“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.
He mutters a curse at Astarion in response to being called pretty, but there's barely any venom behind it. He presses his face against Astarion's neck while the pale elf licks at his skin clean. Fenris can't help the way he shivers and shudders as that tongue sweeps over sensitive lyrium marks. He doesn't feel raw, for which he's grateful. He doesn't want to be driven to pull away now by pain.
He doesn't want to pull away at all.
His fingers stroke lightly, lazily, over whatever skin is immediately available to touch as Astarion finds his voice again.
"Fine," he murmurs, lazy more than anything else; two orgasms and a bit of blood loss will do that. Fenris supposes he can try to muster more of an answer than that, though. He finds himself wondering if Astarion is at all anxious about any of this.
"I don't know what I was expecting," he confesses, and as he speaks a smile creeps into his voice. "But ending up boneless in your arms wasn't actually it."
Fenris makes himself sit up so that he can meet Astarion's gaze. Very deliberately, he lifts his hands to hold the other man's face still so that he can kiss him. It isn't chaste, but neither is it overly heated.
"I wouldn't be opposed to doing that again, I think."
“Duly noted.” Astarion manages after the most mild of distracted pauses— a byproduct of that doting kiss (and how he fights the urge to nip even then, knowing full well pressing Fenris for too much will only lead to him being laid up once more...a prospect that won’t help either of them while they’re still entirely on the run), though some part of it must be strange for Fenris, given that it tastes of bitter iron still.
His head dips against the adoring press of Fenris’ roughened palm, reveling in its anchoring weight.
“But I think next time will have to wait, lest I leave you unable to move at all which— all right, I’ll admit has its appeal, delicious as you look right now in so many more ways than one.” Said ever so teasingly with a lone squeeze to that spent prick, knowing full well the overstimulation it’ll arouse.
From there, though, he’s tame. Well-behaved.
Careful when he tucks Fenris back into his trousers. More careful still when he gathers the man into his arms (the wound at his own side already healed from drinking thoroughly enriched blood), carting him back to that decrepit cabin and its shaded recesses.
“But we’ve earned our right to roam, now. I’d say it’s high time we exercised it.”
And they do, in fact, not long after.
Drawing nearer to the Minanter, eventually finding their way to a city flat that isn’t utterly in moldering decay. It isn’t easy to vanish, a pair like them: one albinic elf with fangs of all things, another marked with lyrium that glows in lightless places, but if nothing else the elves that dwell nearby don’t seem inclined to tattle.
At least not for the moment.
It’s with that in mind that Astarion comes stumbling in on the second night, clutching an armful of heavy bottles all coated with a thick layer of dust. Rich wine. Excellent wine.
….expensive wine, probably.
“Would you look at what I caught today, left out unattended in someone’s open cellar?”
Fenris has practice in going unseen in cities, but he's accustomed to doing so alone. There's strange relief to share that burden, of knowing he is not the only one watching his back at all times. He does depend on the silence of alienage elves. The communities are tight-knit and he never knows how far that trust can go - he suspects strangers will be the first given up should anything happen.
Like theft, perhaps.
Fenris lifts a brow as Astarion appears, carrying several bottles of wine that look like they were dug out of a cellar. His expression doesn't shift much, save for a subtle turn toward annoyance.
"Two fugitives and half a case of stolen wine?" It's not even the theft that bothers him - he's learned enough light-fingered sleight-of-hand to make off with bread when he needs it - but this isn't survival, this is luxury. "Are you sure you weren't followed?"
It wouldn't just their skins in trouble at that point. Fenris is fairly confident in their ability to escape. The alienage would take the brunt of the shems' anger.
“Mostly sure.” Astarion preens proudly, already working out the cork of an exceptionally beautiful bottle, finally getting it loose with a subtle, thrumming pop.
The others have been set down already, and he offers the first of his stolen gains to Fenris, neck first, its sweetened aroma curling in the air between them.
“Kidding, darling.”
Added before he takes any seething psychic damage from one very diligent, dour elf.
“What do you think I am, an amateur? I’ve been roaming streets in search of prey for two centuries: I know how to get away with a little petty larceny.”
Fenris holds his deadpan stare, then rolls his eyes and accepts the bottle offered to him. It's already stolen, he doesn't see any sense in refusing it. The scent is sweet and tempting, and the offer of a little luxury given their current state of affairs is difficult to pass up.
But he certainly can't be seen giving over so quickly, so he makes sure that token resistance is clear before the bottle passes from Astarion's hand to his. He might not actually be displeased, but he can play the part for a little while. Fenris takes a drink and resists the urge to sign at the taste. More dry than scent would suggest, perfect in the way it feels in his mouth. Fenris holds onto the bottle. If Astarion wants it back, he's going to have to come closer.
"Given how much we stand out uncovered, we should still be discreet." Any eye would note one elf pale as the moons and another glowing like starlight. Even if Astarion is as good as all that, even if Fenris too has years of practice hiding in plain sight, they are memorable.
His gaze lingers on his companion and there his a smile hiding there and in the barest curve of his mouth. Whatever complaints he has... it's nice not to be alone.
"I'm not exactly known for my discretion." Astarion counters smoothly (sweetly), slipping in behind Fenris and winding his fingers just around the front of his chest. Serpentine movements, graceful in the way they're wholly without pressure, flitting light across the thin front of Fenris' shirt— fiddling with the clasps.
His lips finding their way to the slope of a brilliantly tattooed neck in the very next second, hips pressed close.
He smells of wine already.
"I did this for you, you know..." And for himself too, but that's less important. "Something to celebrate upgrading from a rotting shack in the woods to a rotting shack in the city."
His tongue lathes over dusky skin, dodging pale blue filigree with ease. A prelude to a bite that (miraculously) doesn't break skin.
His back straightens as Astarion presses in behind him, arms sliding around as lips brush over his neck. His eyes nearly close for the trailing kisses and Fenris shifts back to ensure their bodies are fully pressed together.
"Oh, just for me? How callous I've been." Surely Astarion can hear the roll of his eyes as much as the amusement in his voice. Another subtle shift, weight pressed back into the pale elf as lips are replaced by tongue and teeth. Even if sharp points don't break skin, the pressure calls to memory deeper bites.
"How would you like to celebrate, then? I've been so careless as to not plan anything."
Fenris takes another drink from the bottle, once again swept up in the luxurious taste of it. No hint of sour vinegar of old or just bad wine. This is the sort of thing he served at tables once upon a time.
“Oh, indeed.” Sweetly-voiced, his words embedded in the warmer slope of Fenris’ throat where it slides down into his shoulder. Warm. Hot, even. Kindling as the friction of their lower bodies. “I suffer so much for your satisfaction, selfless thing that I am.”
Pretty little thief. Strange little stray.
The creature he’d never expected to fall for, and yet how remarkable that in so short a span, the barest touch turns them recklessly into one another’s hold: Fenris bearing his body in against Astarion’s own, the once hope-shy vampire doing precisely the same in turn.
He isn’t so afraid anymore.
Another bite, another roll of his hips to press the heavy weight of it against Fenris, and his fangs sink in this time— shallow. A tepid bit of blood, barely a few pinpricks, but still so maddeningly sweet to Astarion’s senses.
“Share it with me, darling.” Tongue bathing the marks he’s made, he opens his mouth afterwards, clearly angling for the bottle of wine.
Fenris cannot stop or hide the jump in his pulse at the sharper bite, teeth just piercing for a shallow taste. His grip tightens on the neck of the bottle and he takes a steadying breath while that tongue soothes the marks left behind. He glances as best he can at the pale elf hanging over his shoulder and adjusts his hold on the wine so that he can offer it up without dousing either of them. A different sweetness for Astarion's senses.
The lyrium-marked creature in his arms is trying to ignore the distraction of the body pressed against his own to little avail. Fenris knows his own desire to give in will win out eventually, no matter his token resistance. Astarion's dedication has made it possible to feel pleasure in a body that has only brought him pain and loneliness for years. It's a heady thing now to push past that and experience something else, including the strange intimacy they share - but intimacy all the same.
"You are as selfless as any lush," he drawls, a smirk coloring his voice.
"What a pair we make, then." Astarion purrs in contented response, leaning forward on the edges of his feet to catch that bottle with his mouth, drinking more than greedily (luckily, they have more of it to spare), deft fingertips swift in sweeping their way beneath the waistline of Fenris' trousers, curling wickedly around the base of his warming cock.
Slow pressure, coaxing and deliberately inciting, Astarion takes his time with each vulgar, drawn out stroke: rolling the edge of his thumb along the underside of him, matching it to the subdued shifting of his hips— chasing sensation over any amount of hurried demands. Feeling him inch by adored inch. Marking the contours of his body through the press of Astarion's own.
It's intimate in a way that's more transparent than usual, perhaps—
Not that Astarion seems to realize that fact, licking the wine from his lips before returning to scuffing his attention across (and around) fresher bite marks once more.
It doesn't take long, however, for him to (ever so discreetly) work Fenris up against the wall. Chest to shadowed wood, hips drawn back to leave room for Astarion to continue shuttling his hold across him in devilish detail.
"Drink faster, darling. I want your hands free for this."
What a pair indeed. The first slide and stroke of Astarion's hand earns a heavy exhale and the reward of Fenris's cock hardening slowly against his palm. Should he have expected this? Perhaps. But he is not of a mind to put up much of a fight as the warmth pleasure coils in him and arousal spikes. Astarion is taking his time and it gives Fenris a chance to savor the lingering touch, even as that mouth returns to his neck. He tips his head, allows the pale elf that space to do what he will.
He does not miss that he is being angled to the wall, but somehow he still does not expect to find himself pressed against it until he is. Fenris braces his free hand against the wall to avoid being pinned so completely, and indeed, to make sure there is room for Astarion's hand to continue it's coaxing, teasing stroke. He takes a long, pointed drink from the bottle in hand.
After he swallows, he takes a breath and turns his head to try to get a look at the man pressed up behind him.
"Free for what?" he asks mildly, as if there is not heavy intention in his position and the hands on him. He takes another pull from the bottle - drinking faster is not exactly a challenge.
Even tipsy, Fenris is such a sharp thing. In mind and tongue alike, and as Astarion nips his way up the span of Fenris’ neck (some bites barely breaking skin, others not at all— a sort of game meant to leave his darling companion guessing as to what comes next), his strokes turn far more insistent: wringing pressure, index finger slipping sweetly over the tip of his prick, feeling out the narrowest spot where slickness beads in hungry little droplets, precome soft beneath the gentle glide of his finger as he smooths it across feverish skin.
“Why, for playing tag, darling— ” Astarion mouths coyly, dry tone slithering over lyrium marks and smooth skin alike, flitting beneath the edge of his collar.
“For sex, of course. Raucous, rowdy, dangerously untamed sex.”
His grip squeezes, his hips buck forward, leaving a heavy, unmistakable pressure to nestle in against the taut curvature of Fenris’ ass— the most obscene overture of what's to come.
“Or did you imagine we’d celebrate any differently?”
Fenris bows his head as teeth nip and bite without truly satisfying pressure. He bares his own in a silent growl as Astarion's seeking fingers spread the leaking evidence of his arousal over hard and fevered flesh. He grinds against Astarion's hand as much as he can and that ensures he also feels the firm press against his ass as the pale elf bucks against him. He holds back a groan.
"You are aware that our nearest neighbors are no longer goats and rabbits, yes?"
It isn't the sex he objects to - he would have made himself clear by now - but loud sex that will surely be heard through thin walls or floorboards.
Or perhaps it's merely a challenge: how badly does Astarion want it? How persuasive is he willing to be? As if the knowing hand working him up isn't enough.
“I was counting on it, actually.” Astarion breathes, only barely managing to stifle the sharpest start of a throaty groan when his companion rocks back against him. Hells, it’s maddening in its own right: how much he wants what he’s being oh so deliberately kept from.
“Or...are you afraid of getting caught?”
Simple bait, offering the marked elf beneath him a challenge of all things— but he does enjoy rousing him from embers over even the smallest of nipping comments.
“We could always feign at fighting again: I’m sure you’ve thought about it since the our last little tussle.”
And this time— this time his bite is far sharper, puncturing bare skin rather than lyrium lines, matching the way he grinds his own hips harshly forward.
A subtle spark of adrenaline.
“And if not that, perhaps I ought to put you to the window. Let our new neighbors find themselves serenaded.”
Fenris tightens his jaw to keep the sound that rises in his throat from escaping as Astarion's teeth sink into him. It has the desired effect: a rush of adrenaline to join the already potent arousal. He makes himself take another heavy drink from the bottle, not quite draining it but between them it's nearly down to the dregs.
It's the threat to put him out the window that gets a sharp elbow toward Astarion's side - hardly a real rebuke, it grazes rather than landing straight on. Of course he's thought of that fight. How could he not, even when they sleep beside each other? It's so easy to want more.
"You are absolutely not bending me over the window," he insists, breathy but firm in that. Anywhere else in the bloody room he'll accept. He lets the bottle dangle from his fingers and when it drops, it doesn't drop far. The thick bottom of the bottle hits the floor with only a little wobble and that leaves Fenris's hand free to reach back, tangling in Astarion's pale hair as he gives a more insistent push of his hips.
It grazes, but it’s present all the same— prompting a quickened peal of laughter painted a beautiful shade of crimson across his lips.
He’d be lying if he tried to claim he didn’t love it whenever Fenris gets rough; these days it feels less like a swat to the nose and more an invitation to let loose. To forget all pretense and faux sweetness and cede to the monstrous hunger boiling in his veins. Tempered, yes, but present. Potent. Always more wanting than Astarion tries to let slip for fear of being reviled.
As he so often reviles himself.
Strong fingers tangle in his hair, and this time, with a lowered growl, Astarion lifts Fenris in a sudden burst of movement: hands snaking beneath the marked elf’s thighs, angling him tighter against the wall— pinned by both the press of Astarion’s body and a vampire’s corded strength.
No more preludes. No more pretense. Only barely free of his clothing (and yet slick with lilac oil already— ah, how he’d prepared for this— Astarion spreads Fenris’ legs even wider for good measure, offering the most teasing little feverish tap with the crown of his thoroughly stiffened length to that taut entrance before fitting Fenris with a steadier press.
Another bite. Another lap of his tongue, doting as his voice rumbles deep within his throat.
Fenris voices an answering growl as Astarion grabs at his thighs and shoves him into the wall. His chest hits and the pressure behind him forces his back straighter, narrowing the space between him and the wall. Thighs soon forced further apart, Fenris's fingers tighten in Astarion's pale hair when feels the press of his already-slick cock against him, into him, with little prelude.
His eyes flutter but do not close as he's taken, inch by inch, with only the wall to keep him up. Panting as teeth sink into him again and the vampire's tongue tends the spot. Fenris's body yields slowly, and he would bow his head if he had room to do it. Instead, his brow bumps against the wall, white hair in his face as that voice rumbles behind him.
"So confident," he mutters, accent heavier. "Just waiting for the chance?"
He can't believe Astarion was ready so quickly for this.
Amusement colors his voice beyond pure lust, a kind of rolling wave breaking the shores of all current tension, wound up in how he teases himself against tightness so blissfully sweet that it maddens even his own senses. Fiercely sparking a fresher wave of dizzying want, boiling in his blood as sweetly as the wine he’d —stolen— borrowed.
“Addicted as you are to feeling me right to the hilt, and...” it’s a soft pause, breath hitching just within the base of his chest somewhere beneath his ribs, the iron tang of blood (and magic) singing as it slides across his tongue. “You think I didn’t expect this?”
Tsk.
Soft. Coy.
Cloying as honey, his voice, and he fits it directly to Fenris’ ear.
“Darling, don’t make me laugh.”
Even trapped in that grip, he’s purring. Tucked against the brink of penetration and—
It doesn’t take much. A single buck of his hips, wild in its make, and he plunges in without warning: nestling deep and feverishly tight, buried to the point that his vision flecks with stars, and a rolling groan slips past sharp teeth.
(And from there, it’s all a matter of squeezing in closer, canting second by second into a filthier rhythm.)
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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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He doesn't want to pull away at all.
His fingers stroke lightly, lazily, over whatever skin is immediately available to touch as Astarion finds his voice again.
"Fine," he murmurs, lazy more than anything else; two orgasms and a bit of blood loss will do that. Fenris supposes he can try to muster more of an answer than that, though. He finds himself wondering if Astarion is at all anxious about any of this.
"I don't know what I was expecting," he confesses, and as he speaks a smile creeps into his voice. "But ending up boneless in your arms wasn't actually it."
Fenris makes himself sit up so that he can meet Astarion's gaze. Very deliberately, he lifts his hands to hold the other man's face still so that he can kiss him. It isn't chaste, but neither is it overly heated.
"I wouldn't be opposed to doing that again, I think."
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His head dips against the adoring press of Fenris’ roughened palm, reveling in its anchoring weight.
“But I think next time will have to wait, lest I leave you unable to move at all which— all right, I’ll admit has its appeal, delicious as you look right now in so many more ways than one.” Said ever so teasingly with a lone squeeze to that spent prick, knowing full well the overstimulation it’ll arouse.
From there, though, he’s tame. Well-behaved.
Careful when he tucks Fenris back into his trousers. More careful still when he gathers the man into his arms (the wound at his own side already healed from drinking thoroughly enriched blood), carting him back to that decrepit cabin and its shaded recesses.
“But we’ve earned our right to roam, now. I’d say it’s high time we exercised it.”
And they do, in fact, not long after.
Drawing nearer to the Minanter, eventually finding their way to a city flat that isn’t utterly in moldering decay. It isn’t easy to vanish, a pair like them: one albinic elf with fangs of all things, another marked with lyrium that glows in lightless places, but if nothing else the elves that dwell nearby don’t seem inclined to tattle.
At least not for the moment.
It’s with that in mind that Astarion comes stumbling in on the second night, clutching an armful of heavy bottles all coated with a thick layer of dust. Rich wine. Excellent wine.
….expensive wine, probably.
“Would you look at what I caught today, left out unattended in someone’s open cellar?”
Stole. He means he stole them.
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Like theft, perhaps.
Fenris lifts a brow as Astarion appears, carrying several bottles of wine that look like they were dug out of a cellar. His expression doesn't shift much, save for a subtle turn toward annoyance.
"Two fugitives and half a case of stolen wine?" It's not even the theft that bothers him - he's learned enough light-fingered sleight-of-hand to make off with bread when he needs it - but this isn't survival, this is luxury. "Are you sure you weren't followed?"
It wouldn't just their skins in trouble at that point. Fenris is fairly confident in their ability to escape. The alienage would take the brunt of the shems' anger.
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The others have been set down already, and he offers the first of his stolen gains to Fenris, neck first, its sweetened aroma curling in the air between them.
“Kidding, darling.”
Added before he takes any seething psychic damage from one very diligent, dour elf.
“What do you think I am, an amateur? I’ve been roaming streets in search of prey for two centuries: I know how to get away with a little petty larceny.”
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But he certainly can't be seen giving over so quickly, so he makes sure that token resistance is clear before the bottle passes from Astarion's hand to his. He might not actually be displeased, but he can play the part for a little while. Fenris takes a drink and resists the urge to sign at the taste. More dry than scent would suggest, perfect in the way it feels in his mouth. Fenris holds onto the bottle. If Astarion wants it back, he's going to have to come closer.
"Given how much we stand out uncovered, we should still be discreet." Any eye would note one elf pale as the moons and another glowing like starlight. Even if Astarion is as good as all that, even if Fenris too has years of practice hiding in plain sight, they are memorable.
His gaze lingers on his companion and there his a smile hiding there and in the barest curve of his mouth. Whatever complaints he has... it's nice not to be alone.
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His lips finding their way to the slope of a brilliantly tattooed neck in the very next second, hips pressed close.
He smells of wine already.
"I did this for you, you know..." And for himself too, but that's less important. "Something to celebrate upgrading from a rotting shack in the woods to a rotting shack in the city."
His tongue lathes over dusky skin, dodging pale blue filigree with ease. A prelude to a bite that (miraculously) doesn't break skin.
Yet.
"You should be happy for me."
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"Oh, just for me? How callous I've been." Surely Astarion can hear the roll of his eyes as much as the amusement in his voice. Another subtle shift, weight pressed back into the pale elf as lips are replaced by tongue and teeth. Even if sharp points don't break skin, the pressure calls to memory deeper bites.
"How would you like to celebrate, then? I've been so careless as to not plan anything."
Fenris takes another drink from the bottle, once again swept up in the luxurious taste of it. No hint of sour vinegar of old or just bad wine. This is the sort of thing he served at tables once upon a time.
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Pretty little thief. Strange little stray.
The creature he’d never expected to fall for, and yet how remarkable that in so short a span, the barest touch turns them recklessly into one another’s hold: Fenris bearing his body in against Astarion’s own, the once hope-shy vampire doing precisely the same in turn.
He isn’t so afraid anymore.
Another bite, another roll of his hips to press the heavy weight of it against Fenris, and his fangs sink in this time— shallow. A tepid bit of blood, barely a few pinpricks, but still so maddeningly sweet to Astarion’s senses.
“Share it with me, darling.” Tongue bathing the marks he’s made, he opens his mouth afterwards, clearly angling for the bottle of wine.
“I’m thirsty.”
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The lyrium-marked creature in his arms is trying to ignore the distraction of the body pressed against his own to little avail. Fenris knows his own desire to give in will win out eventually, no matter his token resistance. Astarion's dedication has made it possible to feel pleasure in a body that has only brought him pain and loneliness for years. It's a heady thing now to push past that and experience something else, including the strange intimacy they share - but intimacy all the same.
"You are as selfless as any lush," he drawls, a smirk coloring his voice.
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Slow pressure, coaxing and deliberately inciting, Astarion takes his time with each vulgar, drawn out stroke: rolling the edge of his thumb along the underside of him, matching it to the subdued shifting of his hips— chasing sensation over any amount of hurried demands. Feeling him inch by adored inch. Marking the contours of his body through the press of Astarion's own.
It's intimate in a way that's more transparent than usual, perhaps—
Not that Astarion seems to realize that fact, licking the wine from his lips before returning to scuffing his attention across (and around) fresher bite marks once more.
It doesn't take long, however, for him to (ever so discreetly) work Fenris up against the wall. Chest to shadowed wood, hips drawn back to leave room for Astarion to continue shuttling his hold across him in devilish detail.
"Drink faster, darling. I want your hands free for this."
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He does not miss that he is being angled to the wall, but somehow he still does not expect to find himself pressed against it until he is. Fenris braces his free hand against the wall to avoid being pinned so completely, and indeed, to make sure there is room for Astarion's hand to continue it's coaxing, teasing stroke. He takes a long, pointed drink from the bottle in hand.
After he swallows, he takes a breath and turns his head to try to get a look at the man pressed up behind him.
"Free for what?" he asks mildly, as if there is not heavy intention in his position and the hands on him. He takes another pull from the bottle - drinking faster is not exactly a challenge.
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“Why, for playing tag, darling— ” Astarion mouths coyly, dry tone slithering over lyrium marks and smooth skin alike, flitting beneath the edge of his collar.
“For sex, of course. Raucous, rowdy, dangerously untamed sex.”
His grip squeezes, his hips buck forward, leaving a heavy, unmistakable pressure to nestle in against the taut curvature of Fenris’ ass— the most obscene overture of what's to come.
“Or did you imagine we’d celebrate any differently?”
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"You are aware that our nearest neighbors are no longer goats and rabbits, yes?"
It isn't the sex he objects to - he would have made himself clear by now - but loud sex that will surely be heard through thin walls or floorboards.
Or perhaps it's merely a challenge: how badly does Astarion want it? How persuasive is he willing to be? As if the knowing hand working him up isn't enough.
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“Or...are you afraid of getting caught?”
Simple bait, offering the marked elf beneath him a challenge of all things— but he does enjoy rousing him from embers over even the smallest of nipping comments.
“We could always feign at fighting again: I’m sure you’ve thought about it since the our last little tussle.”
And this time— this time his bite is far sharper, puncturing bare skin rather than lyrium lines, matching the way he grinds his own hips harshly forward.
A subtle spark of adrenaline.
“And if not that, perhaps I ought to put you to the window. Let our new neighbors find themselves serenaded.”
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It's the threat to put him out the window that gets a sharp elbow toward Astarion's side - hardly a real rebuke, it grazes rather than landing straight on. Of course he's thought of that fight. How could he not, even when they sleep beside each other? It's so easy to want more.
"You are absolutely not bending me over the window," he insists, breathy but firm in that. Anywhere else in the bloody room he'll accept. He lets the bottle dangle from his fingers and when it drops, it doesn't drop far. The thick bottom of the bottle hits the floor with only a little wobble and that leaves Fenris's hand free to reach back, tangling in Astarion's pale hair as he gives a more insistent push of his hips.
"You can celebrate anywhere else."
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He’d be lying if he tried to claim he didn’t love it whenever Fenris gets rough; these days it feels less like a swat to the nose and more an invitation to let loose. To forget all pretense and faux sweetness and cede to the monstrous hunger boiling in his veins. Tempered, yes, but present. Potent. Always more wanting than Astarion tries to let slip for fear of being reviled.
As he so often reviles himself.
Strong fingers tangle in his hair, and this time, with a lowered growl, Astarion lifts Fenris in a sudden burst of movement: hands snaking beneath the marked elf’s thighs, angling him tighter against the wall— pinned by both the press of Astarion’s body and a vampire’s corded strength.
No more preludes. No more pretense. Only barely free of his clothing (and yet slick with lilac oil already— ah, how he’d prepared for this— Astarion spreads Fenris’ legs even wider for good measure, offering the most teasing little feverish tap with the crown of his thoroughly stiffened length to that taut entrance before fitting Fenris with a steadier press.
Another bite. Another lap of his tongue, doting as his voice rumbles deep within his throat.
“Then I choose here. Now.”
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His eyes flutter but do not close as he's taken, inch by inch, with only the wall to keep him up. Panting as teeth sink into him again and the vampire's tongue tends the spot. Fenris's body yields slowly, and he would bow his head if he had room to do it. Instead, his brow bumps against the wall, white hair in his face as that voice rumbles behind him.
"So confident," he mutters, accent heavier. "Just waiting for the chance?"
He can't believe Astarion was ready so quickly for this.
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Amusement colors his voice beyond pure lust, a kind of rolling wave breaking the shores of all current tension, wound up in how he teases himself against tightness so blissfully sweet that it maddens even his own senses. Fiercely sparking a fresher wave of dizzying want, boiling in his blood as sweetly as the wine he’d —stolen— borrowed.
“Addicted as you are to feeling me right to the hilt, and...” it’s a soft pause, breath hitching just within the base of his chest somewhere beneath his ribs, the iron tang of blood (and magic) singing as it slides across his tongue. “You think I didn’t expect this?”
Tsk.
Soft. Coy.
Cloying as honey, his voice, and he fits it directly to Fenris’ ear.
“Darling, don’t make me laugh.”
Even trapped in that grip, he’s purring. Tucked against the brink of penetration and—
It doesn’t take much. A single buck of his hips, wild in its make, and he plunges in without warning: nestling deep and feverishly tight, buried to the point that his vision flecks with stars, and a rolling groan slips past sharp teeth.
(And from there, it’s all a matter of squeezing in closer, canting second by second into a filthier rhythm.)
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