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.)
Fenris arches as much as he can between the press of Astarion's body and the unyielding surface of the wall. He curses in at least two languages about the desire this man makes him feel, impatient and sharp and consuming once the fire is lit. He can't even deny the coy, wicked assertion that of course this was expected when Fenris has proven so eager so often.
He clenches his jaw, trying to deny Astarion the satisfaction of hearing him moan as the pale elf bucks into him, pushing as deep as he can on that thrust. Fenris sees stars and keeps his grip tight, refusing to be passive as he's fucked against the wall with devilish need. It's harder to stay quiet after that, aching with stoked need and knowledge that he wants this man, even if when he's being an ass. Even with the flash of discomfort, Fenris's body burns with the pleasure he was too often denied in another life and that he has been greedily seeking ever since it was first fully offered and consummated.
The wall takes more of his weight, but there is little room to sag against it with how tightly he's pinned. Fenris pants for breath, skin hot and lyrium vivid as he's taken with wicked confidence.
Astarion might tease at addiction, but it’s Astarion that adores how those lyrium markings always seem to flare whenever arousal comes slithering in. An unmistakable sign that Fenris is so stunningly smitten with their present scenario, no matter how he might huff or snap or fall into quiet silence.
It couples now with the fervor of his grip, the way he yanks as though steering the baseline of their contact in its entirety— and for him (only for him) Astarion bends to it: quicker each time he's tugged, harder each time it pulls, one hand sliding away from Fenris' leg (bracing his weight more fully with the wall itself and the front of his own thighs while he ruts) to snake it just between Fenris' open legs, all too hungry to stroke his companion from stem to tip with an equally demanding rhythm. Heavy breaths fall from his lips, long lashes low across his eyes, heady and drunk on this. Just this.
Fenris moans louder than he intends to when a clever, insistent hand returns to his cock, stroking with an insistence that rivals the way the pale elf fucks him. It's harder to remain quiet after that, every breath edged with the sound of his pleasure. Astarion's tight grip promises bruises and he wants to see the shape of this man's fingers on his hips. It's a ridiculous thing to want, but he feels it. He wants it when it feels like a choice.
Muscles tremble with tension as he's pushed hard to that edge and past it. Fenris jerks his hips back as he's pushed to orgasm, his entire body shuddering as he tightens around the man inside him. He spills over Astarion's hand and likely against the damn wall, and he has the passing thought that he's likely not the first to do so in this place.
Fenris tries not to lose his balance or drop his weight too much against the wall, even if all he wants to do now is collapse.
Ah, there it is, that buckling moment where all inhibition gives way, a vivid moan sliding from those utterly stunning lips, Astarion watching with blown-out pupils: his eyes so unspeakably dark (what a hunger lives in him, now— how addicted he’s become to seeing those defenses come tumbling down beneath his touch) as he makes certain his hold digs, that his hips bruise each time their bodies meet with endlessly driving pressure.
Even come morning, even when Astarion’s left to fetch supplies or Fenris has slipped away to prowl watchfully through city streets, Astarion will still be here. Here, left as deepened marks across Fenris’ skin, the measure of his lithe thighs, the curvature of his ass.
Gods above, it is bliss.
—and then something in Fenris snaps. Hot and overwhelming, muscles cinching with vicious demand, yanking Astarion straight from his own determined mooring, nearly locking him up as he shudders violently.
But his hips don’t stop, his thrusts running harder and harsher with every successive plunge, his face burying itself against the slope of Fenris’ shoulder as he gasps out a moaning cry that isn’t anything but shattering. Obscenely wet, each dive, each successive, greedy plunge— come dripping messily from between their thighs, hot as embers when he pours himself into every waiting inch that Fenris provides.
Fenris arches between Astarion and the wall as he's fucked with obscene determination. There is something in the pale elf's ferocity that makes him ache, that makes him hunger in ways that were only theoretical before. He feel these bruises hours from now, will know they are there beneath his clothes and there is something deeply satisfying in thinking that the will have the vivid memory of these hands even when they are apart.
He can feel as much as hear the sound the other elf makes against his shoulder, ragged and broken in the best way. He shudders and he can feel the slick spill of Astarion's spend and the lilac oil on his thighs. He closes his eyes, fine tremors rippling through him in the afterglow of his pleasure. The lyrium burns on his skin but even that fades into the back of his mind beneath the satisfaction.
His fingers drag through Astarion's hair, pulling weakly before Fenris drops his hand and braces it against the wall to keep from collapsing completely, tempting as it is.
Fenris bumps his brow against the wood panel in front of him and a faint grin ghosts across his mouth.
"Is this how you'll have me pay for every bottle?" he says with breathless amusement.
“I didn’t want to be the one to say it, but...” Astarion's voice trails off involuntarily, a byproduct of the shivering exhaustion creeping its way through every inch of him— not a matter of exertion, but ecstasy. The inebriating, dizzied high of an orgasm spent, that makes him feel as though he’s at his own limits well before that notion is actually true.
And so, knowing himself better, Astarion buries that temptation to sink listlessly against Fenris’ body in full (only his mouth submits to it, coasting along planes of divinely crafted muscle with subdued affection— his hips all too languidly working in against blissfully bruised skin), exhaling ever so sweetly, “Somehow I don’t imagine you have a problem with that arrangement.”
Soft, the sound of his chasing sigh, hand slick and warm as he works it lazily one last time across Fenris in parting adoration, giving way to a minor adjustment made in posture: easing the both of them to the floor with fluid care, weight supported with every surrendered inch, until Astarion rests on his knees and Fenris closer to all fours beneath him, a few beading droplets of sweat trickling down Fenris' spine.
Settling in the ridge resting just above Fenris' tailbone.
“Don’t worry, it runs both ways, hm? You fetch us wine, and I’ll make sure you’re well satisfied for it.”
He isn’t done yet.
He isn’t wholly soft yet, either, vampiric thing that he is. And with his cock still fully embedded, he lets his hips begin the work of stoking embers once more, grinding to a tepid little rhythm only he can hear.
Fenris leans his weight into Astarion to avoid falling over as the other man lowers them both to the floor. Once his knees hit, his hands quickly follow and it takes some effort not to go down to his forearms.
"I have no doubt you will be thorough in your gratitude," he says, still catching his breath as Astarion grinds against him. That makes him keenly aware that the pale elf is not yet soft, not entirely. Fenris bows his head, white hair hanging in his face as he gives himself over to the feeling. He lowers his body more, lets his knees slide further apart to ensure Astarion can get as deep as he wants to be.
Fenris mutters soft curses under his breath, all in Tevene, and he pushes back the next time Astarion's hips press against him.
Precious thing, lending himself to opening up all the more so despite everything that it demands. The harshness of being taken so quickly after orgasm, let alone the unmistakable way Fenris drives himself back into those thrusts with keener hunger, ready and waiting for still more friction. More heat.
So many would wilt.
More would pull away.
And Astarion, serpent that he is, shivers blissfully for being catered to, curling forward around the shape of him, one arm wrapped around his stomach, anchoring them together; this isn’t a fierce endeavor, just a hungry segue from one bout to the next, slaking his thirst in kissing a line along the back of Fenris’ neck (in working their hips together, slow and methodical and fluid in its arcing flow).
“I’m thorough in everything, aren’t I?” Question punctuated by a scruffing nip.
Fenris bows his head as an arm slides around him, holding him where he is as Astarion's mouth teases over the back of his neck. White hair hangs in his face as he's torn between the pleasure of feeling Astarion against him and the discomfort of being oversensitive. But that is a feeling he knows well and one he has worked through before. Fenris is too stubborn to wilt, too conditioned to endure to pull away. The circumstance now is so different that it is worth it. All of this is tempered by the important fact that he wants this.
"So I am learning," he answers, a quiet catch in his voice as sharper teeth nip at him. Fenris reaches back to grip Astarion's thigh as if the vampire really needs encouragement to stay close, to keep grinding against him as he works up to another round.
It might be meditative if not for the way that every shift and thrust draws him back into his body. The marked elf stretches his torso, giving Astarion a fine view of the lean lines of him etched with lyrium. For all that it causes him pain, it is artistry and it compliments him. It could be beautiful.
It is beautiful— if only because Fenris chooses for it to be. The markings themselves would pale otherwise. Would wither and rot in their purpose, cruel as their origins were. What his master had done to him was no art, after all.
But this. Oh, this, a vision cut from lithe musculature both stretched out and drawn so stunningly taut, right down to the sound of Fenris’ breath as it pours from the base of his throat, every ounce of adoration housed within Astarion at the sight only compounded by those fingers wrapped just around his thigh.
And maybe it’s for that (or because he wants to give his beloved companion a chance to catch up) that his own movements slow, turning into something far more deep in it’s dragging pressure— more coaxing and patient.
More intimate, maybe, leaving ample time for Astarion to worship with his mouth, his tongue.
His teeth.
“Tell me something, my darling.” Every rolling press of his cock a heavy thing, left to push and pry as his teeth scrape sweet little marks across smoother skin. Nipping and biting with unruly lust.
The sigh that escapes Fenris almost sounds like relief when Astarion slows his pace. But after a few slow, grinding thrusts, Fenris isn't sure if this is better or worse: it keeps him aware of every inch of the man inside him with every lazy drag. He closes his eyes and bows his head as Astarion's mouth maps his torso with tongue and teeth. Every sharp threat sends a jolt through him, a rush of excitement at the possibility of pain and the absence of it.
"Kaffas," he hisses in answer to that question. Fenris indulges in rocking back to meet the next push of Astarion's hips, hard enough that it gets a grunt from the lyrium-marked elf.
"Are you curious if you wander my dreams like some desire demon?" he manages after taking another second to collect himself. Such a demon would look like Astarion, he thinks. Sharp and tempting and full of sweet nothings and lusty promises.
Astarion asks, his tongue practically dripping with devilish ardor, offering a few more coaxing shuttles of his slickened fingers before his hand draws back— both palms instead coming to bracket either side of Fenris’ hips instead, twisting him to keep him held completely still in Astarion’s grip, turning everything into an outright tease. Torturous and doting all at once. Drunk on wine.
Drunk on adoration, too.
“Isn’t that why you’ve stayed by my side all this time?” Voice purring deep within his throat, each buck of his hips growing shallower and shallower— teasing out sensation with every passing second.
Testing to see how worked up Fenris truly is (or isn't), adrift as he is in the lull between rougher sex. Keeping him spread open and held down, fingers artfully arranged between tattooed leylines, yet relentless all the same.
“So that I could keep satisfying every itch you never knew you had?”
A ragged sound escapes him as Astarion's hand leaves in favor of joining the other on his hips. They hold him still, locked in place as the other man takes his time. Fenris tries to jerk against that grip, testing it especially as Astarion starts to draw it out, moving with shallow thrusts that leave him aching for more.
Fenris bows his head, eyes closed as wicked promises drip from the vampire's lips. There are many desires he didn't realize he could have, ones he was blind to - and there are likely still more undiscovered as of yet. Even those he'd awakened to long ago have not been indulged or sated in a long, long time. Who would he even allow that close? Butt his man has earned it, and while there are passing moments in which Fenris waits for the knife to his back, he finds it easier to ignore the twist of paranoia that has both kept him alive and kept him alone.
"Hardly satisfying now," he growls, provoking and complaining all at once.
“It adds potency. Craving. Hunger.” Fingertips snaring that testing little jolt of movement before it gets too far, catching Fenris’ hips and dragging him back, back—
Down.
Along the fully rigid span of his cock, gliding him to that impossible point of pressure where their bodies wholly meet: Astarion pressed firmly (hot and hard and relentlessly present) as the stiffened crown of his cock rocks steadily against Fenris' inner walls, finally offering him an overwhelming burst of maddening sensation— vivid in the way it blooms in their nerves. In their muscles. In the roll of their bodies all the way to the tips of their fingers.
The tautness of Astarion's exhale.
There are no highs without lows, after all. No bliss without the aching spread of Fenris drawn down around his thickest point. It is, in the most vulgar sense, poetic.
Fenris breathes in sharply as the pale elf drags his hips back, fingers digging against overheated skin as he drives deep. He shudders, back arching to keep his position just so as they grind together. His voice escapes in a moan on a heavy exhale and he can hear the tension in the other man's breath in the same moment.
"Yes," he growls on the edge of another moan and for a few heartbeats his body goes tight around the cock filling him. Soon follows a series of breathless curses - at this rate, Astarion will have a filthy understanding of Tevene. Possibly the most practical kind given where he might use it.
That is better, but it only sparks the need for more. The things Astarion lights in him are, on reflection, terrifying - perhaps he was safer not knowing that his body could feel like this, but for years he has wanted to feel like more than a ghost. He isn't one now: living, blood thrumming with building arousal and nerves alight with every sensation. Now that he's had it, now that he's been given something other than pain or nothing, he craves it. Like any addiction, feeding only makes him want more.
Never mind the sweetness mingled with every wicked purr. He wants that, too.
At times, Fenris is such a precious creature beneath (or perhaps because of) his dour exterior, sweet as cracked sugar when it breaks. His voice feathering as he sighs, as he moans, as he pants with his head tipped back beneath the insistent weight of Astarion’s cock each time it grinds against every fiercely tightened, yielding little angle deep within him.
The way Fenris does right now, in fact. Shivering curses underscoring the roughness of how Astarion rocks his hips in alternating patterns, preying on the differences between hard and high and slow and shallow, ensuring there’s not a single second of monotony— no moment without feeling that constricting contact exactly for what it is: searing pressure that splits Fenris open time and time again, forcing his body to accommodate it in the most deliciously obscene sense, swept up in how thick Astarion is. How demanding Astarion is.
How hard Astarion fucks him.
And oh, how he fucks him.
Grin flickering on his lips in the next beat, hips burning with battering friction, rutting with an animal’s appetite rather than all the poise he likes to so frequently employ. Fingers biting into Fenris’ hips just at the junction where they meet his thighs, tethering him to the pace he’s set.
“Do you want it harder? Faster?” He asks breathlessly, letting the words simmer in the base of his throat. “Come on, I know you can tell me what you need.”
Teeth to the base of Fenris’ ear, nipping lightly— chasing it with the slide of his tongue.
“I promise I’ll be nice enough to give it to you.”
The pace nearly silences him: all Fenris can do is pant, his voice edging every breath in rising moans and incoherent demands. Astarion fucks him into urgent submission and Fenris wants - needs - the gripping bite of fingers and the promise of bruises from hands that don't mean him harm.
Tension builds like a storm, roiling in him and crackling across every nerve and muscle. His entire body shudders with it as sharp teeth tease at his ear, soothing the sensitive line with his tongue in quick succession. Will the pale elf give him what he asks for? Fenris thinks Astarion would deny him just to needle out begging. But he can also be merciful.
"Roll me over," he gasps out, voice raw. "Put--put me on my back."
Fenris wants to see the devil above him, wants to know that he is giving as much pleasure as he's taking. And if Astarion is so intent on fucking him to release again, surely he should be rewarded with seeing the results of his effort: the flush in his cheeks and chest, the euphoria on the marked elf's face. The urgency, then the release.
That's not the request he'd been expecting from the docile (yet ever untamed) heart resting just beneath him, nearly begging for release, but close as they've grown these last few months, maybe he shouldn't be surprised: they've fought one another, cut one another, trusted and leaned on and looked after one another in ways only those once-powerless ever could.
He is so fond of Fenris, and undoubtedly it's obvious by now.
He'd just never expected the marked elf to think of him the same way.
Which is to say of course— despite all his wicked inclinations— he grants that request: bracing somewhere along the edges of Fenris' shoulders just for a beat as he pulls himself out (with effort, as the night air is so miserably frigid compared to the heat of his companion's body), slickness trailing in the split-second before he uses his hold to shift Fenris over onto his back, carefully repositioning him with a uniquely hungry kiss. Smooth palms gentle when they guide his hips, his thighs, splaying them wide and wedging against their innermost edge with his own.
"Feeling sentimental tonight, darling?"
It's teasing, more than anything else. He doesn't quite expect it to be true— and he doesn't leave enough time for Fenris to answer before he's upon him in a vulgar rush of nipping bites and a single, spreading plunge, chasing blissful pleasure rather than mischievous subjugation.
He mouths at Fenris' jaw, alternating licks and laps and crueler snaps of his teeth (though he doesn't break skin, this time; this is purely for affection and lust in equal measure— not hunger) between every last driving thrust, chasing the heady rise of sensation coursing through his senses.
Even asking for it, Fenris groans a quiet protest when Astarion pulls out. He's left feeling empty, separate, but he doesn't have to endure it long. He rolls as Astarion guides him, making the shift as easy as he can until the pale elf can push between his thighs again: they spread to welcome him without hesitation. Calloused hands slide up to tangle in Astarion's hair as they kiss, both hungry, both sharp, both needy in their ways.
Fenris drops back, gaze intense at the teasing accusation. He must be, and realizing the sentimentality of it comes as a quiet shock. He has not allowed himself to have things - not friends, not possessions, not comfort - for so long. Friends came whether he wanted them or not, apparently, but this--this is different. And maybe it would be better not to think too hard on it.
"Shut up," he mutters, head back as Astarion's mouth laves attention on his throat and jaw. There's no venom behind the words, no weight: too breathy and edged with a moan as Astarion plunges into him again. Fenris braces his foot against the floor, arching to meet him as teeth dig against his skin but don't break it. His fingers tighten where they hold.
Fenris keeps his head back, leaving the pale elf all the room to exploit sensitive skin. He lets go of the other man to cover his own mouth, trying to at least muffle the cry that rises in his throat as Astarion drives into him. That momentary interruption did nothing to shake his rising peak and Fenris's voice breaks in a sharper, more eager sound as he's pushed past his peak. His cock throbs between them, spilling against his own stomach, untouched.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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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.”
no subject
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."
no subject
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.”
no subject
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.
no subject
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.)
no subject
He clenches his jaw, trying to deny Astarion the satisfaction of hearing him moan as the pale elf bucks into him, pushing as deep as he can on that thrust. Fenris sees stars and keeps his grip tight, refusing to be passive as he's fucked against the wall with devilish need. It's harder to stay quiet after that, aching with stoked need and knowledge that he wants this man, even if when he's being an ass. Even with the flash of discomfort, Fenris's body burns with the pleasure he was too often denied in another life and that he has been greedily seeking ever since it was first fully offered and consummated.
The wall takes more of his weight, but there is little room to sag against it with how tightly he's pinned. Fenris pants for breath, skin hot and lyrium vivid as he's taken with wicked confidence.
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It couples now with the fervor of his grip, the way he yanks as though steering the baseline of their contact in its entirety— and for him (only for him) Astarion bends to it: quicker each time he's tugged, harder each time it pulls, one hand sliding away from Fenris' leg (bracing his weight more fully with the wall itself and the front of his own thighs while he ruts) to snake it just between Fenris' open legs, all too hungry to stroke his companion from stem to tip with an equally demanding rhythm. Heavy breaths fall from his lips, long lashes low across his eyes, heady and drunk on this. Just this.
His body singing with need all the while.
How he lives for such freedom.
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Muscles tremble with tension as he's pushed hard to that edge and past it. Fenris jerks his hips back as he's pushed to orgasm, his entire body shuddering as he tightens around the man inside him. He spills over Astarion's hand and likely against the damn wall, and he has the passing thought that he's likely not the first to do so in this place.
Fenris tries not to lose his balance or drop his weight too much against the wall, even if all he wants to do now is collapse.
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Even come morning, even when Astarion’s left to fetch supplies or Fenris has slipped away to prowl watchfully through city streets, Astarion will still be here. Here, left as deepened marks across Fenris’ skin, the measure of his lithe thighs, the curvature of his ass.
Gods above, it is bliss.
—and then something in Fenris snaps. Hot and overwhelming, muscles cinching with vicious demand, yanking Astarion straight from his own determined mooring, nearly locking him up as he shudders violently.
But his hips don’t stop, his thrusts running harder and harsher with every successive plunge, his face burying itself against the slope of Fenris’ shoulder as he gasps out a moaning cry that isn’t anything but shattering. Obscenely wet, each dive, each successive, greedy plunge— come dripping messily from between their thighs, hot as embers when he pours himself into every waiting inch that Fenris provides.
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He can feel as much as hear the sound the other elf makes against his shoulder, ragged and broken in the best way. He shudders and he can feel the slick spill of Astarion's spend and the lilac oil on his thighs. He closes his eyes, fine tremors rippling through him in the afterglow of his pleasure. The lyrium burns on his skin but even that fades into the back of his mind beneath the satisfaction.
His fingers drag through Astarion's hair, pulling weakly before Fenris drops his hand and braces it against the wall to keep from collapsing completely, tempting as it is.
Fenris bumps his brow against the wood panel in front of him and a faint grin ghosts across his mouth.
"Is this how you'll have me pay for every bottle?" he says with breathless amusement.
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And so, knowing himself better, Astarion buries that temptation to sink listlessly against Fenris’ body in full (only his mouth submits to it, coasting along planes of divinely crafted muscle with subdued affection— his hips all too languidly working in against blissfully bruised skin), exhaling ever so sweetly, “Somehow I don’t imagine you have a problem with that arrangement.”
Soft, the sound of his chasing sigh, hand slick and warm as he works it lazily one last time across Fenris in parting adoration, giving way to a minor adjustment made in posture: easing the both of them to the floor with fluid care, weight supported with every surrendered inch, until Astarion rests on his knees and Fenris closer to all fours beneath him, a few beading droplets of sweat trickling down Fenris' spine.
Settling in the ridge resting just above Fenris' tailbone.
“Don’t worry, it runs both ways, hm? You fetch us wine, and I’ll make sure you’re well satisfied for it.”
He isn’t done yet.
He isn’t wholly soft yet, either, vampiric thing that he is. And with his cock still fully embedded, he lets his hips begin the work of stoking embers once more, grinding to a tepid little rhythm only he can hear.
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"I have no doubt you will be thorough in your gratitude," he says, still catching his breath as Astarion grinds against him. That makes him keenly aware that the pale elf is not yet soft, not entirely. Fenris bows his head, white hair hanging in his face as he gives himself over to the feeling. He lowers his body more, lets his knees slide further apart to ensure Astarion can get as deep as he wants to be.
Fenris mutters soft curses under his breath, all in Tevene, and he pushes back the next time Astarion's hips press against him.
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So many would wilt.
More would pull away.
And Astarion, serpent that he is, shivers blissfully for being catered to, curling forward around the shape of him, one arm wrapped around his stomach, anchoring them together; this isn’t a fierce endeavor, just a hungry segue from one bout to the next, slaking his thirst in kissing a line along the back of Fenris’ neck (in working their hips together, slow and methodical and fluid in its arcing flow).
“I’m thorough in everything, aren’t I?” Question punctuated by a scruffing nip.
Oh, Astarion.
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"So I am learning," he answers, a quiet catch in his voice as sharper teeth nip at him. Fenris reaches back to grip Astarion's thigh as if the vampire really needs encouragement to stay close, to keep grinding against him as he works up to another round.
It might be meditative if not for the way that every shift and thrust draws him back into his body. The marked elf stretches his torso, giving Astarion a fine view of the lean lines of him etched with lyrium. For all that it causes him pain, it is artistry and it compliments him. It could be beautiful.
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But this. Oh, this, a vision cut from lithe musculature both stretched out and drawn so stunningly taut, right down to the sound of Fenris’ breath as it pours from the base of his throat, every ounce of adoration housed within Astarion at the sight only compounded by those fingers wrapped just around his thigh.
And maybe it’s for that (or because he wants to give his beloved companion a chance to catch up) that his own movements slow, turning into something far more deep in it’s dragging pressure— more coaxing and patient.
More intimate, maybe, leaving ample time for Astarion to worship with his mouth, his tongue.
His teeth.
“Tell me something, my darling.” Every rolling press of his cock a heavy thing, left to push and pry as his teeth scrape sweet little marks across smoother skin. Nipping and biting with unruly lust.
“Do you dream of me?”
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"Kaffas," he hisses in answer to that question. Fenris indulges in rocking back to meet the next push of Astarion's hips, hard enough that it gets a grunt from the lyrium-marked elf.
"Are you curious if you wander my dreams like some desire demon?" he manages after taking another second to collect himself. Such a demon would look like Astarion, he thinks. Sharp and tempting and full of sweet nothings and lusty promises.
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Astarion asks, his tongue practically dripping with devilish ardor, offering a few more coaxing shuttles of his slickened fingers before his hand draws back— both palms instead coming to bracket either side of Fenris’ hips instead, twisting him to keep him held completely still in Astarion’s grip, turning everything into an outright tease. Torturous and doting all at once. Drunk on wine.
Drunk on adoration, too.
“Isn’t that why you’ve stayed by my side all this time?” Voice purring deep within his throat, each buck of his hips growing shallower and shallower— teasing out sensation with every passing second.
Testing to see how worked up Fenris truly is (or isn't), adrift as he is in the lull between rougher sex. Keeping him spread open and held down, fingers artfully arranged between tattooed leylines, yet relentless all the same.
“So that I could keep satisfying every itch you never knew you had?”
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Fenris bows his head, eyes closed as wicked promises drip from the vampire's lips. There are many desires he didn't realize he could have, ones he was blind to - and there are likely still more undiscovered as of yet. Even those he'd awakened to long ago have not been indulged or sated in a long, long time. Who would he even allow that close? Butt his man has earned it, and while there are passing moments in which Fenris waits for the knife to his back, he finds it easier to ignore the twist of paranoia that has both kept him alive and kept him alone.
"Hardly satisfying now," he growls, provoking and complaining all at once.
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A glorious thing, in fact.
“It adds potency. Craving. Hunger.” Fingertips snaring that testing little jolt of movement before it gets too far, catching Fenris’ hips and dragging him back, back—
Down.
Along the fully rigid span of his cock, gliding him to that impossible point of pressure where their bodies wholly meet: Astarion pressed firmly (hot and hard and relentlessly present) as the stiffened crown of his cock rocks steadily against Fenris' inner walls, finally offering him an overwhelming burst of maddening sensation— vivid in the way it blooms in their nerves. In their muscles. In the roll of their bodies all the way to the tips of their fingers.
The tautness of Astarion's exhale.
There are no highs without lows, after all. No bliss without the aching spread of Fenris drawn down around his thickest point. It is, in the most vulgar sense, poetic.
And he does so thrive within it.
“Better...darling?”
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"Yes," he growls on the edge of another moan and for a few heartbeats his body goes tight around the cock filling him. Soon follows a series of breathless curses - at this rate, Astarion will have a filthy understanding of Tevene. Possibly the most practical kind given where he might use it.
That is better, but it only sparks the need for more. The things Astarion lights in him are, on reflection, terrifying - perhaps he was safer not knowing that his body could feel like this, but for years he has wanted to feel like more than a ghost. He isn't one now: living, blood thrumming with building arousal and nerves alight with every sensation. Now that he's had it, now that he's been given something other than pain or nothing, he craves it. Like any addiction, feeding only makes him want more.
Never mind the sweetness mingled with every wicked purr. He wants that, too.
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The way Fenris does right now, in fact. Shivering curses underscoring the roughness of how Astarion rocks his hips in alternating patterns, preying on the differences between hard and high and slow and shallow, ensuring there’s not a single second of monotony— no moment without feeling that constricting contact exactly for what it is: searing pressure that splits Fenris open time and time again, forcing his body to accommodate it in the most deliciously obscene sense, swept up in how thick Astarion is. How demanding Astarion is.
How hard Astarion fucks him.
And oh, how he fucks him.
Grin flickering on his lips in the next beat, hips burning with battering friction, rutting with an animal’s appetite rather than all the poise he likes to so frequently employ. Fingers biting into Fenris’ hips just at the junction where they meet his thighs, tethering him to the pace he’s set.
“Do you want it harder? Faster?” He asks breathlessly, letting the words simmer in the base of his throat. “Come on, I know you can tell me what you need.”
Teeth to the base of Fenris’ ear, nipping lightly— chasing it with the slide of his tongue.
“I promise I’ll be nice enough to give it to you.”
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Tension builds like a storm, roiling in him and crackling across every nerve and muscle. His entire body shudders with it as sharp teeth tease at his ear, soothing the sensitive line with his tongue in quick succession. Will the pale elf give him what he asks for? Fenris thinks Astarion would deny him just to needle out begging. But he can also be merciful.
"Roll me over," he gasps out, voice raw. "Put--put me on my back."
Fenris wants to see the devil above him, wants to know that he is giving as much pleasure as he's taking. And if Astarion is so intent on fucking him to release again, surely he should be rewarded with seeing the results of his effort: the flush in his cheeks and chest, the euphoria on the marked elf's face. The urgency, then the release.
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He is so fond of Fenris, and undoubtedly it's obvious by now.
He'd just never expected the marked elf to think of him the same way.
Which is to say of course— despite all his wicked inclinations— he grants that request: bracing somewhere along the edges of Fenris' shoulders just for a beat as he pulls himself out (with effort, as the night air is so miserably frigid compared to the heat of his companion's body), slickness trailing in the split-second before he uses his hold to shift Fenris over onto his back, carefully repositioning him with a uniquely hungry kiss. Smooth palms gentle when they guide his hips, his thighs, splaying them wide and wedging against their innermost edge with his own.
"Feeling sentimental tonight, darling?"
It's teasing, more than anything else. He doesn't quite expect it to be true— and he doesn't leave enough time for Fenris to answer before he's upon him in a vulgar rush of nipping bites and a single, spreading plunge, chasing blissful pleasure rather than mischievous subjugation.
He mouths at Fenris' jaw, alternating licks and laps and crueler snaps of his teeth (though he doesn't break skin, this time; this is purely for affection and lust in equal measure— not hunger) between every last driving thrust, chasing the heady rise of sensation coursing through his senses.
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Fenris drops back, gaze intense at the teasing accusation. He must be, and realizing the sentimentality of it comes as a quiet shock. He has not allowed himself to have things - not friends, not possessions, not comfort - for so long. Friends came whether he wanted them or not, apparently, but this--this is different. And maybe it would be better not to think too hard on it.
"Shut up," he mutters, head back as Astarion's mouth laves attention on his throat and jaw. There's no venom behind the words, no weight: too breathy and edged with a moan as Astarion plunges into him again. Fenris braces his foot against the floor, arching to meet him as teeth dig against his skin but don't break it. His fingers tighten where they hold.
Fenris keeps his head back, leaving the pale elf all the room to exploit sensitive skin. He lets go of the other man to cover his own mouth, trying to at least muffle the cry that rises in his throat as Astarion drives into him. That momentary interruption did nothing to shake his rising peak and Fenris's voice breaks in a sharper, more eager sound as he's pushed past his peak. His cock throbs between them, spilling against his own stomach, untouched.
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