Forget the rest. Forget the sneering (and likely not inaccurate) insult to his peers; forget the coy compliment to his looks. Forget, even, that compliment of you're interesting, which Fenris knows even now to be a genuine one. They all of them register, but they're swiftly pushed aside in favor of that first statement.
Is this what it is to have a friend, then?
He doesn't know. He truly doesn't, and the question embarrasses him too much to articulate it aloud. But it must be, or something like it. Some form of companionship based upon mutual admiration and fascination, a sudden and swiftly growing desire to know and understand the other person in all their revealed complexities . . . a fondness, Fenris thinks, despite all common sense. He looks up at Astarion with his shirt all but off and his eyes gleaming— and though warm desire floods through him, it isn't separate from those longing feelings of friendship. Just . . . part of it, all at once.
I want you, some part of Fenris whispers. Not just as a friend. Not just as a bedmate, or an errant charge, or a kindly master. I want you, all of you, all of him suddenly and swiftly longing to put roughened hands on delicate hips. To drag Astarion in close and tumble over him, pinning him beneath Fenris' bulk, protective and possessive all at once. He wants to nuzzle at him, to kiss him, to whisper all kinds of secrets and facts and opinions. He wants to slip his fingers between pale thighs and watch as that expression twists, that steady voice melting into trembling statements and whimpering gasps, and all the while Fenris' name is on his lips—
His gaze has gone hooded, though he doesn't realize it. He's too used to stoicism to allow his expression to melt so easily, but he can't hide how intently he's looking at Astarion, longing suddenly fierce in his gaze.]
You mistake good sense for a lack of desire.
[Oh, how roughened his voice has become.]
You know what consequences I face. How dangerous such a thing would be for me.
[The words come from far away, as if he's reciting them from a script. And yet all the while he watches Astarion, not daring to glance away. Not wanting to. A sharp contrast from the way the other elf keeps grinning or nervously licking at his lips; all of Fenris' attention is focused so intently upon him.]
You hold a blade to my throat and ask me to trust that it will all work out.
[And he wants to. And he can't. And he's caught between the two, desire and fear tangling together, a longing so achingly fierce in his expression that it's all but tangible. His fingers flex in the sheets; he half-rises, more so he isn't just laying helplessly back than anything else.]
no subject
Forget the rest. Forget the sneering (and likely not inaccurate) insult to his peers; forget the coy compliment to his looks. Forget, even, that compliment of you're interesting, which Fenris knows even now to be a genuine one. They all of them register, but they're swiftly pushed aside in favor of that first statement.
Is this what it is to have a friend, then?
He doesn't know. He truly doesn't, and the question embarrasses him too much to articulate it aloud. But it must be, or something like it. Some form of companionship based upon mutual admiration and fascination, a sudden and swiftly growing desire to know and understand the other person in all their revealed complexities . . . a fondness, Fenris thinks, despite all common sense. He looks up at Astarion with his shirt all but off and his eyes gleaming— and though warm desire floods through him, it isn't separate from those longing feelings of friendship. Just . . . part of it, all at once.
I want you, some part of Fenris whispers. Not just as a friend. Not just as a bedmate, or an errant charge, or a kindly master. I want you, all of you, all of him suddenly and swiftly longing to put roughened hands on delicate hips. To drag Astarion in close and tumble over him, pinning him beneath Fenris' bulk, protective and possessive all at once. He wants to nuzzle at him, to kiss him, to whisper all kinds of secrets and facts and opinions. He wants to slip his fingers between pale thighs and watch as that expression twists, that steady voice melting into trembling statements and whimpering gasps, and all the while Fenris' name is on his lips—
His gaze has gone hooded, though he doesn't realize it. He's too used to stoicism to allow his expression to melt so easily, but he can't hide how intently he's looking at Astarion, longing suddenly fierce in his gaze.]
You mistake good sense for a lack of desire.
[Oh, how roughened his voice has become.]
You know what consequences I face. How dangerous such a thing would be for me.
[The words come from far away, as if he's reciting them from a script. And yet all the while he watches Astarion, not daring to glance away. Not wanting to. A sharp contrast from the way the other elf keeps grinning or nervously licking at his lips; all of Fenris' attention is focused so intently upon him.]
You hold a blade to my throat and ask me to trust that it will all work out.
[And he wants to. And he can't. And he's caught between the two, desire and fear tangling together, a longing so achingly fierce in his expression that it's all but tangible. His fingers flex in the sheets; he half-rises, more so he isn't just laying helplessly back than anything else.]
Do not tempt me.
Ask me for what you want.