[Don't, he thinks as one slender leg hooks around his hip, pressure urging his back to arch. Don't, don't, and it's the same old refrain, but it takes a different tune than all the times before. Don't, Fenris had coldly snapped at his smirking charge, refusing to stare as he stood pale and perfect in front of the mirror. Don't as their lips met, aphrodisiac stinging his throat as the world swum and the laughter of his friends echoed all around them. Don't as they'd stood parallel in that alley, panting and heaving, Fenris trembling in rage and arousal all at once—
Don't, Fenris thinks now, and it is not a refusal, but a last, desperate gasp. Don't, because I cannot resist you, not really, not if you try.
Their hips rub together, dull friction sending sparks shooting through his frame— but though his hips buck in instinctive desire, that isn't what tears at his resolve. Astarion's voice sounds so desperate as he pleads. Not a brat unwilling to accept he won't get his way, no, for that would not sway Fenris. Rather: it's the cry of a person locked away in the darkness for so long, one who has finally had the briefest glimpse of sunlight: please, please, I cannot go back, not again.
He knows that fear. He knows that grief, for some days it feels as if he has spent his entire life silently screaming with that same pain. When you feel as though you're alone in a crowd, and everyone around you is too cruel or hateful or stupid for words . . . and it isn't about being understood, not really. It isn't about being known, or having some special soulmate that reads your thoughts before you've even begun to think. It's about being seen. Listened to.
It's about whispering how miserable you are— and hearing someone whisper that they, too, know that grief.]
Shh— shh, shh—
[Another kiss, shallow and swift. And then another, their mouths meeting clumsily, as he tightens his grip around Astarion's frame. Don't, don't, but can he be blamed for what he takes anyway? Like a drowning man gasping for air, and a few lungfuls surely won't shatter them.]
I am not going anywhere— shh, little star. Settle. I am not leaving.
[The bridge of his nose bumps against Astarion's own, their foreheads pressing together even as Fenris shifts, til he's resting atop his charge. I am not leaving, and he does not try and dissuade those fingers knotted in his hair. I'm here, and it isn't the same as yes— but it's something.
And he'll clarify later. When that racing heart beneath him has settled and there isn't such panic in the room, he'll explain. But for now . . . shh, and the nosing kiss he presses against Astarion's cheek is as much for himself as it is the pale elf.]
Not tonight. Not like this. Trust me, for my age if nothing else— and trust, too, that I want as badly as you do.
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Don't, Fenris thinks now, and it is not a refusal, but a last, desperate gasp. Don't, because I cannot resist you, not really, not if you try.
Their hips rub together, dull friction sending sparks shooting through his frame— but though his hips buck in instinctive desire, that isn't what tears at his resolve. Astarion's voice sounds so desperate as he pleads. Not a brat unwilling to accept he won't get his way, no, for that would not sway Fenris. Rather: it's the cry of a person locked away in the darkness for so long, one who has finally had the briefest glimpse of sunlight: please, please, I cannot go back, not again.
He knows that fear. He knows that grief, for some days it feels as if he has spent his entire life silently screaming with that same pain. When you feel as though you're alone in a crowd, and everyone around you is too cruel or hateful or stupid for words . . . and it isn't about being understood, not really. It isn't about being known, or having some special soulmate that reads your thoughts before you've even begun to think. It's about being seen. Listened to.
It's about whispering how miserable you are— and hearing someone whisper that they, too, know that grief.]
Shh— shh, shh—
[Another kiss, shallow and swift. And then another, their mouths meeting clumsily, as he tightens his grip around Astarion's frame. Don't, don't, but can he be blamed for what he takes anyway? Like a drowning man gasping for air, and a few lungfuls surely won't shatter them.]
I am not going anywhere— shh, little star. Settle. I am not leaving.
[The bridge of his nose bumps against Astarion's own, their foreheads pressing together even as Fenris shifts, til he's resting atop his charge. I am not leaving, and he does not try and dissuade those fingers knotted in his hair. I'm here, and it isn't the same as yes— but it's something.
And he'll clarify later. When that racing heart beneath him has settled and there isn't such panic in the room, he'll explain. But for now . . . shh, and the nosing kiss he presses against Astarion's cheek is as much for himself as it is the pale elf.]
Not tonight. Not like this. Trust me, for my age if nothing else— and trust, too, that I want as badly as you do.