Fenris stills as soon as he feels the sharpness of teeth-- he doesn't want to twitch and cut himself. It would be nice to say Fenris was afraid of Astarion blaming himself for split blood. In reality, he's barely thinking that far ahead. He's barely thinking. From his gaze, it's clear Astarion is the only person in the universe worth looking at, and Fenris has momentarily gone still to run his eyes over him once more.
He remembers to breathe, a little. His hands move more slowly, managing to get himself out of his clothing without much effort, but he spends no time looking at buttons or ties, only Astarion, perfect Astarion, naked before him.
His breathing is still quick, and he wonders what an oddity he looks next to Astarion's careful paleness. The winding of lyrium over Fenris' body has entranced many, never for good reasons, but he trusts Astarion's care and caution. At the moment, he trusts nothing else.
"You can touch the markings," he says, panting for no reason but desire. "Don't linger on them. What do you... like?"
The tip of his tongue finds the edge of his own canine, darkening the allure of his own fading chuckle. It’s almost remarkable in a way, that for two hundred years of torture, the only scars he’d been forced to keep are those that comprise the sonnet across his back, bared to the mattress rather than his striking partner. He isn’t self-conscious, not even about that, reclined across bedding once more in a lazy arrangement of artfully lithe musculature, one arm tucked behind his head.
Those constellations do indeed draw his eye, how could they not, vibrant as they are in their patterns— but he does not cherish their existence, only the man that dwells beneath.
“Do they hurt you?”
Priorities first. Vital ones, not to be disregarded.
Fenris makes a noise that, were it found in a less dignified man, would amount to a harrumph.
"Yes," he says, petulantly. "And yes. But I have been through much, much worse, for far less gain."
He twitches forward to steal another kiss from Astarion, trying to be alluring or reassuring or anything other than the wounded creature he loathes to be seen as.
He knows that look. It's the one he wears whenever someone tries to offer him pity for all of Cazador's mistreatments. There's no assuaging it without patronization, and Astarion doesn't dare wade into those pitifully murky waters.
So instead he lifts his chin a little higher, inviting that kiss to be a deeper affair, hand reaching down and then— stopping. Hovering. He can't see where it's going to land with their mouths so occupied, and so instead chances a bid at snaring Fenris' fingers in his own, knotting them together once caught so that they can't be pulled away.
Setting them just at the base of his own cock, utterly shameless in the breathy little sound pinned against Fenris' lips for it.
"Gain I can give you. However you like."
A nip, a catch, the slide of his tongue over Fenris' in turn, careful to watch the edges of his own fangs with practiced precision. Every bit of it is slow and dragging and soaked deep in wanting, a performance he's done a thousand times— though never so sincerely as this. This time, he paints for an audience of his own choosing. And that makes it all the sweeter than spilled blood across his lips. He's played incubus, he's played the vampire noble stealing into bedrooms at night, but for Fenris—
His voice sinks low, barely a whisper shared between them.
Fenris' hands have lines, branching out at each side of his wrist, all stopping at one fingernail. It's more an irritation than true pain. He'd do anything for more.
He goes very still in Astarion's hands, trying to soak everything in, feel the kiss fully, feel their hands together, see everything... he can't, but he wants it, and a little moan escapes him to mark that need.
What does he dream of?
"You," he says, making no secret of the way his eyes linger over Astarion's body. He moves closer, kissing back as daringly as he's able. The hand now making its way slowly down Astarion's body circles Astarion's clock carefully. It would almost be leisurely, if not for the feverish beating of Fenris' heart. "I want to make you moan. I want to leave you speechless."
No fantasies of being a king atop his throne, no dusting of heroism or conquest. Were he not already charmed by the sheer fragility of an open soul he'd think a desire like that something to be condoled. Everyone— everyone— ought to recognize the merits of guarding their own weakly beating little hearts.
But this isn't the time for that. Astarion wouldn't do him harm, and he imagines they both know that by now.
"Good thing I always come prepared, then."
It's the fire in those heavily lash-lined eyes that does it for him. To be wanted. Needed. What a wicked indulgence it is, and what a glorious thing to drink in. It isn't magic when he withdraws his hand with a slanted little smirk, only sleight of hand when he twists his seemingly empty fingers to produce a narrow little phial of perfumed oil— something he'd tucked against the covers when he first straddled Fenris' lap. Pickpocket. Thief. Street magician now.
Or bedside magician, more accurately.
Uncorked with faint flourish, drizzled slowly across his own unmistakably stirred arousal— across Fenris' knuckles— across the edge of Fenris as well, just letting the last few droplets kiss the crest of his crown before his emptied palm reaches out to draw them together. Them, fitting their lengths against one another with a lurid little tug, his own grasp tight as he meets Fenris' own efforts in earnest. Purring in his throat, performance as natural as breathing.
While Fenris doesn't precisely feel the need as Astarion does, it seems like a shame not to bite him back. A hungry creature, one hand finds Astarion's hip-- thigh, arse-- while the other works between them, keeping them in place.
Between gasps and rough kisses, Fenris pants, "they call this luctatio," in Tevinter, obviously. "Wrestling."
Honestly, he just thinks Astarion will find that funny.
Oh he does, of course, one salacious moan (bought by the way Fenris' battle-harsh hand settles around taut curvature) turning instead to a rough, unexpected little laugh, inhaling sharply as his eyes drift shut.
"Dearest love," he pants, smirking still even as a tight-bound noise catches deep in the base of his own throat, "no more trivia, please."
"But I like your laugh," Fenris says, thrusting harder, his mouth just below Astarion's ear. "I like everything about you."
Fenris is a contradictory creature, especially now. He doesn't know what's good for him or how to set a consistent mood, how to follow his own edicts. He just knows that everything feels right with Astarion, and everything Astarion does is fantastic.
"Your voice, your laugh-" He groans, another long grind, his back rigid with it- "Ah, hah, it's all you."
It’s charming. It’s...oh, the groan he makes this time is real, no drama, no acting up the glory of it, shuddering violently at the slow pass of breath beneath his ear, burrowing in silver curls.
His hips arch high into that shared grip— and then he sinks down, low enough to withdraw himself from that entanglement (with effort, mind, it’s hard to let go) turning with serpentine grace to keep from brushing too harshly against pale markings.
It’ll be easier for Fenris like this: avoiding the bulk of his tattoos, seeking out relief as wanted. Astarion’s stomach to the mattress, broad shoulders angled high, baring the full span of knotted scars— glancing back to punctuate the look of intent he aims with a pleased curl to his lips. An offer. An invitation.
Fenris looks over Astarion slowly, longingly. His eyes flicker over the scars, and some anger does awaken in his stomach, but that's for later. Maybe never. Fenris knows it isn't his business.
He kisses the nape of Astarion's neck instead, a silent thanks for such consideration, such honesty.
And then he gets to work, teasing Astarion's hole, his other hand snaking around to pet his stomach, his chest. Fenris kisses Astarion's shoulders, and whispers sweet and pointless attestations Astarion cannot even understand. "Mea amatus perfectus est," he breathes, "et venustus, et eleganus est..."
He doesn’t need to understand it to know— in a sense— what’s being said. Reverence is nothing new, not even earnest reverence, as he’s played courtesan and charmer many a night, cornering beautiful fools of all sorts like a siren luring sailors into drowning.
But being wanted back by a creature like this...
The way he sighs in wake of the attention is all honesty, all genuine: he presses himself into it— every kiss, every lingering touch— shuddering somewhere in between with unsubtle anticipation, searching always for more. He won't paw at Fenris for it, refuses to anchor him by a grip that would only settle too heavily over old scars. But his own body he arches, his neck he tilts, offering the sweet scent of lilac and leather oil where it still clings to his skin.
And then catches something of his partner by snaring slender fingers in the span of white hair. Not harsh, not cruel— only needy.
Fenris laughs, the sound surprising even himself. He wasn't prepared to be wanted so, and it is a heady joy. This feeling... it's new and not new, a mix of reality and something skimming just below the surface. He knows the feeling, a memory of poor tidings, and he does his best to slap it away. He wants that joy, and focusing on it is easier than it once was. Astarion is to blame, he assumes. Astarion, bringing him to light in dark places.
Kissing at his neck, Fenris murmurs, "you'll have to try a little harder than that."
Yet, carefully, gently, Fenris enters Astarion, sighing with the pleasure of it. He hasn't enough cleverness, at that moment, to voice the joke in his mind: well, he's made himself rather easy.
—fair. Unfair, the word lost where it falters against the back of his throat, petty arguing turned to soft-voiced arousal when he groans under mounting, fingers still lingering in midair from being swatted away. His eyes roll back as they close, his mouth left open for breaths he hardly needs but can’t stop himself from taking. He settles tight and harsh against not insignificant heat, craning his throat into Fenris’ mouth, his teeth.
Vampirism aside, he’s always had a weakness for being bitten.
But he doesn’t sit idle in the shadow of his partner. It might be up to Fenris to dictate all matters of depth and drive, but Astarion is all too quick to roll his hips with harsh demand, levering himself into it with every muscle he can spare, reaching once more for that hair— this time with more determination to succeed.
Fenris' mind is always a morass of disconnected thoughts at a time like this; he wonders if he's trying to be goaded? Does Astarion prefer angry partners? Is that the appeal he sees in Fenris?
Possible. Something to be discovered later, if so. All of this happened so quickly; they haven't had time to set pace and parameter.
Does it really matter, though? What can be expected? And what is the harm at being swept away in it, for a night.
Fenris kisses Astarion's neck very gently-- he imagines it will annoy him-- and sets a steady, deep pace. His free hand, the one not holding Astarion's hips in place, delves between mattress and man to pet the lithe muscle of Astarion's chest, his stomach, before drawing back up again.
Astarion enjoys complaining. Why not give him the opportunity?
He’s bait. A lure. That’s his calling, after all, his intended design. And in the vivid mixture of practiced sensuality and expectant desire he is more than used to having his own firm-handed requests met.
That Fenris of all people manages to sidestep it, his contact gone feathering, hardly goes unnoticed, drawing a petulant sort of puff of a sound out of Astarion’s throat, even as he works to try and grind out a touch more incessant pace, or dig, or sparked fever, or— anything but self-control on his partner's part.
“Do I bore you? Are you falling asleep—“
Asked even as his snapping remark is clipped by pleasant pleasure, expression pinned directly between want and irritation.
Fenris is maybe having a little too much fun with this. Is that allowed? Probably. The hand on Astarion's belly draws closer to his hip, a soft caress before sliding back upward. His pace remains steady.
Fenris breathes the most milquetoast words he can summon up, "it's possible."
Gods, that hand near his hip. He wants it lower, he wants so much, and none of it is his to have, sharp teeth set hard and bared in a growl— that turns into a gasping, furious little laugh.
Oh, you’ll pay for this later, Fenris.
For now, he lacks leverage, lacks handholds with which to torment the beloved creature perched above his own long spine, and instead— having abandoned all thought of playing the role of temptation in this little transaction— sinks into the mattress across the span of his chest, the hands that braced instead falling to grip at himself.
"Impertinent?" The amusement in Fenris' voice is obvious.
He watches Astarion squirm, until the sight beneath him is leaves him breathless with its beautiful need. Finally, he squares down to draw teeth over Astarion's throat, a practiced imitation of earlier. See how he likes it. See how they both like it.
"There you are," Fenris picks up his pace, harder and faster just for Astarion taking the matter into his own-- no, that's a horrible pun. Fenris just keeps from laughing.
Was that the point of all this? Was he searching this whole time for— no, never mind, he’ll needle Fenris about that detail later.
Right now his mind urges him elsewhere, down into the merger of their own bodies, into the relentless dig of satisfaction settling hot and harsh in the pit of his stomach, well beneath the efforts of his own white-knuckled fingers. Teeth at his neck nearing puncture scars and oh, oh his breath runs hard and high and far from lilting in its own unmasked existence: the marrow of himself, though even Astarion fails to recognize it where he's lost beneath the current.
No more smoke and mirrors. No more thinking, cheek to rumpled covers with a single spoken word snared between sighs: —more.
Fenris leans forward, pouring kisses over Astarion's face, eventually finding his neck to bite. He's no slouch at reading others, but it was strangely invigorating to put Astarion in such a place of denial, until he was willing to take pleasure for his own sake. Fenris loathes being catered to.
"Tibi sum- ah, I have you," he murmurs into Astarion's hair, his neck, "Wonderful."
It finally lights a fire under his own self control, seeing Astarion panting and breathless, so caught up in his own pleasure. It's glorious. Fenris finally lets himself be lost, moaning softly against Astarion's neck.
‘I have you’ he says, and the words might as well be a stake through his unliving heart for how potently he feels them. Eliciting a drowning cry of uninhibited pleasure— he might come of it alone— but no. No, he’s possessed of more self control than that, even like this: careful to manipulate his own fingers across himself, his other hand knotting itself in Fenris’ hair, fighting to keep him near.
Wonderful indeed.
The rest is instinct, even levered against the bed he can still cant his hips into the pace Fenris sets, can still draw himself low enough that every thrust drags out more friction, more pressure, more lingering depth— and though he’s practiced enough to draw this out longer than it's taken for the room to go dark for lack of sunlight, in the end, he opts to indulge. In all of it.
His cheek meets Fenris’ own, or as close as he can manage, scuffing needily for attention in his own undoing— the lurid throes of a little death settling throughout with the violent, plunging wave of merciful profusion that blooms beneath his skin— loud enough the whole inn likely knows exactly what they’re up to.
After the racket, the pleasure, the sure and solid feel of Astarion so near and wanting to be there-- it's almost hard to keep up. Luckily, Fenris is a starkly stubborn man, and he hits climax not long after Astarion wakes the entire inn.
It leaves him chuckling, lightly. "We'll have to factor this into our cover; you've left us no secrets."
“One might argue that makes for a much better cover.”
Grin wearied by suffused numbness, so pleasant it makes even the finest wine seem like vinegar in concept. He plants a kiss to the beautifully high arch of Fenris’ cheek, chasing it with faint scuff of tame fangs, voice dangerously husky when he adds:
“Cheeky devil, did you think you were being clever trying to rile me.”
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He remembers to breathe, a little. His hands move more slowly, managing to get himself out of his clothing without much effort, but he spends no time looking at buttons or ties, only Astarion, perfect Astarion, naked before him.
His breathing is still quick, and he wonders what an oddity he looks next to Astarion's careful paleness. The winding of lyrium over Fenris' body has entranced many, never for good reasons, but he trusts Astarion's care and caution. At the moment, he trusts nothing else.
"You can touch the markings," he says, panting for no reason but desire. "Don't linger on them. What do you... like?"
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The tip of his tongue finds the edge of his own canine, darkening the allure of his own fading chuckle. It’s almost remarkable in a way, that for two hundred years of torture, the only scars he’d been forced to keep are those that comprise the sonnet across his back, bared to the mattress rather than his striking partner. He isn’t self-conscious, not even about that, reclined across bedding once more in a lazy arrangement of artfully lithe musculature, one arm tucked behind his head.
Those constellations do indeed draw his eye, how could they not, vibrant as they are in their patterns— but he does not cherish their existence, only the man that dwells beneath.
“Do they hurt you?”
Priorities first. Vital ones, not to be disregarded.
“Is it uncomfortable?”
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"Yes," he says, petulantly. "And yes. But I have been through much, much worse, for far less gain."
He twitches forward to steal another kiss from Astarion, trying to be alluring or reassuring or anything other than the wounded creature he loathes to be seen as.
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So instead he lifts his chin a little higher, inviting that kiss to be a deeper affair, hand reaching down and then— stopping. Hovering. He can't see where it's going to land with their mouths so occupied, and so instead chances a bid at snaring Fenris' fingers in his own, knotting them together once caught so that they can't be pulled away.
Setting them just at the base of his own cock, utterly shameless in the breathy little sound pinned against Fenris' lips for it.
"Gain I can give you. However you like."
A nip, a catch, the slide of his tongue over Fenris' in turn, careful to watch the edges of his own fangs with practiced precision. Every bit of it is slow and dragging and soaked deep in wanting, a performance he's done a thousand times— though never so sincerely as this. This time, he paints for an audience of his own choosing. And that makes it all the sweeter than spilled blood across his lips. He's played incubus, he's played the vampire noble stealing into bedrooms at night, but for Fenris—
His voice sinks low, barely a whisper shared between them.
"What is it that you dream of?"
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He goes very still in Astarion's hands, trying to soak everything in, feel the kiss fully, feel their hands together, see everything... he can't, but he wants it, and a little moan escapes him to mark that need.
What does he dream of?
"You," he says, making no secret of the way his eyes linger over Astarion's body. He moves closer, kissing back as daringly as he's able. The hand now making its way slowly down Astarion's body circles Astarion's clock carefully. It would almost be leisurely, if not for the feverish beating of Fenris' heart. "I want to make you moan. I want to leave you speechless."
He's not sure he can, but Astarion did ask.
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No fantasies of being a king atop his throne, no dusting of heroism or conquest. Were he not already charmed by the sheer fragility of an open soul he'd think a desire like that something to be condoled. Everyone— everyone— ought to recognize the merits of guarding their own weakly beating little hearts.
But this isn't the time for that. Astarion wouldn't do him harm, and he imagines they both know that by now.
"Good thing I always come prepared, then."
It's the fire in those heavily lash-lined eyes that does it for him. To be wanted. Needed. What a wicked indulgence it is, and what a glorious thing to drink in. It isn't magic when he withdraws his hand with a slanted little smirk, only sleight of hand when he twists his seemingly empty fingers to produce a narrow little phial of perfumed oil— something he'd tucked against the covers when he first straddled Fenris' lap. Pickpocket. Thief. Street magician now.
Or bedside magician, more accurately.
Uncorked with faint flourish, drizzled slowly across his own unmistakably stirred arousal— across Fenris' knuckles— across the edge of Fenris as well, just letting the last few droplets kiss the crest of his crown before his emptied palm reaches out to draw them together. Them, fitting their lengths against one another with a lurid little tug, his own grasp tight as he meets Fenris' own efforts in earnest. Purring in his throat, performance as natural as breathing.
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Between gasps and rough kisses, Fenris pants, "they call this luctatio," in Tevinter, obviously. "Wrestling."
Honestly, he just thinks Astarion will find that funny.
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"Dearest love," he pants, smirking still even as a tight-bound noise catches deep in the base of his own throat, "no more trivia, please."
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Fenris is a contradictory creature, especially now. He doesn't know what's good for him or how to set a consistent mood, how to follow his own edicts. He just knows that everything feels right with Astarion, and everything Astarion does is fantastic.
"Your voice, your laugh-" He groans, another long grind, his back rigid with it- "Ah, hah, it's all you."
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It’s charming. It’s...oh, the groan he makes this time is real, no drama, no acting up the glory of it, shuddering violently at the slow pass of breath beneath his ear, burrowing in silver curls.
His hips arch high into that shared grip— and then he sinks down, low enough to withdraw himself from that entanglement (with effort, mind, it’s hard to let go) turning with serpentine grace to keep from brushing too harshly against pale markings.
It’ll be easier for Fenris like this: avoiding the bulk of his tattoos, seeking out relief as wanted. Astarion’s stomach to the mattress, broad shoulders angled high, baring the full span of knotted scars— glancing back to punctuate the look of intent he aims with a pleased curl to his lips. An offer. An invitation.
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He kisses the nape of Astarion's neck instead, a silent thanks for such consideration, such honesty.
And then he gets to work, teasing Astarion's hole, his other hand snaking around to pet his stomach, his chest. Fenris kisses Astarion's shoulders, and whispers sweet and pointless attestations Astarion cannot even understand. "Mea amatus perfectus est," he breathes, "et venustus, et eleganus est..."
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But being wanted back by a creature like this...
The way he sighs in wake of the attention is all honesty, all genuine: he presses himself into it— every kiss, every lingering touch— shuddering somewhere in between with unsubtle anticipation, searching always for more. He won't paw at Fenris for it, refuses to anchor him by a grip that would only settle too heavily over old scars. But his own body he arches, his neck he tilts, offering the sweet scent of lilac and leather oil where it still clings to his skin.
And then catches something of his partner by snaring slender fingers in the span of white hair. Not harsh, not cruel— only needy.
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Kissing at his neck, Fenris murmurs, "you'll have to try a little harder than that."
Yet, carefully, gently, Fenris enters Astarion, sighing with the pleasure of it. He hasn't enough cleverness, at that moment, to voice the joke in his mind: well, he's made himself rather easy.
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—fair. Unfair, the word lost where it falters against the back of his throat, petty arguing turned to soft-voiced arousal when he groans under mounting, fingers still lingering in midair from being swatted away. His eyes roll back as they close, his mouth left open for breaths he hardly needs but can’t stop himself from taking. He settles tight and harsh against not insignificant heat, craning his throat into Fenris’ mouth, his teeth.
Vampirism aside, he’s always had a weakness for being bitten.
But he doesn’t sit idle in the shadow of his partner. It might be up to Fenris to dictate all matters of depth and drive, but Astarion is all too quick to roll his hips with harsh demand, levering himself into it with every muscle he can spare, reaching once more for that hair— this time with more determination to succeed.
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Possible. Something to be discovered later, if so. All of this happened so quickly; they haven't had time to set pace and parameter.
Does it really matter, though? What can be expected? And what is the harm at being swept away in it, for a night.
Fenris kisses Astarion's neck very gently-- he imagines it will annoy him-- and sets a steady, deep pace. His free hand, the one not holding Astarion's hips in place, delves between mattress and man to pet the lithe muscle of Astarion's chest, his stomach, before drawing back up again.
Astarion enjoys complaining. Why not give him the opportunity?
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That Fenris of all people manages to sidestep it, his contact gone feathering, hardly goes unnoticed, drawing a petulant sort of puff of a sound out of Astarion’s throat, even as he works to try and grind out a touch more incessant pace, or dig, or sparked fever, or— anything but self-control on his partner's part.
“Do I bore you? Are you falling asleep—“
Asked even as his snapping remark is clipped by pleasant pleasure, expression pinned directly between want and irritation.
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Fenris breathes the most milquetoast words he can summon up, "it's possible."
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Gods, that hand near his hip. He wants it lower, he wants so much, and none of it is his to have, sharp teeth set hard and bared in a growl— that turns into a gasping, furious little laugh.
Oh, you’ll pay for this later, Fenris.
For now, he lacks leverage, lacks handholds with which to torment the beloved creature perched above his own long spine, and instead— having abandoned all thought of playing the role of temptation in this little transaction— sinks into the mattress across the span of his chest, the hands that braced instead falling to grip at himself.
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He watches Astarion squirm, until the sight beneath him is leaves him breathless with its beautiful need. Finally, he squares down to draw teeth over Astarion's throat, a practiced imitation of earlier. See how he likes it. See how they both like it.
"There you are," Fenris picks up his pace, harder and faster just for Astarion taking the matter into his own-- no, that's a horrible pun. Fenris just keeps from laughing.
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Right now his mind urges him elsewhere, down into the merger of their own bodies, into the relentless dig of satisfaction settling hot and harsh in the pit of his stomach, well beneath the efforts of his own white-knuckled fingers. Teeth at his neck nearing puncture scars and oh, oh his breath runs hard and high and far from lilting in its own unmasked existence: the marrow of himself, though even Astarion fails to recognize it where he's lost beneath the current.
No more smoke and mirrors. No more thinking, cheek to rumpled covers with a single spoken word snared between sighs: —more.
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"Tibi sum- ah, I have you," he murmurs into Astarion's hair, his neck, "Wonderful."
It finally lights a fire under his own self control, seeing Astarion panting and breathless, so caught up in his own pleasure. It's glorious. Fenris finally lets himself be lost, moaning softly against Astarion's neck.
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Wonderful indeed.
The rest is instinct, even levered against the bed he can still cant his hips into the pace Fenris sets, can still draw himself low enough that every thrust drags out more friction, more pressure, more lingering depth— and though he’s practiced enough to draw this out longer than it's taken for the room to go dark for lack of sunlight, in the end, he opts to indulge. In all of it.
His cheek meets Fenris’ own, or as close as he can manage, scuffing needily for attention in his own undoing— the lurid throes of a little death settling throughout with the violent, plunging wave of merciful profusion that blooms beneath his skin— loud enough the whole inn likely knows exactly what they’re up to.
Ask him if he cares.
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It leaves him chuckling, lightly. "We'll have to factor this into our cover; you've left us no secrets."
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Grin wearied by suffused numbness, so pleasant it makes even the finest wine seem like vinegar in concept. He plants a kiss to the beautifully high arch of Fenris’ cheek, chasing it with faint scuff of tame fangs, voice dangerously husky when he adds:
“Cheeky devil, did you think you were being clever trying to rile me.”
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"You like to complain. I was providing you the opportunity."
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