Even Astarion's whip-quick senses can't keep time well enough to track it. He was— gods, his head hurts. His hand is worse, pinned under him and threatening to split itself in half from jagged pain too unfamiliar to make sense to a set of nerves already at their limit. And his first thought is— Cazador. Cazador, because it has to be. No one else brings his world screaming to its knees like this but him. No one else would've torn him from the nightmare of oily wet eyes and squirming tentacles behind a film of keratinous glass just to make a point. No one else would've come for him.
And no one else would make him pay.
Only it isn't.
It isn't....?
His fist (next) blink is stuttering. It aches against the smear of ruddy crimson blotting along the dull edge of his vision, but with it, he sees a sickly blaze of burn-bright green swimming hotly overhead: tearing the landscape— or the sky— right along its middle. Dividing it in the way a portal ought to, but there's nothing here worth recognizing: that arcane outline smells as wrong as it looks. And— ]
—oh, hells.
[What are those things? What are those things? The abhorrent roiling masses lurching just nearby— one of them seeming to notice (he can't tell, it has too few or too many eyes but) enough of a rotted face to make its twist in his direction feel about as deliberate as his own breathless gawking back.
His own—
Fuck— wait— oh, fuck—
(Another flicker of movement. Another glimpse of garnered attention now that he's not painting the image of something dead, most like, no matter how stock-still he's gone on pure reflex alone. Forgetting air again. Forgetting sight. Forgetting pain. The soft twitch of his uninjured hand trying desperately to crawl down slow towards his hip despite the tremor that upsets its path.
The counterweight that is his mind only catching up a full second later when it finally urges: dagger.)
He'd thought at first it was because he was near Tevinter's border. Foolish in retrospect, given all he's heard and knows about the incident with the Inquisitor and Corypheus, but still: he'd thought it was due to all the magic in the air. And yet the further south he'd gone— slicing and hacking his way through Nevarra and the countless hoards of demons and Abominations populating it— the worse it had gotten. To the point where he's learned now how to feel one in the distance based on how badly his lyrium aches (for all the good that does him); to the point where he's actually lost track of how many times he's had to save some wandering caravan or displaced would-be slaves from demons attacking.
He shouldn't be surprised that approaching Kirkwall means that yet another's opened. The Veil is thin here, the land cursed and soaked with the blood of thousands upon thousands of slaves; of course a series of rifts would show up. And yet still Fenris groans softly under his breath as he feels the pressure drop and watches the air ripple, green light sparking and flaring under a darkened sky. He readies his sword, waiting for the inevitable lurching groan of a sloth demon or the roar of rage from a firey spirit— and indeed, he hears both calling as the Fade opens herself, but—
Something else pops out too.
White hair. Pointed ears. An elf, and Fenris has no time to wonder where or how or why, for he's a helpless thing. Sprawled there as if the demons might not sense him if he's still, eyes wide with terror as he stares at the lurching figures crawling towards him— and whether or not he's reaching for a weapon is irrelevant, for he isn't fast enough. Four demons lope towards him, eager in their need to feed and tear and consume. More lurk just beneath the rift's edge, a pride demon's groans eerie filling the air as it tries futilely to emerge.
Fenris rushes forward, sword in hands, a battle cry cutting through the demons' seething whispers as he puts himself between the spirits and their prey.
What choice does he have? He could no more leave this elf to his fate than he could fly, for it isn't in his nature. There's little spared for the figure now behind him, not beyond making sure he stays put. The demons rush forward, changing their target to the most attention-grabbing thing in the area. With a flash of his blade he cuts one down; spinning swiftly he vivisects another, splitting it in half with a sickly squelch. His lyrium flares, all of him suddenly a hazy azure; he reaches into the third demon, gauntlets rematerializing just to slice through flesh and blood and muscle. But the fourth— oh, the fourth is cleverer than the rest, and as its fellows fall one after another, it targets easier prey: claws outstretched towards the pale elf, its maw opened and salivating for the thought of feasting on real flesh.
Too late Fenris turns, seeing his mistake; with a cry he dashes forward, sword swinging desperately as he tries to slice at it from behind, but he's too far, he's too slow, it's not enough, not enough—]
On your feet— get back!
[A roar of a command, and his feet aren't fast enough, his sword's blade swinging uselessly through the air.]
[He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what he's looking at. He doesn't know what in the wide, bloody hells themselves just slid into centerview between himself and that dark mass of writhing shapes other than the fact that it smells of cracking thunder before rain and sounds like something much more human— a blue-limned silhouette. A blur. A seething force of nature that might as well have him reeling in confusion just as much as all the rest while his heart hammers in his throat (gods above, he's going to be sick)—
Palms to the earth and scrabbling in the uphaul to his knees, his feet. The segue of slight seconds that barely tears his heel away from wet-slick jaws that sought to close down on it— reverberating echoes of empty air over empty air: one good miss deserves another.]
Shit—
[It isn't Cazador.
He almost wishes it was. There's predictability in that. Not the smallness he feels hunched down low under a ruined sky, or lurching back onto his feels in preparation just to run while that crude thing wheels back onto its prior would-be assailant in a panicking correction: snapping, snarling, surging, growling through its ruined excuse for a throat with a hunger that suits more a mindless thing than the intelligence it bears in plucking out its targets.
Red eyes snap towards the side.
What he sees: cliffs. Fields. Rocky hillsides and the slope of ruins not so far. A break in the overheated fray where he could bolt into a sprint and put all of this behind him. And you know, fool thing that he (is)n't, he's considering it. He's considering it.
One more look cast that glittering outline's way. The silent, stricken weighing of ability against threat. His right eye stings. It's barely open. His arm is as raw as flayed skin to the bone, and hotter still. He's dizzy. He's breathless. He should run.
Far, far away. So far that these demons can't turn on him; far enough that he can make it somewhere populated, where there are more targets for a demon to choose from and he can safely call upon more than just some stray elf to defend him. Frankly, he ought to run anywhere that isn't near this rift, anywhere that isn't here, where the stench of dead demon fills the air and the endless shifting of the veil glitters against the skyline.
But some quiet part of Fenris is grateful that he hasn't yet.
It's foolish. He knows it as he rushes forward and his blade finally connects, the beast's head neatly severed from its shoulders (if demons can even be said to have such normal features). It's an instinct born of loneliness, that emotion already exacerbated by his proximity to Kirkwall. This elf means nothing to him and vice-versa; there's no point in getting attached, for people only ever leave you. He's learned that by now. Besides: this man is likely sticking around only out of terror, Fenris realizes. He's probably wondering if Fenris himself is a demon, wraith-like as he is. It's happened before.
So as he feels the Fade ebb a tiny bit (temporary, surely, for these things always come in waves), Fenris lets his lyrium fade. What was a wraith swiftly becomes an elf, tall and proud. He holds his sword in one hand; the other he holds out palm-upwards, a peaceful gesture.]
[He's frozen through his shoulders under what's left of a broken sky. Broken scene. Broken comprehension with its fangs sunk in deep into his flesh until he can feel the puncture marks pushed clean through everything he's ever known. Rime-still and sharp and wary on instinct in a way that leaves him sunken over the bow of his own spine. A pale silhouette made paler by the overlap of damp curls and hunkered contours and torn silk. Thin and wild. Kissed by shock (a thousand times) instead of comfort, it's absolutely true he's staying out of fear.
Terror is right.
And simultaneously immensely wrong.
Blood spills. A blade drops low into the thick of it as hadal ripples of pure silver-blue ebb back under marked skin. Feathered armor. Alien and— Hells' wretched Teeth, perhaps it is all shock and animal instinct leading Astarion by the bloodied nose— because the very next laid thought throughout that healthy sense of lurching dread is: beautiful. Remarkable. Magnificent the way only dislocated reality ever could be at its heart: that purely primal difference between awestruck and afraid defined by stories about the gods appearing in mortal guises never made much sense to him before.
Now, he doesn't know what to think. How to think, no less. The sky's still splintering about the shoulders of an elf whose gore-slicked stature conceptually rises tall enough to meet it in that moment, contrasted with the fact that Astarion's more on his heels than standing (or bracing) in an offset slouch, blunt nails dug into the dirt. Ears pinned back flat. Eyes wide.
(There's got to be a joke somewhere in all this mess about how he can't stop himself grasping for the very first offered palm that moves to save him at his worst. And if there is, maybe he'll at least get to laugh about it later when he pays for it in blood, giving past another swing at proving prologue in the margins.)
For now, he shifts his weight. Tentative. The careful consideration of keeping his dagger in his good hand while the one that aches and seethes is lifted, carved right through by a shard of avid green. (Oh, that's not good.)]
I—
[What are you, he thinks in the half-beat before his fingertips touch gauntleted metal. What are you.
Before something in that foreign magic rolls out like a shockwave, and the agony that jettisons from it up his arm throws him down onto his knees.]
It's a bewildering blur of sensations: the shock of seeing just a flash of eerie green seared over the man's palm even as he cries out in pain; the sympathetic shock of his own lyrium flaring in magical repulsion, searing heat rippling up his arm (painful, yes, but no worse than usual, no worse than it always is whenever he gets to close to raw lyrium or a spell's effects). Is the elf a mage? But what mage— especially one grown— reacts like that to his lyrium? It's always the opposite: they linger near him, for he acts as battery, not repellent. And for that matter, what mage has that mark on their hand? He's heard tales of the Herald of Andraste, but that's the farthest thing from his mind—
But there's no time to think. Not a mage, he thinks vaguely, for it makes the most sense— and that's all the permission he needs to allow himself to kneel down.]
What is it?
[Make no mistake: he is wary. He doesn't know what's happening or what that marking means; he doesn't even know what it is, really, save that he'd be a fool to discount its connection to the rippling Fade behind them.
But he's so clearly terrified. He'd reached out so tentatively, acting like a wounded dog whimpering as it faced down an outstretched hand, terrified that it might turn to beat him in a split-second. And Fenris knows that fear, oh yes. He's seen it a thousand times on the slave caravans; it's been over a decade, but he can still recall the feeling. Whoever this man is, whatever just happened, Fenris does not think him a threat. Not willingly.]
Your hand . . . is that something that was not there before? Some mark from the Fade . . . did you touch it?
[Perhaps he inadvertently touched it. Fenris hesitates, and then, gently:]
Not a lot of things, in fact, though they'll have time to go over all that later (or: they won't, and they'll die here, or: Astarion will die here, and whatever— whoever— this is will go on just like everyone else he's met outside cold halls. Vacant rooms. The way of the world).
Overturned.
Flickers of crimson through black. Low lashes and the constant up-tick of his stare, checking again— and again— and again— as he moves to roll back the thick of his own sleeve over a dirt-encrusted forearm (charming). Palm upturned to show that livid green divide run hot right through his skin: glassy in the light and yet that much angrier with more overstimulated magic than something so small should ever house. Throbbing. Hating. Spitting.
Bristling with all the avidity of an animal— albeit not directly to that lyrium.]
I've no idea. [Is gritted. Comes thick through the corners of his fangs while he pants loosely just to empty out the urge to— what. Sink lower? Bite? Snap like that magic in his fist? Run?]
[He says it almost absently, his focus on the mark. At his side, his fingers curl as he fights the urge to touch. There's no doubt about it: it looks like a mark of the Fade. And though Fenris has never met the Inquisitor, he doesn't need to have seen their markings himself to know the similarity.
(He notices those nails, too. Thicker and sharper than an elf's ever usually grows; in truth, they remind him more of qunari nails than anything. And those fangs peeking out, those crimson eyes that glitter in the darkness . . . but the elf doesn't look half-Qunari, not beyond those features. A mystery that does not yet need to solved, but he notes those traits all the same).
His eyes flick up, and he adds:]
Where did you—
[But behind him, the Veil has decided it's waited long enough. Power surges through the air, eerie crackling leaving his teeth and his lyrium both buzzing; with a grunt, Fenris rises to his feet.]
There will be time for questions later. Come, if you wish— or run if you don't. But it will not be long before another wave comes, and I cannot fight them forever. And given I have no means to close these things . . .
[He glances at Astarion's hand again— but if the elf is half as bewildered as Fenris feels, he doesn't either.]
['Grasping at straws' falls short. In fact, 'grasping at straws on the precipice of Nessus itself whilst being torn apart from the inside out, half-starved and bleeding' still manages to fall short insofar as descriptors of any sort go.
Another splitting shock courses through him in syncopation. Microcosmic echoes of the surging pressure overhead— shattering the illusion of misaligned existence: for as long as it takes for pain to blow out all his senses, they're nothing more than two elves caught in the midline of a maelstrom.
And in that sense?
Yes, he's grasping at something less concrete than straw.
(And yet, it's the simplest choice in the world. The only choice. The obvious choice, animal and blaring in the vertigo-sick hollow of his skull:)]
I can't— [It's an explanation, not a refusal. That's the intonation cut short when his jaw bites down across itself and he shudders in a wince.
Forget it. Forget explanations. Forget details. Circle back towards his choice.] Lead the way and get me out of here—!
[No more breath wasted on words: swiftly Fenris heads west, keeping a watchful eye on that rift all the while until at last it disappears beneath a hill and out of sight. At one point he thinks he hears the mournful groaning of a demon, but if so, it isn't his problem anymore.
He's camped a little less than a mile away, his things neatly arranged (and trapped, thank you very much, for petty thieves steal almost anything they can't nail down). A horse grazes idly nearby, unbothered by Fenris' return and uninterested in his newfound companion. It isn't cozy, exactly, and it's a camp geared far more towards practicality than comfort, but on the other hand, there's a fire that Fenris sets to building, and a soft place for his newfound companion to settle while he gets his bearings.
For his part, Fenris busies himself with the fire. It's for practicality's sake, yes, but for the sake of his companion. He still looks so bewildered, and while Fenris does want answers, well. He can give him a chance to catch his breath.
At last it's done, and Fenris sits back. Tugging a small bag out of his belongings, he picks a few strips of dried meat out of it and tosses it lightly to the figure across the fire.
(Is he basing all this on how the Fog Warriors acted those first few days? Perhaps. Not consciously, but he does remember how deftly they threaded the needle between giving him space and offering him companionship, and how much that helped).]
My name is Fenris.
[He nods at the bag he just threw.]
There's food there, if you would like. And I have water.
[He doesn't look like a slaver. Doesn't smell like one. And Cazador's lackeys are either enthralled or as unscrupulous as it gets— neither of which seems to fit the bill for this strange elf (Fenris— he says, and it's only shy of Fenrir, which is— what? It's nothing. No marker for location or culture Astarion can track,) and his behavior: who in the lightforsaken Nine pushes himself over to tend to the fire when he's not making the questionable choice of drumming up another place for someone else to stay?
For Astarion to stay.
No one.
No one sane.
No one with a mind for common sense or the dangers that a sharp knife poses (but he'd dispatched those creatures well enough, hadn't he?)
All of it is maddening. Too much. Too overwhelming.
He stands by the edge of camp for far too long even when prompted, waiting for either the horse or its owner to turn ire his way while he bleeds from that cut across his right eye. His left palm and all the scrapes littering his skin. Annoying, but shallow— prompting a momentary closing off of everything. From his aching lid and clouded vision to the persona he projects: his arm still throbs like something broken; his nerves feel frayed; his throat dry; his head sharp and stinging all at once under the bone, and without that glaze of ruined green Astarion wonders how long he has to waste before daylight closes in just as eagerly as those wretches had been.
Moving to sit down feels like it would only bring it on all the quicker.
So he stands.]
Why are you doing this?
[Sucking in air through his teeth feels like pulling ice through his throat down into his chest.
[He keeps his expression as open as he can as he glances up at the other elf.
What a question. Not an unfounded one, not at all, and yet not one Fenris can easily answer. And yet he has to answer it well, for it might be the most important conversation they ever have. Wherever this elf came from (and watching as he stands rigid with terror, Fenris thinks— not wholly incorrectly, as it will turn out— that he has a good idea of where that might be), it was somewhere where the rules of survival were plain. Kill or be killed. Help someone and have that repaid with betrayal and grief. Survival of the fittest, where only you mattered, and there was no sense in anything so soft and weak as sentiment.
How could he not flinch from someone seemingly altruistic?
(Imekari, you're hurting my neck, Shokah had said to him crossly, her wrinkled face even more creased with annoyance, and it was so utterly disarming that he'd sat right down, bewildered right out of his fear).]
It is not my habit to watch someone die at the hands of demons if I can prevent that. I do not find pleasure in the pain of others— at least, not innocents— and those monstrosities are vile.
[He says it slowly, certain to not make a single move. Like with a spooked dog, stand right now and the other elf will go running.]
As for now . . .
[Hmm . . . but honesty is nearly always the best policy. That was how it was with Shirallas, wasn't it? He can almost feel the similarity. Both elves have the same rigid posture, the snarling defensiveness that covers up so much fear . . . or perhaps that's just how it is for elves in their world. Fenris tips his head, keeping the other elf in his sights.]
I do not have an angle. Nor do I expect anything in return— at least, not for tonight. Do not mistake altruism for charity; I will not carry you forever, and if you wish to stay by my side, you will work to earn your place. I am a bounty hunter, and my prey are the slavers who patrol these borders.
But I will not sell you. I will not rob you. And if you wish to leave right now, Kirkwall is some fifteen miles to the south— I will not stop you from leaving.
[Hmm. It doesn't quite feel enough, and so he adds, not unkindly:]
But if you wish for more reason than just that . . . there was a time when I was fleeing from my master, and I needed help. I was fortunate enough to receive it.
You look as though you are the same. And while I will not demand you tell me where you came from or what you're fleeing, anyone with eyes can see you're lost.
[The mission is two-pronged and relatively simple, which is a boon. The goal: to head to the border of Neverra and disrupt the mining and subsequent distribution of red lyrium taking place in the Pomar mine. It's to be a large-scale operation, with at least fifteen agents being sent in a hurry, for reports indicate that there are nearly double the usual amount of Venatori on guard. Whether it's because they tire of their red lyrium supply being disrupted or because the slaves there have a tendency to try and flee is anyone's guess, Lutece had said crisply when briefing them all three days ago. Either way: be prepared to slaughter nearly fifty, if not more.
But not as members of Riftwatch. They'll be disguising themselves, which is why this isn't merely a Forces mission. Whether or not they believe it, it would be nice if the escaped slaves reported that a group of Crows attacked, Lutece continued, and made a face as she did. Apparently she wasn't the one to come up with the plan, for her skepticism was palpable. Most of you will attack the mines, but we need a few select "Crows" to show up at a function held at the Eremon estate. Make up whatever lie you wish as to why you're there; if you want to pretend to represent them or allude that you're there on business, be my guest. But we want it to be easy for people to make the connection. You'll be given some choices in armor to help sell the illusion.
And so they had. For his part, Leto had picked what amounted to an Antivan version of his own armor: a sturdy breastplate and pauldrons, both with a stylized crow hastily hammered into them, alongside his claws and underclothes. To his understanding, the whole point of Crows was that you can't identify them on sight (what would be the point of an easily-spotted assassin, after all?), but he supposes they're meant to sell the illusion. Glass glitters more than diamonds, Lutece had drawled to Astarion, picking out a particularly glitzy dagger. So too will you screaming Crow from the top of your fashionable lungs help sell the illusion more than any subtlety might.
He hasn't seen what Astarion ended up picking out. There's been no time: it's a grueling pace their leaders have set, and they barely have time to do more than tiredly exchange a few affectionate pleasantries once they crawl into their tents.
Still. It's been nice, Leto can admit to himself. Grueling pace or not, oh, it's a wonderful thing to be on a mission with his beloved. He and Astarion are still such a new thing, happily enmeshed within the honeymoon stage, and there's something so uniquely joyful about being able to crawl into his lover's arms at the end of the night. It makes for a far more bearable mission, and means in turn his own patience for Riftwatch's antics is, mm, slightly more tolerant.
Not much, though. Not enough that he elected to join the others when they entered the party; instead, he lurks in the main hall, waiting for Astarion. He has no idea when the other elf will arrive, but the thought of entering into a room full of noisy, nosy humans all on his own is so unappealing. And so he lingers here, looking like the most ill-fitting crow, brooding in the shadows and ignoring all attempts the others occasionally make at cajoling him inside.
Until at last he hears a familiar lilting voice, and so like a dog, he straightens up, turning towards the entrance with sudden vigor— oh, it's you, oh, finally, oh—
Oh.]
Astarion—
[. . . what? But all his thoughts have suddenly come to a screeching halt, arrested and frozen as Leto does nothing but stare.
It's such a— it's just— Maker, he has no words for how Astarion looks. Stunningly alluring in a way that Leto had never before considered possible, once again proving that he's a deft hand at blending both practical and sensual in one fell, fashionable swoop. He looks like what a Crow should be: stylish and classy and alluring, an air of deadly steel hidden beneath coy silk. Stunning. Utterly stunning, and it's about that time Leto remembers he has to breathe—
But Maker, who cares about air when Astarion looks like that— like that, all pale skin and black leather, dressed in ways that Leto had never dreamed were possible. His eyes flit up and down his form, lingering on the span of his slender torso, the swell of his thighs— the way his hips jut out and his waist tapers in— the frankly vulgar patches of pale skin and the swell of well-defined muscles both layered beneath hanging straps of leather— and oh, that's to say nothing of those fingerless gloves, of that circlet that sits so prettily beneath an artful tumble of white curls—
He's been staring for far, far too long.]
Uh— hello.
[Focus. Focus, and his eyes finally lift, catching Astarion. Focus on his face, and he's trying, he really is.]
You look— convincing.
[Flawless. No notes. A+ way to greet your boyfriend. Do better, and he blinks, fighting to regain his composure.]
[They've seen enough of each other in the last year to make even sidelong glances into mundane things. Funny then that there's never anything mundane about it: he sees the break in the gathering for what it is— a nesting perch for those disinclined to make nice with anyone they haven't met, or at the very least a shelter from the disarraying din, and sure enough, between gaps in silhouetted shoulders, Astarion spots a most familiar face.
And watches it, just for a breath or two (still such a luxury, that. Breathing,) as minutes pass. An addiction, maybe. Fixated and fixed. Gazing at those downturned ears eager to pin themselves flat for every passing conversation; a slip of cast-off lantern light poured out from a nearby sconce just to lay itself across the sturdy bridge of Leto's nose— Leto, soft as warmed sugar even in his thoughts, for the name now finds itself synonymous with that first night in Rialto, and the image of an elf lost to sleep in rumpled covers. He'd looked nearly as beautiful then as he does now, fierce and long and lean and sharp round darkened eyes in shadow, catching light in all the right places. As if it were meant to be there, mete out by an artist's hand.
And that armor....
Dark. Threatening. Black inlay tucked beneath bright lyrium contours and a slender, stubbornly raised head that only glowers at each passerby who dares to meet his eyes. Questioning their ability to think of him as either hand or help. In a momentary pause at one point, one thin measure of white hair drops out of place to curl against the center of Leto's forehead, and all the pale elf watching him can manage thinking is that he'd quite literally kill to press against him in its place.
Ergo he'd be a liar to claim it didn't do something to the angle of his spine on approach. That the balls of his feet aren't twisting a little more towards his center line, compensating for a careful gap held there between his strides. Slack agility in his hips and a dangerous amount of rigidity in his spine that borders on involuntary (something to do with bloodflow, and the fainter hint of color in his ears). Nothing that shows in his inevitable smile— all glittering fangs by the end of it.]
Do I really? [Astarion asks with the sort of breathlessness usually reserved for the raw gasps between suckling groans, deliberately angling his teasing towards the words hello and convincing, rather than the final apt correction.
His palm meets the cool plaster wall beside Leto's righthand torso, barely an inch or two below the ribline, and right where night-colored armor joints leash themselves to leather. It shortens the distance between them, and Astarion lingers in the sweeter scent of ozone, lost to it for just one flicker of a beat.]
[It's just a flicker of a beat, but it's all the time Leto needs.
In a breathless moment his hand darts out, metal claws catching Astarion by one barely-clothed hip and spinning him around, pushing him flat against the wall as Leto crowds forward. It's a swift reversal, no lyrium tricks or ghostly coyness: just fast reflexes and a ravenous desire to show off.]
Oh, yes.
[He takes a small step forward and ducks his head down, peering up at Astarion through dark lashes. They're already half-hidden in the shadows like this, but if anyone happens to glance them by, all they'll see are two conferring elves whispering to one another.
This is for them, this little flirtation, and Leto refuses to share.]
Yes, [he says again, his voice darker this time. His right hand— the one facing away from the party— slips between them, the tips of his claws pressing against bare skin. With slow deliberation they glide their way down, pressing just hard enough to be felt, as Leto keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, searching for a hint of a flush.]
And you know it. False modesty doesn't suit you, kadan . . . though I cannot say the same for this outfit.
[His head tips, his breath hot as it ghosts against his jaw. This close, he can hear the catch of Astarion's breath, see the way his pupils dilate . . . he even imagines he can hear the thundering of his heart (or is that his own?).]
Am I meant to let you out of my sight tonight? Only the thought of you mingling among those drunken fools is intolerable. Covered in blood, on the other hand . . . that I will thrill to see soon.
[Gods, he looks so good like this: lit up not just by candles and lanterns, but by Leto's own lyrium, too. Azure light gives pale skin an almost ethereal glow, adding softness to the sharp lines of his face. Around them, the party ebbs and flows, voices rising and falling and the faint sound of music in the distance, and none of it matters. Even the other members of Rift Watch (who have surely noted their absence by now) don't matter, not at all. There's a faint thought for the mission, but ah . . . later. Later.]
You should have told me you were going to dress like this. We could have skipped the party entirely.
[Deft doesn't begin to cover it. Deft, by definition, would only covet the swiftness Leto employs in his reversal— for Astarion's spent full lifetimes in the company of creatures that defy swiftness as any mortal knows it.
They all look clumsy, caught in the crosshairs of eclipsed hindsight.
Breathless, half-hard hindsight.]
Is that what the Crows expect from its flock now? Show up and fuck like rabbits in the nearest corridor closet? [Is a sly joke rooted in the very image that it paints when Astarion's eyes survey the lay of the wing itself from over armored shoulders (who's even bothering to notice them at all, in fact), around the shape of one dark ear tipped low across the peripheral borders of his vision. It is his heart that's thundering, rabbiting on scurried legs between the prickling flush blossoming beneath Leto's palpable voice and the narrow shiver that runs high along his inner thighs, soon flexed when one raised leg rocks itself against the fighter's own in full discretion— careful not to leave the sanctity of dark shadows. Obscured sightlines.
They're just a pair of colleagues having a chat, after all. And in that chat, slim fingers thread themselves through buckles and thin armor as a snake winds itself through grass, hunting for its next meal. Starvation all that drives it.]
My training must've been less thorough than yours.
....And far less interesting.
[They have a duty to perform. Blood and violence is, as Leto aptly mentioned, exactly why they're here when (or if) opportunity abides. The Venatori are clever when they wish to be. The Crows are territorial, self-serving on the best of days. The people here—
His touch snags. The pitch black gloves he wears in public aren't fond of the little gaps he's forcing them to tread, or the nimbleness the act demands; that second skin able to do the work, but it snags when it's caught against harsh metal joints, pulling back on all momentum.
And caged frustration's all it takes.
That, and the clinking of tines over glassware in a call for attention from the stage where someone— the lord or lady of the house, he's sure— beckons their attendees to take heed.
Astarion has him by the shoulders.
Hooks his grip around pauldron and strapwork alike with uncharacteristic roughness and all but drags his dear amatus into the closet quickly opened at their side across a set of hurried steps, mouth-to-hungry-mouth and seizing with desire. Fangs clicking against teeth. Ears ringing. Tongues lost in the scuffle and nearly nicked by the sharper points from canines, they collide, falling into each other— sparing only a single hand behind him just to shut the door.
In darkness illuminated by brilliant, azure-silver, everything crowds in. Coat sleeves and hangars, hat boxes and strung purses and the give of their weight where friction drives them.]
This: the way he laughs breathlessly, giddily, as surprised as he is thrilled, as the closet door closes behind them— only to be cut off by the press of lips against his own, the wicked slide of a slick tongue swiftly consuming all of his attention. The world outside vanishes right along with his thoughts (of the mission, of the people gathered not ten feet away, of their teammates who will surely be looking for them all night). All that matters, all that he cares about, is squirming in the circle of his arms. He's not used to being so irresponsible. He's not used to having desires like this, desperate and frenetic, all of him suddenly consumed by a ravenous hunger to be close—
But Maker, he could get used to it.
His palms run over every inch of Astarion, shuddering for the difference between smooth leather and cool skin beneath his fingertips. Their mouths meet again and again, bruising kisses that grow hungrier by the second— more, an impatient groan each time they part panting for air, more, and he dives in to bite a second later, catching Astarion's lip between his teeth for a mean moment before soothing the spot with his tongue. Another kiss, another frantic rock of his hips against Astarion's own (and it doesn't matter that it barely does anything, for his cock is already hard enough to ache, and any bit of grinding stimulation is a relief). He draws back for a stolen breath of air and nearly whines for the way Astarion looks: his mouth reddened and slick, his scarlet eyes hazy with lust— venhedis, Leto breathes out in awe, and darts back in for another.
His hands slip down, blindly wedging themselves between them so he can try and pry at unfamiliar buttons and tightly tied laces.]
Ask sweetly and I'll show you what my training consisted of—
[He's grinning as he pants out the words, hot air exhaling against damp skin that he can't seem to leave alone: teeth catching against Astarion's neck again and again, his tongue dragging out to soften each bite, only to go back for another. He's fighting not to slice right through fabric, fighting to pry open buttons that don't seem to want to move, fighting to pick at a knot without being able to see—
Fuck it.
With a little growl he shoves Astarion forward, pinning him against the door and shoving one thigh between his own. Grind, a silent command urged by one clawed hand planted on his hip. His head ducks down at the next kiss, dodging it in favor of biting his way up a sharp jawline— and breathing hot in his ear.]
First lesson: show me just how good you are without using your hands, hm?
[There comes a near-deafening thud as the closet door rattles on its hinges, reverberating through Astarion's back teeth and jostling the space between their legs— what little there is to speak of made tighter with turbulent touch— and that's to say nothing regarding the streaks of adoration drawn hot across his throat, smoldering underneath his collar line. Phreatic as it burns beneath his skin and senses, both. Heady as intoxication and more than half as stupefying, as he only reaches back to push his hand across the doorknob (the place where metal not-quite-flush sits against metal is the place most susceptible to rattling— all too keen to rat them out before they've even started their affair), his left heel jammed against the frame— anything to keep it still and shut behind them. To keep this foolish game between them going for as long as it'll take to finish.
Or get close to it.]
Fasta vass— [scarcely manages to sound scolding (it runs thick against the roof of his mouth with cloying infatuation), bucking his intent with too much wildness to bridle— and by the end of that same breath it's turned molten alongside him, all but bearing down across every last tangible inch of his companion, starting with the rolling of his shoulders (starting with the cinching of his thighs, feeling muscle through the dig of armored legplates). A passing knock of his cheek against Leto's own portraying something of sobriety, for it's an equally short lived surrogate: lasting only as long as the sound itself— daggered teeth and a wicked tongue close around one tender, downturned ear like a hound upon its hunt, prey drive nothing but a fever.
He has to drive back against the urge to bite down. When the only craving he's ever known is blood, his body knows no other way to react.
(Stars and gods above, this is the man he loves. The one he'd waited centuries to find, and would've waited lifetimes more had it come to that, he's convinced of it now. But then again, he's been convinced for longer than he'd ever willingly acknowledged. Since the Silent Plains. Since the first time he laid eyes on him, half-blind and fumbling at his own temples like a fool. He's been wanted like this before thousands upon thousands of times, crammed into corners and alley sidestreets on command, but he's never wanted like this—
Not even Cazador.)
So it is a show. A performance, raunchy and demanding: dextrous thighs working till they ache to satisfy an appetite he only measures in response right from the start. Arching through his hips so that his stiffened prick snags hard against the lining of his trousers, sticking to the places where it finds sweet purchase and relishing each chance to bed in close against thick, accompanying heat.]
....is it everything you couldn't wait for....? [Is a whisper laid down slow, and punctuated by his body's machinations. It constricts and catches, suffuses when it snares, still clothed and rutting like he means to fuck him senseless in the dark (though to their eyes, it's still bright).] Everything worth risking being caught for....? [And there's no burying the glint of pride that curls across his lips in wicked playfulness— ]
I'll undress you without my hands as well, if that's what you want. Show you what it is a thief is capable of when he's not prowling on a leash....all you need do is ask, my darling, and I'll—
[Cut short by the handle that he's holding jiggling from the other side. Another hand on the knob, and it wars with the grip he's keeping, shaking that brass fixture the way anyone would when assuming that a door is jammed.]
[....hush.... Astarion murmurs against the shell of Leto's ear as what feels like an eternity passes, so low as to border there on soundlessness itself. Holding fast against the next jostle, and the next little shove—
—and mutters a curse in thick Antivan before audibly striding away towards the crowds.]
[He shudders for that breathed-out command. White teeth sink deep into his bottom lip as Leto bites back a moan, his eyes fluttering closed even as the knob jostles and shakes. Hush, and his cock twitches just once in eager response, precome soaking into his smalls as he strains at his trousers. Every second feels like an eternity; his heart thunders in his chest, his senses filled with the flowery scent of his lover as they linger in frozen anticipation. Another jostle— another shove—
And the gusty exhale of relief he offers isn't because they haven't been caught— but because he's so damned desperate to get his hands back on his mate.]
You have the uncanny ability to always make me forget the risk. In front of windows or near a broken wall, out in an alley, at a party in which we are meant to be working . . . [A kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his lips: his tongue swiping just once against swollen flesh before Leto draws back. He's so aware that he doesn't have Astarion's silver tongue when it comes to filthy talk— but on the other hand, Maker, Astarion is so damned enthusiastic about what he does offer.] But dressed like this . . .
[His eyes drag slowly over Astarion's form, lingering on the swathes of bare skin, the tapering curve of a lean waist.]
. . . you drive every thought out of my head, save how fast I can undress you.
Now . . . make sure the door stays closed.
[Murmured as he sinks down to his knees, never once taking his eyes off Astarion. Broad palms run over bare skin, fingertips worshipful as he maps out every inch of that damning waist, memorizing every curve, every line, every scar and mole and freckle on pretty, perfect skin— until at last his fingers reach his waistband, and Leto groans softly.
All you need do is ask, my darling, and he will, oh, yes. He'll give Astarion everything and anything he pleases.]
Will you let me take you here?
[It's easier to see what he's doing now, and he's a deft hand besides: soon those trousers are unbuttoned and slinging low on Astarion's hips. Leto leans forward, nosing at his still-hidden cock, mouthing at him obscenely through thin fabric— tongue lapping and licking until the fabric grows slick, heat radiating from his prick to his lips through the thinnest of barriers.]
Can I put my tongue to you, amatus? Worship you with my mouth the way you deserve— the way I always long to whenever I see you, no matter how short a time it's been?
[The words are deferential, but the tone isn't: there's an almost mocking edge to it, coyly teasing as he feels his cock stiffen. With a little grin Leto leans in, catching thin fabric between his teeth and tugging at it until it lowers, and oh— oh, there he is. Heavy and hard already, precome smeared at the tip and every inch of him so vulgarly appealing that it's all Leto can do not to whine and beg.
He swallows thickly just once. And then, with all the care in the world, leans in just close enough so that his lips brush against the crown of his cock, gliding there as he murmurs:]
Will you fuck my mouth, and show me what you're truly capable of when you're off your leash?
His own lip, bitten too hard in a gouging pinch between incisors, polluting the inside of his mouth with the rich embodiment of what he is at heart. (His laugh had been so thready, sharper at the end. Toying with the edges of an Orlesian mask as Gwenaëlle found herself squinting back, clearly not grasping the punchline: even here, even changed, even behind a pretty mask— a monster is still a monster.)
His chest heaves slightly as he watches blunter teeth tug fabric low around his middle-thighs, each and ever smoldering breath washing over softer skin like a fever before— oh before— (he runs raw; he clicks his teeth and rucks his hips, dark feathers tickling the underside of his jaw like fingertips in full caress; he grabs for something— the shoulder of a woolen coat— and it peels away from its hanger, spilling to the floor alongside his grip, leaving him more slung, more desperate, more arched forwards into the measure of those lips, nearly driving past them with shoving force. He's too far back across his heels, and he feels unmade in the sweetest sense. He feels that monstrous, keen desire. He tastes copper, and the crowding of his fangs against his tongue, and the buildup of his lungs as they burn for his held breath.)
He's stronger than he was, but for better or worse, he's a tiger in the body of a kitten.
When his grip hooks on either side in silver hair behind downturned ears like handles, it's without an overwhelming flood of strength. Even so, through the haze of panting lust, he's a dextrous, clever thing. He has leverage on his side. The advantage of his positioning. Height. It takes only a twist where he stands (starting from one heel set against the wall, then he presses, pivoting his hips and his latched grip)— and he's now braced against the wall, facing it upright, whilst Leto (his Leto) is pinned between both still on his knees: head caught between those hands, back and shoulders flush to plaster with nowhere left to go.
Hollow exhales from above. Reflective eyes, cast down.]
When you can't walk tomorrow, or we find ourselves exposed because you can't stop your mewling....
....don't say I didn't warn you, darling.
[His first thrust in past the border of softly parted lips, it doesn't ask. Doesn't wait.
[Astarion makes him so damned needy. So utterly desperate as he has not been in years— as he has never been, maybe, for even with Isabela he never felt so pitch-black ravenous, eternally starved and perpetually unslaked. Sparks of pain-pleasure electrify him as fingers knot in his hair; he gasps involuntarily as he's pinned into place, kept upright and still. Astarion speaks, and Leto truly can't tell if it's the taunting words or the teasing bumps of his crown against his lips that has him salivating— only that he's already drooling when that first thrust takes him so cruelly.
Oh, and though he fights not to moan, he can't be silent, not completely: a muffled whine vibrates in his throat as his cock pumps in and out of his mouth. Again and again the heavy weight of his prick glides over his tongue in the most paradoxical assault: relentless and yet only to a point, each thrust only taking so much before drawing back again. You want this, you need this, his cock coaxing open unresistant lips and dipping into a drooling mouth, teasing him right up until he bumps against the back of his throat— and then back. His eyes linger on the sight of those scant few untouched inches, desperate to swallow them down— and yet each time, no matter how he tries to strain his head forward or whine in pitiful pleading, he's denied his treat.
He shoves his hand down, blindly palming at himself, his eyes rolling back as he's given the barest of relief— and oh, it's not enough. His eyes flick up, seeking out Astarion's in the dark. He's still so new at this act and gags more often than not, but he's learning. He wants to learn, no matter how long it takes. One hand rises, fingertips ghosting down the span of that slender waist, as he tips his chin up and tries to relax the muscles in his throat.
Come take me, for he is determined to swallow all of him down now.]
Muffling him takes every inch of his damned cock. Every last measurement of his unimpeded will. Relentless just to keep this silent— driving heavy for the bottom* of that waiting throat. Guiding with a thumb press here, a squeeze there, little warnings that try to signal when it's time to breathe compared to when it's time to swallow. Trying to fabricate a language without words, something mutual and distinctly theirs, starting with the interplay of weight and wanting: the sight of Leto's hand working in the dark, more elbow visible than anything else beneath the vulgar pumping of a higher sight, shadows just a blur of movement underneath glazed, full lips. Eyes gone lidded and unfixed. Lost to control. To rhythm. To even the cacaphony outside, surrounded by a locked door and shuttered clothing. What's in the forefront should be everything that drives fine prickles of excitement up his nape— and it is—
But he can't stop staring without blinking. Till his eyes burn with dryness, sharper on each successive soundless groan that finally presses them closed for just a beat or two. Transfixed by the way Leto's working at himself, by the occasional gag or reeling drag that yanks on their direction before he's melting yet again, and all the while, his hands work. Signaling more than just arousal. How content he is to meet this without hesitation; content to rest on his sore knees before Astarion rather than the other way round, indulging himself so deeply that it's no afterthought, the way he fights with all his senses to get off.
And Astarion meets that.
Magnetized. Charged. Flaring with every breath he's still not used to taking, quickening his pace as much as neophytic tolerance allows without asphyxiation, there's a jiggle of the handle yet again and ill-advised as logic would find it Astarion slams his hand against the door in firm retaliation, quickly silencing the attempt to retrieve belongings from the other side. It won't last, he knows, but like an animal swatting from its den, for now, his instincts insist forestalling is enough.
Until either he sees white across those lips, or Leto sees it buzzing hot throughout his senses, no one is getting through that door.]
[He barely registers the slap of palm against wood, his world narrowed into darkened confines where the only thing that matters is the endless suckling worship of his beloved. What began as a heated tease has become something hypnotically hungrier, every bit of him focused only on savoring every pump of pale hips, every guiding press of cool fingers and heated exhales. His tongue caresses against ridges and bumps as spit bubbles and drips down his chin; searing heat forces his jaw wider, coaxes his throat into ceding more, as all the while Leto fights to keep his eyes locked upright.
And it's not the pretty flush he's focused on, nor the way Astarion's own mouth has dropped open in sympathetic echo. It's the look in his eyes as he stares down at him, breathless and almost awestruck. It takes Leto far too many dreamy seconds to realize just why that might be— but oh, this is all so new. Their relationship, their sex, even their friendship— and what slave (no matter how many years free) will ever expect to be tended to so sweetly?
(How many times had he flinched from Isabela's unexpected touch over the years, surprised in the best way to find someone caring about his own pleasure?)
I love you, he thinks suddenly, the thought flashing like lightning through his mind. They've only said it a handful of times so far, still learning the other's habits and preferences, but oh, it's as true now as it was that night in Rialto. I love you, I love you, I love this, and every slick suckling and eager swallow is offered as worshipful proof. Astarion's cock swells on his tongue, bitter droplets pattering steadily down his throat. There's a sudden desperation to the way he fucks Leto's mouth, and with every suckling swallow he tries to encourage it. Take it, take me, moaning softly each time his cock sinks into virginal confines never once touched until now. Every thrust feels like a possessive claim, shaping his throat around the swell of that heavy prick, his muscles gagging around the only thing that he'll ever take again— just yours, and as they catch one another's eye again, he wonders if Astarion can hear it.
He fights to remember to breathe and foregoes it half the time in greedy desperation, taking that cock to the root with a whine he can't be bothered to muffle. More, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue lathing, fighting to remember every sweet correction and adoring lesson Astarion has ever offered him as he drives him to his finish— and moans eagerly in triumph when he feels him begin to spill.
He swallows the first pulse down eagerly, greedy to the marrow, and jerks his head back during the second— he wants the best of both worlds, to swallow and to tease all at once. But he's just a touch too inexperienced when it comes to tending to another's cock, for the movement is too fast, too eager— so that he ends up drooling pearl, cream smearing on his lips and splattering over his face. And yet even that isn't so bad— not when he can pant up at Astarion, tongue extended and eyes glazed, covered in his claim and utterly worshipful in his countenance.]
[And then the door rattles again. Someone curses in Neverran, and there's the sound of a key scraping against metal—]
Fasta vass—
[With a sharp hiss Leto shoves a hand against his mouth, struggling to rise to his feet and wipe away the mess all without outright banging into Astarion or coats and making a racket. Not that it matters: there's only one way out, and even if they could come up with an excuse, well. Leto's lips are flushed and sore, his hair damp with sweat, and that's to say nothing of the way he's outright straining at his pants.
A moment's attempt at rearrangement does nothing, and Fenris curses beneath his breath again. But oh, fuck it— maybe if he . . . walks fast? Ugh. Whatever. With luck, the only people that will see him are strangers he'll never meet again.]
Let me go first.
[At least that way he can ensure more of the attention is on him— and also, incidentally, hightail it out the door as fast as dignity will permit him.]
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Even Astarion's whip-quick senses can't keep time well enough to track it. He was— gods, his head hurts. His hand is worse, pinned under him and threatening to split itself in half from jagged pain too unfamiliar to make sense to a set of nerves already at their limit. And his first thought is— Cazador. Cazador, because it has to be. No one else brings his world screaming to its knees like this but him. No one else would've torn him from the nightmare of oily wet eyes and squirming tentacles behind a film of keratinous glass just to make a point. No one else would've come for him.
And no one else would make him pay.
Only it isn't.
It isn't....?
His fist (next) blink is stuttering. It aches against the smear of ruddy crimson blotting along the dull edge of his vision, but with it, he sees a sickly blaze of burn-bright green swimming hotly overhead: tearing the landscape— or the sky— right along its middle. Dividing it in the way a portal ought to, but there's nothing here worth recognizing: that arcane outline smells as wrong as it looks. And— ]
—oh, hells.
[What are those things? What are those things? The abhorrent roiling masses lurching just nearby— one of them seeming to notice (he can't tell, it has too few or too many eyes but) enough of a rotted face to make its twist in his direction feel about as deliberate as his own breathless gawking back.
His own—
Fuck— wait— oh, fuck—
(Another flicker of movement. Another glimpse of garnered attention now that he's not painting the image of something dead, most like, no matter how stock-still he's gone on pure reflex alone. Forgetting air again. Forgetting sight. Forgetting pain. The soft twitch of his uninjured hand trying desperately to crawl down slow towards his hip despite the tremor that upsets its path.
The counterweight that is his mind only catching up a full second later when it finally urges: dagger.)
Dagger dagger dagger dagger dagger dagger, Astarion— quickly— ]
no subject
He'd thought at first it was because he was near Tevinter's border. Foolish in retrospect, given all he's heard and knows about the incident with the Inquisitor and Corypheus, but still: he'd thought it was due to all the magic in the air. And yet the further south he'd gone— slicing and hacking his way through Nevarra and the countless hoards of demons and Abominations populating it— the worse it had gotten. To the point where he's learned now how to feel one in the distance based on how badly his lyrium aches (for all the good that does him); to the point where he's actually lost track of how many times he's had to save some wandering caravan or displaced would-be slaves from demons attacking.
He shouldn't be surprised that approaching Kirkwall means that yet another's opened. The Veil is thin here, the land cursed and soaked with the blood of thousands upon thousands of slaves; of course a series of rifts would show up. And yet still Fenris groans softly under his breath as he feels the pressure drop and watches the air ripple, green light sparking and flaring under a darkened sky. He readies his sword, waiting for the inevitable lurching groan of a sloth demon or the roar of rage from a firey spirit— and indeed, he hears both calling as the Fade opens herself, but—
Something else pops out too.
White hair. Pointed ears. An elf, and Fenris has no time to wonder where or how or why, for he's a helpless thing. Sprawled there as if the demons might not sense him if he's still, eyes wide with terror as he stares at the lurching figures crawling towards him— and whether or not he's reaching for a weapon is irrelevant, for he isn't fast enough. Four demons lope towards him, eager in their need to feed and tear and consume. More lurk just beneath the rift's edge, a pride demon's groans eerie filling the air as it tries futilely to emerge.
Fenris rushes forward, sword in hands, a battle cry cutting through the demons' seething whispers as he puts himself between the spirits and their prey.
What choice does he have? He could no more leave this elf to his fate than he could fly, for it isn't in his nature. There's little spared for the figure now behind him, not beyond making sure he stays put. The demons rush forward, changing their target to the most attention-grabbing thing in the area. With a flash of his blade he cuts one down; spinning swiftly he vivisects another, splitting it in half with a sickly squelch. His lyrium flares, all of him suddenly a hazy azure; he reaches into the third demon, gauntlets rematerializing just to slice through flesh and blood and muscle. But the fourth— oh, the fourth is cleverer than the rest, and as its fellows fall one after another, it targets easier prey: claws outstretched towards the pale elf, its maw opened and salivating for the thought of feasting on real flesh.
Too late Fenris turns, seeing his mistake; with a cry he dashes forward, sword swinging desperately as he tries to slice at it from behind, but he's too far, he's too slow, it's not enough, not enough—]
On your feet— get back!
[A roar of a command, and his feet aren't fast enough, his sword's blade swinging uselessly through the air.]
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Palms to the earth and scrabbling in the uphaul to his knees, his feet. The segue of slight seconds that barely tears his heel away from wet-slick jaws that sought to close down on it— reverberating echoes of empty air over empty air: one good miss deserves another.]
Shit—
[It isn't Cazador.
He almost wishes it was. There's predictability in that. Not the smallness he feels hunched down low under a ruined sky, or lurching back onto his feels in preparation just to run while that crude thing wheels back onto its prior would-be assailant in a panicking correction: snapping, snarling, surging, growling through its ruined excuse for a throat with a hunger that suits more a mindless thing than the intelligence it bears in plucking out its targets.
Red eyes snap towards the side.
What he sees: cliffs. Fields. Rocky hillsides and the slope of ruins not so far. A break in the overheated fray where he could bolt into a sprint and put all of this behind him. And you know, fool thing that he (is)n't, he's considering it. He's considering it.
One more look cast that glittering outline's way. The silent, stricken weighing of ability against threat. His right eye stings. It's barely open. His arm is as raw as flayed skin to the bone, and hotter still. He's dizzy. He's breathless. He should run.
He's considering it.]
no subject
Far, far away. So far that these demons can't turn on him; far enough that he can make it somewhere populated, where there are more targets for a demon to choose from and he can safely call upon more than just some stray elf to defend him. Frankly, he ought to run anywhere that isn't near this rift, anywhere that isn't here, where the stench of dead demon fills the air and the endless shifting of the veil glitters against the skyline.
But some quiet part of Fenris is grateful that he hasn't yet.
It's foolish. He knows it as he rushes forward and his blade finally connects, the beast's head neatly severed from its shoulders (if demons can even be said to have such normal features). It's an instinct born of loneliness, that emotion already exacerbated by his proximity to Kirkwall. This elf means nothing to him and vice-versa; there's no point in getting attached, for people only ever leave you. He's learned that by now. Besides: this man is likely sticking around only out of terror, Fenris realizes. He's probably wondering if Fenris himself is a demon, wraith-like as he is. It's happened before.
So as he feels the Fade ebb a tiny bit (temporary, surely, for these things always come in waves), Fenris lets his lyrium fade. What was a wraith swiftly becomes an elf, tall and proud. He holds his sword in one hand; the other he holds out palm-upwards, a peaceful gesture.]
Are you hurt?
We have a little time before they return.
no subject
Terror is right.
And simultaneously immensely wrong.
Blood spills. A blade drops low into the thick of it as hadal ripples of pure silver-blue ebb back under marked skin. Feathered armor. Alien and— Hells' wretched Teeth, perhaps it is all shock and animal instinct leading Astarion by the bloodied nose— because the very next laid thought throughout that healthy sense of lurching dread is: beautiful. Remarkable. Magnificent the way only dislocated reality ever could be at its heart: that purely primal difference between awestruck and afraid defined by stories about the gods appearing in mortal guises never made much sense to him before.
Now, he doesn't know what to think. How to think, no less. The sky's still splintering about the shoulders of an elf whose gore-slicked stature conceptually rises tall enough to meet it in that moment, contrasted with the fact that Astarion's more on his heels than standing (or bracing) in an offset slouch, blunt nails dug into the dirt. Ears pinned back flat. Eyes wide.
(There's got to be a joke somewhere in all this mess about how he can't stop himself grasping for the very first offered palm that moves to save him at his worst. And if there is, maybe he'll at least get to laugh about it later when he pays for it in blood, giving past another swing at proving prologue in the margins.)
For now, he shifts his weight. Tentative. The careful consideration of keeping his dagger in his good hand while the one that aches and seethes is lifted, carved right through by a shard of avid green. (Oh, that's not good.)]
I—
[What are you, he thinks in the half-beat before his fingertips touch gauntleted metal. What are you.
Before something in that foreign magic rolls out like a shockwave, and the agony that jettisons from it up his arm throws him down onto his knees.]
—agh!!
Fuck— fuck—
no subject
It's a bewildering blur of sensations: the shock of seeing just a flash of eerie green seared over the man's palm even as he cries out in pain; the sympathetic shock of his own lyrium flaring in magical repulsion, searing heat rippling up his arm (painful, yes, but no worse than usual, no worse than it always is whenever he gets to close to raw lyrium or a spell's effects). Is the elf a mage? But what mage— especially one grown— reacts like that to his lyrium? It's always the opposite: they linger near him, for he acts as battery, not repellent. And for that matter, what mage has that mark on their hand? He's heard tales of the Herald of Andraste, but that's the farthest thing from his mind—
But there's no time to think. Not a mage, he thinks vaguely, for it makes the most sense— and that's all the permission he needs to allow himself to kneel down.]
What is it?
[Make no mistake: he is wary. He doesn't know what's happening or what that marking means; he doesn't even know what it is, really, save that he'd be a fool to discount its connection to the rippling Fade behind them.
But he's so clearly terrified. He'd reached out so tentatively, acting like a wounded dog whimpering as it faced down an outstretched hand, terrified that it might turn to beat him in a split-second. And Fenris knows that fear, oh yes. He's seen it a thousand times on the slave caravans; it's been over a decade, but he can still recall the feeling. Whoever this man is, whatever just happened, Fenris does not think him a threat. Not willingly.]
Your hand . . . is that something that was not there before? Some mark from the Fade . . . did you touch it?
[Perhaps he inadvertently touched it. Fenris hesitates, and then, gently:]
Show me.
no subject
Not a lot of things, in fact, though they'll have time to go over all that later (or: they won't, and they'll die here, or: Astarion will die here, and whatever— whoever— this is will go on just like everyone else he's met outside cold halls. Vacant rooms. The way of the world).
Overturned.
Flickers of crimson through black. Low lashes and the constant up-tick of his stare, checking again— and again— and again— as he moves to roll back the thick of his own sleeve over a dirt-encrusted forearm (charming). Palm upturned to show that livid green divide run hot right through his skin: glassy in the light and yet that much angrier with more overstimulated magic than something so small should ever house. Throbbing. Hating. Spitting.
Bristling with all the avidity of an animal— albeit not directly to that lyrium.]
I've no idea. [Is gritted. Comes thick through the corners of his fangs while he pants loosely just to empty out the urge to— what. Sink lower? Bite? Snap like that magic in his fist? Run?]
I've never seen this before in my—
[Well.]
I've never seen this before now. I swear.
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[He says it almost absently, his focus on the mark. At his side, his fingers curl as he fights the urge to touch. There's no doubt about it: it looks like a mark of the Fade. And though Fenris has never met the Inquisitor, he doesn't need to have seen their markings himself to know the similarity.
(He notices those nails, too. Thicker and sharper than an elf's ever usually grows; in truth, they remind him more of qunari nails than anything. And those fangs peeking out, those crimson eyes that glitter in the darkness . . . but the elf doesn't look half-Qunari, not beyond those features. A mystery that does not yet need to solved, but he notes those traits all the same).
His eyes flick up, and he adds:]
Where did you—
[But behind him, the Veil has decided it's waited long enough. Power surges through the air, eerie crackling leaving his teeth and his lyrium both buzzing; with a grunt, Fenris rises to his feet.]
There will be time for questions later. Come, if you wish— or run if you don't. But it will not be long before another wave comes, and I cannot fight them forever. And given I have no means to close these things . . .
[He glances at Astarion's hand again— but if the elf is half as bewildered as Fenris feels, he doesn't either.]
Make your choice swiftly.
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Another splitting shock courses through him in syncopation. Microcosmic echoes of the surging pressure overhead— shattering the illusion of misaligned existence: for as long as it takes for pain to blow out all his senses, they're nothing more than two elves caught in the midline of a maelstrom.
And in that sense?
Yes, he's grasping at something less concrete than straw.
(And yet, it's the simplest choice in the world. The only choice. The obvious choice, animal and blaring in the vertigo-sick hollow of his skull:)]
I can't— [It's an explanation, not a refusal. That's the intonation cut short when his jaw bites down across itself and he shudders in a wince.
Forget it. Forget explanations. Forget details. Circle back towards his choice.] Lead the way and get me out of here—!
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He's camped a little less than a mile away, his things neatly arranged (and trapped, thank you very much, for petty thieves steal almost anything they can't nail down). A horse grazes idly nearby, unbothered by Fenris' return and uninterested in his newfound companion. It isn't cozy, exactly, and it's a camp geared far more towards practicality than comfort, but on the other hand, there's a fire that Fenris sets to building, and a soft place for his newfound companion to settle while he gets his bearings.
For his part, Fenris busies himself with the fire. It's for practicality's sake, yes, but for the sake of his companion. He still looks so bewildered, and while Fenris does want answers, well. He can give him a chance to catch his breath.
At last it's done, and Fenris sits back. Tugging a small bag out of his belongings, he picks a few strips of dried meat out of it and tosses it lightly to the figure across the fire.
(Is he basing all this on how the Fog Warriors acted those first few days? Perhaps. Not consciously, but he does remember how deftly they threaded the needle between giving him space and offering him companionship, and how much that helped).]
My name is Fenris.
[He nods at the bag he just threw.]
There's food there, if you would like. And I have water.
Does it still hurt?
[The marking, he means.]
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[He doesn't look like a slaver. Doesn't smell like one. And Cazador's lackeys are either enthralled or as unscrupulous as it gets— neither of which seems to fit the bill for this strange elf (Fenris— he says, and it's only shy of Fenrir, which is— what? It's nothing. No marker for location or culture Astarion can track,) and his behavior: who in the lightforsaken Nine pushes himself over to tend to the fire when he's not making the questionable choice of drumming up another place for someone else to stay?
For Astarion to stay.
No one.
No one sane.
No one with a mind for common sense or the dangers that a sharp knife poses (but he'd dispatched those creatures well enough, hadn't he?)
All of it is maddening. Too much. Too overwhelming.
He stands by the edge of camp for far too long even when prompted, waiting for either the horse or its owner to turn ire his way while he bleeds from that cut across his right eye. His left palm and all the scrapes littering his skin. Annoying, but shallow— prompting a momentary closing off of everything. From his aching lid and clouded vision to the persona he projects: his arm still throbs like something broken; his nerves feel frayed; his throat dry; his head sharp and stinging all at once under the bone, and without that glaze of ruined green Astarion wonders how long he has to waste before daylight closes in just as eagerly as those wretches had been.
Moving to sit down feels like it would only bring it on all the quicker.
So he stands.]
Why are you doing this?
[Sucking in air through his teeth feels like pulling ice through his throat down into his chest.
He has to know.]
What's your angle?
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What a question. Not an unfounded one, not at all, and yet not one Fenris can easily answer. And yet he has to answer it well, for it might be the most important conversation they ever have. Wherever this elf came from (and watching as he stands rigid with terror, Fenris thinks— not wholly incorrectly, as it will turn out— that he has a good idea of where that might be), it was somewhere where the rules of survival were plain. Kill or be killed. Help someone and have that repaid with betrayal and grief. Survival of the fittest, where only you mattered, and there was no sense in anything so soft and weak as sentiment.
How could he not flinch from someone seemingly altruistic?
(Imekari, you're hurting my neck, Shokah had said to him crossly, her wrinkled face even more creased with annoyance, and it was so utterly disarming that he'd sat right down, bewildered right out of his fear).]
It is not my habit to watch someone die at the hands of demons if I can prevent that. I do not find pleasure in the pain of others— at least, not innocents— and those monstrosities are vile.
[He says it slowly, certain to not make a single move. Like with a spooked dog, stand right now and the other elf will go running.]
As for now . . .
[Hmm . . . but honesty is nearly always the best policy. That was how it was with Shirallas, wasn't it? He can almost feel the similarity. Both elves have the same rigid posture, the snarling defensiveness that covers up so much fear . . . or perhaps that's just how it is for elves in their world. Fenris tips his head, keeping the other elf in his sights.]
I do not have an angle. Nor do I expect anything in return— at least, not for tonight. Do not mistake altruism for charity; I will not carry you forever, and if you wish to stay by my side, you will work to earn your place. I am a bounty hunter, and my prey are the slavers who patrol these borders.
But I will not sell you. I will not rob you. And if you wish to leave right now, Kirkwall is some fifteen miles to the south— I will not stop you from leaving.
[Hmm. It doesn't quite feel enough, and so he adds, not unkindly:]
But if you wish for more reason than just that . . . there was a time when I was fleeing from my master, and I needed help. I was fortunate enough to receive it.
You look as though you are the same. And while I will not demand you tell me where you came from or what you're fleeing, anyone with eyes can see you're lost.
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proof yesterday was a disaster bc I forgot it was actually my turn??? ??????????
IT WAS HARD OKAY
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Fade Rift Mission;
But not as members of Riftwatch. They'll be disguising themselves, which is why this isn't merely a Forces mission. Whether or not they believe it, it would be nice if the escaped slaves reported that a group of Crows attacked, Lutece continued, and made a face as she did. Apparently she wasn't the one to come up with the plan, for her skepticism was palpable. Most of you will attack the mines, but we need a few select "Crows" to show up at a function held at the Eremon estate. Make up whatever lie you wish as to why you're there; if you want to pretend to represent them or allude that you're there on business, be my guest. But we want it to be easy for people to make the connection. You'll be given some choices in armor to help sell the illusion.
And so they had. For his part, Leto had picked what amounted to an Antivan version of his own armor: a sturdy breastplate and pauldrons, both with a stylized crow hastily hammered into them, alongside his claws and underclothes. To his understanding, the whole point of Crows was that you can't identify them on sight (what would be the point of an easily-spotted assassin, after all?), but he supposes they're meant to sell the illusion. Glass glitters more than diamonds, Lutece had drawled to Astarion, picking out a particularly glitzy dagger. So too will you screaming Crow from the top of your fashionable lungs help sell the illusion more than any subtlety might.
He hasn't seen what Astarion ended up picking out. There's been no time: it's a grueling pace their leaders have set, and they barely have time to do more than tiredly exchange a few affectionate pleasantries once they crawl into their tents.
Still. It's been nice, Leto can admit to himself. Grueling pace or not, oh, it's a wonderful thing to be on a mission with his beloved. He and Astarion are still such a new thing, happily enmeshed within the honeymoon stage, and there's something so uniquely joyful about being able to crawl into his lover's arms at the end of the night. It makes for a far more bearable mission, and means in turn his own patience for Riftwatch's antics is, mm, slightly more tolerant.
Not much, though. Not enough that he elected to join the others when they entered the party; instead, he lurks in the main hall, waiting for Astarion. He has no idea when the other elf will arrive, but the thought of entering into a room full of noisy, nosy humans all on his own is so unappealing. And so he lingers here, looking like the most ill-fitting crow, brooding in the shadows and ignoring all attempts the others occasionally make at cajoling him inside.
Until at last he hears a familiar lilting voice, and so like a dog, he straightens up, turning towards the entrance with sudden vigor— oh, it's you, oh, finally, oh—
Oh.]
Astarion—
[. . . what? But all his thoughts have suddenly come to a screeching halt, arrested and frozen as Leto does nothing but stare.
It's such a— it's just— Maker, he has no words for how Astarion looks. Stunningly alluring in a way that Leto had never before considered possible, once again proving that he's a deft hand at blending both practical and sensual in one fell, fashionable swoop. He looks like what a Crow should be: stylish and classy and alluring, an air of deadly steel hidden beneath coy silk. Stunning. Utterly stunning, and it's about that time Leto remembers he has to breathe—
But Maker, who cares about air when Astarion looks like that— like that, all pale skin and black leather, dressed in ways that Leto had never dreamed were possible. His eyes flit up and down his form, lingering on the span of his slender torso, the swell of his thighs— the way his hips jut out and his waist tapers in— the frankly vulgar patches of pale skin and the swell of well-defined muscles both layered beneath hanging straps of leather— and oh, that's to say nothing of those fingerless gloves, of that circlet that sits so prettily beneath an artful tumble of white curls—
He's been staring for far, far too long.]
Uh— hello.
[Focus. Focus, and his eyes finally lift, catching Astarion. Focus on his face, and he's trying, he really is.]
You look— convincing.
[Flawless. No notes. A+ way to greet your boyfriend. Do better, and he blinks, fighting to regain his composure.]
You look stunning.
[Better.]
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And watches it, just for a breath or two (still such a luxury, that. Breathing,) as minutes pass. An addiction, maybe. Fixated and fixed. Gazing at those downturned ears eager to pin themselves flat for every passing conversation; a slip of cast-off lantern light poured out from a nearby sconce just to lay itself across the sturdy bridge of Leto's nose— Leto, soft as warmed sugar even in his thoughts, for the name now finds itself synonymous with that first night in Rialto, and the image of an elf lost to sleep in rumpled covers. He'd looked nearly as beautiful then as he does now, fierce and long and lean and sharp round darkened eyes in shadow, catching light in all the right places. As if it were meant to be there, mete out by an artist's hand.
And that armor....
Dark. Threatening. Black inlay tucked beneath bright lyrium contours and a slender, stubbornly raised head that only glowers at each passerby who dares to meet his eyes. Questioning their ability to think of him as either hand or help. In a momentary pause at one point, one thin measure of white hair drops out of place to curl against the center of Leto's forehead, and all the pale elf watching him can manage thinking is that he'd quite literally kill to press against him in its place.
Ergo he'd be a liar to claim it didn't do something to the angle of his spine on approach. That the balls of his feet aren't twisting a little more towards his center line, compensating for a careful gap held there between his strides. Slack agility in his hips and a dangerous amount of rigidity in his spine that borders on involuntary (something to do with bloodflow, and the fainter hint of color in his ears). Nothing that shows in his inevitable smile— all glittering fangs by the end of it.]
Do I really? [Astarion asks with the sort of breathlessness usually reserved for the raw gasps between suckling groans, deliberately angling his teasing towards the words hello and convincing, rather than the final apt correction.
His palm meets the cool plaster wall beside Leto's righthand torso, barely an inch or two below the ribline, and right where night-colored armor joints leash themselves to leather. It shortens the distance between them, and Astarion lingers in the sweeter scent of ozone, lost to it for just one flicker of a beat.]
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In a breathless moment his hand darts out, metal claws catching Astarion by one barely-clothed hip and spinning him around, pushing him flat against the wall as Leto crowds forward. It's a swift reversal, no lyrium tricks or ghostly coyness: just fast reflexes and a ravenous desire to show off.]
Oh, yes.
[He takes a small step forward and ducks his head down, peering up at Astarion through dark lashes. They're already half-hidden in the shadows like this, but if anyone happens to glance them by, all they'll see are two conferring elves whispering to one another.
This is for them, this little flirtation, and Leto refuses to share.]
Yes, [he says again, his voice darker this time. His right hand— the one facing away from the party— slips between them, the tips of his claws pressing against bare skin. With slow deliberation they glide their way down, pressing just hard enough to be felt, as Leto keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, searching for a hint of a flush.]
And you know it. False modesty doesn't suit you, kadan . . . though I cannot say the same for this outfit.
[His head tips, his breath hot as it ghosts against his jaw. This close, he can hear the catch of Astarion's breath, see the way his pupils dilate . . . he even imagines he can hear the thundering of his heart (or is that his own?).]
Am I meant to let you out of my sight tonight? Only the thought of you mingling among those drunken fools is intolerable. Covered in blood, on the other hand . . . that I will thrill to see soon.
[Gods, he looks so good like this: lit up not just by candles and lanterns, but by Leto's own lyrium, too. Azure light gives pale skin an almost ethereal glow, adding softness to the sharp lines of his face. Around them, the party ebbs and flows, voices rising and falling and the faint sound of music in the distance, and none of it matters. Even the other members of Rift Watch (who have surely noted their absence by now) don't matter, not at all. There's a faint thought for the mission, but ah . . . later. Later.]
You should have told me you were going to dress like this. We could have skipped the party entirely.
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They all look clumsy, caught in the crosshairs of eclipsed hindsight.
Breathless, half-hard hindsight.]
Is that what the Crows expect from its flock now? Show up and fuck like rabbits in the nearest corridor closet? [Is a sly joke rooted in the very image that it paints when Astarion's eyes survey the lay of the wing itself from over armored shoulders (who's even bothering to notice them at all, in fact), around the shape of one dark ear tipped low across the peripheral borders of his vision. It is his heart that's thundering, rabbiting on scurried legs between the prickling flush blossoming beneath Leto's palpable voice and the narrow shiver that runs high along his inner thighs, soon flexed when one raised leg rocks itself against the fighter's own in full discretion— careful not to leave the sanctity of dark shadows. Obscured sightlines.
They're just a pair of colleagues having a chat, after all. And in that chat, slim fingers thread themselves through buckles and thin armor as a snake winds itself through grass, hunting for its next meal. Starvation all that drives it.]
My training must've been less thorough than yours.
....And far less interesting.
[They have a duty to perform. Blood and violence is, as Leto aptly mentioned, exactly why they're here when (or if) opportunity abides. The Venatori are clever when they wish to be. The Crows are territorial, self-serving on the best of days. The people here—
His touch snags. The pitch black gloves he wears in public aren't fond of the little gaps he's forcing them to tread, or the nimbleness the act demands; that second skin able to do the work, but it snags when it's caught against harsh metal joints, pulling back on all momentum.
And caged frustration's all it takes.
That, and the clinking of tines over glassware in a call for attention from the stage where someone— the lord or lady of the house, he's sure— beckons their attendees to take heed.
Astarion has him by the shoulders.
Hooks his grip around pauldron and strapwork alike with uncharacteristic roughness and all but drags his dear amatus into the closet quickly opened at their side across a set of hurried steps, mouth-to-hungry-mouth and seizing with desire. Fangs clicking against teeth. Ears ringing. Tongues lost in the scuffle and nearly nicked by the sharper points from canines, they collide, falling into each other— sparing only a single hand behind him just to shut the door.
In darkness illuminated by brilliant, azure-silver, everything crowds in. Coat sleeves and hangars, hat boxes and strung purses and the give of their weight where friction drives them.]
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This: the way he laughs breathlessly, giddily, as surprised as he is thrilled, as the closet door closes behind them— only to be cut off by the press of lips against his own, the wicked slide of a slick tongue swiftly consuming all of his attention. The world outside vanishes right along with his thoughts (of the mission, of the people gathered not ten feet away, of their teammates who will surely be looking for them all night). All that matters, all that he cares about, is squirming in the circle of his arms. He's not used to being so irresponsible. He's not used to having desires like this, desperate and frenetic, all of him suddenly consumed by a ravenous hunger to be close—
But Maker, he could get used to it.
His palms run over every inch of Astarion, shuddering for the difference between smooth leather and cool skin beneath his fingertips. Their mouths meet again and again, bruising kisses that grow hungrier by the second— more, an impatient groan each time they part panting for air, more, and he dives in to bite a second later, catching Astarion's lip between his teeth for a mean moment before soothing the spot with his tongue. Another kiss, another frantic rock of his hips against Astarion's own (and it doesn't matter that it barely does anything, for his cock is already hard enough to ache, and any bit of grinding stimulation is a relief). He draws back for a stolen breath of air and nearly whines for the way Astarion looks: his mouth reddened and slick, his scarlet eyes hazy with lust— venhedis, Leto breathes out in awe, and darts back in for another.
His hands slip down, blindly wedging themselves between them so he can try and pry at unfamiliar buttons and tightly tied laces.]
Ask sweetly and I'll show you what my training consisted of—
[He's grinning as he pants out the words, hot air exhaling against damp skin that he can't seem to leave alone: teeth catching against Astarion's neck again and again, his tongue dragging out to soften each bite, only to go back for another. He's fighting not to slice right through fabric, fighting to pry open buttons that don't seem to want to move, fighting to pick at a knot without being able to see—
Fuck it.
With a little growl he shoves Astarion forward, pinning him against the door and shoving one thigh between his own. Grind, a silent command urged by one clawed hand planted on his hip. His head ducks down at the next kiss, dodging it in favor of biting his way up a sharp jawline— and breathing hot in his ear.]
First lesson: show me just how good you are without using your hands, hm?
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Or get close to it.]
Fasta vass— [scarcely manages to sound scolding (it runs thick against the roof of his mouth with cloying infatuation), bucking his intent with too much wildness to bridle— and by the end of that same breath it's turned molten alongside him, all but bearing down across every last tangible inch of his companion, starting with the rolling of his shoulders (starting with the cinching of his thighs, feeling muscle through the dig of armored legplates). A passing knock of his cheek against Leto's own portraying something of sobriety, for it's an equally short lived surrogate: lasting only as long as the sound itself— daggered teeth and a wicked tongue close around one tender, downturned ear like a hound upon its hunt, prey drive nothing but a fever.
He has to drive back against the urge to bite down. When the only craving he's ever known is blood, his body knows no other way to react.
(Stars and gods above, this is the man he loves. The one he'd waited centuries to find, and would've waited lifetimes more had it come to that, he's convinced of it now. But then again, he's been convinced for longer than he'd ever willingly acknowledged. Since the Silent Plains. Since the first time he laid eyes on him, half-blind and fumbling at his own temples like a fool. He's been wanted like this before thousands upon thousands of times, crammed into corners and alley sidestreets on command, but he's never wanted like this—
Not even Cazador.)
So it is a show. A performance, raunchy and demanding: dextrous thighs working till they ache to satisfy an appetite he only measures in response right from the start. Arching through his hips so that his stiffened prick snags hard against the lining of his trousers, sticking to the places where it finds sweet purchase and relishing each chance to bed in close against thick, accompanying heat.]
....is it everything you couldn't wait for....? [Is a whisper laid down slow, and punctuated by his body's machinations. It constricts and catches, suffuses when it snares, still clothed and rutting like he means to fuck him senseless in the dark (though to their eyes, it's still bright).] Everything worth risking being caught for....? [And there's no burying the glint of pride that curls across his lips in wicked playfulness— ]
I'll undress you without my hands as well, if that's what you want. Show you what it is a thief is capable of when he's not prowling on a leash....all you need do is ask, my darling, and I'll—
[Cut short by the handle that he's holding jiggling from the other side. Another hand on the knob, and it wars with the grip he's keeping, shaking that brass fixture the way anyone would when assuming that a door is jammed.]
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—and mutters a curse in thick Antivan before audibly striding away towards the crowds.]
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And the gusty exhale of relief he offers isn't because they haven't been caught— but because he's so damned desperate to get his hands back on his mate.]
You have the uncanny ability to always make me forget the risk. In front of windows or near a broken wall, out in an alley, at a party in which we are meant to be working . . . [A kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his lips: his tongue swiping just once against swollen flesh before Leto draws back. He's so aware that he doesn't have Astarion's silver tongue when it comes to filthy talk— but on the other hand, Maker, Astarion is so damned enthusiastic about what he does offer.] But dressed like this . . .
[His eyes drag slowly over Astarion's form, lingering on the swathes of bare skin, the tapering curve of a lean waist.]
. . . you drive every thought out of my head, save how fast I can undress you.
Now . . . make sure the door stays closed.
[Murmured as he sinks down to his knees, never once taking his eyes off Astarion. Broad palms run over bare skin, fingertips worshipful as he maps out every inch of that damning waist, memorizing every curve, every line, every scar and mole and freckle on pretty, perfect skin— until at last his fingers reach his waistband, and Leto groans softly.
All you need do is ask, my darling, and he will, oh, yes. He'll give Astarion everything and anything he pleases.]
Will you let me take you here?
[It's easier to see what he's doing now, and he's a deft hand besides: soon those trousers are unbuttoned and slinging low on Astarion's hips. Leto leans forward, nosing at his still-hidden cock, mouthing at him obscenely through thin fabric— tongue lapping and licking until the fabric grows slick, heat radiating from his prick to his lips through the thinnest of barriers.]
Can I put my tongue to you, amatus? Worship you with my mouth the way you deserve— the way I always long to whenever I see you, no matter how short a time it's been?
[The words are deferential, but the tone isn't: there's an almost mocking edge to it, coyly teasing as he feels his cock stiffen. With a little grin Leto leans in, catching thin fabric between his teeth and tugging at it until it lowers, and oh— oh, there he is. Heavy and hard already, precome smeared at the tip and every inch of him so vulgarly appealing that it's all Leto can do not to whine and beg.
He swallows thickly just once. And then, with all the care in the world, leans in just close enough so that his lips brush against the crown of his cock, gliding there as he murmurs:]
Will you fuck my mouth, and show me what you're truly capable of when you're off your leash?
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His own lip, bitten too hard in a gouging pinch between incisors, polluting the inside of his mouth with the rich embodiment of what he is at heart. (His laugh had been so thready, sharper at the end. Toying with the edges of an Orlesian mask as Gwenaëlle found herself squinting back, clearly not grasping the punchline: even here, even changed, even behind a pretty mask— a monster is still a monster.)
His chest heaves slightly as he watches blunter teeth tug fabric low around his middle-thighs, each and ever smoldering breath washing over softer skin like a fever before— oh before— (he runs raw; he clicks his teeth and rucks his hips, dark feathers tickling the underside of his jaw like fingertips in full caress; he grabs for something— the shoulder of a woolen coat— and it peels away from its hanger, spilling to the floor alongside his grip, leaving him more slung, more desperate, more arched forwards into the measure of those lips, nearly driving past them with shoving force. He's too far back across his heels, and he feels unmade in the sweetest sense. He feels that monstrous, keen desire. He tastes copper, and the crowding of his fangs against his tongue, and the buildup of his lungs as they burn for his held breath.)
He's stronger than he was, but for better or worse, he's a tiger in the body of a kitten.
When his grip hooks on either side in silver hair behind downturned ears like handles, it's without an overwhelming flood of strength. Even so, through the haze of panting lust, he's a dextrous, clever thing. He has leverage on his side. The advantage of his positioning. Height. It takes only a twist where he stands (starting from one heel set against the wall, then he presses, pivoting his hips and his latched grip)— and he's now braced against the wall, facing it upright, whilst Leto (his Leto) is pinned between both still on his knees: head caught between those hands, back and shoulders flush to plaster with nowhere left to go.
Hollow exhales from above. Reflective eyes, cast down.]
When you can't walk tomorrow, or we find ourselves exposed because you can't stop your mewling....
....don't say I didn't warn you, darling.
[His first thrust in past the border of softly parted lips, it doesn't ask. Doesn't wait.
It daggers.]
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Oh, and though he fights not to moan, he can't be silent, not completely: a muffled whine vibrates in his throat as his cock pumps in and out of his mouth. Again and again the heavy weight of his prick glides over his tongue in the most paradoxical assault: relentless and yet only to a point, each thrust only taking so much before drawing back again. You want this, you need this, his cock coaxing open unresistant lips and dipping into a drooling mouth, teasing him right up until he bumps against the back of his throat— and then back. His eyes linger on the sight of those scant few untouched inches, desperate to swallow them down— and yet each time, no matter how he tries to strain his head forward or whine in pitiful pleading, he's denied his treat.
He shoves his hand down, blindly palming at himself, his eyes rolling back as he's given the barest of relief— and oh, it's not enough. His eyes flick up, seeking out Astarion's in the dark. He's still so new at this act and gags more often than not, but he's learning. He wants to learn, no matter how long it takes. One hand rises, fingertips ghosting down the span of that slender waist, as he tips his chin up and tries to relax the muscles in his throat.
Come take me, for he is determined to swallow all of him down now.]
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Muffling him takes every inch of his damned cock. Every last measurement of his unimpeded will. Relentless just to keep this silent— driving heavy for the bottom* of that waiting throat. Guiding with a thumb press here, a squeeze there, little warnings that try to signal when it's time to breathe compared to when it's time to swallow. Trying to fabricate a language without words, something mutual and distinctly theirs, starting with the interplay of weight and wanting: the sight of Leto's hand working in the dark, more elbow visible than anything else beneath the vulgar pumping of a higher sight, shadows just a blur of movement underneath glazed, full lips. Eyes gone lidded and unfixed. Lost to control. To rhythm. To even the cacaphony outside, surrounded by a locked door and shuttered clothing. What's in the forefront should be everything that drives fine prickles of excitement up his nape— and it is—
But he can't stop staring without blinking. Till his eyes burn with dryness, sharper on each successive soundless groan that finally presses them closed for just a beat or two. Transfixed by the way Leto's working at himself, by the occasional gag or reeling drag that yanks on their direction before he's melting yet again, and all the while, his hands work. Signaling more than just arousal. How content he is to meet this without hesitation; content to rest on his sore knees before Astarion rather than the other way round, indulging himself so deeply that it's no afterthought, the way he fights with all his senses to get off.
And Astarion meets that.
Magnetized. Charged. Flaring with every breath he's still not used to taking, quickening his pace as much as neophytic tolerance allows without asphyxiation, there's a jiggle of the handle yet again and ill-advised as logic would find it Astarion slams his hand against the door in firm retaliation, quickly silencing the attempt to retrieve belongings from the other side. It won't last, he knows, but like an animal swatting from its den, for now, his instincts insist forestalling is enough.
Until either he sees white across those lips, or Leto sees it buzzing hot throughout his senses, no one is getting through that door.]
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And it's not the pretty flush he's focused on, nor the way Astarion's own mouth has dropped open in sympathetic echo. It's the look in his eyes as he stares down at him, breathless and almost awestruck. It takes Leto far too many dreamy seconds to realize just why that might be— but oh, this is all so new. Their relationship, their sex, even their friendship— and what slave (no matter how many years free) will ever expect to be tended to so sweetly?
(How many times had he flinched from Isabela's unexpected touch over the years, surprised in the best way to find someone caring about his own pleasure?)
I love you, he thinks suddenly, the thought flashing like lightning through his mind. They've only said it a handful of times so far, still learning the other's habits and preferences, but oh, it's as true now as it was that night in Rialto. I love you, I love you, I love this, and every slick suckling and eager swallow is offered as worshipful proof. Astarion's cock swells on his tongue, bitter droplets pattering steadily down his throat. There's a sudden desperation to the way he fucks Leto's mouth, and with every suckling swallow he tries to encourage it. Take it, take me, moaning softly each time his cock sinks into virginal confines never once touched until now. Every thrust feels like a possessive claim, shaping his throat around the swell of that heavy prick, his muscles gagging around the only thing that he'll ever take again— just yours, and as they catch one another's eye again, he wonders if Astarion can hear it.
He fights to remember to breathe and foregoes it half the time in greedy desperation, taking that cock to the root with a whine he can't be bothered to muffle. More, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue lathing, fighting to remember every sweet correction and adoring lesson Astarion has ever offered him as he drives him to his finish— and moans eagerly in triumph when he feels him begin to spill.
He swallows the first pulse down eagerly, greedy to the marrow, and jerks his head back during the second— he wants the best of both worlds, to swallow and to tease all at once. But he's just a touch too inexperienced when it comes to tending to another's cock, for the movement is too fast, too eager— so that he ends up drooling pearl, cream smearing on his lips and splattering over his face. And yet even that isn't so bad— not when he can pant up at Astarion, tongue extended and eyes glazed, covered in his claim and utterly worshipful in his countenance.]
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Fasta vass—
[With a sharp hiss Leto shoves a hand against his mouth, struggling to rise to his feet and wipe away the mess all without outright banging into Astarion or coats and making a racket. Not that it matters: there's only one way out, and even if they could come up with an excuse, well. Leto's lips are flushed and sore, his hair damp with sweat, and that's to say nothing of the way he's outright straining at his pants.
A moment's attempt at rearrangement does nothing, and Fenris curses beneath his breath again. But oh, fuck it— maybe if he . . . walks fast? Ugh. Whatever. With luck, the only people that will see him are strangers he'll never meet again.]
Let me go first.
[At least that way he can ensure more of the attention is on him— and also, incidentally, hightail it out the door as fast as dignity will permit him.]