[Whatever you want. And that's true, Fenris thinks during the next handful of breathless seconds. He could take anything he wanted right now and Astarion would acquiesce. Push his fingers into that pliant mouth, fucking them in and out as Astarion trembled and drooled in pent-up need. Slot his thigh between those parted ones, guiding that offered leg into wrapping around one hip. Flip him over and yank those trousers down, spearing him with his prick and drinking in every overheated moan that leaves those lips, Fenris please Fenris, thighs trembling for a partner who finally takes what he wants instead of giving Astarion what he thinks he needs . . .
The room is cool tonight, though the space between them is warm. The muted sounds of the city drift in, but it only serves to highlight the breathless silence that's fallen, and all the little ways in which they puncture it. Ragged breath. Unsubtle swallows. Pale skin gleams in the moonlight, those silver eyes full of fear and longing all at once. A pretty prince caught by a prowling wolf, trembling in lust and anticipation as he waits for his fate to be pronounced. Astarion's body is so slight against his hand, his weight negligible, and Fenris swears he can feel his heartbeat thundering against the palm of his hand, a rapidfire rhythm so heavy that it pulses down his fingertips, echoing in counterpoint to his own.
His eyes slide slowly down, making no secret of the way he drinks in his companion. Lingering on the swell of his lips, the faint shine of spit— and then down further, to the slender line of his neck. The curve of his chest and jut of his ribs (and his hand draws him in a little closer, mine, mine). Then back up again, relishing taking the time to make Astarion squirm.
What will I do with you, little boy . . .
When he moves, it's a deliberate thing.
Calloused fingertips press against pliant skin, urging Astarion to draw even closer. Until there's not a fingerspan of space between them, their bodies pressed up against one another in roughshod intimacy. Astarion's panted breath is hot against Fenris' lips, and he can count every errant freckle across the bridge of his nose.
His other hand slides down, first cupping his cheek, then gently gripping his chin. His thumb presses against Astarion's bottom lip, teasing against the pliant give in one slow, indulgent swipe. And then, before he has time to react—
Fenris kisses him.
Softly. Gently. Their mouths meet with such aching tenderness, and Fenris lingers there, relishing this perfect moment. The feeling of lips against his own, heated and pliant; the dichotomy of their mouths, Fenris' bitten and chapped, Astarion's soft and swollen. The warmth of that lithe body pressed against his own, and the way he's surrounded by Astarion, scent and sensation subsuming him in the sweetest way. An eternity passes, or only a few seconds, and then—
Their mouths part with a soft noise. Fenris stares hazily down at his Astarion, his cheeks flushed and his eyes full of an indescribable longing.]
No.
[Soft. Throaty.]
You do not understand the weight of what you offer me.
[So young, how could he? So rich, how could he? But no one knows the gravity of a word like anything better than a slave. No one knows better what it is to give yourself, all of yourself, to another. Darling little star who offers himself again and again— to get what he wants, to use as base comfort, to even out the score between all the bastards in Fenris' life who have ever taken from him . . .
And it's not about sex (and it is, a little bit). It's about ownership, and possessiveness, and the desperate desire to not become one on a string of dozens, swiftly consumed and spat out when he is no longer a novelty. It's about loneliness and wanting so badly it hurts— and yet knowing that to take now would be to seal himself from it forever.]
I will have all of you, or none of you.
[Throaty. Intent, as his eyes dip down to focus on the curve of those lips just once.]
Tell me again. When you know what it is you offer me . . . tell me again, and I will come running.
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The room is cool tonight, though the space between them is warm. The muted sounds of the city drift in, but it only serves to highlight the breathless silence that's fallen, and all the little ways in which they puncture it. Ragged breath. Unsubtle swallows. Pale skin gleams in the moonlight, those silver eyes full of fear and longing all at once. A pretty prince caught by a prowling wolf, trembling in lust and anticipation as he waits for his fate to be pronounced. Astarion's body is so slight against his hand, his weight negligible, and Fenris swears he can feel his heartbeat thundering against the palm of his hand, a rapidfire rhythm so heavy that it pulses down his fingertips, echoing in counterpoint to his own.
His eyes slide slowly down, making no secret of the way he drinks in his companion. Lingering on the swell of his lips, the faint shine of spit— and then down further, to the slender line of his neck. The curve of his chest and jut of his ribs (and his hand draws him in a little closer, mine, mine). Then back up again, relishing taking the time to make Astarion squirm.
What will I do with you, little boy . . .
When he moves, it's a deliberate thing.
Calloused fingertips press against pliant skin, urging Astarion to draw even closer. Until there's not a fingerspan of space between them, their bodies pressed up against one another in roughshod intimacy. Astarion's panted breath is hot against Fenris' lips, and he can count every errant freckle across the bridge of his nose.
His other hand slides down, first cupping his cheek, then gently gripping his chin. His thumb presses against Astarion's bottom lip, teasing against the pliant give in one slow, indulgent swipe. And then, before he has time to react—
Fenris kisses him.
Softly. Gently. Their mouths meet with such aching tenderness, and Fenris lingers there, relishing this perfect moment. The feeling of lips against his own, heated and pliant; the dichotomy of their mouths, Fenris' bitten and chapped, Astarion's soft and swollen. The warmth of that lithe body pressed against his own, and the way he's surrounded by Astarion, scent and sensation subsuming him in the sweetest way. An eternity passes, or only a few seconds, and then—
Their mouths part with a soft noise. Fenris stares hazily down at his Astarion, his cheeks flushed and his eyes full of an indescribable longing.]
No.
[Soft. Throaty.]
You do not understand the weight of what you offer me.
[So young, how could he? So rich, how could he? But no one knows the gravity of a word like anything better than a slave. No one knows better what it is to give yourself, all of yourself, to another. Darling little star who offers himself again and again— to get what he wants, to use as base comfort, to even out the score between all the bastards in Fenris' life who have ever taken from him . . .
And it's not about sex (and it is, a little bit). It's about ownership, and possessiveness, and the desperate desire to not become one on a string of dozens, swiftly consumed and spat out when he is no longer a novelty. It's about loneliness and wanting so badly it hurts— and yet knowing that to take now would be to seal himself from it forever.]
I will have all of you, or none of you.
[Throaty. Intent, as his eyes dip down to focus on the curve of those lips just once.]
Tell me again. When you know what it is you offer me . . . tell me again, and I will come running.