[Oh, his brat. His charming, sweet, lonely, vicious little brat, his tongue sharp and his eyes glittering as he teases. Fenris scoffs softly in reply, his mouth twisted in a wry smile even as the tips of his ears flush a little darker. Point scored, little one, and he will not argue, not when the taste of Astarion's come still lingers on his tongue.
But ah: if Astarion won't go where he's bid, Fenris will simply have to meet him. With a low groan he forces himself to sit up, bare feet hitting the wooden floor heavily as his head spins. In one sluggardly motion he strips off his sweat-soaked shirt, then vaguely fixes his trousers as he rises. He's so tired, spent in a way that goes beyond bodily limits, but he's always been a deft hand at pushing past exhaustion. Fenris crosses the room in two strides, coming up short only when he stands in front of his charge.
Then, so quick that it's impossible to realize what's happening before it's done, he sweeps Astarion up in his arms, hefting him up in a bridal carry. And to his credit, he tries (sort of) not to be smug about the motion, for it isn't meant to be another vengeful point scored in their endless battle. It's just that anyone with eyes could see the way those lithe legs tremble in exhaustion; it's just that sweat still drips down Astarion's temple and neck, making that sleepshirt cling to him as he heaves for breath.]
I imagine you did, yes.
[It's low, more amusement than fluster in his tone as he turns on his heel. One thumb rubs idly between the other elf's shoulderblades, an absent bit of affection.
His eyes slide slowly over Astarion as he carries him back to bed. He's beautiful and he knows it. He's beautiful, but that is the least of him as far as Fenris is concerned, for he has seen many beautiful people in his three centuries. Friends of his master or courtesans hired to put on a show, and don't misunderstand, for it isn't as if he's above such things. But that isn't what draws him to Astarion.
He doesn't know what it is, only that it exists. Some electrified line between them, magnetic and inescapable, born from that one fateful night. They aren't perfect for each other. They aren't perfect for anyone, maybe; Fenris such a broken thing, scarred and angry and bewildered by all that demi-freedom offers him, and Astarion still so entrenched within his class, too caught up in their complexities to understand the real world and too miserable to dream of breaking away. They're both made up of sharp edges, biting and scratching and clawing just to say I won, and it will take a long time before they find a rhythm that works. It will take countless corrections for them to learn how to get along, how not to grate, how to understand what the future holds (I'll protect you is still not the same as I'll free you, after all), but—
Still, Fenris thinks as he carefully lays Astarion out on his bed. Still, there is trust. And there is connection. And that will keep them together until they can forge a stronger bond.]
Tell me what else you liked.
[It's quiet, rumbling as he climbs in next to him. And oh, to hell with it: one arm slings around his noble's hips, gathering him in close. Come here, equal parts possessive and protective, an old wolf putting a paw on a squalling cub, hushing his eager nipping. Settle.]
AA BOO THANK YOU once again you spoil me :>
But ah: if Astarion won't go where he's bid, Fenris will simply have to meet him. With a low groan he forces himself to sit up, bare feet hitting the wooden floor heavily as his head spins. In one sluggardly motion he strips off his sweat-soaked shirt, then vaguely fixes his trousers as he rises. He's so tired, spent in a way that goes beyond bodily limits, but he's always been a deft hand at pushing past exhaustion. Fenris crosses the room in two strides, coming up short only when he stands in front of his charge.
Then, so quick that it's impossible to realize what's happening before it's done, he sweeps Astarion up in his arms, hefting him up in a bridal carry. And to his credit, he tries (sort of) not to be smug about the motion, for it isn't meant to be another vengeful point scored in their endless battle. It's just that anyone with eyes could see the way those lithe legs tremble in exhaustion; it's just that sweat still drips down Astarion's temple and neck, making that sleepshirt cling to him as he heaves for breath.]
I imagine you did, yes.
[It's low, more amusement than fluster in his tone as he turns on his heel. One thumb rubs idly between the other elf's shoulderblades, an absent bit of affection.
His eyes slide slowly over Astarion as he carries him back to bed. He's beautiful and he knows it. He's beautiful, but that is the least of him as far as Fenris is concerned, for he has seen many beautiful people in his three centuries. Friends of his master or courtesans hired to put on a show, and don't misunderstand, for it isn't as if he's above such things. But that isn't what draws him to Astarion.
He doesn't know what it is, only that it exists. Some electrified line between them, magnetic and inescapable, born from that one fateful night. They aren't perfect for each other. They aren't perfect for anyone, maybe; Fenris such a broken thing, scarred and angry and bewildered by all that demi-freedom offers him, and Astarion still so entrenched within his class, too caught up in their complexities to understand the real world and too miserable to dream of breaking away. They're both made up of sharp edges, biting and scratching and clawing just to say I won, and it will take a long time before they find a rhythm that works. It will take countless corrections for them to learn how to get along, how not to grate, how to understand what the future holds (I'll protect you is still not the same as I'll free you, after all), but—
Still, Fenris thinks as he carefully lays Astarion out on his bed. Still, there is trust. And there is connection. And that will keep them together until they can forge a stronger bond.]
Tell me what else you liked.
[It's quiet, rumbling as he climbs in next to him. And oh, to hell with it: one arm slings around his noble's hips, gathering him in close. Come here, equal parts possessive and protective, an old wolf putting a paw on a squalling cub, hushing his eager nipping. Settle.]