albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

So Astarion is soon gloriously naked before him, hand on his cock, and he wants Fenris to focus on speech? It's a lucky thing Astarion doesn't know the language. Squirming before Astarion, thrusting mindlessly against Astarion's hand, Fenris kisses feverishly at his neck, his ear, the side of his mouth. Anything, anything. His grip is going to leave little red welts on Astarion's hips, at this rate.

"Felix natalis," Fenris murmurs, voice deep and dark. "Quanto stat cubiculum noctatim? Hoc est pretiosissimum."

That is exactly what he wants— all of it— the senselessness, the prickling harshness of an anchored grip against his own vulnerable skin. He hasn’t any idea what’s being said, but even if he did, he’d only take it as another victory: a sign Fenris is helpless and hopeless in his grasp, fingers suited for the precision of theft nothing short of demanding as they work cruelly across Fenris’ cock, catching when they kiss the cresting crown of it— and then sinking back again. Ceaseless rhythm. Some wicked part of him, undefined, promises he’d cage him here like this if he could. Never let him leave. Maybe the ghost of who he was before undeath, maybe only the aftermath of it, he can’t remember enough to know the difference.

Vampires are supposed to be viciously sadistic, so they say.

But he doesn’t. Wouldn’t. Only sustains himself here and now on what he holds between his fingertips and feels hot across his neck as he moans half-formed praise.

He doesn’t need to be touched to even begin to get off on this.

For himself, Fenris dislikes the thought of sex that lacks reciprocity. If he were in a mood to think on anything but the warmth of Astarion's body, the roughness of his hands, his relief and love and fatigue.

When there is a distraction, Fenris thinks he can last a fairly long time. He's never been terribly good, though, with sustained, singular attention. He's had lovers who wanted to 'work him over' and his stamina generally fails him then.

Which is to say it's all too short a time before Fenris is groaning into Astarion's throat, moaning his name and slumping against him.

That too is an endearing gift to Astarion's own avaricious mind— the beauty of such a willful creature undone at his hand, unable to fend off his own blissful unraveling.

It isn’t a climax for himself, of course, he only flirts with peaked arousal and ecstasy in the span before Fenris sinks heavily against him— all breath and the edges of his teeth and the faint prickle of salt-sweat— but it satisfies no less. He feels as dizzy with appeasement as if he’d drawn blood, and gods, that alone is more than enough.

He draws his mouth to the slope of Fenris’ neck, planting only a single kiss as his arms move to carefully shoulder the weight of him.

“I’m going to be indebted to the Fade for the rest of my unliving years.”

Fenris supposes this is the part where he should lower himself to his knees, but the idea still gives him more than a small pause. Maybe if elves here live as long as Astarion says, maybe if Fenris is given those advanced and endless years... but that doesn't matter, here, now.

Instead, Fenris undoes his gauntlets, letting them fall to the ground with a clanking metal thunk. He lets his hands roam over Astarion's body, humming lightly to himself. "And I," he says, voice deep with emotion and satisfaction both, "to this strange realm."

This is before he spits into one hand and moves to grasp at Astarion's cock, massaging slowly, lethargic. Romance itself.

Someone else might assure Fenris that’s wholly unnecessary. That what was done was done entirely for endearment alone, and not a demand for something in return

But that someone else wouldn’t be Astarion.

He thrives under the attention, inhaling slow and deep under the roaming press of rough hands, even as he wipes his own across the edges of his hip, letting his shoulders sink flat against the wall once Fenris gets to rubbing, canting his hips into it with practiced ease. The spit is— well he loves it, actually. As uniquely sui generis as the man himself, so wildly different from anyone roaming the high-cut streets of Baldur’s Gate. This world might just adopt him keenly, the way Thedas still keeps Astarion safe. Either by the magic of Fenris’ markings or just the sharpness of his ears.

Still, long years aren’t endless years. Maybe if Astarion were a true vampire instead, he’d stake his own selfish claim here and now.

But that’d change Fenris to the bone, wouldn’t it? And— of course— he isn’t a true vampire, so there’s no point in imagining the rough shape of a future that isn’t theirs.

No, that thought is set aside as he moves one arm high— setting his own fingers between his teeth as he breathes out sharp between them. This, whatever it is, is perfect for as long as it lasts.

Fenris leans against Astarion, the cold metal of his breastplate little comfort. Fenris prickles, internally; next time, he'll do this right. But for now, it seems to be enough. A remarkably reassuring thing about Astarion: Whatever complaints the man may have, rest assured they'll always be aired.

Pressing wet kisses to Astarion's neck and jaw and mouth, Fenris keeps moving his hand, twisting at the end, trying to feel out what Astarion seems to like. His mind is slow with pleased fatigue, but he's never done any less than all, when his mind is set to a task.

The sounds he makes are muffled but persistent, lilting— there’s no tavern downstairs to overhear (a shame, he thinks), but it’s a reprise intended for them alone, and he withholds none of it, arching his spine to draw out more contact, even with the leafing lines of cold metal pressing back against soft skin. No, especially that. He should’ve told Fenris to keep one of the gauntlets on.

Next time.

Bladesinger and nobleman. Mercenary and vampire. His mind is swimming but it wanders all the same, thumbing through reflections that only heighten the vivacity of sensation. He could draw this out longer if he wanted to, but tonight doesn’t seem fit for endless passion when they’re both still wearied from the road— so he helps himself, inhaling deep, marking every indent in that rigid armor, every finger that slides along him and—

—sharp teeth catch when they scuff Fenris’ collar, when he bites deep into leather rather than skin, jaw locked, violently shuddering beneath the current of his own climax and utterly untamed for it.

The bite is a surprise, but it shouldn't be. Generally, Fenris doesn't credit losses of control, but Astarion is such a controlled creature. Knowing Fenris' fumbling attempts at pleasure have left him so- it brings a smile to Fenris' face.

The smile lasts even as Fenris pulls Astarion down onto the scant bedding in a corner of the room, burrowing his face in the other man's shoulder. He isn't quite ready for words, so the noises he makes will have to suffice, a pleased sigh as he nuzzles closer.

“Oh don’t look so pleased with yourself. It’s incorrigible.”

Mild, affectionate, teasing— eyes heavy with the afterglow of sated lust, barely open at all as he sinks into meager bedding, tucking his sharp cheek against the crown of Fenris' head.

His fingertips are lazy, they stroke along armor where Fenris’ spine must lie somewhere underneath, doting entirely of their own accord. There is so much to be done, so much he needs to do in order to snatch up a foothold in this city, and he’d intended to sniff out some sort of soirée tonight as easy prey, but...

This is nicer, damn it all.

Hungry for still more contact, Fenris sits up a little, shrugging himself out of armor and leathers. The smile stays on his face.

"Ah, so that's only allowed on your features?"

“Naturally.”

He’s proud of his selfishness. His demanding nature and the unfairness of how he expects almost everything given to be a one-way-street. Here, though, in close quarters with warmer comforts, it’s all for play.

“I’m the fox, you see. Not quarry to be snatched up at your mercy.”

Said with a sly, preening sort of sneer, two fingers pinching the nape of Fenris’ neck like mock fangs.

Fenris hums, momentarily content. He shifts, curling further into Astarion's embrace, his neck pushing into those fingers. The heady lust of moments ago sated, Fenris can only luxuriate in that terrible feeling of being wanted.

"You can take from me, now," Fenris says dreamily. "A little. No magic."

“Now? Really?”

Far be it from him to say no, but there’s a tempered flicker of something written in those red eyes when he casts a sidelong glance at Fenris where he’s so beautifully draped— long-limbed, content, no doubt hurting somehow as always.

“Won’t it ruin your afterglow, the pain of it?”

"That is what I would like to find out," Fenris says. "We do not know our own boundaries, in this world. That is a danger as much as any other."

He speaks with eyes closed, prone before Astarion. This is a moment of given trust, for he knows what he gives in bed is meager enough to begin with.

“Mm.”

Soft consideration, basking just for a moment longer in the sight of Fenris slung long and lean against him, in angles so rarely ever shown.

It seems a shame to spoil it, but—

“All right. If that's what you want.”

Those fingers turn Fenris', head, brushing away pale wisps of hair from channels of darker skin, set between silvery leylines. Careful when he lowers his mouth for the sharpest snap of his teeth: he can’t make it hurt less— a bite will always be a bite, and the vein he seeks out runs deep— but he can move lightly, drink slowly. Spare Fenris the full harshness of his hunger, even though he fights both it and his instinctive magic in the process.

Thankfully he isn't starving at the moment. That makes it easier.

Fenris tries to keep still, but Astarion so close, trusting him with his life, giving up his blood willingly and his choice-

The pain is nothing, almost stunning in its deliberation. Despite himself, Fenris lets out a little sigh of a moan, his hips bucking slightly.

Oh.

Oh.

His eyes dilate when he feels that shift— feels it, not just for Fenris pressing against him, but for the sweetened rush of blood against his teeth, the back of his throat—

It’s dangerous, but he likes that, of course.

His tongue lathes over puncture marks, urging them to mend without magic, more a natural coagulant than anything else. He snakes his arms around Fenris’ well-toned body, his spine, drawing one leg between those canting hips and setting his teeth just against another swath of unmarked skin, this time above the spots at Fenris’ shoulder. A promise he isn’t mindless in this.

—and then, again, he bites.

Fenris feels pitiful and helpless, and utterly alive in the fact that he can be those things in a state of utter safety. Hands scrabble at Astarion's back, pulling him closer, and he lets out another sigh.

It isn’t stealing. It isn’t begging for bloodied scraps. Not a product of deception or woven charms.

Strange, always strange with Fenris. How he makes even the most common habits turn suddenly different in nature. Like this, the way Fenris’ fingertips scuff over thick scars feels like a welcome presence, rather than tolerated— the drawing of blood intoxicating with shared wanting, rather than a wretched curse.

Again, he takes only a little, mouth catching those fang marks, drawing Fenris higher across him by shifting the span of his own thigh— fumbling when he reaches impatiently to his side to claw with one hand through the scattered contents of the pack beside them— something noisily clattering as it tumbles across crooked flooring, packed fabric shifting, the sound of glass clicking, and— shit— there it is. Glass.

Two fingers snare that little phial, barely anything left of that perfumed oil compared to what he’d set out with, but even that shallow remainder ought to get them through the night.

He uncorks it with his hands perched between them, craning his neck high to scuff febrile kisses across the near-center of Fenris’ chest as he works— oil-slick fingers rushing to coast across the span of his own cock without pretense, trailing lower, and lower still, catching Fenris where he rests against him, all too eager to tease at the man with a pair of crooked fingertips alone. Movements fluid in their coaxing across tensed muscle. Precise, when he sinks in to the knuckle.

There's no need to rush this, after all.

Fenris has had this before, twice, and both times found it rather fascinating. This is the thing that men of high rank scorn in Tevinter? They're fools. They'd laughed about it, him and Isabela, afterward.

The thought is welcome, warm, like Astarion's body close to him, like the smell of his own blood, like the gently aching pain at his shoulder. "Quaeso," he murmurs into Astarion's neck, "amabo te."

He rocks his hips eagerly forward, groaning when Astarion moves inward. He's still a bit tense, but he'll never be languid. He doesn't know how. "Volo, carissime."

He can’t know if he loves the language or the way it rolls beneath Fenris’ tongue. Probably the latter, but it’s not exactly a mystery worth solving when all he cares about is hearing it now— drawing it out deeply beneath the drag of his fingers, drinking in the sound of breaths taken between words, slow and steady each time he bears into that persistent tension.

It’s fine, of course, he doesn’t expect Fenris to be some supple, darling nymph.

He likes him for that tensity. That rougher quality that cuts strange paths through his own predictable world.

It’s only when he’s satisfied to know it won’t be some fitful intrusion that he shifts his hips beneath Fenris instead, thumb maneuvering his prick with practiced care to press it smoothly in between the arch of his fingertips as they recede in turn— trading one for the other, albeit without rush, though some faint, hitching noise settles into the base of his throat at the sheer tightness of it. Pleasant and febrile and vivid, all at once.

“Hells—"

The word is short. Clipped. He wants to bite again, but he is busy.

When this part comes, Fenris is ready, his face pressed into Astarion's shoulder. The press in makes him gasp, his legs wrapping around Astarion's middle, his eyes rolling back in his head. He moans, loud and long and wanton, the sounds Isabela loved to hear. He hopes Astarion likes them even half as much.

Slowly, carefully, he begins to move himself on Astarion's cock. All his previous experience in this arena had been with what Isabela called her toys. This, however, provides a much more real, immediate pleasure to them both. He wants to share it, breath hitching, face heated.

He hadn’t known how to approach this, in hindsight. Maybe affection made him soft, thinking prolonged touch would be too much for Fenris— all those markings, all those memories— but no. No, and he wishes he’d done this sooner because gods be damned if it isn't bloody intoxicating to hear him pant and groan in absolute disentanglement. All pretense lost. Forgotten.

He seeks out warm skin again. The midpoint between both prior bites. Another. Hands locked tight across Fenris’ hips, dragging him into a smoother rhythm, something he can rut to without anything but his own feral demands in play. Teeth and clawed fingertips and the harsh sink of himself in deep, working at a merciless angle. It isn’t seduction. It isn’t doting sweetness.

Only indulgence lives here now.

And he thrives in it.

When every touch is pain, it begins to lose its dire context. He has told other partners of this, and they retreat from him, as though he does not wear clothes, wield a sword, fight harshly. He cannot manage the comfort of others, though, and assuring them is often as fruitless as it is boring. They will understand, or they won't. Pain means nothing.

It seems Astarion has begun to understand.

Deeper, a different angle, and Fenris lets out a strangled noise, hiccuping pleasure. Fenris lets himself fade into it, thoughts shifting into nothing but pleasure. It doesn't remind him of... other things. Other things were always about control, being right, punishment and logic. This is just Astarion, wanting.

Fenris murmurs his name again and again, rhythmic and adoring.

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