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."
Not impossible for someone like Astarion, of course. Someone with gnarled scars etched across his shoulders and even uglier memories tucked inside his skull, but even so, care defines consideration (much as the vampire might not enjoy admitting it aloud, he feels it, keenly); he takes stock of everything in silence, and tucks it away with keen precision.
Not to be forgotten.
"And that's why you're chased now." He posits mildly, letting his hand fall somewhere around the edge of Fenris' collarbone, slender fingers tangling in pale tangles of salt-kissed hair, still damp at their edges from lingering sweat.
"Yes," he answers quietly. "I am... valuable to the magisters who wish to understand his work or use me for their own. And I am a slave who killed one of their own."
There are plenty of reasons for anyone in power to want to bring him back to heel.
"And I have no doubt he has heirs." Fenris can't remember if Danarius had children - did he? He must have. It would be unthinkable for a man of his standing not to have a direct line of inheritance. Even if he didn't, an heir would be found no matter how far down the family tree they need look. His seat would need to be filled. Regardless, whoever has inherited Danarius's title and holdings would surely know of the lyrium-etched elf that still roams free, a mockery to both the memory of a magister and Tevinter.
Fenris finally looks away from the ceiling, tipping his head to see Astarion.
"It was. But it was better that I be alone. Safer."
For others, if not for him. His nightmare would be somehow repeating the massacre on Seheron.
"You can't truly believe that." Astarion counters with the mildest tap of his own tongue against the backs of his fangs, lifting himself up to lean over Fenris instead— fingers still perched precisely where he'd left them— crimson stare focused fully on Fenris' own.
"Otherwise you wouldn't have let me come so close to begin with." Their paths would've diverged. Their focus split.
Or at least that's how Astarion imagines it, his silver brows creased into a narrowed pinch. Mouth pulled flat at its edges. It's not a disparaging look (it isn't even a judgmental one, in fact), only attentive in the way of someone searching for a hint of truer understanding. A glimpse of what's running circles in Fenris' mind beneath that relatively stolid stare.
Fenris stays still and stubborn as Astarion leverages himself up to lean over him. He doesn't flinch as he meets that sharp stare. The pale elf makes a very good argument, however. Why hasn't he left? Why didn't he, as soon as he was able? There's a challenge as he looks at Astarion, and a struggle, as he is made to think about things he has deliberately ignored or pushed aside.
Why is he still here?
The answer is not complicated. He wishes it was, really. Fenris believes that he and everyone else are better off if he remains alone, but Astarion is right, too. He is lonely.
"I had... a cohort, for a while. In Kirkwall." He didn't like or even trust all of them, but it was the first time in years that he'd allowed himself to get close to anyone. Now that he's cut himself off again, he misses the companionship more sharply.
Fenris lowers his gaze. Saying anything further feels like exposing his belly. But he's already done that, hasn't he?
"It was better before I met them," he says quietly. "I could ignore what I was missing."
His fingers pressed like constellation points over smooth skin, the shadowed glint of that garnet stare sinking to follow Fenris' own, unwilling to pull back.
"And what exactly were you missing?"
Past and present intertwined when he presses for more— not only about himself, but about that companion, too. More. It's just a hunger for more.
He wants to roll away, to disrupt the way Astarion looks at him. He doesn't. He has been a coward in many things, he will try not to be one now. Fenris lifts his gaze, fully meeting Astarion's again.
"Companionship," he answers, hesitant and quiet. "For years Danarius was my world. I could remember nothing else, no one else. Not my mother, not my sister. Not my name. Even now I use the one he gave me when he made me his dog. His pet experiment. I had no--"
It sounds ridiculous in his own mind, the word on the tip of his tongue. It sounds frivolous. He thought it was frivolous. He says it anyway.
Not against what Fenris is saying or what he feels— no, that much is undoubtedly true. But they're curled up together here as they have been for weeks going on months: close, and unguarded, and if the ease of isolation is what Fenris had been hunting for, he could've had it well before now. Easily.
So with that in mind, the rest of the picture Astarion's figuratively admiring makes itself that much clearer. Fenris had someone. And whoever they were, they're gone, now.
He doesn't move. Doesn't crowd into that space, either, just—
Fenris's jaw tightens and he does break eye contact then. His head lolls to the side, looking at the faintest moonlight light from the dingy window.
"They helped me. I thought he was helping me. For a moment, I thought--"
This would be easier with wine. With a lot more wine. The last time he was so confessional, he'd been drunk or very close to it. He'd told Hawke everything. He stops speaking long enough that it seems like he won't continue. Maybe Astarion deserves this explanation. He's the reason Fenris is still alive.
"Danarius used my sister to lure me out. He was there to reclaim me. Hawke... nearly gave me over."
He remembers vividly how quick Anders was to agree. They never got along, but somehow that still stung. It hurt worse from Hawke, though, even if they were using it as a ruse or just changed their mind mid-way through the conversation. For several moments too long, Fenris thought they would give him to Danarius.
"When you found me in the wilds, I was simply running again. Slavers, bounty hunters, rebels deciding I was in the wrong place. I don't know." But, as far as he knows, it had nothing to do with anyone he left in Kirkwall.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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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.
no subject
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?”
no subject
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.
no subject
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?”
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.”
no subject
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.
no subject
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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Not impossible for someone like Astarion, of course. Someone with gnarled scars etched across his shoulders and even uglier memories tucked inside his skull, but even so, care defines consideration (much as the vampire might not enjoy admitting it aloud, he feels it, keenly); he takes stock of everything in silence, and tucks it away with keen precision.
Not to be forgotten.
"And that's why you're chased now." He posits mildly, letting his hand fall somewhere around the edge of Fenris' collarbone, slender fingers tangling in pale tangles of salt-kissed hair, still damp at their edges from lingering sweat.
"Not by him, but because of him."
Insult not forgotten or assets still desired.
"I imagine it must've been lonely."
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There are plenty of reasons for anyone in power to want to bring him back to heel.
"And I have no doubt he has heirs." Fenris can't remember if Danarius had children - did he? He must have. It would be unthinkable for a man of his standing not to have a direct line of inheritance. Even if he didn't, an heir would be found no matter how far down the family tree they need look. His seat would need to be filled. Regardless, whoever has inherited Danarius's title and holdings would surely know of the lyrium-etched elf that still roams free, a mockery to both the memory of a magister and Tevinter.
Fenris finally looks away from the ceiling, tipping his head to see Astarion.
"It was. But it was better that I be alone. Safer."
For others, if not for him. His nightmare would be somehow repeating the massacre on Seheron.
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"Otherwise you wouldn't have let me come so close to begin with." Their paths would've diverged. Their focus split.
Or at least that's how Astarion imagines it, his silver brows creased into a narrowed pinch. Mouth pulled flat at its edges. It's not a disparaging look (it isn't even a judgmental one, in fact), only attentive in the way of someone searching for a hint of truer understanding. A glimpse of what's running circles in Fenris' mind beneath that relatively stolid stare.
"You would've left by now."
...wouldn't he?
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Fenris stays still and stubborn as Astarion leverages himself up to lean over him. He doesn't flinch as he meets that sharp stare. The pale elf makes a very good argument, however. Why hasn't he left? Why didn't he, as soon as he was able? There's a challenge as he looks at Astarion, and a struggle, as he is made to think about things he has deliberately ignored or pushed aside.
Why is he still here?
The answer is not complicated. He wishes it was, really. Fenris believes that he and everyone else are better off if he remains alone, but Astarion is right, too. He is lonely.
"I had... a cohort, for a while. In Kirkwall." He didn't like or even trust all of them, but it was the first time in years that he'd allowed himself to get close to anyone. Now that he's cut himself off again, he misses the companionship more sharply.
Fenris lowers his gaze. Saying anything further feels like exposing his belly. But he's already done that, hasn't he?
"It was better before I met them," he says quietly. "I could ignore what I was missing."
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"And what exactly were you missing?"
Past and present intertwined when he presses for more— not only about himself, but about that companion, too. More. It's just a hunger for more.
He's always been insatiable.
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"Companionship," he answers, hesitant and quiet. "For years Danarius was my world. I could remember nothing else, no one else. Not my mother, not my sister. Not my name. Even now I use the one he gave me when he made me his dog. His pet experiment. I had no--"
It sounds ridiculous in his own mind, the word on the tip of his tongue. It sounds frivolous. He thought it was frivolous. He says it anyway.
"Friend."
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Not against what Fenris is saying or what he feels— no, that much is undoubtedly true. But they're curled up together here as they have been for weeks going on months: close, and unguarded, and if the ease of isolation is what Fenris had been hunting for, he could've had it well before now. Easily.
So with that in mind, the rest of the picture Astarion's figuratively admiring makes itself that much clearer. Fenris had someone. And whoever they were, they're gone, now.
He doesn't move. Doesn't crowd into that space, either, just—
"...what happened to them?"
Something must have.
"When I found you in the wilds, was it...."
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"They helped me. I thought he was helping me. For a moment, I thought--"
This would be easier with wine. With a lot more wine. The last time he was so confessional, he'd been drunk or very close to it. He'd told Hawke everything. He stops speaking long enough that it seems like he won't continue. Maybe Astarion deserves this explanation. He's the reason Fenris is still alive.
"Danarius used my sister to lure me out. He was there to reclaim me. Hawke... nearly gave me over."
He remembers vividly how quick Anders was to agree. They never got along, but somehow that still stung. It hurt worse from Hawke, though, even if they were using it as a ruse or just changed their mind mid-way through the conversation. For several moments too long, Fenris thought they would give him to Danarius.
"When you found me in the wilds, I was simply running again. Slavers, bounty hunters, rebels deciding I was in the wrong place. I don't know." But, as far as he knows, it had nothing to do with anyone he left in Kirkwall.
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