Fenris watches Astarion, and Astarion doesn't notice in the slightest, all too certain when he lifts two arched fingertips to gesture towards a dusky skyline only beginning to fade into sunset. Quieting down in so many ways. “Do you see that broken tower? That, love, is precisely where the ship that stole me away from Cazador crashed— just before your world stole me away from it, too.”
“Funny.”
And now he’s back, despite everything.
“I meant what I said,” he counters, the fleeting sharpness in his tone far from upset. It’s all seriousness, rare a thing as that is in the scope of his habitual musings. If Fenris wants there to be lines, there can be lines: all he needs to do is ask. “but...I imagine all those pets and parakeets will make for terribly easy prey.
And if I need to top myself off? I’ll go for nobility. The miserable creatures are always fainting anyway, no one would even think twice.”
"I have no experience in this realm," he means that on multiple levels, most mostly in the art of being a blood thief. Vampire. Whatever they're calling it. "I can only ask... if something goes wrong, do not hide it from me."
And then, in tones just short of despairing, "and be careful."
It’s a smooth, serpentine turn that has him near enough for touch. Fingertips hooking in beneath the fine edges of Fenris’ breastplate, anchoring. Dogs barking in the distance. A beautiful cacophony.
“No secrets.” He promises, eyes shadowed just so by the relaxed curve of his brow. “Not anymore.”
In the weeks to come, he’ll need to remember that. Oblivious now, and sweeter for it.
“What will you do, hmm? Should I send you out with coin to spare, for all the bets you’ll no doubt lose?”
"I won't gamble," he huffs, the closest he gets to Astarion's proud and practiced pout.
"I plan to scope out the city, see where money can be made. This place is prosperous. There must be a business suited for... unusual creatures." Such as themselves.
Astarion does love it so, the sight of Fenris unsettled. Chuffing like an irritable old— wolf, hm.
The pad of one of his thumbs digs in against that snared metal, giving it a bothersome little tug for the sake of furthering the fun of frustration for just a few seconds longer. No harm meant, no cruelty, just a touch of gentle payback for the last few weeks. He hasn’t forgotten, after all.
“Just don’t forget, darling, High Elves have privileges here. We’re not dregs, nor fugitives— we are esteemed, and that includes you.”
Fenris frowns, at Astarion's words and his insistence on tugging. He sets a hand to Astarion's hip, letting the sharpness of his gauntlets be felt. Not enough to harm, not enough to break the skin, but enough.
"High Elves," Fenris repeats. "I never asked you what that entailed."
He shivers slightly at the press of those claws, taking the hint, yes— and relenting for it— but the vividness of his enjoyment at what equates to teeth across a nape is entirely noticeable.
And then he’s all business.
“There are lots of elves here, you’ll find.” His fingertips remain against the contours of Fenris’ armor, feather light. Conversation casual, and just the same in tone. “Sometimes it all comes down to which god you serve— like the drow— you’ll know them when you see them. If you ever see them, that is, rare as they are above ground. Grey skin, pale hair.”
Very alluring creatures. Or harrowing. Depends.
“Copper elves are...mm, a bit like your Dalish, I think. They guard the woods and forests and smell like grass— I kid, of course. Mostly. Some do. Strong people regardless. They’re not much for regality.”
Unmistakable most of the time by his own measure, even the ones that make their living amongst city streets with modern advancements in tow rather than leafy bows and worked leather.
“High elves are, as I imagine you’ve already gathered, the venerated little slice that remains: we put the Fae in Faerun— ”
We, he says. Certain that as much as he was considered a Thedosian elf, Fenris is quite the High Elf here.
“That’s a joke. But, oh, never mind. The point is we began supposedly as beloved children of wild magics, and once we ventured out into the greater worlds became quite popular for our gentility and grace. We’re favored, is what I mean, at least as long as you’re not wandering through a goblin camp or a gnoll hideaway.”
Fenris listens, not quite believing it. He only just remembers to detach his gantlets from the pale prickle of Astarion's skin. A world where elves are favored, what a strange and impossible idea. But the elves here are tall and long-lived, holding offices of power, if Astarion is to be believed.
And Fenris does believe him, though on occasions like this, it takes some effort.
"I think I'll have to see this for myself," he says. "What... what would one make of me? My... looks."
He doesn't mean the shape of his nose or the green of his eye, but the markings and the armor. He can change his armor. Gradually, he'd prefer to go at his own pace, but he knows he'll have to. Some things, however, cannot be changed.
“I don’t know how much you’re willing to, but I suggest embracing it. Say the markings are magic— which they are, yes? You could be a dignified bladesinger, they are champions of our people, and frequently tattooed besides.”
One hand moves high from the leafing indents in rigid metal, tucking a few strands of pale white hair behind Fenris’ ear, revealing the edge of those spotted markings atop his brow.
“Just...mind the monster hunters. Still. It’s a different sort of danger in the city than on the roads, and I have no doubt most everyone you meet will be more deferential than suspicious, but...” this is all new for Fenris, no matter how familiar. The reversed image of his own struggles in Thedas, he thinks.
“Well, the more distance between us and noble paragons of monster-slaying virtue, the better. Same goes for overly any inquisitive warlocks. They deal in demons and curiosity by trade. Two things we don’t need in our lives.”
"Warlocks," Fenris repeats. The real blood mages of this place. Rarer, thankfully, but he's happy to have a name for it all the same. "I'll be a bladesinger, then. As long as I'm not expected to worship trees and ancient gods, I'll be whatever sort of elf you like."
One that pushes forward, slightly, to kiss Astarion. His hands go back to his waist, that prickle of metal on skin returning.
The chuckle it draws from Astarion is throaty, selfish. Any elf he likes?
“My very own bladesinger, then.” Sharp teeth snaring soft skin— brief, scuffing— the promise of danger as keen as those gauntlets, all withheld by their own mutual restraint.
“They’re quite rare, you know.” If Fenris is hungry, Astarion makes it clear he is always hungrier, fang-barbed kisses trailing down to meet the edge of that beautifully angled jaw. The dip of his collar, biting harsh into leather so the pooling of his false breath is noticeably there. “Solitary creatures. Evasive.”
Trust Astarion to turn that into an innuendo. And yet, stretching out underneath Astarion's dangerous kisses, Fenris finds he doesn't care. "I am-" His voice cracks with need. Embarrassing- "I am sure we can- make a convincing-..."
He looses patience for talk. Less than a moment's warning, and Fenris has shoved Astarion back into a wall, kissing at him harshly, sharp fingers pulling hungrily at the buttons of his fine clothing.
He loves it. Hitching breath, the stop-start, noticeable signs of Fenris’ own dismay— he’d draw it out indefinitely if he could.
Instead his back meets the cold wood of the wall behind them, that heady groan of approval he instinctively means to offer lost entirely beneath the weight of Fenris’ mouth, curls tangling just across the bridge of his nose. Those claws are keen, meant to rend no doubt, but Astarion certainly isn’t concerned about the state of either clasps or delicate buttons so much as he is finding freedom: selfishly turning his own fingertips to unlatching his belt, the bottom of his doublet— until their hands meet somewhere in the middle, leaving him to roughly shrug and pull his way out of leather and silk without displacing Fenris in the process.
“Speak to me in that strange language of yours,” he demands, the artful fingers he spares dipping low to unfasten the waistband of Fenris’ trousers. Does clothing dampen the pain of his markings? He can’t imagine where the line is drawn between vivid ache and dulled sensation— he should ask sometime. He—
Oh, later, he thinks uselessly to himself, using what little spare room he’s made to slide his hand down low, low between those perfect thighs in search of hidden heat.
Fenris has him against the wall, yes, but that hardly matters when it’s Astarion he’s dealing with.
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...
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.
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“Funny.”
And now he’s back, despite everything.
“I meant what I said,” he counters, the fleeting sharpness in his tone far from upset. It’s all seriousness, rare a thing as that is in the scope of his habitual musings. If Fenris wants there to be lines, there can be lines: all he needs to do is ask. “but...I imagine all those pets and parakeets will make for terribly easy prey.
And if I need to top myself off? I’ll go for nobility. The miserable creatures are always fainting anyway, no one would even think twice.”
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And then, in tones just short of despairing, "and be careful."
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“No secrets.” He promises, eyes shadowed just so by the relaxed curve of his brow. “Not anymore.”
In the weeks to come, he’ll need to remember that. Oblivious now, and sweeter for it.
“What will you do, hmm? Should I send you out with coin to spare, for all the bets you’ll no doubt lose?”
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"I plan to scope out the city, see where money can be made. This place is prosperous. There must be a business suited for... unusual creatures." Such as themselves.
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The pad of one of his thumbs digs in against that snared metal, giving it a bothersome little tug for the sake of furthering the fun of frustration for just a few seconds longer. No harm meant, no cruelty, just a touch of gentle payback for the last few weeks. He hasn’t forgotten, after all.
“Just don’t forget, darling, High Elves have privileges here. We’re not dregs, nor fugitives— we are esteemed, and that includes you.”
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"High Elves," Fenris repeats. "I never asked you what that entailed."
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And then he’s all business.
“There are lots of elves here, you’ll find.” His fingertips remain against the contours of Fenris’ armor, feather light. Conversation casual, and just the same in tone. “Sometimes it all comes down to which god you serve— like the drow— you’ll know them when you see them. If you ever see them, that is, rare as they are above ground. Grey skin, pale hair.”
Very alluring creatures. Or harrowing. Depends.
“Copper elves are...mm, a bit like your Dalish, I think. They guard the woods and forests and smell like grass— I kid, of course. Mostly. Some do. Strong people regardless. They’re not much for regality.”
Unmistakable most of the time by his own measure, even the ones that make their living amongst city streets with modern advancements in tow rather than leafy bows and worked leather.
“High elves are, as I imagine you’ve already gathered, the venerated little slice that remains: we put the Fae in Faerun— ”
We, he says. Certain that as much as he was considered a Thedosian elf, Fenris is quite the High Elf here.
“That’s a joke. But, oh, never mind. The point is we began supposedly as beloved children of wild magics, and once we ventured out into the greater worlds became quite popular for our gentility and grace. We’re favored, is what I mean, at least as long as you’re not wandering through a goblin camp or a gnoll hideaway.”
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And Fenris does believe him, though on occasions like this, it takes some effort.
"I think I'll have to see this for myself," he says. "What... what would one make of me? My... looks."
He doesn't mean the shape of his nose or the green of his eye, but the markings and the armor. He can change his armor. Gradually, he'd prefer to go at his own pace, but he knows he'll have to. Some things, however, cannot be changed.
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One hand moves high from the leafing indents in rigid metal, tucking a few strands of pale white hair behind Fenris’ ear, revealing the edge of those spotted markings atop his brow.
“Just...mind the monster hunters. Still. It’s a different sort of danger in the city than on the roads, and I have no doubt most everyone you meet will be more deferential than suspicious, but...” this is all new for Fenris, no matter how familiar. The reversed image of his own struggles in Thedas, he thinks.
“Well, the more distance between us and noble paragons of monster-slaying virtue, the better. Same goes for overly any inquisitive warlocks. They deal in demons and curiosity by trade. Two things we don’t need in our lives.”
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One that pushes forward, slightly, to kiss Astarion. His hands go back to his waist, that prickle of metal on skin returning.
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“My very own bladesinger, then.” Sharp teeth snaring soft skin— brief, scuffing— the promise of danger as keen as those gauntlets, all withheld by their own mutual restraint.
“They’re quite rare, you know.” If Fenris is hungry, Astarion makes it clear he is always hungrier, fang-barbed kisses trailing down to meet the edge of that beautifully angled jaw. The dip of his collar, biting harsh into leather so the pooling of his false breath is noticeably there. “Solitary creatures. Evasive.”
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He looses patience for talk. Less than a moment's warning, and Fenris has shoved Astarion back into a wall, kissing at him harshly, sharp fingers pulling hungrily at the buttons of his fine clothing.
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Instead his back meets the cold wood of the wall behind them, that heady groan of approval he instinctively means to offer lost entirely beneath the weight of Fenris’ mouth, curls tangling just across the bridge of his nose. Those claws are keen, meant to rend no doubt, but Astarion certainly isn’t concerned about the state of either clasps or delicate buttons so much as he is finding freedom: selfishly turning his own fingertips to unlatching his belt, the bottom of his doublet— until their hands meet somewhere in the middle, leaving him to roughly shrug and pull his way out of leather and silk without displacing Fenris in the process.
“Speak to me in that strange language of yours,” he demands, the artful fingers he spares dipping low to unfasten the waistband of Fenris’ trousers. Does clothing dampen the pain of his markings? He can’t imagine where the line is drawn between vivid ache and dulled sensation— he should ask sometime. He—
Oh, later, he thinks uselessly to himself, using what little spare room he’s made to slide his hand down low, low between those perfect thighs in search of hidden heat.
Fenris has him against the wall, yes, but that hardly matters when it’s Astarion he’s dealing with.
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"Felix natalis," Fenris murmurs, voice deep and dark. "Quanto stat cubiculum noctatim? Hoc est pretiosissimum."
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"Ah, so that's only allowed on your features?"
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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.
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onyxia takes a deep breath
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here's my also tired secret: I didn't even notice lmao
lmao good jOB us
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puts on my dm hat and wizard robe
avali oh my god.
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