[Like the flick of a blade nicking thicker armor; like a stiletto pushed beneath his chin, a fragile tension rising between them as sharp metal kisses his throat. Every instinct he has shrieks that this is a stupid idea and it doesn't matter, not when he's caught like this. Kept still and utterly enraptured by his master, his imagination sparking at each tap of Astarion's thumb. Swollen lips wrapped obediently around two pale fingers; the heavy weight of Astarion's prick, sedate and yet still drooling, resting atop the belly of his conquered prey. Look at how I won, look at how you melt for me, humiliation to be savored and offered later, and Fenris can feel his own cock twitch in response.
And oh, those words . . . relax, old man, and let Astarion decide if the grunt of displeasure that follows is for that careless instruction or the diminutive that follows. Either way, it earns a sharp stare: narrowed eyes above a mouth still eager to serve, Fenris' tongue sliding eagerly over soft fingerpads. And perhaps that would be the end of it. If he kept up that slow, meandering sadism; if he took picture after picture with his only intent being vouyeristic bullying . . .
But he inches forward. He presses his luck.
And Fenris strikes.
One hand wraps tight around Astarion's wrist, squeezing cruelly until he either drops that phone or at least lowers it; the other grips his hip as Fenris flips them both over. It's a messy action, far more about pinning than it is seduction; in an instant he has Astarion on his back, one arm pinned up over his head and his lithe legs splayed around Fenris' waist. His phone's screen is still unlocked, not that Fenris notices.]
Listen when I tell you something.
[White hair hangs messily around his face as he surveys his bratty ward.]
You spend your days telling me about how petty your friends are . . . how quick would they be to plaster such images anywhere they could just to get a laugh?
[Oh, he means it. He does. And yet it's no accident that his hips rock forward, grinding sedately against Astarion. Who knows when they'll next be left alone, after all? And while they still have to be quiet, now that the door is locked, well. There's little harm in indulgence, is there?
A kiss. A bite, his teeth sedately worrying at Astarion's lower lip, as he keeps a tight grip on his wrist. Murmured against his mouth, then:]
And stop calling me old man. You're practically a century old, you need not act as though I am so much your elder.
[But don't stop, actually, because he quite likes it.]
[Oh if you thought he'd be used to this by now, you'd be wrong.
Creature of habit that he is, his rabbiting pulse spikes so high it hits his ears before he hits the bed in harsh refrain— adrenaline dizzier than vertigo in a spinning room while his legs are tangled around lithe hips and his lower half pins snug inside their crux. Two seconds ago: he'd been leering at his sheets. Right now: the ceiling overhead. That snarling, handsome face. Those staggering green eyes, lit from within, and there— right in their center— his own reflection, angled back.
....and coming quickly into focus.
He's living for this as it crawls over him; he's alive inside its deep-cast shadow when it moves closer. Nothing like the palpitating rush that drug and drink bring on or how senselessly worked up Astarion gets after landing a worthwhile catch with a name worth touting (irony of ironies being that he's still swept up on his back), just— he doesn't know, it's different. Bloody Hells, it's different. Higher. Headier. More enticingly addictive at its core and infinitely more damning considering all the consequences he can't pay off if one of them so much as nudges his phone in the middle of this skirmish, meaning maybe there's something to be said for that old adage about risk and reward.
He's just too high on both to remember what it was. Smiling against the roughness scoring his hot mouth; Sparking electricity just to feel his bruised wrist whine in aching protest that threads right through his own— shirt rucked, teeth poised, snapping to try and reach (catch, bite) the sly fighter overtaking him: every narrow movement falling short, but that's exciting, too. They won't know, a lost admission in the middle of it all. They think I never fucked you.
And it's not really a lie.
And—
Oh.
O h.
Should he— should he tell him?
He should, right? After all, it's not like that first night anymore, back when he'd assumed his purchased watchdog of a wolf would only last a week inside these halls; the man will find out eventually if he stays here, anyway. Not to mention he'll be more than slightly pissed if that inevitable reveal comes slipping out from someone else's mouth.
Besides, they're friends....aren't they? Or....well, something like it, all things reasonably considered.
Fine, all right, yes. okay.]
Fenris—
[He mouths against yet another kiss, vying for a moment to confess (it has the unintended effect of sounding like a vulgar, hitching moan).]
[Murmured with a grin against Astarion's lips and punctuated with a bite. The tension from earlier still thrums hot within him, his pulse racing from Astarion's earlier sadism; even now, he's aware of that cell phone still clutched in one hand. But now that his prey is pinned, there's no harm in taking his time to thoroughly enjoy him. Strange and piecemeal as their relationship has been, this is only the second time they've gotten to kiss, and Fenris finds he likes learning the shape of Astarion's mouth. Like that, he likes it like that, a little harder, a little hungrier—
But Astarion doesn't stop. Fenris, Fenris, the noise vulgar and mewling, a thoroughly distracted gasp for attention that he can't deny forever. With one final little lick to his bottom lip, Fenris draws back just enough to smirk down at him.]
What, hm? I have every intention of tending to you, whether you believe me or not. Though if you wish to beg me for my cock, I will not decline.
[Never mind. He starts, stops. Never mind, that's all he thinks as that tongue pries him open more and more with every slow, exploratory lick— like patience is a thing he can even start to dredge up underneath something so immense and all-encompassing as what he's stealing mouthfuls of— oh, he doesn't want to stop. Gnawing at his own flush lips in the drawback like a weak continuation of their game, he'd start to whine if he could manage it: instead he's looking up at Fenris from caught sheets like he's a half step away from begging for that offered cock.
Hells, maybe he is.
He's certainly rethinking the whole confessing for a good cause part, after all.]
I erm—
Hm.
[Hm and mhm slipped out through his nose.]
The calling you old man thing— about that.
Specifically the part about it not applying. Specifically specifically about what I told you that first night.
[Maker, his prick is hard. It aches. Is there a word for the inbetween between guilt and horny as all hells?
If so: currently dying from it.]
When I said I was almost a century old....I....[ahahah....] well I might have been exaggerating.
A little.
[Just a....teeny. Tiny. Very very very unmentionably small bit.]
[There are just some sentences you don't want to hear when you're midway through making out with someone. When you have just had their cock shoved down your throat and their fingers fucking into you, I might have exaggerated my age has to be one of the top ten.
He rears back, pulling away far enough that he can stare down at his ward. His eyes dart about his face, taking in the twisted expression of guilt and fluster, watching as those silver eyes dart away again and again.]
By how much, Astarion.
[Oh, his voice has gone very flat. Should he have guessed that Astarion would have lied about his age? Perhaps, but on the other hand, why on earth would he bother to lie? It's an easy enough thing for Fenris to find out sooner or later— but then again, if Astarion had thought he'd never see him again . . .
[Sitting up is an ordeal that buys them a handful of seconds, at least. Segue pulling decency back into his (mostly) upright lap alongside the hemlines of his shirt, leaving Astarion fighting for a few more beats by way of fiddling with his curls: the heels of his palms haphazardly shoving silver strands out of his own face to— you know, offer up a little less of a reminder in the here and now that they were just tangled up in one another, open-mouthed and nearly cock-to-naked-cock (especially when the look stuck on Fenris' face is something along the lines of oh gods, oh gods, what have I done).
So....not off to a great start there, as it so happens.]
Not much at all, I swear!
[And by elven standards? Technically true.
It's just that those standards are usually applied under a drastically different set of circumstances than facefucking your own bodyguard-et-teacher-et-sort-of-but-not-really-your-slave, at the very least.]
Just....a couple of decades here and there.
[A beat.]
Like, say: three of them?
....going in a direction closer to zero than a hundred.
[Look on the bright side: he didn't actually shout that. More of a loud speaking voice, really, echoing around the room (but likely not down the hall) as he stares at Astarion. Astarion, who looks so young; Astarion who fusses with his curls and stares at him clad only in a nightshirt, his mouth fuck-sore and his cheeks flushed—
Forty-five!
And there are assuredly worse ages to bed, but there are far better ones too, and he'd already thought Astarion a brat at a mere century. Forty-five— forty-five, his mind and body grown and yet still so damned sheltered. What does anyone know at forty-five? What can anyone know? Fenris barely remembers the age; only a vague sense of endless indignation and snarling rebellion, fueled by hormones and a lack of understanding of anything outside his master's estates. Forty-five, the number echoing endlessly in his head, and it's—]
Venhedis kaffan vas, festis bei umo canavarum—
[The Tevene slips past his lips sharply, growled to himself as he stares at his ward. At his ward. His forty-five year old brat, who sucks and fucks and spreads his legs to be the most tempting little thing in the Upper City— gods, no wonder he's so confident. No wonder he's so easy to fluster. No wonder all those tutors had gone for him (but oh, oh, he cannot think along those lines, not unless he wants to grow even more furious).
Fuck.
And what is there to do? He cannot take his actions back. He cannot say his heart's thrumming desire has lessened. Fenris shoves a hand through his hair, sweeping it back as he glances sharply away and then back again.]
[Eyebrow cocked as accomplice to an impatient little half-shrug— scrunching up the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth— unsure even in its stark naked honesty, which has the added bonus of making Astarion look that much slighter against the backdrop of an oversized headboard thanks to the way he's shuttling his shoulders underneath his sleeping shirt.
Constricted little frame already slithering right towards defensiveness now that the subject's swung back around to him.
Well.
More him. Less the concept of him as previously sold via aforementioned exaggerations.
(Don't @ him for this.)]
I don't know— it didn't really seem relevant until this morning.
Until after you shoved your cock down my throat, you mean.
[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.
[To be fair, none of this is fair; Astarion doesn't go hostile for that start.
Least of all because it's true.
As for the rest? There's a pair of warm arms circling him by the end of it, and a sturdy lap beneath him. There's a shoulder primed for his cheek to rest on, even if it's tense enough from turmoil to feel more like a rock than a pillow. There's a sense— or just a hunch on Astarion's side of things— that doesn't spell the end of their unnamed arrangement, or to quote Fenris, the end of this by way of 'if we are to do this', and that's the part he unexpectedly likes most.
So if that means taking the (rightful) blame for his behavior for the first time in his less-than-half-a-centuried life— maybe there's a second meaning to his smile. The pressure set across a faintly glowing shoulder.
Maybe he's also still a menace:]
I'm actually an ancient vampire trapped in an eternally young body, and held captive by an estate that only pretends to be my family. I have— [oh, what's a rounded number] six other siblings, none of them by blood, with you about to make the seventh.
[Punctuated by a chomp of his dull teeth into the shoulder he's draped on.
(No, he hasn't got anymore secrets.)]
I wasn't trying to lie to you after that night, you know. [First night? yes. Aftermath, well— span it a few weeks between the glowers and the attempts to seduce for cruelty and competition's sake, right up until cool, damp cloth sank kind against his skin.]
I just didn't think you'd last.
[No one else did, anyway.
Chin still pushed into that shoulder; gaze still unfixed for a beat.]
[Admittedly, he snorts quietly at that story. Little menace, and absently Fenris turns his head, returning that dull bite with a nip of his own against the tip of Astarion's ear. Stop that, the scold as tame as the teasing itself.
But ah . . . honesty at last, and to his quiet surprise, Fenris finds he appreciates it. There's something to be said for a straightforward answer, especially in wake of all they've done.]
Mmm.
[It's a noise somewhere between a hum and a grumble: acknowledgement combined with a grudging little hmph as the last of his resentment still embers. Perhaps he'll be sore about it for a fair bit— no, almost assuredly he will, for this was a rather unpleasant shock. But he'll get over it in time. And until he does . . . well. There's scolding and scolding— and perhaps he'll bring this up the next time they fuck.
For now: all is at least forgiven enough that they can curl up together like this. With a little hup Fenris shifts himself backwards, pulling Astarion with him as he settles back against the headboard.]
And now?
[I didn't think I'd care, and it's not that he expects Astarion to admit that he's secretly fallen in love with him. That's far too soon, and anyway, they're only just starting to admit they're even somewhat fond of each other. But perhaps he wants to hear it pinned. Perhaps, after all the aggression of the past few days, he wants something concrete.]
[His scoff is the lightest brush across that shoulder underneath.]
About what happens to you? [About you.] Mmhm.
[He wants those fingers behind his ears. He wants the soft pull of them tucked under his curls— please— without playing into that he's sorry. That he was wrong. That he might not want to do better, but he wants to try. Good behavior the last thing allowed to sit beside him via choice if he's not getting anything out of it.
But like everything else, Astarion won't beg for it— he pushes.
Starting first through words. Then by shoving back against those teeth as they close in, ignoring the twitch of a bitten ear that flicks once— twice— one part whipping out of reach while the rest of him drives nearer in their sprawl: arching his back. Locking his legs a little more, and using his toes to push over thick sheets. A kind of angled drive that slants him into Fenris right down to the margins.
Which is as far as it all goes.
Considering the messy tangle of conflicted emotion they're otherwise burning through, he's not actually trying to incite a second (third?) bout; there's no skipping over the shaky midline of it all to get right back to the spot where they'd left off, despite the run of his own nature. Even his shirt hem stays put, surprisingly. Balled up somewhere between the corner of an angled thigh and pinched in the creasing merger of rough fabric, it's doing the hard, thankless work of keeping modesty intact.]
You already know you're the most interesting person I talk to, and....
[Oh, give him a second. He's thinking.]
....a fairly decent lay.
[Guilt and indemnity aside, once again: Astarion Ancunín's not laying it on thick unless he's being catered to first.]
It's a startled thing more felt than heard, an exasperated chuckle that bursts out of him in one exhale. His arms wrap tighter around him, drawing him in as he presses close, his movements as insistent as any pup. His weight is a pleasing one draped across Fenris' body, warm and soft in ways that he isn't used to having for himself. One arm slings around his hips, but though the other brushes against the base of his neck, he doesn't card through his hair just yet.]
A fairly decent lay . . . perhaps we should shift your focus from how to wield a gun to how to compliment people, brat.
[All at once his fingers knot tight in Astarion's hair right at the root: a tight, mean grip that grabs his attention and forces his head to tip back, just so Fenris can smile beatifically down at him. There's no anger in his gaze, no sadistic intent to start another round— just a swift reminder that Astarion's favorite tutor isn't nearly as much of a simpering pushover as the last twenty-five.]
He likes the way fingers lock down in his hair, aching.
He likes the way that diminutive name hits: stellula, and it's not the first time he's been called star, but it's the first time he's enjoyed it for exactly what it promises: that despite the yawning loneliness of his not-quite-as-long-as-formerly-professed life, someone isn't tolerating him for a selfish, unspoken cause. They're just tolerating him.
Which is all part of this, too.
(And maybe, blown back in the face of shit-poor odds, someone might even— )]
You try again.
[Snap— the quick click of his teeth catching around those syllables when he grins like a flipped card in the last round of Wicked Grace, fingertips busy shoving back against the dead center of Fenris' chest.]
Who says I was trying to compliment you? [And in his defense (it's not a defense), it's still a day for truths, apparently:]
I save all my flattery for the people I actually need to win over.
[Gods, what a charmer his noble is. He isn't immune, Fenris knows, but perhaps that's why it strikes at him: because he so often is. Because almost any other noble in this world could try their damnedest to charm him, whether it be via flirtation or friendliness, only to be met with a steel wall. He has no time for pity nor sympathy, amusement nor pleasure; he is an elite hound first and foremost, bred and trained for three centuries into being the perfect protector—
And yet he is disarmed with a smile. With silver eyes that flash with curiosity and cheeks that flush with excitement. And he does not know why it's so addicting to bait his Astarion, only that it is— and that if they have all morning to play with one another, Fenris will take every minute he can steal.]
I did not say flatter me. I do not want false compliments— and I like you best when you're honest.
[His fingers stay knotted firm in Astarion's hair, though there's amusement clear in his expression.]
But I was more than fairly decent. Or do you pass out in pleasure for every decent fuck you've had?
[This time it's Astarion that laughs, clear and bright as the sunlight washed across their tangled feet through half-shut windows.]
I was tired.
[His hips shift....just a touch. A test. Not strictly misbehaving, but not not misbehaving either in the way he tugs against the leash of stronger fingers, scalp burning in a way he's come to love.
(And if Fenris wants none of it— if he stiffens in the wrong ways, stopping's so easy when they're both laid up like this.
Well.
Mostly laid up, considering it's more of an intertwining tangle, now. Knuckles to his scalp; knuckles to the warm, inviting center of Fenris' chest. Knees to thighs and ankles to ankles.)]
Trying to make you jealous was exhausting; that spoiled brat [says the elf barely any older, if that] wouldn't stop wriggling in my lap.
By the time I got to you, it's a wonder I was even awake at all.
[Oh, that little shift, and though his eyes flick up to catch Astarion's gaze, he doesn't make a move to stop him. There's something a little wonderful about the playfully intimate mood that's come upon them both— and so long as that continues, he'd be as happy to keep talking as he would be to start another round. But, ah . . . something quieter this time, though. Something softer than all the competitive aggression of the past, more tender and honest than their bullish posturing. He is not so soppy as to think something like making love, but at the same time . . .
Something sweet, Fenris thinks, and, using the grip he has in his hair, tips Astarion's head back so he might lay a scolding nip just against his pulsepoint. Something real, now that the playing field has finally evened out.
But all that talk of last night jogs his memory, and he aims an amused smile up at his noble as he draws back.]
So you were jealous of Karlach last night.
[Of course he was, if he was trying to make Fenris feel the same. And it's mean, maybe, to keep that tight grip in his hair, but he wants to see if he'll fluster again.]
I did not realize until you had left . . . she is a friend, and an old one. We have worked together many times, for my old master had many dealings with hers. But not a rival for your affections . . . was it you or your friends who came up with such an idea in the first place?
[He's blushing more for that comment than the bite it's brought in by: red marks staining pallid skin in the shape of dragging teeth despite the fact that all his flush is stuck high in his ears. His pink-tinged cheeks, squeezed higher by degrees for the curl of a lip around one inset canine (and ignore the way his pulse is hosting a revolt all on its own, drumming into a frenzy away from Fenris' hard grip).
His eyebrows are pinched into a point so sharp he might actually be able to stab a man to death with it.]
J-jealous— I never— [Never, but he doesn't have it in him to bristle like he should. His best attempt melts in the margins of bent knees and balled-up fingers, bitter as his mood and somehow even harder to swallow. In fact the only reason why he gets it down is because momentum practically tramples it in favor of something else:]
I thought I was your only friend.
[Is he playing that angle up as a distraction?
Well, no, actually.
Because if he was, he'd be more clever about it. Drag out the sympathetic angle instead of the flash of silver cast by narrowed eyes in the seconds where his back arches and his weight drops a little further into that waiting hold. Maybe opt not to change the subject like the inattentive thing he is.]
[Oh, pretty thing. Pretty, petulant, lonely thing, and Fenris' amusement quiets as he regards that bitter expression. His fingers finally loosen their grip in silver curls, sweeping gently through his hair as he keeps him close.]
You are my only lover. And you are a friend, and one I trust more than, perhaps, you realize.
[He says it simply, though trust his heart races as he does. It's nothing that they haven't been dancing around, but it's one thing to obliquely refer to it; it's quite another to say it aloud. His fingers comb patiently through Astarion's hair, his other hand splaying gently against the small of his back. Settle, not a harsh command but soft cajole.]
And Karlach is . . .
[Mm.]
Not unlike what I am, and then again not unlike what I was, too. She is far more devoted to her master than I ever was— but it helped, having someone understand all the rigors of service.
[But oh, she's so devoted to Gortash. Fanatical about him, really, starry-eyed and adoring. Fenris has met the man but once, and he cannot say he doesn't understand— but nor does he have any love for him. A man who deals even obliquely with slaves, even if he's so very careful not to get his own hands dirty, is not someone Fenris can ever regard with anything but disgust.
He's told her as such, angrily and emphatically both, for all the good it's ever done. She's too fanatical to see what her master truly is, and Fenris only hopes it isn't when he has a blade at her throat.]
And as for your friends . . .
[He scoffs dismissively.]
Why value their opinions so highly? You must know most of them are fools.
[It's not that he suddenly feels as naked as he is once that hold slides free, it's—
Actually, he doesn't know. Hasn't got a clue, really, what it is in him that pulls him towards tractability (right down to the way upturned ears flick high towards each pull, or the slow stop-start hitching of his well-framed heart once that heavy palm sets in), in ways he's always bucked against on thoroughly compulsive instinct: angry to be told no, regardless of how nicely. Prone to shoving, scowling, scoffing— he's lost track of how many times he's made a game of sinking deeper into his own chair during grander speeches just because he knows it'll leave his own kin seeing red.
But not this.
Or—
Or if yes this, considering the oscillating flow of contrary momentum, it at least isn't rearing up right now.
Not so long as he can shift a little more forwards across that sprawled-out form. Not as long as he's tended to and seen, considering all the questions Fenris has ever posed are a damned sight more perceptive than what the average Patriar would expect of any bodyguard, let alone a former slave.
Come to think of it, they're more perceptive than the average Patriar, too.]
I don't value their opinion at all— even a blind, deaf, inbred Gur could—
No. No. That was a mistake, right? It— he didn't mean to say— ]
Did—
[His fingers are raised. Flexing. Hovering over the centerpoint of where they'd been anchored, they've taken to doing something just shy of a hold-up gesture meets intermittent, very shitty pointing.]
Did you just say [lover] that we're friends?
[NO.LOVER, ASTARION. THAT'S THE PART YOU WANT TO ASK ABOUT: LOVER.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
And oh, those words . . . relax, old man, and let Astarion decide if the grunt of displeasure that follows is for that careless instruction or the diminutive that follows. Either way, it earns a sharp stare: narrowed eyes above a mouth still eager to serve, Fenris' tongue sliding eagerly over soft fingerpads. And perhaps that would be the end of it. If he kept up that slow, meandering sadism; if he took picture after picture with his only intent being vouyeristic bullying . . .
But he inches forward. He presses his luck.
And Fenris strikes.
One hand wraps tight around Astarion's wrist, squeezing cruelly until he either drops that phone or at least lowers it; the other grips his hip as Fenris flips them both over. It's a messy action, far more about pinning than it is seduction; in an instant he has Astarion on his back, one arm pinned up over his head and his lithe legs splayed around Fenris' waist. His phone's screen is still unlocked, not that Fenris notices.]
Listen when I tell you something.
[White hair hangs messily around his face as he surveys his bratty ward.]
You spend your days telling me about how petty your friends are . . . how quick would they be to plaster such images anywhere they could just to get a laugh?
[Oh, he means it. He does. And yet it's no accident that his hips rock forward, grinding sedately against Astarion. Who knows when they'll next be left alone, after all? And while they still have to be quiet, now that the door is locked, well. There's little harm in indulgence, is there?
A kiss. A bite, his teeth sedately worrying at Astarion's lower lip, as he keeps a tight grip on his wrist. Murmured against his mouth, then:]
And stop calling me old man. You're practically a century old, you need not act as though I am so much your elder.
[But don't stop, actually, because he quite likes it.]
no subject
Creature of habit that he is, his rabbiting pulse spikes so high it hits his ears before he hits the bed in harsh refrain— adrenaline dizzier than vertigo in a spinning room while his legs are tangled around lithe hips and his lower half pins snug inside their crux. Two seconds ago: he'd been leering at his sheets. Right now: the ceiling overhead. That snarling, handsome face. Those staggering green eyes, lit from within, and there— right in their center— his own reflection, angled back.
....and coming quickly into focus.
He's living for this as it crawls over him; he's alive inside its deep-cast shadow when it moves closer. Nothing like the palpitating rush that drug and drink bring on or how senselessly worked up Astarion gets after landing a worthwhile catch with a name worth touting (irony of ironies being that he's still swept up on his back), just— he doesn't know, it's different. Bloody Hells, it's different. Higher. Headier. More enticingly addictive at its core and infinitely more damning considering all the consequences he can't pay off if one of them so much as nudges his phone in the middle of this skirmish, meaning maybe there's something to be said for that old adage about risk and reward.
He's just too high on both to remember what it was. Smiling against the roughness scoring his hot mouth; Sparking electricity just to feel his bruised wrist whine in aching protest that threads right through his own— shirt rucked, teeth poised, snapping to try and reach (catch, bite) the sly fighter overtaking him: every narrow movement falling short, but that's exciting, too. They won't know, a lost admission in the middle of it all. They think I never fucked you.
And it's not really a lie.
And—
Oh.
O h.
Should he— should he tell him?
He should, right? After all, it's not like that first night anymore, back when he'd assumed his purchased watchdog of a wolf would only last a week inside these halls; the man will find out eventually if he stays here, anyway. Not to mention he'll be more than slightly pissed if that inevitable reveal comes slipping out from someone else's mouth.
Besides, they're friends....aren't they? Or....well, something like it, all things reasonably considered.
Fine, all right, yes. okay.]
Fenris—
[He mouths against yet another kiss, vying for a moment to confess (it has the unintended effect of sounding like a vulgar, hitching moan).]
Mmnh, Fenris, I—
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[Murmured with a grin against Astarion's lips and punctuated with a bite. The tension from earlier still thrums hot within him, his pulse racing from Astarion's earlier sadism; even now, he's aware of that cell phone still clutched in one hand. But now that his prey is pinned, there's no harm in taking his time to thoroughly enjoy him. Strange and piecemeal as their relationship has been, this is only the second time they've gotten to kiss, and Fenris finds he likes learning the shape of Astarion's mouth. Like that, he likes it like that, a little harder, a little hungrier—
But Astarion doesn't stop. Fenris, Fenris, the noise vulgar and mewling, a thoroughly distracted gasp for attention that he can't deny forever. With one final little lick to his bottom lip, Fenris draws back just enough to smirk down at him.]
What, hm? I have every intention of tending to you, whether you believe me or not. Though if you wish to beg me for my cock, I will not decline.
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Hells, maybe he is.
He's certainly rethinking the whole confessing for a good cause part, after all.]
I erm—
Hm.
[Hm and mhm slipped out through his nose.]
The calling you old man thing— about that.
Specifically the part about it not applying. Specifically specifically about what I told you that first night.
[Maker, his prick is hard. It aches. Is there a word for the inbetween between guilt and horny as all hells?
If so: currently dying from it.]
When I said I was almost a century old....I....[ahahah....] well I might have been exaggerating.
A little.
[Just a....teeny. Tiny. Very very very unmentionably small bit.]
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He rears back, pulling away far enough that he can stare down at his ward. His eyes dart about his face, taking in the twisted expression of guilt and fluster, watching as those silver eyes dart away again and again.]
By how much, Astarion.
[Oh, his voice has gone very flat. Should he have guessed that Astarion would have lied about his age? Perhaps, but on the other hand, why on earth would he bother to lie? It's an easy enough thing for Fenris to find out sooner or later— but then again, if Astarion had thought he'd never see him again . . .
Oh, gods.]
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So....not off to a great start there, as it so happens.]
Not much at all, I swear!
[And by elven standards? Technically true.
It's just that those standards are usually applied under a drastically different set of circumstances than facefucking your own bodyguard-et-teacher-et-sort-of-but-not-really-your-slave, at the very least.]
Just....a couple of decades here and there.
[A beat.]
Like, say: three of them?
....going in a direction closer to zero than a hundred.
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[Look on the bright side: he didn't actually shout that. More of a loud speaking voice, really, echoing around the room (but likely not down the hall) as he stares at Astarion. Astarion, who looks so young; Astarion who fusses with his curls and stares at him clad only in a nightshirt, his mouth fuck-sore and his cheeks flushed—
Forty-five!
And there are assuredly worse ages to bed, but there are far better ones too, and he'd already thought Astarion a brat at a mere century. Forty-five— forty-five, his mind and body grown and yet still so damned sheltered. What does anyone know at forty-five? What can anyone know? Fenris barely remembers the age; only a vague sense of endless indignation and snarling rebellion, fueled by hormones and a lack of understanding of anything outside his master's estates. Forty-five, the number echoing endlessly in his head, and it's—]
Venhedis kaffan vas, festis bei umo canavarum—
[The Tevene slips past his lips sharply, growled to himself as he stares at his ward. At his ward. His forty-five year old brat, who sucks and fucks and spreads his legs to be the most tempting little thing in the Upper City— gods, no wonder he's so confident. No wonder he's so easy to fluster. No wonder all those tutors had gone for him (but oh, oh, he cannot think along those lines, not unless he wants to grow even more furious).
Fuck.
And what is there to do? He cannot take his actions back. He cannot say his heart's thrumming desire has lessened. Fenris shoves a hand through his hair, sweeping it back as he glances sharply away and then back again.]
And when were you planning on telling me, hm?
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Funny you should ask, Fenris:]
....now....?
[Eyebrow cocked as accomplice to an impatient little half-shrug— scrunching up the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth— unsure even in its stark naked honesty, which has the added bonus of making Astarion look that much slighter against the backdrop of an oversized headboard thanks to the way he's shuttling his shoulders underneath his sleeping shirt.
Constricted little frame already slithering right towards defensiveness now that the subject's swung back around to him.
Well.
More him. Less the concept of him as previously sold via aforementioned exaggerations.
(Don't @ him for this.)]
I don't know— it didn't really seem relevant until this morning.
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[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.
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Least of all because it's true.
As for the rest? There's a pair of warm arms circling him by the end of it, and a sturdy lap beneath him. There's a shoulder primed for his cheek to rest on, even if it's tense enough from turmoil to feel more like a rock than a pillow. There's a sense— or just a hunch on Astarion's side of things— that doesn't spell the end of their unnamed arrangement, or to quote Fenris, the end of this by way of 'if we are to do this', and that's the part he unexpectedly likes most.
So if that means taking the (rightful) blame for his behavior for the first time in his less-than-half-a-centuried life— maybe there's a second meaning to his smile. The pressure set across a faintly glowing shoulder.
Maybe he's also still a menace:]
I'm actually an ancient vampire trapped in an eternally young body, and held captive by an estate that only pretends to be my family. I have— [oh, what's a rounded number] six other siblings, none of them by blood, with you about to make the seventh.
[Punctuated by a chomp of his dull teeth into the shoulder he's draped on.
(No, he hasn't got anymore secrets.)]
I wasn't trying to lie to you after that night, you know. [First night? yes. Aftermath, well— span it a few weeks between the glowers and the attempts to seduce for cruelty and competition's sake, right up until cool, damp cloth sank kind against his skin.]
I just didn't think you'd last.
[No one else did, anyway.
Chin still pushed into that shoulder; gaze still unfixed for a beat.]
Or that I'd care.
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But ah . . . honesty at last, and to his quiet surprise, Fenris finds he appreciates it. There's something to be said for a straightforward answer, especially in wake of all they've done.]
Mmm.
[It's a noise somewhere between a hum and a grumble: acknowledgement combined with a grudging little hmph as the last of his resentment still embers. Perhaps he'll be sore about it for a fair bit— no, almost assuredly he will, for this was a rather unpleasant shock. But he'll get over it in time. And until he does . . . well. There's scolding and scolding— and perhaps he'll bring this up the next time they fuck.
For now: all is at least forgiven enough that they can curl up together like this. With a little hup Fenris shifts himself backwards, pulling Astarion with him as he settles back against the headboard.]
And now?
[I didn't think I'd care, and it's not that he expects Astarion to admit that he's secretly fallen in love with him. That's far too soon, and anyway, they're only just starting to admit they're even somewhat fond of each other. But perhaps he wants to hear it pinned. Perhaps, after all the aggression of the past few days, he wants something concrete.]
You care for me?
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About what happens to you? [About you.] Mmhm.
[He wants those fingers behind his ears. He wants the soft pull of them tucked under his curls— please— without playing into that he's sorry. That he was wrong. That he might not want to do better, but he wants to try. Good behavior the last thing allowed to sit beside him via choice if he's not getting anything out of it.
But like everything else, Astarion won't beg for it— he pushes.
Starting first through words. Then by shoving back against those teeth as they close in, ignoring the twitch of a bitten ear that flicks once— twice— one part whipping out of reach while the rest of him drives nearer in their sprawl: arching his back. Locking his legs a little more, and using his toes to push over thick sheets. A kind of angled drive that slants him into Fenris right down to the margins.
Which is as far as it all goes.
Considering the messy tangle of conflicted emotion they're otherwise burning through, he's not actually trying to incite a second (third?) bout; there's no skipping over the shaky midline of it all to get right back to the spot where they'd left off, despite the run of his own nature. Even his shirt hem stays put, surprisingly. Balled up somewhere between the corner of an angled thigh and pinched in the creasing merger of rough fabric, it's doing the hard, thankless work of keeping modesty intact.]
You already know you're the most interesting person I talk to, and....
[Oh, give him a second. He's thinking.]
....a fairly decent lay.
[Guilt and indemnity aside, once again: Astarion Ancunín's not laying it on thick unless he's being catered to first.]
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It's a startled thing more felt than heard, an exasperated chuckle that bursts out of him in one exhale. His arms wrap tighter around him, drawing him in as he presses close, his movements as insistent as any pup. His weight is a pleasing one draped across Fenris' body, warm and soft in ways that he isn't used to having for himself. One arm slings around his hips, but though the other brushes against the base of his neck, he doesn't card through his hair just yet.]
A fairly decent lay . . . perhaps we should shift your focus from how to wield a gun to how to compliment people, brat.
[All at once his fingers knot tight in Astarion's hair right at the root: a tight, mean grip that grabs his attention and forces his head to tip back, just so Fenris can smile beatifically down at him. There's no anger in his gaze, no sadistic intent to start another round— just a swift reminder that Astarion's favorite tutor isn't nearly as much of a simpering pushover as the last twenty-five.]
Try again, stellula.
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He likes the way fingers lock down in his hair, aching.
He likes the way that diminutive name hits: stellula, and it's not the first time he's been called star, but it's the first time he's enjoyed it for exactly what it promises: that despite the yawning loneliness of his not-quite-as-long-as-formerly-professed life, someone isn't tolerating him for a selfish, unspoken cause. They're just tolerating him.
Which is all part of this, too.
(And maybe, blown back in the face of shit-poor odds, someone might even— )]
You try again.
[Snap— the quick click of his teeth catching around those syllables when he grins like a flipped card in the last round of Wicked Grace, fingertips busy shoving back against the dead center of Fenris' chest.]
Who says I was trying to compliment you? [And in his defense (it's not a defense), it's still a day for truths, apparently:]
I save all my flattery for the people I actually need to win over.
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And yet he is disarmed with a smile. With silver eyes that flash with curiosity and cheeks that flush with excitement. And he does not know why it's so addicting to bait his Astarion, only that it is— and that if they have all morning to play with one another, Fenris will take every minute he can steal.]
I did not say flatter me. I do not want false compliments— and I like you best when you're honest.
[His fingers stay knotted firm in Astarion's hair, though there's amusement clear in his expression.]
But I was more than fairly decent. Or do you pass out in pleasure for every decent fuck you've had?
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I was tired.
[His hips shift....just a touch. A test. Not strictly misbehaving, but not not misbehaving either in the way he tugs against the leash of stronger fingers, scalp burning in a way he's come to love.
(And if Fenris wants none of it— if he stiffens in the wrong ways, stopping's so easy when they're both laid up like this.
Well.
Mostly laid up, considering it's more of an intertwining tangle, now. Knuckles to his scalp; knuckles to the warm, inviting center of Fenris' chest. Knees to thighs and ankles to ankles.)]
Trying to make you jealous was exhausting; that spoiled brat [says the elf barely any older, if that] wouldn't stop wriggling in my lap.
By the time I got to you, it's a wonder I was even awake at all.
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Something sweet, Fenris thinks, and, using the grip he has in his hair, tips Astarion's head back so he might lay a scolding nip just against his pulsepoint. Something real, now that the playing field has finally evened out.
But all that talk of last night jogs his memory, and he aims an amused smile up at his noble as he draws back.]
So you were jealous of Karlach last night.
[Of course he was, if he was trying to make Fenris feel the same. And it's mean, maybe, to keep that tight grip in his hair, but he wants to see if he'll fluster again.]
I did not realize until you had left . . . she is a friend, and an old one. We have worked together many times, for my old master had many dealings with hers. But not a rival for your affections . . . was it you or your friends who came up with such an idea in the first place?
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[He's blushing more for that comment than the bite it's brought in by: red marks staining pallid skin in the shape of dragging teeth despite the fact that all his flush is stuck high in his ears. His pink-tinged cheeks, squeezed higher by degrees for the curl of a lip around one inset canine (and ignore the way his pulse is hosting a revolt all on its own, drumming into a frenzy away from Fenris' hard grip).
His eyebrows are pinched into a point so sharp he might actually be able to stab a man to death with it.]
J-jealous— I never— [Never, but he doesn't have it in him to bristle like he should. His best attempt melts in the margins of bent knees and balled-up fingers, bitter as his mood and somehow even harder to swallow. In fact the only reason why he gets it down is because momentum practically tramples it in favor of something else:]
I thought I was your only friend.
[Is he playing that angle up as a distraction?
Well, no, actually.
Because if he was, he'd be more clever about it. Drag out the sympathetic angle instead of the flash of silver cast by narrowed eyes in the seconds where his back arches and his weight drops a little further into that waiting hold. Maybe opt not to change the subject like the inattentive thing he is.]
Khh. They did.
[Goes without saying who they are.]
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You are my only lover. And you are a friend, and one I trust more than, perhaps, you realize.
[He says it simply, though trust his heart races as he does. It's nothing that they haven't been dancing around, but it's one thing to obliquely refer to it; it's quite another to say it aloud. His fingers comb patiently through Astarion's hair, his other hand splaying gently against the small of his back. Settle, not a harsh command but soft cajole.]
And Karlach is . . .
[Mm.]
Not unlike what I am, and then again not unlike what I was, too. She is far more devoted to her master than I ever was— but it helped, having someone understand all the rigors of service.
[But oh, she's so devoted to Gortash. Fanatical about him, really, starry-eyed and adoring. Fenris has met the man but once, and he cannot say he doesn't understand— but nor does he have any love for him. A man who deals even obliquely with slaves, even if he's so very careful not to get his own hands dirty, is not someone Fenris can ever regard with anything but disgust.
He's told her as such, angrily and emphatically both, for all the good it's ever done. She's too fanatical to see what her master truly is, and Fenris only hopes it isn't when he has a blade at her throat.]
And as for your friends . . .
[He scoffs dismissively.]
Why value their opinions so highly? You must know most of them are fools.
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Actually, he doesn't know. Hasn't got a clue, really, what it is in him that pulls him towards tractability (right down to the way upturned ears flick high towards each pull, or the slow stop-start hitching of his well-framed heart once that heavy palm sets in), in ways he's always bucked against on thoroughly compulsive instinct: angry to be told no, regardless of how nicely. Prone to shoving, scowling, scoffing— he's lost track of how many times he's made a game of sinking deeper into his own chair during grander speeches just because he knows it'll leave his own kin seeing red.
But not this.
Or—
Or if yes this, considering the oscillating flow of contrary momentum, it at least isn't rearing up right now.
Not so long as he can shift a little more forwards across that sprawled-out form. Not as long as he's tended to and seen, considering all the questions Fenris has ever posed are a damned sight more perceptive than what the average Patriar would expect of any bodyguard, let alone a former slave.
Come to think of it, they're more perceptive than the average Patriar, too.]
I don't value their opinion at all— even a blind, deaf, inbred Gur could—
2/3
Oh wait.
Wait wait wait.
Wait wait wait wait wait.]
3/3
No. No. That was a mistake, right? It— he didn't mean to say— ]
Did—
[His fingers are raised. Flexing. Hovering over the centerpoint of where they'd been anchored, they've taken to doing something just shy of a hold-up gesture meets intermittent, very shitty pointing.]
Did you just say [lover] that we're friends?
[NO. LOVER, ASTARION. THAT'S THE PART YOU WANT TO ASK ABOUT: LOVER.]
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