[It's a strange look he gives Astarion. Not displeased, which might be surprising to the other elf. Not the gruff indifference or unimpressed dissuasion of before, but rather . . . puzzlement, bemused but quietly pleased. They're all beneath you, and he doesn't understand why Astarion would say such a thing— but right here, right now, Fenris is inclined to believe him.]
Oh?
[The mattress dips between them, Astarion suspended above Fenris as he bares his teeth in such a fierce little grin. His cheeks are faintly flushed, his hair mussed from the pillow— gods, he's so far from the poised little thing that Fenris had pulled from the party. Messy and imperfect, fierce savagery in his hungry smile— but in that moment, Fenris thinks, Astarion looks more attractive than he ever has before.
It's a quiet realization, one he doesn't quite articulate even to himself. Pretty, for he has never seen Astarion's face glow like this. Flush with sincerity and eagerness . . . together, and the word slips through his mind so sweetly. Together, as his fingers flex and he tries not to think about reaching out to touch him.]
[They're alone. The wing is empty. His father and his mother and his younger brother sleep, every servant shuttered in their quarters. The idea of being overheard? Ridiculous. Not even Talindra's up this late— and Astarion would know: he's made it his trade, skittering through the grounds unseen. A rat in the walls. A cat on high sills.
He could say anything right now.
It might as well be his estate they're laying in. His mansion. His throne room. His bed. An empire of nothing but vacant space, gone again come sunrise.
Why not make it count?]
The one where I actually enjoy having you around. [Oh, if a drop of honesty falls in a forest and only one other person is around....
(But this is in the spirit of cooperation, isn't it? The foundation of their truce.
Maybe he can do better than that.)]
As for them? Highborn or not, you saw it for yourself. Desperation becomes.
They're needy. Timid. Hungry. All starved for recognition. [Mutters the seductive pot about its kettle, smugly all the while.] They'd lick it off the carpets if they thought it'd be a net gain, for one.
—and you should see the photos they take of themselves.
Eugh.
[But if he could stop staring at those gold-green eyes, this'd all be so much easier. He has to pause to flash a grin or lick his lips more than once for losing his own train of thought, finding it in time:]
You, though....
You're interesting. Better to look at, too.
[Fenris doesn't need to think about reaching out: Astarion's already arched closer— angled in smooth slopes across the bracket of his forearm and braced palm. One shoulder high, the other low, slanting his arrangement almost as much as the loose shirt he's barely wearing. Pallid in his outline when he grins, but far, far, far from cold.
And it's lilac. And it's bergamot. Pressed palm oil and warm brandy. And it's dangerous.
But not a threat.]
I'm starting to think there's nothing I could tempt you with to steer you away from your path.
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.]
[All of Fenris easily read through the layers stacked down to his core in those unhabited seconds— it's his skin that's become glass. Or his chest, his lungs, his skull— Astarion now able to peer right through him with a sudden punch of resounding clarity, unexpected and surreal, like the sheet laid out across them both fell back far enough in shifting to reveal only his heart. And if it was a choice, it was a strange one in a world where no one can afford to slip. And if it wasn't—
Ask me for what you want.
No runaround. No games. Naked in unexpected parallel with every bit of clothing on, they've both gone as still as prey animals once their cover's been pulled up, neophytic and small in an arena they don't know. Where irony makes a fineboned heir as practiced as a half-starved wolf (oh yes, he knows his name), and somehow, Astarion gets the feeling that this time, it won't die at the stroke of midnight.
It'll start there, finding lungs and life until dawn comes. Paradoxically charged: neither really alive nor truly dead— unseen outside this room. Waiting for one of them to smother it or stamp it out. (And he wants to. And he can't. And he's caught between the two, desire and hesitation tangling together, a longing so achingly fierce in his expression that it's all but tangible.)
His heels slip against silk sheets when he sinks lower, scuffing atop the mattress.
It might as well be the edge of a cliff.]
So don't trust anything.
[Not a line, this time. Not a card played when his voice comes slithering in before his senses, hearing himself talk like it's someone else (and it's not) offering the breed of warmth he's never known (and it's not— it's not), scoffing with a sobered smile just to realize how far forwards he's leaned. He was hunting him, the first night he slunk into his space.
He's not hunting him now.
(His little finger moving first, linking itself to Fenris' in the gap that still remains, scant few inches that are left. Curling in to almost kiss him— only to kiss his forehead instead. Nose pushed briefly against those three little dots (gods help him, he doesn't know better yet), before he exhales once more in a huff.]
Let me earn it first.
[And no, he didn't promise to set him free. But he can protect him for now until he does. Give him a chance to learn that it's all right. At least inside this room. These halls. This quiet, empty wing.
Not the pain of contact— that's a red-hot spark slicing through his nerves, a momentary burst of pain that earns no reaction, for he's used to it by now. But the kiss itself, oh, that nearly tears him apart. It's slow. Soft. A gentle, adoring brush of lips against his forehead that ignites him from tip to toe, a rush of aching longing and shivering warmth, and he never realizes how starved he is for contact until he receives it. Fenris' eyes flutter closed in those moments, his throat bobbing as his head tips up— and gets that gentle bump of Astarion's nose as reward.
Let me earn it first, as a slender finger hooks around his own. Sweet-smelling breath wafts against his face. And it hurts. It hurts, it aches, it tears at him, his soul shrieking as his throat closes for just a moment, and he cannot say why, except no one has ever tried to earn his trust before.
No one has ever looked at him as enough of a person to even bother.
And it's too much. It's too much, so much so that for a moment it terrifies him. Like standing at the edge of a ship and peering over at the roaring sea, oh, he could drown in those dark waves. He knows how to be alone. He knows how to manage on his own, self-sufficient and so achingly lonely it's become a part of him, a dull ache he ignores as much as he does his lyrium. To let down his guard, to let someone even begin to try and reach him (never mind a noble, never mind his own charge) . . . oh, it could go so wrong so swiftly. It will go wrong, something quiet in him whispers, for how could it not? Nothing good ever stays. Such things (friendship, companionship, a lover) are not meant for the likes of him.
And yet: it isn't enough. It takes everything in him not to cry out as Astarion pulls away, please wait no not yet, so desperately starved for company and companionship that he can't give it up right away. Please, I need it, and just because he has learned to live with the ache of loneliness doesn't mean it cannot hurt.
And he doesn't know what to say. How to begin to acknowledge any of those emotions and impulses; how to begin to even parse them to himself. All Fenris knows in that moment is that when he looks up at Astarion, he sees . . .
A chance.
A fork in the road in a lifetime with one steady, straight line. A set of silver eyes that pierce the darkness and whisper: I see you. Curls lit up by moonlight, his expression so terribly careful, and in that moment Fenris realizes it isn't a choice. He could no more refuse this than he could stop breathing, not because Astarion is forcing his hand— but because he wants him so badly there is nothing he wouldn't do to get him.
(And yet: the power is placed in his hands. Let me earn your trust, and someday, maybe, he will tell Astarion just how much it meant to him).]
Yes.
[Breathless, and accompanied by a jerky nod. His finger lurches forward, hooking around Astarion's in confirmation: stay. Don't let go, not yet.]
In the coming weeks . . . yes. I . . .
[He sounds inane. He sounds like he's in shock, but gods help him, this is all so suddenly and bewilderingly new. ]
I have never met anyone quite like you, I think.
[And his hand lurches to the left, his fingers clumsy as they try to weave gently through Astarion's own. Please stay.]
[A lurch of movement still impressively rife with prowess has rough fingers latched tight around his own before he can take them back: their pressure tight, but far from biting; like the scales have tilted in its somehow endearing wake, he's that much prouder when he's framed by Fenris' wounded exposure. Chin a little higher. Half-lidded stare easy and slow-building, he tips his head just to let thoughts of anything else slip free under gravity's practiced hold.
Focusing on what's more important, for once.]
Here. [He nudges at his companion with a slanted flash of teeth, leaving their fingers intertwined just the way Fenris had arranged them— ] Roll over. [ —scuffling all of his silhouette into the empty space that formerly divided (and confined) them until his side's pushed flush against Fenris' arm. His hip. His leg. Pushing like a child at a sleepover just to den himself right in without a drop of shame or dignity, grinning all the while.
And the thing is, he doesn't stop. Not until Fenris has conceded and actually rolled onto his side, facing away so that Astarion can wrap around him with a pair of reedy arms and jabbing knees (and— last of all— two sets of ice-cold toes).
The door's shut. More importantly, it's locked. No one's walking in unless they want them to.
[It's so childish. It's so undignified, a sudden shift that sweeps away his sense of unmoored grief and replaces it with something more practical. Roll over, and suddenly he's being prodded along, urged and pressured with a playful grin until at last he gives in and settles on his side. It's more baffling than insulting, a bewildering change of pace that he doesn't understand— until all at once he does. Until all that movement settles and there's a soft presence pressing up from behind him. Warm breath puffs against the back of his neck, Astarion's arm slinging over his body and their fingers still tightly intertwined.
Quiet fills the room.
And it's comforting.
To be held. To realize, as the seconds tick past and the sounds of the city idly drift in with the breeze, that there is no other shoe waiting to be dropped. Astarion means to hold him like this, with no other expectation or overhead plan that's coyly waiting to be put in motion. No one is going to burst in on them, not when the door is locked. There's no master waiting to punish him, no gawkers ready to objectify him . . . there's just this. This soft moment that's perfect in all its imperfections, jabbing knees and cold toes, staggering in how gentle it all is.
He does not speak for a time, and there's something something a little wonderful about that, too. It lets him bask in the little details of this moment: the soft darkness and the pleasantly cool breeze that slips in through the window; the warm weight of the comforter above them, and the sensation that they're hidden away from the world.
Astarion's hand is smaller than his own. Softer, too. His fingers fit nimbly between Fenris' own, and without really thinking about it he strokes his thumb against him, steady and soothing.]
And you do?
[Ah: a belated retort to Astarion's sentence. But whereas Fenris' voice had been weighed down with his grief and shock before, it's lighter now. He's teasing, or at least trying to.]
The first time I give you a compliment, little noble, and you refute it. Perhaps I need to be more specific, then.
[He's glad they aren't facing one another. It's easier like this.]
You have a streak of kindness in you. One I do not often see among your rank.
[And the thing is, Fenris himself isn't being kind. He isn't offering up something trite because he feels so very grateful, no, that's not his way. And maybe that carries through in the way his voice is a low rumble, too quiet to be something meant to flatter.]
Gross. [Snorts the heir apparent at his back, resisting the urge for gentleness by virtue of being absolutely untenable (his slight fingers hooking around rougher ones all the while. Pressing into that gentle, rolling pressure, feeling the grit of what must've been years upon years' worth of trials).
The point is: maybe Astarion didn't miss that initial cue. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing the first time Fenris tried to impress kindness round his throat, and doesn't want that sort of praise to find him in open air. At least not without a good-natured skirmish, first. (Catch him with it. Fight him with it. Wear him down, and maybe— just maybe— he'll let it stick.)
He lets this stick instead: curling further into the small gaps until their contours perfectly align, knees to knees and thighs to thighs and even knuckles to fine bones, smiling all the while. His cavalier defiance puffed along the back of Fenris' neck. The settled slope of his shoulder.]
Just because I'm doing you a favor doesn't mean I'm being kind.
You are stuck with me now, after all. [He says like that wasn't part and parcel already.] Doomed to a life of fancy parties and enviable soirées.
[He doesn't know the life of a slave; he doesn't realize what it looked like— not the way Fenris knew it.]
[Invisibly, Fenris allows himself the audacious insolence of a small eye-roll. He will not insist upon that compliment a third time, no, he knows better— but that won't stop him from thinking it. Nor, indeed, stubbornly insisting upon it even if it's only to himself, for it's true in his mind. Not that Astarion is some saint, but still. It was kind, and gods know Fenris has felt little enough of that in his life.
But ah: he huffs out a laugh for that prediction of the future. He might not in other circumstances, too embittered by the irony to find amusement in it, but tonight is different. The way Astarion shuffles in closer, til there's not a single gap between them, makes it different.]
I imagine I have seen more fancy parties and soirées than you, young thing that you are. They lose their shine after the third or fourth.
[Gods, they were endless. He never could decide which he hated more: the ones in which Danarius played host or acted as guest. Both had their pitfalls and miseries. There were nights in Castellum Tenebris where Fenris would be tasked with serving wine and acting as entertainment both (Danarius' fingers twitching as Fenris would fall to his knees, and it was a good night if his keening cries were of pain and not pleasure). And then again there were night in other estates, where he would linger along the sidelines and ignore the unsubtle stares and gossiping whispers (from other slaves, from the guests, from everyone) in favor of watching all the revelry with a wary eye. His belly empty as the wealthy drank too much champagne and ate delicate pastries . . .
And danced. Gliding and weaving among another, and fashions might change, but dancing doesn't, not as much as humans think it does. And it was amusing, really, to see how they evolving: minuets becoming waltzes becoming polkas, and oh, of course there's others. He is no fool, and just because Danarius had never ventured into clubs doesn't mean that Fenris is blind to the less, ah, restrained dances that take place in the city. But if they're talking about noble parties, well.]
In fact . . . I wager I am better than you at the dances there, too. Gods know I have seen them often enough.
[Amusement is woven sweetly in his voice, though he keeps facing forward.]
[They might as well be sparrows tightly cossetted together for how Astarion's finally settled down at last, grip tight and insistently vicelike— but the slackness of his body resting fully on his counterpart makes it a comfortable snugness: no one's arms and legs are at risk of going numb while the noble's feverwarm cheek (the same one Fenris tended to, in fact), beds down in a dead weight slump along his tutor's throat. Comfortable now.]
Taking that bet, thank you very much in advance for your donation.
[He feels his own voice when he talks. The sound of it, vibrating slow through the conduit of skin and bone. So distracted by it (or is it something else entirely?) that he loses the thread of what he was going to tease next. Stalled out in ways he isn't used to.
Being carelessly coltish should come easy; he's even already got one foot in the water, no matter how his tenor's stiff right through the middle of his throat when he sucks in another breath.
(The problem is he can't stop thinking. Can't stop wondering, even when he knows he shouldn't.)]
....I....don't think I ever realized slaves were taught how to dance.
[He chuckles silently. It's a rumble of amusement more felt than heard, and therefore intended for one person only. Astarion is such an insistent weight atop him, his cheek warm and his limbs all tangled up within Leto's own. Like a pup eager for love, he thinks. So needy for affection that the concept of personal space simply doesn't exist, and gods, but Leto is enjoying it. Far more than he thought he would, in fact, and he shifts, tipping his head up, turning a little: making room.
Come here. Come here, now, lie with me, for at this point, he sees no use in resisting. And there's something quite soothing about being able to curl up with someone like this.]
We aren't.
[Mm. He resists the urge to turn and nuzzle against the top of Astarion's head. Or, no, not just that: to turn utterly, lying on his back so that he might gather the other elf up in his arms. But that would be too dangerous tonight, and they have danced on the edge of impropriety as it is. One thing at a time, he tells himself, and tries not to feel the ache in his arms as he rues the loss.]
But decades of watching parties brings its own expertise. My former master did not enjoy frivolities as a rule— certainly you would never catch him dancing, not especially as he got on in years. But he would attend the parties nonetheless, competing in that grand Game you all enjoy so much. As did his father, and his father's father . . . and the styles do not change much. What's fashionable now becomes intriguing once again in a few decades— and there are only so many ways in which one can move their body.
I would stand to the side more often than not. Theoretically, my job was to watch for threats— but as most nights were dull affairs, I watched the dancers instead.
[He wonders if he'd ever seen Astarion at one of those parties. Not as he is now, an elf grown, but as a child: silver hair and gold braid stitching, far more interested in getting his hands on food than the dull going-ons of adults. If so, Fenris does not remember, and gods know Astarion likely doesn't, for who takes heed of slaves? But still. It's an oddly bittersweet thought, and he exhales sharply, trying to dismiss it.
And ah: there's a bit of a weary note in his voice as he adds:]
[Astarion wends in without a word like a cat slithering into the crack in a sill, making transference anything but a loss: boneless volume charting a course for the rest of him to follow— which isn't entirely unlike the conversation passed back and forth between them (his slight ears softly perked; his lashes lowered after a long day where his tired eyes sting with fainter dryness) as he listens, not at all inclined to sleep just yet. At least not while he's outlining all the passed-on details in real time as he compiles them: that Fenris' master wasn't young. He liked— or he was obligated to— the grandeur of his station more than the motions of it. But was it glory over pleasure, or was it simply the odd, contagious numbness that runs rampant amongst nobility? Did he like anything? Did he even notice Fenris at all?
And it's methodical and thoughtless in the background of all that musing, the way Astarion compares himself to it, ascertaining absently that there's a difference. (I'm young. I don't keep slaves. I don't hate fun— all the petty, pointless divides that promise— I'm not him.
Does Fenris know that he's not him?)]
Watching isn't the same thing as doing. [Asserts the young rake to the proverbial choir, not even registering what the layout of experience looks like between them anyway (Have you ever been properly fucked, little brat? Have you ever been driven out of your mind? I doubt it.)
Circling the past instead of diving for it, and shifting more onto his side just to tip his view towards the lower end of his guardian's face.]
If you've never actually gone through the motions, you won't do any better than I did shooting a gun.
—what, though? Afraid I'll drag you to every ball and dinner party this side of Faerûn? [Astarion asks, finally letting his mouth slant around his teeth at that final inquisition.]
Because if so: yes.
[Though it's with the sharper nudge of a settled elbow that he adds, mildly:]
But unlike your old master, I know how to have fun.
[He's surprised to hear the purr in his own voice, richly amused and with just a hint of teasing. It's far more playful than he's ever inclined to be— but gods, being tangled up like this inspires it in him. Having that hand in the dark extended to him, that nuzzling nurturing . . . it broke a wall between them, Fenris thinks. Gods only know what that means for the coming weeks, for they cannot act like this around one another outside of this room, but . . . right now, Fenris does not feel the looming tension and danger of the past few weeks. There's no harm in teasing his charge, not like this.
And maybe it helps, not lingering on the past. Maybe it's nice for once to speak about Danarius without either shuddering in terror or flinching in pain. He's never done it before, and every irreverent, sneering word that slips past his lips is an exercise in freedom. He cannot say the topic does not hurt, for it does, and he can feel the strain already (the urge to speak of him more and the urge to never speak of him tangling up nauseatingly within him, slow to rise but overwhelming in its intensity)— but still, it is a marvel.
Idly, his fingers trace against Astarion's bare skin, curves and whirls that mean nothing.]
But if you're going to threaten me, little noble, do it properly. Do you intend to drag me out on the dance floor at one of these parties? Or merely teach me in some back room and make sport of it?
[Not lingering doesn't mean forgetting. Laughing doesn't mean it doesn't ache. He's smiling, but it's disjointed: partially in the clockwork tick of half a minute ago, rolling the marbled concept of 'I would stand to the side more often than not' between tangled fingertips, imagining what it would've looked like— if Astarion had ever even seen him.
(Passing through a crowd with laughter in his throat, paying less than any heed to those ungilded accompaniments while his knuckles curl in silk. The same creature he huddles into now like sunlight rendered as invisible as music to silver eyes, and far less valued in that falsely conjured mind. Just a blot at the corner of his mirthful vision, and behind its blurred out shadow: sad eyes. Hollow cheeks. Laced with placidity and misery in equal doses, unable to even hope for more.)
Rough fingerprints begin to drawl along bare skin, and before he knows it, he's wide awake again.]
I'll teach you here first, daring wolf.
Spare you the public ridicule until you're actually worth the sport.
['I won't touch you', Astarion gritted little over half an hour ago when beckoning his companion into bed. He's breaking that rule in overdrive by jabbing his chin into the thickset muscle over Fenris' shoulder (amongst every other bit of intertwining between fingers and toes and feet), grinning hard enough to cut.]
[He doesn't move. A shard of ice ripples through his soul, cutting through his growing fondness and leaving his heart thundering in his chest, and he does not move, not an inch. It's not a conscious choice, but an instinctive one. Fight, flight, or freeze, that's what they always say, and gods know Fenris has been trained to fight— but any slave will tell you that the best instinct to cultivate is freeze.
Freeze, and perhaps whatever master is angry over won't be made worse. Freeze, and they cannot claim any of the rage and grief you always feel has made it to your expression. Freeze, and maybe, just maybe, you'll get out of this intact. Fenris' fingers have stilled, locked in place against Astarion's bare skin; his other hand has stilled, his fingers stiff despite being intertwined.
And he isn't stupid. He knows that Astarion likely meant nothing by the remark. Your reputation is mine now, I can't have you making a fool of us both with your ungainly steps, and it's just another way to continue their conversation, pushing the boundaries gently back and forth. But the word mine works its way under his skin like fiberglass, stinging so sharply that it aches.]
But things are different in this room, aren't they? Just for tonight, maybe. Just for this hour, this minute, this moment, when they're tangled together and more equal than they've ever been. When Astarion looks at him as companion instead of bodyguard, and Fenris—
Fenris needs to act as more than flinching slave.
It's quick, the way he moves: a lightning-fast burst of movement, shifting and twisting his body as he spins to face Astarion, his arms surging forward to wrap around the other elf and tug him in close. Their bodies suddenly aligned (oh, Astarion is so slight compared to him, his body such a fragile thing when grasped with roughened hands), one hand wrapping firm around his torso while the other threads through unruly curls. He doesn't grip so tight it hurts, for he isn't in this to punish— just to command attention, so suddenly and swiftly that Astarion will have no choice but to pay him mind.]
And what of yours is mine, little star?
[Focus, little one. Choose carefully, and it's impossible to read Fenris' expression. There's nothing but intent focus, emerald eyes glinting in the darkness.]
[His vision is filled with the sight of that cold glare.
An exhale— and his lips crack open without breath, silver eyes shivering as their pupils constrict into beaded little pinpricks, the byproduct of terror bred ages ago into his forebearers: alertness meant for unwalled places. Rigidity to counter prey drive, but it doesn't work as well when his own jeweled fingertips lay tight against tanned skin. Everything he provoked through carelessness (the kind he still can't track in hindsight) hunched over him in a corded array of knotwork muscle. His ribcage— that narrow network of threading marrow— made narrower by the steady lock of an arm that feels like steel around his body, keeping him from sucking in full gasps of deadened air.
And those fingerpads....]
I—
[His curls part under pressure. He thinks his legs might, too, though as his cock jerks hot against his thigh it's only his own toes that curl, scrubbing at silk sheets.
He could come from this.
He—
—click— or maybe it's a wetter sound when his tongue unhooks itself from the roof of his mouth, the act of swallowing too noisy to ignore. Tender throat bobbing only once.]
....whatever you want.
[It's not a line. The words have to crawl from his throat to leave his mouth in roughcut shambles, registered like dry silt to his ears. And with the implication of anything his left leg inches higher, nudging in a less-dazed invitation that's as reflexive as a buckled spine or lowered, motionless dedition. The subtle scuff of their trousers pinching round their knees leading into that slight shift in balance. Adding pressure to the notion of surrender through open thighs....and the ensuing rush that drives two pale hands up to fist however they can in white hair set to match. The same breed of boldness as sweat-lined palms locked tight around the grip of a borrowed gun.
He's a fawn. A yearling with velvet on his pallid antlers. A soft-bellied beast laid back— no one's master.
[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.
He might not be now either, all truth be told. Not even with his lips left wet and tingling with the pin-and-needle salve of slick saliva left behind, his eyes half-closed behind lids still partway smudged with kohl (he should've wiped it off properly; he never does), dark-stained skin shimmering like an oil slick. Twitching under mounting heat he wishes he could mount. Or surmount. Or—
Or.
Every thought's a stutter. Every reaction sluggish and dense whenever it inevitably finds him, having had to crawl on hands and fumbling knees just to shove at the forefront of his mind over and over again. It leaves him drowsy while he struggles around the shape of embers in his throat and that kiss across his tongue, and gods have pity, it's not his fault that he's combustible as flint. That he's suddenly tempted to cry if he can't have what he wants like a stupid, shameful child; the knot in his chest swollen until it barely fits behind his ribs, making every breath more shallow than the last for the pointless ache of trying (oh, he's forgotten about his racing pulse— about that arm still holding him in its coils: ataxiated mind supplanting reality with superstition). It's not his fault because whatever this is— love or fear or hunger so potent in its distillation that Astarion can't even taste it without buckling— it's unlike anything he's ever put his mouth to before. A counter to the synaptic rush of pleasure solely from a thumb clumsily hitting the right spot or a few words happening to thrill.
Fenris could devour him whole and he'd beg to vanish again and again and again inside that striking maw. Everything in him swears it.
Staring until his eyes hurt. Gawking until his tongue goes raw. He can't shake the thought from his head even as he revels in its irony when it finally sinks beneath his skin: I will have all of you or none of you. A noble lordling enslaved to a slave.
His leg hooks on its own.
He feels the pressure bow before it bears down on their hips in married unison, pushing stiffness against stiffness through the dull scratch of their own trousers. (It takes everything in him not to arch instead of listen). He wants that thumb back. He wants to drive it hard to the back of his own mouth through the rolling of his tongue and the neediness of blunted teeth. He wants to squirm. To writhe. And not because he wants the fun of being caught come sunrise, but because now he wants never to be caught.
Fuck.
Fuck, that his father finally got the better of him without even realizing it.]
....I do know.
[And he hates the way it sounds.
Like begging. Like pleading. Like that too protesting insistence on I can, I am, I know. I'm old enough. Smart enough. Trust me, cries the thing that only looks smaller for asserting. No, not that, then. Not that.]
Fenris— name it. [Anything. Anything. Sensation verging on dictation for just how fervently it presses.] Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours.
[This time he does rub. Hips working. Straining for that kiss like a creature in withdrawal, shaking for more than strain. A trembling that matches the muted rattle of his phone across the nightstand. Don't ignore me.]
I'm yours. Please—
[Please please please—
Tugging on those soft white locks behind subtly downturned ears.]
[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.
Like he didn't just pride himself for years now on toying with the lives of his servants, his tutors, his friends— if one could even call them that. Before tonight, he could practically see the puppet strings tied tight around each and every last one his fingers, prompting everyone and everything beneath him to dance. That was the joy of it. The only thing he had aside from pretty clothes. Expensive faff.
Now, they read as something else. So brittle he worries they could snap from even the slightest movement, and his fingertips twitch against a febrile scalp to that same end (feathersoft ribbons of hair knifing at his circulation, digging deeper into his skin), every part of him trying to keep still.
He does trust him. Against everything that screams, he does. But every scuff is incendiary. Subtle waves of coiling breath kiss the edges of his aching lips in ways he wishes their origination would. Centimeters feel like lifetimes. Hot air, hot need, hotter pinpricks of sensation threatening the outline of his vision every time he blinks. Wanting like a blaze. Needing like a yawning pit.
It'll be morning soon.
Not the stroke of midnight, but daylight erasing what this is, when— if he doesn't want to lose whatever they've found (and he doesn't, trust that he doesn't despite all his restless fidgeting)— they have to crawl back into the narrowness of their roles. A noble that doesn't know the smell of sandalwood or sword oil. A guard that keeps his distance with stiffened, cold indifference. For a while they'll go back to being nothing but museums of themselves. Shut doors letting nothing inside escape.
And for a while (no matter how awful that night is, their backs angled towards each other by the end. Frustrated in a way that isn't angry), it works.
For a while, anyway.
'What's his type?' Aurelia asks in that clear-cut way of hers. Two drinks in and already watching Fenris from the corner of her vision.
'As if Astarion would know.' Answers Leon before the high elf can open his mouth, ending with the most narrowed expression imaginable.
'Maybe he doesn't have one.'
Petras, of course. At last.
(At this rate, Astarion's never going to have a chance to actually answer the damned question— which is par for the course for nights like these, actually.) Drink in hand and the party around them mutedly stirring into a later rhythm than the one that came before sunset; respectable enough in theory that even dear Lord Ancunín, pleased to have peace for a scarce few weeks, didn't bother to object to.
'Of course he does. Everyone does.' Violet. Stubborn as ever, and trying to size up the topic of conversation from a distance, as is her usual wont.
'Not everyone.'
Dal.
Who brings a flicker of a smirk to Astarion's lips for that, if only because it's the first time in a good long while she's been wrong.
Fenris does have a type. And it's sitting, for all Astarion's bold, impulsive certainty, right at the heart of this discussion.]
He's going to hear you thirsting from a mile away, if you keep this up. And then none of you will know his type.
['Bullshit.' Snaps Petras around the edge of his drink— following it up with a long pull from a cigarette that (in theory) makes him look older than he is. If he didn't suck on it like a bottle, maybe it actually would.
The smoke from it trailing when he adds with one low cough, 'Bet he loves it when it's forwards.'
That Astarion kicks his chair after that is just coincidence.]
It's funny, for the attention doesn't bother him quite so much as it normally might. Normally he despises parties like this for just that reason: countless nobles gawking at him as if he's an exotic and delightfully intimidating bit of entertainment, caring not for how their too-loud whispers or pointed objectification makes him feel. The women giggle and the men deride, and though he is too old to be hurt by their comments anymore, still. It makes for a long and unpleasant evening.
And indeed: he isn't happy to feel six sets of eyes burning holes into his frame. But some combination of Astarion's presence and (oh, admit it) their collective age leaves Fenris feeling vaguely amused. They're so obvious in the way they gawk and gossip, and he cannot decide which is worse: the arrogant looking girl who stares at him so coldly (oh, he knows her type: the ones that want to be wanted, and think that he'll be all the more intrigued by her because she doesn't slaver over him), or the pale, petulant boy who keeps sneaking glances at him when he thinks Fenris is unaware (smoking as though he's a practiced hand and nearly burning his fingers in the process). Children, all of them, in general life experience if not true age.
And in the middle of it all: Astarion. Not quite as young as his peers (and there's surely no bias showing there, thank you), but brighter and more vivid than any of them could hope to be. Fenris glances over just in time to see him kick Petras' chair, and despite himself, smiles for just a moment.
Strange to be endeared to the sight of one's charge. Stranger still to realize that, in his own way, he's acting protectively, safeguarding his bodyguard from wagging tongues and cruel jibes.
But that group isn't the only one paying him mind.
'Here's your chance to find out,' Leon says, nodding back towards Fenris. No longer is the bodyguard facing them; instead, his attention has been captured by a tiefling woman who leans up against the wall next to him. Large is the first word that comes to mind when looking at her: tall and broad both, with swelling biceps and thighs tensed with well-honed muscles. One horn peaks out beneath a shock of black hair; the other is broken, the edges filed down and softened.
She speaks animatedly to him, her hands gesturing emphatically in front of her as she tells her story. Loud as she is (attracting no small host of stares, the wealthy elite so disapproving of the help making itself known), it's hard to make out individual words. Gortash, maybe, but then again, maybe not— it's not as if anyone really knows or cares about the name of some arms dealer.
But Fenris seems interested in her. His body is half-turned, his gaze warming as he focuses on her. Occasionally he'll speak, contributing only a little compared to her enthusiastic deluge— but he does not pull away when she grips his shoulder, smiling as she yanks him in closer.
'So he likes women who are stronger,' Violet declares with a judgemental little sniff. 'Figures.'
'It's one conversation,' Dal interjects. Her brow is creased, her expression caught between vague amusement and mild incredulity. 'Just because he's speaking to her doesn't mean—'
'Look at him. He's clearly invested,' Violet argues. 'And isn't he supposed to be looking after you, Astarion? And yet he's distracted.' So there, and she shrugs one shoulder. Takes a sip of her wine— and then, quite pointedly, adds: 'Have you even managed to seduce him yet?'
As if that's some kind of litmus test— but you know, perhaps it is. After all: she's so different than Astarion, and if Fenris seems more interested in one than the other, well. It has to come down to type, doesn't it?
[How tall she is. Beautiful in a— crush you between her thighs sort of way. Rowdy and raw, near crackling with energy that seems to flicker through the edges of her clothing: a pointed cross between thick leather and modern formality, her rolled dress shirt bunches through every gesticulation underneath countless buckles and clasps that do nothing to hide rippling layers of idle muscle. Imposing but bright. Boisterous yet warm. A network of scars and coarse tattoos and stories to match their accompanying exploits, no doubt resonating with a fellow fighter in hedonism's gilded lair as she tugs on him like an old denmate.
In other words: everything Astarion isn't.]
Shut up. [He doesn't look at Violet when he snaps it, his eyes boring straight ahead towards the pair against the wall, their bodies angled towards each other in mirrored unison. Bringing himself to blink is like an exercise in trying to unglue his lids, when even a second might mean watching his bodyguard (his bodyguard) tilt a few centimeters closer to her— and farther away from him.]
You saw that I did.
['We saw you cheat and run away with him.' Petras grunts in the middle of stamping out what's left of his cigarette on the side table his chair's still wedged against, clearly taking Violet's side in the debate. 'That's what we all saw. Doesn't count.'
'Could've just walked it off.' Adds Yousen. Neutral only for the way he's stating nothing more than the facts themselves, punctuated by a shrug.
Astarion's eye twitches. A byproduct of his nostril twisting when it flares.
He's seeing red. Literally. Figuratively. And the chatter around him smears accordingly.
'I mean we all know how fast Astarion burns through hired help. If he really did anything, he'd have a new bodyguard already.'
'Maybe the mutt just doesn't care for boys.']
I said. Shut. Up.
['Dalyria's right. Enough, you two.' Leon cuts through at last like yet one more voice of reason, recognizing the bolded outline of Astarion's telltale temper burning hotter than the Hellish eyes he's watching from across the room.
The problem is he adds, unkindly: 'It's bad form to pick on children.'
And like a viper, Astarion's lunged over his knees in his seat, baring contempt in lieu of fangs. Something that'd be more effective if he had a target for it; the pack's turned against him, he realizes too late.]
I could hire someone to kill you and they'd never find the body—
['Ooh. Such words from a Magistrate.' Pale petras shivers, eliciting a rumbling chuckle from at least half the present party, though it dithers in at least a few specific margins.
The point is, however long it takes, by the time Leto shores up any lingering conversation, that circle of waiting silhouettes will be missing one.
The one he's meant to be guarding.
'No luck, Fenris?' Asks one pale not-elf from where he's sprawled himself in drinking— boots up, ankles crossed— over two adjacent seats, now. Head resting on the edge of Violet's shoulder. Hard to say which of the lot is vying harder for Fenris' attention on return.
[His first thought, as Karlach wanders off to check upon her charge and Fenris attempts to do the same with his own, isn't that Astarion might have disappeared out of spite. And that's important. It's important because everything between them is so terribly tentative, and now more than ever Astarion deserves the benefit of the doubt. It would be a lie to say his mind doesn't dart towards a more carnal explanation (especially in wake of how utterly frustrated his lord had been by the end of that first night), but still, he bites his tongue and keeps that thought to himself.
Though frankly, Fenris thinks as he approaches that wolf pack in noble attire, even if he was utterly convinced that was why Astarion ran off, he still would keep it to himself. He does not like Astarion's friends. Likely he'll never like any of them individually (except maybe Dalyria, and even then, he likes her for her ability to hold her tongue more than anything), but gods, he especially despises them when they're together. There's such an air of sneering, airy judgement about them— childish compared to Danarius and his ilk, but all the more vicious for it. They've nothing to blunt their teeth upon just yet, and so they turn upon one another— or any other luckless victim too powerless to properly fight back.
It's not that Fenris is intimidated as he stands before them. Even if he was, he's too practiced at making his face stone to give away any hint of anxiety or fear. But it's uncomfortable watching them watch him. Hunger in their gaze and nothing but malicious sport in their hearts— and no matter what he says or does next, there's nothing that can save him from it.
But really, what can they do? Actually do? Not much. They can't bed him, not without earning not just Astarion's wrath, but that of his father. They can't bully him into running some embarrassing errand, or force him to get drunk . . . all they have is their words, and what can they say that hasn't already been whispered in Fenris' ear? How far down does that lyrium go, what a savage beast, what a thrilling bit of sport, oh, he's heard it all. So what's there to be afraid of?
He wishes that thought helped.]
Luck?
[He regrets it the moment it slips past his lips, but the question takes him by surprise. There's smirks all around— and despite himself, despite all that he'd just assured himself on, still, Fenris feels a rush of hot embarrassment. He isn't stupid, but this lot will take his question as proof of it nonetheless.
'Yes, luck,' Violet drawls. Her head tips back, her hair tossed artfully over her free shoulder. 'From your little conquest— well. I say little . . .'
'We had a debate, you see.' Petras again, his words slow but deliberate. 'On what your type was. Astarion seemed confident he knew it, but then again . . . perhaps he didn't count on you having a taste for the strong, savage type.'
And the puzzle pieces fall into place. Fenris exhales slowly, his mouth thinning as he glances around the room. There's no shock of white hair that pops out immediately, but then again, this estate is a grand thing. There's plenty of rooms where he might be hiding.]
Where is he?
['Settle our argument first,' Violet commands— and it is a command, snapped out so effortlessly that Fenris feels his spine instinctively straighten. 'Did you end up bedding him? He keeps telling us you did.']
I—
[He knows why Astarion asserts that. He really does. It's so easy to lose standing among your peers no matter who they are, and this lot is the worst of them. Of course he said such a thing; there's no advantage to admitting that all you did was jerk off in an alley.
But suddenly Fenris is tired of this. These stupid games played by these idiotic children who have nothing better to do than endlessly speculate . . . well, let them. But there's nothing that says Fenris need play along.
Still: their eyes are gleaming. Still: they hang on to his every word, and will only laugh in spiteful mockery if he simply stalks off. And chalk it up to Astarion's influence, maybe, or his own newfound freedom— but Fenris feels something in him quietly snap.]
It was not a conquest. Simply because you six have little else going on in your lives beyond lustful machinations does not mean the rest of us do. And as for your argument—
[Gods. He hesitates for half a moment before finally continuing abruptly:]
— settle it yourselves. You have little else going on tonight.
[It won't win any awards for cleverest comeback of the year, but on the other hand, it's deeply satisfying to say. And certainly not what they expected: Violet's expression snaps into shocked indigence, while Petras (to his mild credit) snorts at that bucking bit of backtalk. Fenris doesn't bother to check the rest, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
The party spills into countless rooms, some more quiet than others. It takes him a few tries before he finds Astarion. His charge is sprawled in a chair in the middle of the room, a drained glass at his side and more than a few people gathered around him, chattering and laughing at something he says. And in his lap—
The son of the host himself, and oh, what a pretty thing he is. Giggling as he leans in to whisper in Astarion's ear, his cheeks flushed beneath tanned skin and teeth so white they gleam. A darling, daring little thing, drunk off champagne and all the bolder for it.
And it's all Fenris can do not to stalk over and tear the boy's throat out.
Somehow, impossibly, he makes his way over to a nearby wall. It's a miracle he doesn't bump into anyone, for he refuses to take his eyes off the sight of Astarion and this boy. This child, this drunken idiot who thinks it's the height of coy cleverness to splay his fingers against Astarion's chest, loudly admiring the supposed detailing on his buttons.
And unlike last time, he's no leave to grab Astarion and march him out. A bit of unsubtle flirting isn't enough to warrant any kind of scolding. And so he simply stands there, seething silently, his expression stone and his eyes thunderous, glaring fiercely at the brat in his brat's lap.
But oh— he has leave to say something, doesn't he? Innocuous and not untrue, and it's a flimsy excuse, but he'll take what he can get. His jaw clenched, Fenris slips between partygoers, glaring down at his errant charge.]
You should have told me you were leaving the room.
[There's a thousand statements layered beneath that, jealous and seething, angry and upset— but to the guests around them, he simply appears like an overly serious bodyguard. Enthusiastic, yes, but not particularly inappropriate.]
First: Petras gasping in cold shock after his snort wears away, Violet's settled outline still planted partway underneath him with increasingly stiffened contours: her slackened anger the picture of a fish somehow drowning in its native stream, petty counterpart to his bemused incredulity with the rest of the group following suit.
'Can he do that?' A question to which no one present has a definitive answer for once asked. Something that, in a way, makes it an answer unto itself (though it'll take them the better part of the next hour to reach that same conclusion in a somewhat drink-addled deliberation between adolescent hearts).
Second: Astarion.
Drawing den a charcoal map of pipesmoke and half-lit walls while something bassy plays on loop in either this room or the next; his audience thicker than the atmosphere that flanks him, more amenable than the cocksure pack he'd left behind. More willing to be regaled, particularly when the one talking isn't shy about making it a show.
Not to mention the weight on his lap's a pleasant distraction when he otherwise lacks for it in the minutes before footsteps pad close enough to break relative silence. Tangled friction lending itself to a sense of acclimated control that— like a drug— quenches the restlessness in his veins: inflamed jealousy already fading into pleasant numbness under the places where clothed bodies meet, embracing the delicate care of those fingers as they move to fuss along his buttons (ignoring that same attention when the drunken little thing strains higher every now and then, trying to fit spice-scented lips against his own). A game, not a rejection. Why let fantasy hold the reins? This isn't about neophytic love, after all, no matter what his catch might think with every soft attempt to kiss— all redirected to Astarion's neck or cheek or shoulder through tepid tilts of his own head, and like the good little find the host's son is, he obediently takes to it with lavish capitulation (he is a darling little thing. So well behaved. Astarion could free his cock from his trousers right now and tease him to orgasm in front of every set of eyes in the room, and he'd no doubt purr for more).
Which makes this conversation easier, actually.
Left free to frame his focus around that pretty patriar's shoulder while dull teeth nip and worry at his throat, smelling of brandy and too much wine. The ensuing sight of Fenris (oh, still handsome as ever when dark brows shadow green eyes in rage), bristling like a taphouse cat and snapping out sharp irritations that only curl that much sweeter within Astarion's own embittered gut. Different day, same old, destructive habit: l'appel du vide— he likes the attention more than he cares about its type.
Matting its hedonistic spite with a palm slid along the inline of spread legs starting at the knee just to feel fine threadwork pull. His every blink slow. Smolderingly placid. A half-smile on his lips.
Oh.
Hello, Fenris.]
You were busy, last I checked.
[As Astarion is busy now.
Thumb squeezed into the junction between thigh and inseam— punctuated by a panting moan— the slight thing in his lap curled higher.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
Oh?
[The mattress dips between them, Astarion suspended above Fenris as he bares his teeth in such a fierce little grin. His cheeks are faintly flushed, his hair mussed from the pillow— gods, he's so far from the poised little thing that Fenris had pulled from the party. Messy and imperfect, fierce savagery in his hungry smile— but in that moment, Fenris thinks, Astarion looks more attractive than he ever has before.
It's a quiet realization, one he doesn't quite articulate even to himself. Pretty, for he has never seen Astarion's face glow like this. Flush with sincerity and eagerness . . . together, and the word slips through his mind so sweetly. Together, as his fingers flex and he tries not to think about reaching out to touch him.]
And by what criteria are you measuring?
no subject
He could say anything right now.
It might as well be his estate they're laying in. His mansion. His throne room. His bed. An empire of nothing but vacant space, gone again come sunrise.
Why not make it count?]
The one where I actually enjoy having you around. [Oh, if a drop of honesty falls in a forest and only one other person is around....
(But this is in the spirit of cooperation, isn't it? The foundation of their truce.
Maybe he can do better than that.)]
As for them? Highborn or not, you saw it for yourself. Desperation becomes.
They're needy. Timid. Hungry. All starved for recognition. [Mutters the seductive pot about its kettle, smugly all the while.] They'd lick it off the carpets if they thought it'd be a net gain, for one.
—and you should see the photos they take of themselves.
Eugh.
[But if he could stop staring at those gold-green eyes, this'd all be so much easier. He has to pause to flash a grin or lick his lips more than once for losing his own train of thought, finding it in time:]
You, though....
You're interesting. Better to look at, too.
[Fenris doesn't need to think about reaching out: Astarion's already arched closer— angled in smooth slopes across the bracket of his forearm and braced palm. One shoulder high, the other low, slanting his arrangement almost as much as the loose shirt he's barely wearing. Pallid in his outline when he grins, but far, far, far from cold.
And it's lilac. And it's bergamot. Pressed palm oil and warm brandy. And it's dangerous.
But not a threat.]
I'm starting to think there's nothing I could tempt you with to steer you away from your path.
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.
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Ask me for what you want.
No runaround. No games. Naked in unexpected parallel with every bit of clothing on, they've both gone as still as prey animals once their cover's been pulled up, neophytic and small in an arena they don't know. Where irony makes a fineboned heir as practiced as a half-starved wolf (oh yes, he knows his name), and somehow, Astarion gets the feeling that this time, it won't die at the stroke of midnight.
It'll start there, finding lungs and life until dawn comes. Paradoxically charged: neither really alive nor truly dead— unseen outside this room. Waiting for one of them to smother it or stamp it out. (And he wants to. And he can't. And he's caught between the two, desire and hesitation tangling together, a longing so achingly fierce in his expression that it's all but tangible.)
His heels slip against silk sheets when he sinks lower, scuffing atop the mattress.
It might as well be the edge of a cliff.]
So don't trust anything.
[Not a line, this time. Not a card played when his voice comes slithering in before his senses, hearing himself talk like it's someone else (and it's not) offering the breed of warmth he's never known (and it's not— it's not), scoffing with a sobered smile just to realize how far forwards he's leaned. He was hunting him, the first night he slunk into his space.
He's not hunting him now.
(His little finger moving first, linking itself to Fenris' in the gap that still remains, scant few inches that are left. Curling in to almost kiss him— only to kiss his forehead instead. Nose pushed briefly against those three little dots (gods help him, he doesn't know better yet), before he exhales once more in a huff.]
Let me earn it first.
[And no, he didn't promise to set him free. But he can protect him for now until he does. Give him a chance to learn that it's all right. At least inside this room. These halls. This quiet, empty wing.
That's what I want.]
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Not the pain of contact— that's a red-hot spark slicing through his nerves, a momentary burst of pain that earns no reaction, for he's used to it by now. But the kiss itself, oh, that nearly tears him apart. It's slow. Soft. A gentle, adoring brush of lips against his forehead that ignites him from tip to toe, a rush of aching longing and shivering warmth, and he never realizes how starved he is for contact until he receives it. Fenris' eyes flutter closed in those moments, his throat bobbing as his head tips up— and gets that gentle bump of Astarion's nose as reward.
Let me earn it first, as a slender finger hooks around his own. Sweet-smelling breath wafts against his face. And it hurts. It hurts, it aches, it tears at him, his soul shrieking as his throat closes for just a moment, and he cannot say why, except no one has ever tried to earn his trust before.
No one has ever looked at him as enough of a person to even bother.
And it's too much. It's too much, so much so that for a moment it terrifies him. Like standing at the edge of a ship and peering over at the roaring sea, oh, he could drown in those dark waves. He knows how to be alone. He knows how to manage on his own, self-sufficient and so achingly lonely it's become a part of him, a dull ache he ignores as much as he does his lyrium. To let down his guard, to let someone even begin to try and reach him (never mind a noble, never mind his own charge) . . . oh, it could go so wrong so swiftly. It will go wrong, something quiet in him whispers, for how could it not? Nothing good ever stays. Such things (friendship, companionship, a lover) are not meant for the likes of him.
And yet: it isn't enough. It takes everything in him not to cry out as Astarion pulls away, please wait no not yet, so desperately starved for company and companionship that he can't give it up right away. Please, I need it, and just because he has learned to live with the ache of loneliness doesn't mean it cannot hurt.
And he doesn't know what to say. How to begin to acknowledge any of those emotions and impulses; how to begin to even parse them to himself. All Fenris knows in that moment is that when he looks up at Astarion, he sees . . .
A chance.
A fork in the road in a lifetime with one steady, straight line. A set of silver eyes that pierce the darkness and whisper: I see you. Curls lit up by moonlight, his expression so terribly careful, and in that moment Fenris realizes it isn't a choice. He could no more refuse this than he could stop breathing, not because Astarion is forcing his hand— but because he wants him so badly there is nothing he wouldn't do to get him.
(And yet: the power is placed in his hands. Let me earn your trust, and someday, maybe, he will tell Astarion just how much it meant to him).]
Yes.
[Breathless, and accompanied by a jerky nod. His finger lurches forward, hooking around Astarion's in confirmation: stay. Don't let go, not yet.]
In the coming weeks . . . yes. I . . .
[He sounds inane. He sounds like he's in shock, but gods help him, this is all so suddenly and bewilderingly new. ]
I have never met anyone quite like you, I think.
[And his hand lurches to the left, his fingers clumsy as they try to weave gently through Astarion's own. Please stay.]
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[A lurch of movement still impressively rife with prowess has rough fingers latched tight around his own before he can take them back: their pressure tight, but far from biting; like the scales have tilted in its somehow endearing wake, he's that much prouder when he's framed by Fenris' wounded exposure. Chin a little higher. Half-lidded stare easy and slow-building, he tips his head just to let thoughts of anything else slip free under gravity's practiced hold.
Focusing on what's more important, for once.]
Here. [He nudges at his companion with a slanted flash of teeth, leaving their fingers intertwined just the way Fenris had arranged them— ] Roll over. [ —scuffling all of his silhouette into the empty space that formerly divided (and confined) them until his side's pushed flush against Fenris' arm. His hip. His leg. Pushing like a child at a sleepover just to den himself right in without a drop of shame or dignity, grinning all the while.
And the thing is, he doesn't stop. Not until Fenris has conceded and actually rolled onto his side, facing away so that Astarion can wrap around him with a pair of reedy arms and jabbing knees (and— last of all— two sets of ice-cold toes).
The door's shut. More importantly, it's locked. No one's walking in unless they want them to.
Call that true safety by any given name.]
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[It's so childish. It's so undignified, a sudden shift that sweeps away his sense of unmoored grief and replaces it with something more practical. Roll over, and suddenly he's being prodded along, urged and pressured with a playful grin until at last he gives in and settles on his side. It's more baffling than insulting, a bewildering change of pace that he doesn't understand— until all at once he does. Until all that movement settles and there's a soft presence pressing up from behind him. Warm breath puffs against the back of his neck, Astarion's arm slinging over his body and their fingers still tightly intertwined.
Quiet fills the room.
And it's comforting.
To be held. To realize, as the seconds tick past and the sounds of the city idly drift in with the breeze, that there is no other shoe waiting to be dropped. Astarion means to hold him like this, with no other expectation or overhead plan that's coyly waiting to be put in motion. No one is going to burst in on them, not when the door is locked. There's no master waiting to punish him, no gawkers ready to objectify him . . . there's just this. This soft moment that's perfect in all its imperfections, jabbing knees and cold toes, staggering in how gentle it all is.
He does not speak for a time, and there's something something a little wonderful about that, too. It lets him bask in the little details of this moment: the soft darkness and the pleasantly cool breeze that slips in through the window; the warm weight of the comforter above them, and the sensation that they're hidden away from the world.
Astarion's hand is smaller than his own. Softer, too. His fingers fit nimbly between Fenris' own, and without really thinking about it he strokes his thumb against him, steady and soothing.]
And you do?
[Ah: a belated retort to Astarion's sentence. But whereas Fenris' voice had been weighed down with his grief and shock before, it's lighter now. He's teasing, or at least trying to.]
The first time I give you a compliment, little noble, and you refute it. Perhaps I need to be more specific, then.
[He's glad they aren't facing one another. It's easier like this.]
You have a streak of kindness in you. One I do not often see among your rank.
[And the thing is, Fenris himself isn't being kind. He isn't offering up something trite because he feels so very grateful, no, that's not his way. And maybe that carries through in the way his voice is a low rumble, too quiet to be something meant to flatter.]
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The point is: maybe Astarion didn't miss that initial cue. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing the first time Fenris tried to impress kindness round his throat, and doesn't want that sort of praise to find him in open air. At least not without a good-natured skirmish, first. (Catch him with it. Fight him with it. Wear him down, and maybe— just maybe— he'll let it stick.)
He lets this stick instead: curling further into the small gaps until their contours perfectly align, knees to knees and thighs to thighs and even knuckles to fine bones, smiling all the while. His cavalier defiance puffed along the back of Fenris' neck. The settled slope of his shoulder.]
Just because I'm doing you a favor doesn't mean I'm being kind.
You are stuck with me now, after all. [He says like that wasn't part and parcel already.] Doomed to a life of fancy parties and enviable soirées.
[He doesn't know the life of a slave; he doesn't realize what it looked like— not the way Fenris knew it.]
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But ah: he huffs out a laugh for that prediction of the future. He might not in other circumstances, too embittered by the irony to find amusement in it, but tonight is different. The way Astarion shuffles in closer, til there's not a single gap between them, makes it different.]
I imagine I have seen more fancy parties and soirées than you, young thing that you are. They lose their shine after the third or fourth.
[Gods, they were endless. He never could decide which he hated more: the ones in which Danarius played host or acted as guest. Both had their pitfalls and miseries. There were nights in Castellum Tenebris where Fenris would be tasked with serving wine and acting as entertainment both (Danarius' fingers twitching as Fenris would fall to his knees, and it was a good night if his keening cries were of pain and not pleasure). And then again there were night in other estates, where he would linger along the sidelines and ignore the unsubtle stares and gossiping whispers (from other slaves, from the guests, from everyone) in favor of watching all the revelry with a wary eye. His belly empty as the wealthy drank too much champagne and ate delicate pastries . . .
And danced. Gliding and weaving among another, and fashions might change, but dancing doesn't, not as much as humans think it does. And it was amusing, really, to see how they evolving: minuets becoming waltzes becoming polkas, and oh, of course there's others. He is no fool, and just because Danarius had never ventured into clubs doesn't mean that Fenris is blind to the less, ah, restrained dances that take place in the city. But if they're talking about noble parties, well.]
In fact . . . I wager I am better than you at the dances there, too. Gods know I have seen them often enough.
[Amusement is woven sweetly in his voice, though he keeps facing forward.]
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Taking that bet, thank you very much in advance for your donation.
[He feels his own voice when he talks. The sound of it, vibrating slow through the conduit of skin and bone. So distracted by it (or is it something else entirely?) that he loses the thread of what he was going to tease next. Stalled out in ways he isn't used to.
Being carelessly coltish should come easy; he's even already got one foot in the water, no matter how his tenor's stiff right through the middle of his throat when he sucks in another breath.
(The problem is he can't stop thinking. Can't stop wondering, even when he knows he shouldn't.)]
....I....don't think I ever realized slaves were taught how to dance.
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Come here. Come here, now, lie with me, for at this point, he sees no use in resisting. And there's something quite soothing about being able to curl up with someone like this.]
We aren't.
[Mm. He resists the urge to turn and nuzzle against the top of Astarion's head. Or, no, not just that: to turn utterly, lying on his back so that he might gather the other elf up in his arms. But that would be too dangerous tonight, and they have danced on the edge of impropriety as it is. One thing at a time, he tells himself, and tries not to feel the ache in his arms as he rues the loss.]
But decades of watching parties brings its own expertise. My former master did not enjoy frivolities as a rule— certainly you would never catch him dancing, not especially as he got on in years. But he would attend the parties nonetheless, competing in that grand Game you all enjoy so much. As did his father, and his father's father . . . and the styles do not change much. What's fashionable now becomes intriguing once again in a few decades— and there are only so many ways in which one can move their body.
I would stand to the side more often than not. Theoretically, my job was to watch for threats— but as most nights were dull affairs, I watched the dancers instead.
[He wonders if he'd ever seen Astarion at one of those parties. Not as he is now, an elf grown, but as a child: silver hair and gold braid stitching, far more interested in getting his hands on food than the dull going-ons of adults. If so, Fenris does not remember, and gods know Astarion likely doesn't, for who takes heed of slaves? But still. It's an oddly bittersweet thought, and he exhales sharply, trying to dismiss it.
And ah: there's a bit of a weary note in his voice as he adds:]
Tell me you do not attend many.
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And it's methodical and thoughtless in the background of all that musing, the way Astarion compares himself to it, ascertaining absently that there's a difference. (I'm young. I don't keep slaves. I don't hate fun— all the petty, pointless divides that promise— I'm not him.
Does Fenris know that he's not him?)]
Watching isn't the same thing as doing. [Asserts the young rake to the proverbial choir, not even registering what the layout of experience looks like between them anyway (Have you ever been properly fucked, little brat? Have you ever been driven out of your mind? I doubt it.)
Circling the past instead of diving for it, and shifting more onto his side just to tip his view towards the lower end of his guardian's face.]
If you've never actually gone through the motions, you won't do any better than I did shooting a gun.
—what, though? Afraid I'll drag you to every ball and dinner party this side of Faerûn? [Astarion asks, finally letting his mouth slant around his teeth at that final inquisition.]
Because if so: yes.
[Though it's with the sharper nudge of a settled elbow that he adds, mildly:]
But unlike your old master, I know how to have fun.
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[He's surprised to hear the purr in his own voice, richly amused and with just a hint of teasing. It's far more playful than he's ever inclined to be— but gods, being tangled up like this inspires it in him. Having that hand in the dark extended to him, that nuzzling nurturing . . . it broke a wall between them, Fenris thinks. Gods only know what that means for the coming weeks, for they cannot act like this around one another outside of this room, but . . . right now, Fenris does not feel the looming tension and danger of the past few weeks. There's no harm in teasing his charge, not like this.
And maybe it helps, not lingering on the past. Maybe it's nice for once to speak about Danarius without either shuddering in terror or flinching in pain. He's never done it before, and every irreverent, sneering word that slips past his lips is an exercise in freedom. He cannot say the topic does not hurt, for it does, and he can feel the strain already (the urge to speak of him more and the urge to never speak of him tangling up nauseatingly within him, slow to rise but overwhelming in its intensity)— but still, it is a marvel.
Idly, his fingers trace against Astarion's bare skin, curves and whirls that mean nothing.]
But if you're going to threaten me, little noble, do it properly. Do you intend to drag me out on the dance floor at one of these parties? Or merely teach me in some back room and make sport of it?
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(Passing through a crowd with laughter in his throat, paying less than any heed to those ungilded accompaniments while his knuckles curl in silk. The same creature he huddles into now like sunlight rendered as invisible as music to silver eyes, and far less valued in that falsely conjured mind. Just a blot at the corner of his mirthful vision, and behind its blurred out shadow: sad eyes. Hollow cheeks. Laced with placidity and misery in equal doses, unable to even hope for more.)
Rough fingerprints begin to drawl along bare skin, and before he knows it, he's wide awake again.]
I'll teach you here first, daring wolf.
Spare you the public ridicule until you're actually worth the sport.
['I won't touch you', Astarion gritted little over half an hour ago when beckoning his companion into bed. He's breaking that rule in overdrive by jabbing his chin into the thickset muscle over Fenris' shoulder (amongst every other bit of intertwining between fingers and toes and feet), grinning hard enough to cut.]
Your reputation's mine now, too, you know.
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[He doesn't move. A shard of ice ripples through his soul, cutting through his growing fondness and leaving his heart thundering in his chest, and he does not move, not an inch. It's not a conscious choice, but an instinctive one. Fight, flight, or freeze, that's what they always say, and gods know Fenris has been trained to fight— but any slave will tell you that the best instinct to cultivate is freeze.
Freeze, and perhaps whatever master is angry over won't be made worse. Freeze, and they cannot claim any of the rage and grief you always feel has made it to your expression. Freeze, and maybe, just maybe, you'll get out of this intact. Fenris' fingers have stilled, locked in place against Astarion's bare skin; his other hand has stilled, his fingers stiff despite being intertwined.
And he isn't stupid. He knows that Astarion likely meant nothing by the remark. Your reputation is mine now, I can't have you making a fool of us both with your ungainly steps, and it's just another way to continue their conversation, pushing the boundaries gently back and forth. But the word mine works its way under his skin like fiberglass, stinging so sharply that it aches.]
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Fenris needs to act as more than flinching slave.
It's quick, the way he moves: a lightning-fast burst of movement, shifting and twisting his body as he spins to face Astarion, his arms surging forward to wrap around the other elf and tug him in close. Their bodies suddenly aligned (oh, Astarion is so slight compared to him, his body such a fragile thing when grasped with roughened hands), one hand wrapping firm around his torso while the other threads through unruly curls. He doesn't grip so tight it hurts, for he isn't in this to punish— just to command attention, so suddenly and swiftly that Astarion will have no choice but to pay him mind.]
And what of yours is mine, little star?
[Focus, little one. Choose carefully, and it's impossible to read Fenris' expression. There's nothing but intent focus, emerald eyes glinting in the darkness.]
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An exhale— and his lips crack open without breath, silver eyes shivering as their pupils constrict into beaded little pinpricks, the byproduct of terror bred ages ago into his forebearers: alertness meant for unwalled places. Rigidity to counter prey drive, but it doesn't work as well when his own jeweled fingertips lay tight against tanned skin. Everything he provoked through carelessness (the kind he still can't track in hindsight) hunched over him in a corded array of knotwork muscle. His ribcage— that narrow network of threading marrow— made narrower by the steady lock of an arm that feels like steel around his body, keeping him from sucking in full gasps of deadened air.
And those fingerpads....]
I—
[His curls part under pressure. He thinks his legs might, too, though as his cock jerks hot against his thigh it's only his own toes that curl, scrubbing at silk sheets.
He could come from this.
He—
—click— or maybe it's a wetter sound when his tongue unhooks itself from the roof of his mouth, the act of swallowing too noisy to ignore. Tender throat bobbing only once.]
....whatever you want.
[It's not a line. The words have to crawl from his throat to leave his mouth in roughcut shambles, registered like dry silt to his ears. And with the implication of anything his left leg inches higher, nudging in a less-dazed invitation that's as reflexive as a buckled spine or lowered, motionless dedition. The subtle scuff of their trousers pinching round their knees leading into that slight shift in balance. Adding pressure to the notion of surrender through open thighs....and the ensuing rush that drives two pale hands up to fist however they can in white hair set to match. The same breed of boldness as sweat-lined palms locked tight around the grip of a borrowed gun.
He's a fawn. A yearling with velvet on his pallid antlers. A soft-bellied beast laid back— no one's master.
And Fenris is no slave.]
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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.
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He might not be now either, all truth be told. Not even with his lips left wet and tingling with the pin-and-needle salve of slick saliva left behind, his eyes half-closed behind lids still partway smudged with kohl (he should've wiped it off properly; he never does), dark-stained skin shimmering like an oil slick. Twitching under mounting heat he wishes he could mount. Or surmount. Or—
Or.
Every thought's a stutter. Every reaction sluggish and dense whenever it inevitably finds him, having had to crawl on hands and fumbling knees just to shove at the forefront of his mind over and over again. It leaves him drowsy while he struggles around the shape of embers in his throat and that kiss across his tongue, and gods have pity, it's not his fault that he's combustible as flint. That he's suddenly tempted to cry if he can't have what he wants like a stupid, shameful child; the knot in his chest swollen until it barely fits behind his ribs, making every breath more shallow than the last for the pointless ache of trying (oh, he's forgotten about his racing pulse— about that arm still holding him in its coils: ataxiated mind supplanting reality with superstition). It's not his fault because whatever this is— love or fear or hunger so potent in its distillation that Astarion can't even taste it without buckling— it's unlike anything he's ever put his mouth to before. A counter to the synaptic rush of pleasure solely from a thumb clumsily hitting the right spot or a few words happening to thrill.
Fenris could devour him whole and he'd beg to vanish again and again and again inside that striking maw. Everything in him swears it.
Staring until his eyes hurt. Gawking until his tongue goes raw. He can't shake the thought from his head even as he revels in its irony when it finally sinks beneath his skin: I will have all of you or none of you. A noble lordling enslaved to a slave.
His leg hooks on its own.
He feels the pressure bow before it bears down on their hips in married unison, pushing stiffness against stiffness through the dull scratch of their own trousers. (It takes everything in him not to arch instead of listen). He wants that thumb back. He wants to drive it hard to the back of his own mouth through the rolling of his tongue and the neediness of blunted teeth. He wants to squirm. To writhe. And not because he wants the fun of being caught come sunrise, but because now he wants never to be caught.
Fuck.
Fuck, that his father finally got the better of him without even realizing it.]
....I do know.
[And he hates the way it sounds.
Like begging. Like pleading. Like that too protesting insistence on I can, I am, I know. I'm old enough. Smart enough. Trust me, cries the thing that only looks smaller for asserting. No, not that, then. Not that.]
Fenris— name it. [Anything. Anything. Sensation verging on dictation for just how fervently it presses.] Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours.
[This time he does rub. Hips working. Straining for that kiss like a creature in withdrawal, shaking for more than strain. A trembling that matches the muted rattle of his phone across the nightstand. Don't ignore me.]
I'm yours. Please—
[Please please please—
Tugging on those soft white locks behind subtly downturned ears.]
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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.
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Funny, that.
Like he didn't just pride himself for years now on toying with the lives of his servants, his tutors, his friends— if one could even call them that. Before tonight, he could practically see the puppet strings tied tight around each and every last one his fingers, prompting everyone and everything beneath him to dance. That was the joy of it. The only thing he had aside from pretty clothes. Expensive faff.
Now, they read as something else. So brittle he worries they could snap from even the slightest movement, and his fingertips twitch against a febrile scalp to that same end (feathersoft ribbons of hair knifing at his circulation, digging deeper into his skin), every part of him trying to keep still.
He does trust him. Against everything that screams, he does. But every scuff is incendiary. Subtle waves of coiling breath kiss the edges of his aching lips in ways he wishes their origination would. Centimeters feel like lifetimes. Hot air, hot need, hotter pinpricks of sensation threatening the outline of his vision every time he blinks. Wanting like a blaze. Needing like a yawning pit.
It'll be morning soon.
Not the stroke of midnight, but daylight erasing what this is, when— if he doesn't want to lose whatever they've found (and he doesn't, trust that he doesn't despite all his restless fidgeting)— they have to crawl back into the narrowness of their roles. A noble that doesn't know the smell of sandalwood or sword oil. A guard that keeps his distance with stiffened, cold indifference. For a while they'll go back to being nothing but museums of themselves. Shut doors letting nothing inside escape.
And for a while (no matter how awful that night is, their backs angled towards each other by the end. Frustrated in a way that isn't angry), it works.
For a while, anyway.
'What's his type?' Aurelia asks in that clear-cut way of hers. Two drinks in and already watching Fenris from the corner of her vision.
'As if Astarion would know.' Answers Leon before the high elf can open his mouth, ending with the most narrowed expression imaginable.
'Maybe he doesn't have one.'
Petras, of course. At last.
(At this rate, Astarion's never going to have a chance to actually answer the damned question— which is par for the course for nights like these, actually.) Drink in hand and the party around them mutedly stirring into a later rhythm than the one that came before sunset; respectable enough in theory that even dear Lord Ancunín, pleased to have peace for a scarce few weeks, didn't bother to object to.
'Of course he does. Everyone does.' Violet. Stubborn as ever, and trying to size up the topic of conversation from a distance, as is her usual wont.
'Not everyone.'
Dal.
Who brings a flicker of a smirk to Astarion's lips for that, if only because it's the first time in a good long while she's been wrong.
Fenris does have a type. And it's sitting, for all Astarion's bold, impulsive certainty, right at the heart of this discussion.]
He's going to hear you thirsting from a mile away, if you keep this up. And then none of you will know his type.
['Bullshit.' Snaps Petras around the edge of his drink— following it up with a long pull from a cigarette that (in theory) makes him look older than he is. If he didn't suck on it like a bottle, maybe it actually would.
The smoke from it trailing when he adds with one low cough, 'Bet he loves it when it's forwards.'
That Astarion kicks his chair after that is just coincidence.]
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It's funny, for the attention doesn't bother him quite so much as it normally might. Normally he despises parties like this for just that reason: countless nobles gawking at him as if he's an exotic and delightfully intimidating bit of entertainment, caring not for how their too-loud whispers or pointed objectification makes him feel. The women giggle and the men deride, and though he is too old to be hurt by their comments anymore, still. It makes for a long and unpleasant evening.
And indeed: he isn't happy to feel six sets of eyes burning holes into his frame. But some combination of Astarion's presence and (oh, admit it) their collective age leaves Fenris feeling vaguely amused. They're so obvious in the way they gawk and gossip, and he cannot decide which is worse: the arrogant looking girl who stares at him so coldly (oh, he knows her type: the ones that want to be wanted, and think that he'll be all the more intrigued by her because she doesn't slaver over him), or the pale, petulant boy who keeps sneaking glances at him when he thinks Fenris is unaware (smoking as though he's a practiced hand and nearly burning his fingers in the process). Children, all of them, in general life experience if not true age.
And in the middle of it all: Astarion. Not quite as young as his peers (and there's surely no bias showing there, thank you), but brighter and more vivid than any of them could hope to be. Fenris glances over just in time to see him kick Petras' chair, and despite himself, smiles for just a moment.
Strange to be endeared to the sight of one's charge. Stranger still to realize that, in his own way, he's acting protectively, safeguarding his bodyguard from wagging tongues and cruel jibes.
But that group isn't the only one paying him mind.
'Here's your chance to find out,' Leon says, nodding back towards Fenris. No longer is the bodyguard facing them; instead, his attention has been captured by a tiefling woman who leans up against the wall next to him. Large is the first word that comes to mind when looking at her: tall and broad both, with swelling biceps and thighs tensed with well-honed muscles. One horn peaks out beneath a shock of black hair; the other is broken, the edges filed down and softened.
She speaks animatedly to him, her hands gesturing emphatically in front of her as she tells her story. Loud as she is (attracting no small host of stares, the wealthy elite so disapproving of the help making itself known), it's hard to make out individual words. Gortash, maybe, but then again, maybe not— it's not as if anyone really knows or cares about the name of some arms dealer.
But Fenris seems interested in her. His body is half-turned, his gaze warming as he focuses on her. Occasionally he'll speak, contributing only a little compared to her enthusiastic deluge— but he does not pull away when she grips his shoulder, smiling as she yanks him in closer.
'So he likes women who are stronger,' Violet declares with a judgemental little sniff. 'Figures.'
'It's one conversation,' Dal interjects. Her brow is creased, her expression caught between vague amusement and mild incredulity. 'Just because he's speaking to her doesn't mean—'
'Look at him. He's clearly invested,' Violet argues. 'And isn't he supposed to be looking after you, Astarion? And yet he's distracted.' So there, and she shrugs one shoulder. Takes a sip of her wine— and then, quite pointedly, adds: 'Have you even managed to seduce him yet?'
As if that's some kind of litmus test— but you know, perhaps it is. After all: she's so different than Astarion, and if Fenris seems more interested in one than the other, well. It has to come down to type, doesn't it?
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In other words: everything Astarion isn't.]
Shut up. [He doesn't look at Violet when he snaps it, his eyes boring straight ahead towards the pair against the wall, their bodies angled towards each other in mirrored unison. Bringing himself to blink is like an exercise in trying to unglue his lids, when even a second might mean watching his bodyguard (his bodyguard) tilt a few centimeters closer to her— and farther away from him.]
You saw that I did.
['We saw you cheat and run away with him.' Petras grunts in the middle of stamping out what's left of his cigarette on the side table his chair's still wedged against, clearly taking Violet's side in the debate. 'That's what we all saw. Doesn't count.'
'Could've just walked it off.' Adds Yousen. Neutral only for the way he's stating nothing more than the facts themselves, punctuated by a shrug.
Astarion's eye twitches. A byproduct of his nostril twisting when it flares.
He's seeing red. Literally. Figuratively. And the chatter around him smears accordingly.
'I mean we all know how fast Astarion burns through hired help. If he really did anything, he'd have a new bodyguard already.'
'Maybe the mutt just doesn't care for boys.']
I said. Shut. Up.
['Dalyria's right. Enough, you two.' Leon cuts through at last like yet one more voice of reason, recognizing the bolded outline of Astarion's telltale temper burning hotter than the Hellish eyes he's watching from across the room.
The problem is he adds, unkindly: 'It's bad form to pick on children.'
And like a viper, Astarion's lunged over his knees in his seat, baring contempt in lieu of fangs. Something that'd be more effective if he had a target for it; the pack's turned against him, he realizes too late.]
I could hire someone to kill you and they'd never find the body—
['Ooh. Such words from a Magistrate.' Pale petras shivers, eliciting a rumbling chuckle from at least half the present party, though it dithers in at least a few specific margins.
The point is, however long it takes, by the time Leto shores up any lingering conversation, that circle of waiting silhouettes will be missing one.
The one he's meant to be guarding.
'No luck, Fenris?' Asks one pale not-elf from where he's sprawled himself in drinking— boots up, ankles crossed— over two adjacent seats, now. Head resting on the edge of Violet's shoulder. Hard to say which of the lot is vying harder for Fenris' attention on return.
Little songbirds straining on a sill.]
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Though frankly, Fenris thinks as he approaches that wolf pack in noble attire, even if he was utterly convinced that was why Astarion ran off, he still would keep it to himself. He does not like Astarion's friends. Likely he'll never like any of them individually (except maybe Dalyria, and even then, he likes her for her ability to hold her tongue more than anything), but gods, he especially despises them when they're together. There's such an air of sneering, airy judgement about them— childish compared to Danarius and his ilk, but all the more vicious for it. They've nothing to blunt their teeth upon just yet, and so they turn upon one another— or any other luckless victim too powerless to properly fight back.
It's not that Fenris is intimidated as he stands before them. Even if he was, he's too practiced at making his face stone to give away any hint of anxiety or fear. But it's uncomfortable watching them watch him. Hunger in their gaze and nothing but malicious sport in their hearts— and no matter what he says or does next, there's nothing that can save him from it.
But really, what can they do? Actually do? Not much. They can't bed him, not without earning not just Astarion's wrath, but that of his father. They can't bully him into running some embarrassing errand, or force him to get drunk . . . all they have is their words, and what can they say that hasn't already been whispered in Fenris' ear? How far down does that lyrium go, what a savage beast, what a thrilling bit of sport, oh, he's heard it all. So what's there to be afraid of?
He wishes that thought helped.]
Luck?
[He regrets it the moment it slips past his lips, but the question takes him by surprise. There's smirks all around— and despite himself, despite all that he'd just assured himself on, still, Fenris feels a rush of hot embarrassment. He isn't stupid, but this lot will take his question as proof of it nonetheless.
'Yes, luck,' Violet drawls. Her head tips back, her hair tossed artfully over her free shoulder. 'From your little conquest— well. I say little . . .'
'We had a debate, you see.' Petras again, his words slow but deliberate. 'On what your type was. Astarion seemed confident he knew it, but then again . . . perhaps he didn't count on you having a taste for the strong, savage type.'
And the puzzle pieces fall into place. Fenris exhales slowly, his mouth thinning as he glances around the room. There's no shock of white hair that pops out immediately, but then again, this estate is a grand thing. There's plenty of rooms where he might be hiding.]
Where is he?
['Settle our argument first,' Violet commands— and it is a command, snapped out so effortlessly that Fenris feels his spine instinctively straighten. 'Did you end up bedding him? He keeps telling us you did.']
I—
[He knows why Astarion asserts that. He really does. It's so easy to lose standing among your peers no matter who they are, and this lot is the worst of them. Of course he said such a thing; there's no advantage to admitting that all you did was jerk off in an alley.
But suddenly Fenris is tired of this. These stupid games played by these idiotic children who have nothing better to do than endlessly speculate . . . well, let them. But there's nothing that says Fenris need play along.
Still: their eyes are gleaming. Still: they hang on to his every word, and will only laugh in spiteful mockery if he simply stalks off. And chalk it up to Astarion's influence, maybe, or his own newfound freedom— but Fenris feels something in him quietly snap.]
It was not a conquest. Simply because you six have little else going on in your lives beyond lustful machinations does not mean the rest of us do. And as for your argument—
[Gods. He hesitates for half a moment before finally continuing abruptly:]
— settle it yourselves. You have little else going on tonight.
[It won't win any awards for cleverest comeback of the year, but on the other hand, it's deeply satisfying to say. And certainly not what they expected: Violet's expression snaps into shocked indigence, while Petras (to his mild credit) snorts at that bucking bit of backtalk. Fenris doesn't bother to check the rest, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
The party spills into countless rooms, some more quiet than others. It takes him a few tries before he finds Astarion. His charge is sprawled in a chair in the middle of the room, a drained glass at his side and more than a few people gathered around him, chattering and laughing at something he says. And in his lap—
The son of the host himself, and oh, what a pretty thing he is. Giggling as he leans in to whisper in Astarion's ear, his cheeks flushed beneath tanned skin and teeth so white they gleam. A darling, daring little thing, drunk off champagne and all the bolder for it.
And it's all Fenris can do not to stalk over and tear the boy's throat out.
Somehow, impossibly, he makes his way over to a nearby wall. It's a miracle he doesn't bump into anyone, for he refuses to take his eyes off the sight of Astarion and this boy. This child, this drunken idiot who thinks it's the height of coy cleverness to splay his fingers against Astarion's chest, loudly admiring the supposed detailing on his buttons.
And unlike last time, he's no leave to grab Astarion and march him out. A bit of unsubtle flirting isn't enough to warrant any kind of scolding. And so he simply stands there, seething silently, his expression stone and his eyes thunderous, glaring fiercely at the brat in his brat's lap.
But oh— he has leave to say something, doesn't he? Innocuous and not untrue, and it's a flimsy excuse, but he'll take what he can get. His jaw clenched, Fenris slips between partygoers, glaring down at his errant charge.]
You should have told me you were leaving the room.
[There's a thousand statements layered beneath that, jealous and seething, angry and upset— but to the guests around them, he simply appears like an overly serious bodyguard. Enthusiastic, yes, but not particularly inappropriate.]
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First: Petras gasping in cold shock after his snort wears away, Violet's settled outline still planted partway underneath him with increasingly stiffened contours: her slackened anger the picture of a fish somehow drowning in its native stream, petty counterpart to his bemused incredulity with the rest of the group following suit.
'Can he do that?' A question to which no one present has a definitive answer for once asked. Something that, in a way, makes it an answer unto itself (though it'll take them the better part of the next hour to reach that same conclusion in a somewhat drink-addled deliberation between adolescent hearts).
Second: Astarion.
Drawing den a charcoal map of pipesmoke and half-lit walls while something bassy plays on loop in either this room or the next; his audience thicker than the atmosphere that flanks him, more amenable than the cocksure pack he'd left behind. More willing to be regaled, particularly when the one talking isn't shy about making it a show.
Not to mention the weight on his lap's a pleasant distraction when he otherwise lacks for it in the minutes before footsteps pad close enough to break relative silence. Tangled friction lending itself to a sense of acclimated control that— like a drug— quenches the restlessness in his veins: inflamed jealousy already fading into pleasant numbness under the places where clothed bodies meet, embracing the delicate care of those fingers as they move to fuss along his buttons (ignoring that same attention when the drunken little thing strains higher every now and then, trying to fit spice-scented lips against his own). A game, not a rejection. Why let fantasy hold the reins? This isn't about neophytic love, after all, no matter what his catch might think with every soft attempt to kiss— all redirected to Astarion's neck or cheek or shoulder through tepid tilts of his own head, and like the good little find the host's son is, he obediently takes to it with lavish capitulation (he is a darling little thing. So well behaved. Astarion could free his cock from his trousers right now and tease him to orgasm in front of every set of eyes in the room, and he'd no doubt purr for more).
Which makes this conversation easier, actually.
Left free to frame his focus around that pretty patriar's shoulder while dull teeth nip and worry at his throat, smelling of brandy and too much wine. The ensuing sight of Fenris (oh, still handsome as ever when dark brows shadow green eyes in rage), bristling like a taphouse cat and snapping out sharp irritations that only curl that much sweeter within Astarion's own embittered gut. Different day, same old, destructive habit: l'appel du vide— he likes the attention more than he cares about its type.
Matting its hedonistic spite with a palm slid along the inline of spread legs starting at the knee just to feel fine threadwork pull. His every blink slow. Smolderingly placid. A half-smile on his lips.
Oh.
Hello, Fenris.]
You were busy, last I checked.
[As Astarion is busy now.
Thumb squeezed into the junction between thigh and inseam— punctuated by a panting moan— the slight thing in his lap curled higher.]
Besides— you found me, anyway.
[Didn't you?]
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god that icon tho i am DYING about all these new ones
good because more are on the way for YOU >:]
AA BOO THANK YOU once again you spoil me :>
POINTS. AT. YOU.
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