding— he draws back not long after he starts, tongue bathing those puncture marks in soft, stolen heat, coaxing them into coagulating as his fingers slip down beneath tattered laces, pulling softly at the base of Fenris’ prick. Slow. All of it slow. Drawn out to the last detail, breath pooling hot against the backs of his own teeth.
He tastes spice and heat. Ozone and— he doesn’t know. Magic, maybe? Intoxicating down to the last detail, drowning his focus like a siren song.
“For you? Always...” He pants, tongue curling slightly as his head tips down. “Open your legs for me, my darling.”
Another nip, sharp and snaring across the front of Fenris’ throat.
“Let me do more than taste you.”
Though what chases that murmur is another, far hungrier bite.
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"Yes," he breathes, offering further permission should the pale elf want to hear him say it.
And then those fangs are biting into his throat again and Fenris makes a sharp, startled sound, fingers tight in the Astarion's hair as his back arches. The wave of tension that comes with the shock of pain passes again and Fenris rolls his hips, seeking that touch again with a quieter sound.
A few soft curses fall from his lips, Astarion's name on the tail end. Fenris tries to pay attention to his own body beyond the hands on him. His heart is beating harder, but that's as much due to arousal as the threat of sharp teeth at his neck. He isn't lightheaded just yet, not in a way that is truly concerning, though it is suddenly tempting to go limp in Astarion's hold.
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And there’s such strange mercy in that. Such humanity spared for a thing like him.
If he hadn’t fallen for Fenris before this moment, he might’ve now.
His hold on the base of Fenris’ prick is fierce; his hold on his throat equally as demanding, and the two work in tangent to overwhelm. Deft fingers shuttling down, squeezing tight just before they drag upwards against the ridge line. A coaxing rhythm, warming him to the idea of relaxing into him completely.
When Astarion breaks away, lips still painted with dripping crimson, it’s only to kiss and suck with lazy attention at Fenris’ neck, mouthing praise down into vulnerable skin.
You’re delicious in so many ways, I could spend an eternity marking them all.
His movements stir faintly, that shuttling pace quickens.
How beautiful you look like this.
Because he is. He truly is, resting there entirely undone within Astarion's grasp.
How much I’d steal from you if I could—
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He sinks into the man holding him, hips moving weakly to meet the steady, insistent stroke of his hand. Faster, until Fenris isn't entirely sure if the lightheadedness is due to a loss of blood - surely it hadn't been that much? - or the aching surge of arousal. A wordless moan escapes him and he shudders as that feeling builds in him.
Fenris practically drapes himself over Astarion, trusting him for support as he shudders in his release as it's dragged from him. Faster than he would have thought, but Astarion's determination and his undivided attention are more than enough to work him to his end. He breathes in sharply, tries to muffle his moan against the other man's shoulder as he shivers apart.
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He croons it out in breathless wonderment, his fingers slicked with feverishly warm come, his lips slicked with maddeningly intoxicating blood (magic— magic, he’s sure of it now, that’s what he tastes in the back of his throat) as he draws Fenris further into his arms. The elf’s pulse is rabbiting now, of course, but it’s only from the dizzied high of an orgasm spent: there’s no tinge of fear to it.
Throughout the entire affair, there never was.
Astarion, who so often watched his master bring howling ruin to trusting prey, doesn’t quite know what to make of it beyond the subtle heat already swimming brightly in his chest. He feels lost to it for a time, busying himself with nuzzling his companion. Lapping him clean, bit by steady bit—
Which…all right, has the unintended side effect of making him look like an overgrown cat, but ask him if he minds.
“…how do you feel?”
How was it for you, he means, without saying it aloud.
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