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.
It's a low, rolling laugh that runs through him for being snapped at— and it vanishes in the very next beat as Fenris groans, every inch of him stunning in how he braces himself against the floor for everything Astarion has to give. Beautiful for more than just the rise of color in his cheeks or the tips of his ears, lips parted to pant and gasp in feathering rushes, his green eyes gone hazy with affection.
With need.
It takes so little after that.
He hadn't realized how close he was to the edge (or maybe the vampire wasn't close at all), until the second that a faint catch of wet heat runs high across his own stomach— until Fenris comes, tightening around the punishing thrust of Astarion's brutal cock, their hips sore and bruised from impact (and yet it's bliss, oh, it's bliss)— his own back suddenly arching as he nearly locks in place with a violent, snapping shudder: pouring himself down deep into that waiting hole, his face buried in the ruddy mess of Fenris' throat as stars fleck across his vision and everything, every last sense left in him, goes dark with climax.
He stays there, you know.
In the aftermath. In the seconds and minutes that follow, tacky with sweat and blood and panting softly where he lies in a tangled heap overtop his own beloved companion, limbs listless, curls a scattered, dampened mess. Every bit of him spoiled with comfort, the soft gift of enveloping heat.
And when he speaks at last, his voice sounds rougher than usual. Hoarse and low and raw, besides.
"...quite a celebration, I'd say." It comes with a kiss set lazily to Fenris' jaw, doting in the simplest sense. "But, just in fair warning, I think our neighbors might've heard us anyway."
Far more effort's employed in reaching high to coast his own pale fingers between wayward strands of fringed white hair.
Fenris can't do anything but breathe hard, panting for air as Astarion slumps over him. His eyes close and he isn't actually sure how much time passes between feeling the other man finish and hearing him speak again. The quality of the pale elf's voice makes him shiver with unexpected pleasure.
There's a quiet catch in his breathing, a momentary pause as he stops altogether, as if listening for something. Then he sighs and runs his hand over his face.
"Well, now we have to find somewhere else to stay," he mutters. "They'll think someone's been murdered."
A joke? Maybe? The delivery is utterly dry, but Fenris makes no move to shove Astarion away or escape from beneath him. No, he stays as he is, more or less relaxed beneath the weight of the other man's body. His attention turns fully back to Astarion as more gentle fingers brush back his hair.
"Pleased with yourself, are you?"
How easily he blends something that sounds like affection with annoyance.
He doesn't mean to laugh so damned brightly in response.
It happens, anyway.
And he's tired, now. Drowsy with spent lust and preening visibly, besides. Wound languidly across his captivating (and deeply admired) companion, he can't remember ever feeling so at ease in all his life. Even the arms of his own sex-sated prey never quite brought about such a sense of calm, strong enough to make him feel entirely relaxed in the middle of an unfamiliar city, sprawled over withering floorboards.
"As a matter of fact, I am. I've a great deal to be proud of, after all: those perfect cries of yours are going to be swimming through my dreams tonight."
Pale fingers continue petting and scuffing their way along Fenris' scalp, their work as deft as it is devoted. A sort of aftercare rarely afforded to anyone, save for those who ask him for it— and freely given in this moment without a single thought.
He licks his own lips once, cleaning the blood from them.
"It's been ages since you last kicked me for pressing you too eagerly, after all."
And honestly, at times Astarion does wonder if that means they've found a deeper vein of connectivity between them...or if it just means Fenris is falling headfirst into the notion of his own dawning lust.
It's a kind of care and affection that Fenris would not even know how to ask for, but he soaks it up when it is given. He rolls his eyes, but there is the barest hint of a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth as he looks away. His pulse slows and he makes no effort to push Astarion now or to otherwise squirm away. In fact, one might accuse him of seeming content where he is beneath the pale elf, even if that is on bare floorboards.
One hand lifts to brush through the other man's hair, dragging lightly along his scalp and down his neck.
"I might if you don't move us to the bed," he says with dry amusement. There is, naturally only one bed. It is possible to sleep in it without touching, but--there is aching appeal in having someone next to him. Someone real, and somehow who has not made any attempt to do real harm.
He finally meets Astarion's gaze again, then leans up to kiss wet lips, as if moved to taste himself there.
There's no moderation to the kiss Astarion eagerly returns, tongue catching warm lips, teasing past teeth and swept up by the craning of his own neck— oh, dangerous is the word for it, this comfort they've settled into. Dangerous and wonderful, everything Astarion doesn't rightly deserve, even setting aside his own monstrous curse.
But then again, bloodied hands being literally and figuratively what they are, Astarion isn't about to do anything other than cling with them to the only true kindness he's ever known. To the idea of reciprocation even, as he feels Fenris' lyrium-striped fingertips comb their way across his curls in turn— serene and sincere and without pretense in the slightest.
So.
Yes, in other words. He's more than happy to acquiesce and (as per Fenris' own exact words) move them to the bed. Meaning he slips back away from his own comfortable positioning, using that movement to lift Fenris high into his arms, and subsequently carrying him to the meager mattress tucked away in the corner of their (barely) one room flat. It isn't luxurious, no, but it's better than the wilderness for one, and on the other hand it's only a stepping stone while they plot out their forward course.
Plus, no one ever looks twice at a pair of elves in a place like this...for better or worse.
Once they're settled in, Astarion finds his way to curling in against Fenris' side, head half-resting on the closest pillow, half-resting along the other elf's arm.
"I told you about what I am. What I was, but I know so little about why you're being hounded— beyond the baseline attitude about sharp ears in this world of yours, I suppose." It's all musing chatter, still tangled up in skirting touch.
Fenris is not actually anticipating that Astarion will sweep him into his arms until he ends up there. He rolls his eyes, but he also doesn't make the effort any more difficult as he's carried to the sad-looking but clean mattress they have to share. Between them, they manage to settle. He moves over as Astarion joins him in bed and he finds himself between the other man and the wall. All at once he's tempted to put his back to the wall and to climb over Astarion to put himself between the pale elf and the rest of the room. Clearly his companion is capable of caring for himself... but that isn't the point.
Fenris settles, and soon enough the pale elf is cuddled up against him in a way that he is starting to get used to. And welcome.
The question isn't unexpected. He's actually surprised it has taken as long as it has to circle back to him. Fenris is grateful for that, content to never speak of some things again. But Astarion has shared things with him that deserve some kind of return.
While the pale elf looks at him, Fenris stares at the ceiling. The way gentle fingers brush against bare skin remind him of the care Astarion has taken with him; it also reminds him that the man next to him bears scars from someone he once called Master. Perhaps that is what makes it easier to speak.
"Yes," he says after a moment. "Or his legacy. He's been dead for three years, but hat doesn't seem to have stopped the drive to recover me. Perhaps more so now that I am responsible for his murder."
"So you fled his care completely— and then you killed him?" Astarion asks softly, head scuffing against Fenris' arm in subtle little bouts, each one displacing silver spools of unstrung curls.
"Or...was it the other way 'round."
He asks because he cares. Because he knows it does, in fact, make a difference in the eyes of those who inevitably give chase.
And, with his own bare back and all its miserable marks now left entirely exposed to cool night air, maybe he envies the notion that Fenris at least managed to put an end to the master that caused him so much clear pain (all those azure lines...).
"He abandoned me once." Fenris keeps his eyes on the ceiling. "I was badly wounded in a skirmish. When Tevinter retreated, I was left on the field. People from the island took care of me, but he returned some months later to retrieve me."
There is a hollowness in his voice as he recounts that. Astarion didn't ask about that, but somehow it feels important to say. He can feel the years-old shame twisting in his chest. How weak he'd been, how well-trained. A dog that tasted freedom but could do nothing but heel when told.
"He ordered me to kill them. The ones who'd been caring for me. They were on the other side of the war, and he ordered me to kill them. And I did."
Every. Single. One.
"Sometime between that and reaching the shore, I turned on him. I left him there. His recovery must have delayed any pursuit, I got far before the hunt began in earnest. I was too valuable to be left in the world. His pet experiment. His triumph."
There is no hiding the brittle bitterness in the end. Astarion can see the results of that experiment etched into Fenris's skin. Part of him wants to stop there, but he's aware that he hasn't fully answered Astarion's inquiry. He's already been talking too much and he blames being worn out and sated for his sudden urge to be confessional.
"I got tired of running. When I heard he was in Kirkwall, I thought if I could kill him it would be over. I failed the first time. I didn't the next."
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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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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With need.
It takes so little after that.
He hadn't realized how close he was to the edge (or maybe the vampire wasn't close at all), until the second that a faint catch of wet heat runs high across his own stomach— until Fenris comes, tightening around the punishing thrust of Astarion's brutal cock, their hips sore and bruised from impact (and yet it's bliss, oh, it's bliss)— his own back suddenly arching as he nearly locks in place with a violent, snapping shudder: pouring himself down deep into that waiting hole, his face buried in the ruddy mess of Fenris' throat as stars fleck across his vision and everything, every last sense left in him, goes dark with climax.
He stays there, you know.
In the aftermath. In the seconds and minutes that follow, tacky with sweat and blood and panting softly where he lies in a tangled heap overtop his own beloved companion, limbs listless, curls a scattered, dampened mess. Every bit of him spoiled with comfort, the soft gift of enveloping heat.
And when he speaks at last, his voice sounds rougher than usual. Hoarse and low and raw, besides.
"...quite a celebration, I'd say." It comes with a kiss set lazily to Fenris' jaw, doting in the simplest sense. "But, just in fair warning, I think our neighbors might've heard us anyway."
Far more effort's employed in reaching high to coast his own pale fingers between wayward strands of fringed white hair.
"Especially you."
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There's a quiet catch in his breathing, a momentary pause as he stops altogether, as if listening for something. Then he sighs and runs his hand over his face.
"Well, now we have to find somewhere else to stay," he mutters. "They'll think someone's been murdered."
A joke? Maybe? The delivery is utterly dry, but Fenris makes no move to shove Astarion away or escape from beneath him. No, he stays as he is, more or less relaxed beneath the weight of the other man's body. His attention turns fully back to Astarion as more gentle fingers brush back his hair.
"Pleased with yourself, are you?"
How easily he blends something that sounds like affection with annoyance.
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It happens, anyway.
And he's tired, now. Drowsy with spent lust and preening visibly, besides. Wound languidly across his captivating (and deeply admired) companion, he can't remember ever feeling so at ease in all his life. Even the arms of his own sex-sated prey never quite brought about such a sense of calm, strong enough to make him feel entirely relaxed in the middle of an unfamiliar city, sprawled over withering floorboards.
"As a matter of fact, I am. I've a great deal to be proud of, after all: those perfect cries of yours are going to be swimming through my dreams tonight."
Pale fingers continue petting and scuffing their way along Fenris' scalp, their work as deft as it is devoted. A sort of aftercare rarely afforded to anyone, save for those who ask him for it— and freely given in this moment without a single thought.
He licks his own lips once, cleaning the blood from them.
"It's been ages since you last kicked me for pressing you too eagerly, after all."
And honestly, at times Astarion does wonder if that means they've found a deeper vein of connectivity between them...or if it just means Fenris is falling headfirst into the notion of his own dawning lust.
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One hand lifts to brush through the other man's hair, dragging lightly along his scalp and down his neck.
"I might if you don't move us to the bed," he says with dry amusement. There is, naturally only one bed. It is possible to sleep in it without touching, but--there is aching appeal in having someone next to him. Someone real, and somehow who has not made any attempt to do real harm.
He finally meets Astarion's gaze again, then leans up to kiss wet lips, as if moved to taste himself there.
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But then again, bloodied hands being literally and figuratively what they are, Astarion isn't about to do anything other than cling with them to the only true kindness he's ever known. To the idea of reciprocation even, as he feels Fenris' lyrium-striped fingertips comb their way across his curls in turn— serene and sincere and without pretense in the slightest.
So.
Yes, in other words. He's more than happy to acquiesce and (as per Fenris' own exact words) move them to the bed. Meaning he slips back away from his own comfortable positioning, using that movement to lift Fenris high into his arms, and subsequently carrying him to the meager mattress tucked away in the corner of their (barely) one room flat. It isn't luxurious, no, but it's better than the wilderness for one, and on the other hand it's only a stepping stone while they plot out their forward course.
Plus, no one ever looks twice at a pair of elves in a place like this...for better or worse.
Once they're settled in, Astarion finds his way to curling in against Fenris' side, head half-resting on the closest pillow, half-resting along the other elf's arm.
"I told you about what I am. What I was, but I know so little about why you're being hounded— beyond the baseline attitude about sharp ears in this world of yours, I suppose." It's all musing chatter, still tangled up in skirting touch.
"Is it the master you left behind? Or...."
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Fenris settles, and soon enough the pale elf is cuddled up against him in a way that he is starting to get used to. And welcome.
The question isn't unexpected. He's actually surprised it has taken as long as it has to circle back to him. Fenris is grateful for that, content to never speak of some things again. But Astarion has shared things with him that deserve some kind of return.
While the pale elf looks at him, Fenris stares at the ceiling. The way gentle fingers brush against bare skin remind him of the care Astarion has taken with him; it also reminds him that the man next to him bears scars from someone he once called Master. Perhaps that is what makes it easier to speak.
"Yes," he says after a moment. "Or his legacy. He's been dead for three years, but hat doesn't seem to have stopped the drive to recover me. Perhaps more so now that I am responsible for his murder."
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"Or...was it the other way 'round."
He asks because he cares. Because he knows it does, in fact, make a difference in the eyes of those who inevitably give chase.
And, with his own bare back and all its miserable marks now left entirely exposed to cool night air, maybe he envies the notion that Fenris at least managed to put an end to the master that caused him so much clear pain (all those azure lines...).
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There is a hollowness in his voice as he recounts that. Astarion didn't ask about that, but somehow it feels important to say. He can feel the years-old shame twisting in his chest. How weak he'd been, how well-trained. A dog that tasted freedom but could do nothing but heel when told.
"He ordered me to kill them. The ones who'd been caring for me. They were on the other side of the war, and he ordered me to kill them. And I did."
Every. Single. One.
"Sometime between that and reaching the shore, I turned on him. I left him there. His recovery must have delayed any pursuit, I got far before the hunt began in earnest. I was too valuable to be left in the world. His pet experiment. His triumph."
There is no hiding the brittle bitterness in the end. Astarion can see the results of that experiment etched into Fenris's skin. Part of him wants to stop there, but he's aware that he hasn't fully answered Astarion's inquiry. He's already been talking too much and he blames being worn out and sated for his sudden urge to be confessional.
"I got tired of running. When I heard he was in Kirkwall, I thought if I could kill him it would be over. I failed the first time. I didn't the next."
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