albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

“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.

He wants everything. To try everything, now. It’s like the first plunge breaking the surface of deep, dark water, realizing only in the depths of it that there won’t be any drowning or sinking involved. Fenris isn’t so brittle as to break under his hands.

And it leaves him greedy.

He thinks of blindfolds, heated oils, toys, exhibitionism, food, even— knowing it’ll taste absolutely like ash— but it’d be amusing all the same. No magic, of course, but there’s other ventures to be had in realms of alternating sensation even without it. He wants to ask for all of it even here and now, when there’s nothing in the slightest that could possibly be used to that end in a barren little loft without light.

And he exhales, pleased, around the span of Fenris’ shoulder, smiling briefly despite himself— losing hold of that grin only a moment later when something catches in his nerves after a particularly resonating thrust, prompting an undignified almost-cough of a sound, dragging his cheek along the edge of Fenris’ collarbone for a single, grounding moment, even as he does nothing to slow his own pace.

“Damn you for being so bloody handsome— ”

Fingers dragging at those hips, his focus so unfixed that he might as well be speaking about the memory of Fenris rather than the way the man actually looks in the shadows coiled around them— though he reaches high with one hand a beat later (the line of his own lust-drunken gaze following suit) when he presses the edge of his thumb across Fenris’ lips. Just to feel. To explore a little further. Greedy, always greedy.

Fenris feels a thumb at his lip (he has long since closed his eyes), and turns his head. A moment later, he turns back to bite it. On a whim, but he thinks Astarion will like it; biting the vampire.

The pleasure, the pressure, and the pain of it all mix into sensations Fenris can't entirely map. Lost in it, Fenris feels it all rising toward climax. He ducks his head forward, gasping into the hollow between Astarion's throat and shoulder. He means to warn Astarion when he speaks, but it comes out in Tevene, and Fenris doesn't think to translate.

The irony isn’t at all wasted on him: Astarion revels in the symbolism of being bitten rather than just being lavished with softer attention, though it’s hard to know if Fenris’ response is thoughtful or— all teeth, so to speak.

But he doesn’t need a warning. He doesn’t even need to hear those thin-edged, beautiful words to know Fenris nears the pinnacle of his performance. He’s tighter— tense— locked and yet in motion as much as need, and Astarion is fluent in the physical languages, even if he can’t make sense of Tevene. That hand at Fenris’ neck slides down, palming at his jaw— then the back of his neck where it meets his hair, tight-cinched and searching. The other is already moved from hip to waist, set low and stroking at Fenris with feverish insistence on surrender, unwilling not to add to the no doubt overwhelming wash of sensation that’s already snared him.

With Astarion tugging at him, teasing him out, Fenris hasn't a chance of postponing himself. On some instinct with source long forgotten, he attempts to muffle it, his moans restricted to the vibrations made against Astarion's skin.

The pleasure builds up and explodes inside him, more furious and aching than before. It mixes with pain and bitterness, memory and fear, and the maelstrom stops, twisting, in his mind. In the center of that white-hot pleasure-pain, for one blessed moment, he feels nothing at all.

And then he is slack and boneless in Astarion's arms, panting feverishly.

Astarion is slower, of course, but that doesn’t mean much when he knows what key notes to hit in himself: he lessens his pace to a near crawl in everything— he doesn’t want to interrupt that gentle bliss that has Fenris so unfurled against him— focusing instead on all the little things. Heat, touch, need, every heaving breath that’s exhaled slow against his own skin and, gods—

It doesn’t take much more of that before he arches, sound pinned tight to the back of his throat, eyes rolling as they close. It isn’t some panting, feverish climax this time; he’s lost in simpler pleasures instead, his fingers tight as he grips the edges of Fenris’ arms, undone.

Fenris lies there, breathing in Astarion's exhalations. It smells like his blood, and that makes him feel absurdly warm. It's almost surreal that should feel so comforting, so close.

When he catches his breath a but more, he moves slightly, kissing Astarion's forehead, his brow, whatever he can reach without having to move too much. He should say something. He can't think of what.

Astarion, all smooth curvature for a change, chuckles for it— one eye closed, feeling utterly adored for once. Not chased after, not coveted, not kept, just—

Wanted.

And the noise he makes at the tail end of it is laced with that elation, though it’s tempered by the way he turns his head away from it on instinct— and then turns back towards Fenris’ sharp-lined features, chasing them with his own, nosing at everything he can find. It’s safe, after all, isn’t it? This isn’t a game between them.

He’s playing for keeps now.

“I’m shocked you’re still awake.” wry-edged, teasing.

"Not for long." Indeed, Fenris' usually keen voice is drowsy, almost sloppy with it. He begins, limbs heavy with lassitude, to crawl away, grabbing at extra bedding cast aside earlier. "You cannot blame me; you are... rather skilled at keeping me awake."

As innuendos go, it isn't his best. He doesn't care, and it's clear from the pleased smile on his face, clear in the moonlight as he wraps himself in blankets just out of Astarion's reach. The expression on his face is openly adoring.

“Skilled enough at putting you to bed, too.” Pride lives in those words, even if his eyes are shut, still sprawled out listlessly on his back and utterly content to remain exactly so.

For all his usual bravado, and for all the blood in his veins, warming him from the inside out, he is quite tired.

Sleep comes on quick. Morning quicker.

Yartar is a strange city compared to either Baldur’s Gate or Kirkwall: an abundance of agricultural resources translates into a unique wealth of opportunity, even without coin directly involved. It makes affixing himself to the nearest fete or salon a challenging prospect at first— he’d expected to swan in like some mysterious, masked, ravishing figure, scandalous for being uninvited and desired for that mystery. Instead, the parties are all too large, held outdoors in balmy weather, and more like festivals than anything he’s familiar with.

So by way of immediate connections, he strikes out. Still, the rich that attend those soirées leave their quarters unguarded, which means that while he finds his footing in those first few weeks he almost always returns with gleaming jewels and a few coins to spare. The occasional glistening tart or fine bottle of wine left as a gift for Fenris.

He comes home late, after all.

And it’s only a couple of weeks in when Astarion begins scrabbling in the night, fast asleep. His breathing quick, his teeth restlessly bared.

And Fenris, shockingly, sells his sword for coin. It begins in bouts, upsetting local champions, and then hired excursions. Short ones. He's never out of the city for more than a day. This country, this land, this world is unknown to him. It would be foolish to linger in unknown territory for too long. Even when he comes home to nothing, it is still a gift.

One night, he wakes to an odd sound. Eyes open in moonlit darkness, he identifies it easily. He's never seen it, but he's felt the shake of nightmares. He knows what ails Astarion.

Waking him quickly will only result in more pain. Fenris watches him, and draws cool wine from their makeshift meal table. He sits by the bed and waits for Astarion to wake himself. Fenris will be ready when the time comes.

By way of gentle aid, he lets out a low, thin whistle. Hopefully that's enough to prick elven ears. Otherwise, he can't reach out, can't shake a flailing man. Astarion would feel no better, upon waking, to learn he'd struck Fenris in his fear-addled sleep.

When he jolts upright, either to that sound or the snap of a dream brought willfully to an end, the first sensation that hits him is nausea— brimming and sickly, running high beneath his ribs. He does not recognize Fenris for a half-second, more silhouette than man to a waking gaze, those red eyes livid with brimming hate—

And then he retches, a cough of a sound, dry and useless owing to the fact that there’s nothing in his stomach to shed. Just once.

“Damn it—” The back of his hand to his forehead, his eyes, only for a moment. Everything feels slower in the wake of it. More grounded.

“Did I wake you?”

"Yes," Fenris says. No point in lying. Fenris offers the half-filled goblet of wine, because it's just about the only thing he can do. "You don't have to talk about it," he says, because it's what he'd want to hear, their places reversed, "unless you wish to."

“Ahah.”

He doesn’t. The opportunity is pleasant for what it is, but—

He reaches out for that offering, smoothing back his own curls and inhaling so deeply that the feeling of filling his lungs overwrites just about everything else. Not that it’s useful, really, all things considered he can’t do much with the air he’s stolen aside from cycle it right back out again, but sometimes old habits are old comforts.

“Bad enough our schedules are swapped, busy as we are.” He’s settled sideways to look at Fenris, one leg folded, goblet tucked between his hands— easing back against the wall behind his bed as a sign that his hackles aren’t still viciously raised. He realizes then it’s been too long since they were overtly selfish. He hasn’t spoken to Fenris about much of anything aside from passing matters as either one or the other comes or goes or sinks away into sleep. “Now I’ve got you awake on mine.”

It isn’t a delicate segue that lands next. More impulse than grace, fingertips fiddling with the stem of his cup as he thinks.

“You know, I never asked you what you thought of it. This world. My world, I suppose, now that you’re getting so fondly acquainted with it.”

Fenris considers the question. "It is... more a challenge than an escape."

He reaches over to pour himself some wine as well. "But... appreciable. Learning a new world with an ally is far superior to learning of one in captivity."

He means it as a compliment, and has no clue if that comes across.

If anyone could grasp that, it’s Astarion. Doubly so now, when he’s all wound down in the dark, putting the whole of his focus on Fenris instead. It isn’t doting foolishness that has him stuck on mapping the angles of that face, the hang of his hair or the exact shade of green caught in passing glances.

The edge of his lip twitches, pulling slightly upwards.

“So, if a rift were to open up this very instant, right there where we could both reach it,” said with a flickering gesture made by slender fingertips towards a sunken corner of the loft, all muted curiosity.

“Would you take it? Go home? Go back to Kirkwall? Antiva, perhaps? Rivain?”

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