Fenris frowns, studying Astarion. He knows the man prefers fantasy to fact, but hesitation could be dangerous. "We are both in danger. I do not see the point in waiting. Lament if I fail."
He doesn't think he can get Astarion's head in the place it needs to be in, but maybe he doesn't have to.
Fear, violent and surging in its suddenness, tears down every ounce of poised pretense Astarion works tirelessly to weave: panic cuts through his expression as he rises, fingers outstretched to snare Fenris’ wrist before he moves an inch, a meter, a thought—
Wait. Wait.
“You haven’t rested. You’ll need supplies. You don’t even know how far away he is.”
Fenris laughs. Just one little bark of a laugh, and he leans into Astarion's touch. His forehead finds Astarion's shoulder, and he stays there, smiling into Astarion's collarbone.
"I can't leave now." His voice is very fond. "I don't know enough yet. Soon, yes, but not quite."
It’s so logical a truth that it practically slaps him in the face, breathless enough that he might sound like it, too. “Yes, of course.”
Stupid of him, letting dire apprehension override sense. His fingers forced to slacken, though he replaces it shortly thereafter by combing a few arched fingertips down along the sloping feathering of Fenris’ hair. Calming.
He still has time. They still have time.
“I’ll do what I can in the meanwhile. But you should rest.”
"As should you," Fenris says, but he doesn't fuss. Astarion will do what he pleases, as ever. Fenris is only lucky the man's interest has fallen in his direction for so long. "Do you need to feed?"
Yes, is the answer. He’d spent everything last night, more than usual, and with Fenris so close the steady feel of a pulse pressed against him is overwhelmingly tempting.
But he hasn’t an appetite. The thought alone makes him feel monstrous for a change— more so than usual. Closer to Cazador, and less to roaming pleasure.
“No, darling.” His hold on Fenris withdraws; he doesn’t push him away, but even in gentleness, it’s close. “For once, I’m really not in the mood.”
Now isn't the time to try and untangle Astarion's truths from his lies. Fenris has noticed the two are most intermingled when it comes to matters of blood and feeding, but that is... what it is, quite simply. Fenris cannot change the man, and does not, truly, wish to, unless it is Astarion's will to do so.
Fenris has already pushed for much, digging deeper and deeper for information Astarion does not wish to give. And the next day, he asks for yet more-- everything Astarion can remember about the layout of Cazador's lair, which groups to avoid, who is in Cazador's pocket. Anything that can be recalled is useful, and Fenris asks for it all, before committing it solidly to memory.
It takes two days for Fenris to outline a plan. He doesn't tell Astarion what it is. "For safety," Fenris says, the night before he intends to set out. "If you are... compromised."
It’s a constant, those questions, those ceaseless inquiries. Painfully drawn, more painfully given, and while he at times attempts to distract away from still more canvassing and made plans, ultimately he never once bites. Pun intended.
For safety, Fenris says, and though he’s right to take the precaution, Astarion can’t stifle the bitter, rueful laugh that slips out, transparent as glass.
“Darling if I’m compromised, I probably won’t need to know your plan anyway.” He catches Fenris’ face between his hands, thumbs framing high cheekbones as he draws himself unbearably close. It feels like the precipice of something terrible, and he wonders if Fenris feels the same sense of foreboding— or is it all determination in that pretty skull of his. So young and headstrong and ever steadfast, determined to make the world turn. “I know you.”
One hand lowers to snare Fenris’ own when he kisses him, feverish and wanting but made without the scrape of sharp teeth. More human, less feral. He could make all of this unnecessary if he had a mind to. He puts those armored claws over his own heart to that end, weighing the feel of it.
Isn’t it funny— and wretchedly pitiful— that he still fears oblivion more than servitude. He knows what it all means for him, how unbearable eternity will be, and nothingness should be a balm compared to that. Anyone sane would think so.
He wants a third choice. Another way. None has shown itself. No one and nothing coming gallantly to their rescue to make this easy.
It makes him wish he’d known where the others had gone, those tadpole-cursed creatures. Not friends, but— resources, maybe. Allies, yes. Of course it’s been ages now, they’re probably all dead.
Or changed.
He doesn’t notice he’s pressed hard enough on those talons to draw blood. Frozen in place with his fingers locked tight.
Fenris watches Astarion lose himself in dark thoughts. Fenris cannot part those clouds, except by extinguishing the sky itself, it seems. If that is the challenge, so be it.
He moves to speak, to offer assurances where comfort doesn't live, when he notices- "Astarion," Fenris' voice is firm. "What does bleeding do to a vampire?"
He doesn't move his hand; he'll only hurt Astarion worse.
He notices the shift in focus. Notices the sting, and— his grip relaxes. He doesn’t know if he wants it to, but he wouldn’t force Fenris to do anything either. Wouldn’t be fair.
“Weakens us, same as lack of feeding. But you’d need to draw a lot of it to make an elder vampire sluggish, and...he’ll heal naturally on his own, quick as a burned wick.”
If only Astarion had something similar, he might be more useful right now.
“A thousand cuts? Maybe. But who has that kind of time?”
Fenris considers clarifying his plan; he doesn't intend to kill the creature with his own sword, as satisfying as that would be. But, no, he can't. He can't tell Astarion anything. Not even if it would bring him comfort.
Fenris isn't, actually, sure he can bring Astarion any comfort.
"I leave at daybreak tomorrow," Fenris says instead, but his eyes are on that hand, the blood welling up. "You should leave as well. Go farther from Baldur's Gate."
This time Astarion withdraws completely, almost as if reeling from something. A bite, an unwelcome sentiment— an instruction he doesn’t like.
The marks remain, faint little crimson lines across pale skin, harmless.
“And go where, exactly? How will I find you? How will you find me? What if you don’t come back at all?”
If this were anyone else, Astarion would be convinced this is a ruse. A lie to— abandon him, or all responsibility. A pretty little tale about a knight going off to fight a dragon and never coming home, except of course that knight’s slung up his armor, and he’s taking his drink one town over. But that reflexive thought dies the second it slithers up in his mind: he knows Fenris. The man would kill himself a thousand times over if it meant keeping his word. Astarion trusts in that.
But this? This is a tall ask. Taller than everything else so far.
“If I leave, neither of us will know the other is safe.”
“I don’t rightly expect so.” His exhale is slow, careful. He doesn’t even realize Fenris is suspicious, and so he doesn’t paint himself with false bravado or glory.
Maybe he’s just too tired to.
“Depends on how much damage you do beforehand. Devastate enough of the coven and...maybe. I could come crawling back. Play at being a puppet as long as the shard holds out. Bide my time for an opportunity to throw us both out into the sun.”
Fenris' suspicions continue to mount. Almost fondly, he says, "I won't sacrifice you for him."
He does not reach out with his hand, still bloodied from Astarion's earlier attempts. He leans forward instead, a quick and awkward kiss to Astarion's jaw. "Without you, this world holds no purpose."
“So I’m just to sacrifice you, then.” Thats what it’s about, really. He’d be committing suicide trying to get Fenris out of there, but at least then they’d be equal.
As it is, he’ll be fleeing like a gutless coward and leaving Fenris to the cruelties of whatever wind finds him.
“Because it’ll take a damned miracle for this to work which— yes, if anyone out there were capable of pulling it off, it’d be you. But it...” his fingertips are raised, tensed and poised to fend off something that isn’t here, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself otherwise. Which is why he reaches forward after that kiss to hook his fingers at the edges of Fenris’ breastplate, holding fast. “It isn’t fair.”
“I thought he’d taken everything from me already. I thought to myself I’d never give him anything else that could possibly hurt. Now I’m sending the only thing that matters right into his teeth, and I’m having to trust that it’ll be fine.”
He cranes his neck forwards in that narrow space, his kiss deliberate and far from glancing; his contact demanding, even when he breaks momentarily for one last confession, the words pooling against Fenris’ skin.
It only occurs to Fenris just now, what they're doing. "Ah- hmm." He looks away, embarrassed by his shortsightedness. He always gets so distracted by causes, anger and bitter revenge, he forgets... bodies and the feelings that come with them.
All the feelings except anger, anyway.
"What- hmm. What pleases you?" Entirely unerotic. Fenris tries again. "I know you have... fantasies."
“Really?” A glimpse of a spark behind those eyes, eagerness taking shape by the second as it eclipses pain; his moods, as always, are as shifting as sand in a sharp wind.
If this is to be farewell, then at least it’ll be a good one. That, he can live with, he thinks. Better than sullen thoughts and darker skies.
“On the bed, then. Armor off. I’ll just be a moment.”
And Fenris is pleased to see Astarion in better spirits, as much as such commands leave Fenris nervy and unsure. He likes sex best when it's spontaneous, unplanned, with minimal time to think or worry over it. Taking off his armor, Fenris sits on the bed, staring at his toes.
At least he isn't worrying about Baldur's Gate and Cazador and his lover dead and stranded. That's... something.
Fenris' mood has a tendency to shift as well, though perhaps not as obviously as some.
In a way, it is spontaneous. Rough-cut. That Astarion’s kept pocketed a checklist of things he wants to do to Fenris is more a matter of long-held desire rather than a rehearsed performance; he slithers like a snake to straddle Fenris when he returns, still sporting nothing but his trousers and a look of proud, wanton intent— vivid red silk clutched just in one hand.
Nervousness on Fenris’ part is fine. Fair, even. But he takes care to measure the look of it before he lowers himself in perching over him, just to be sure it isn’t fear. Satisfied, he presses Fenris to the mattress, marking the edge of his jaw with mild, doting kisses— speaking between every scuffing catch.
“Now, no matter what happens, I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not going to bite.” Cazador and all his gifts aren’t welcome here tonight. This, the moment they’re going to share, the fantasy of it, is for them. Nothing more.
Well, mostly Astarion. But he’s a generous lover, even at his most selfish. So there’s that.
“If you want me to stop— need me to stop— all you have to do is ask.”
To that end, he takes that strip of crimson silk and lowers it— steadily— across the span of Fenris’ eyes.
Fenris is kissed and calmed until he sees the silk strip, and then his eyes cannot leave it. He doesn't move, doesn't goes rigid, just lies in waiting until-
Is it that he can't take it anymore, or that his worries are confirmed? It feels like both. The suspense breaks on a claustrophobic desire to see.
"Yes- No. Not- no, not that." He pulls the cloth from his eyes. "No. I won't."
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He doesn't think he can get Astarion's head in the place it needs to be in, but maybe he doesn't have to.
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Fear, violent and surging in its suddenness, tears down every ounce of poised pretense Astarion works tirelessly to weave: panic cuts through his expression as he rises, fingers outstretched to snare Fenris’ wrist before he moves an inch, a meter, a thought—
Wait. Wait.
“You haven’t rested. You’ll need supplies. You don’t even know how far away he is.”
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"I can't leave now." His voice is very fond. "I don't know enough yet. Soon, yes, but not quite."
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It’s so logical a truth that it practically slaps him in the face, breathless enough that he might sound like it, too. “Yes, of course.”
Stupid of him, letting dire apprehension override sense. His fingers forced to slacken, though he replaces it shortly thereafter by combing a few arched fingertips down along the sloping feathering of Fenris’ hair. Calming.
He still has time. They still have time.
“I’ll do what I can in the meanwhile. But you should rest.”
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But he hasn’t an appetite. The thought alone makes him feel monstrous for a change— more so than usual. Closer to Cazador, and less to roaming pleasure.
“No, darling.” His hold on Fenris withdraws; he doesn’t push him away, but even in gentleness, it’s close. “For once, I’m really not in the mood.”
“Go back to bed. Make yourself comfortable.”
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Fenris has already pushed for much, digging deeper and deeper for information Astarion does not wish to give. And the next day, he asks for yet more-- everything Astarion can remember about the layout of Cazador's lair, which groups to avoid, who is in Cazador's pocket. Anything that can be recalled is useful, and Fenris asks for it all, before committing it solidly to memory.
It takes two days for Fenris to outline a plan. He doesn't tell Astarion what it is. "For safety," Fenris says, the night before he intends to set out. "If you are... compromised."
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For safety, Fenris says, and though he’s right to take the precaution, Astarion can’t stifle the bitter, rueful laugh that slips out, transparent as glass.
“Darling if I’m compromised, I probably won’t need to know your plan anyway.” He catches Fenris’ face between his hands, thumbs framing high cheekbones as he draws himself unbearably close. It feels like the precipice of something terrible, and he wonders if Fenris feels the same sense of foreboding— or is it all determination in that pretty skull of his. So young and headstrong and ever steadfast, determined to make the world turn. “I know you.”
One hand lowers to snare Fenris’ own when he kisses him, feverish and wanting but made without the scrape of sharp teeth. More human, less feral. He could make all of this unnecessary if he had a mind to. He puts those armored claws over his own heart to that end, weighing the feel of it.
Isn’t it funny— and wretchedly pitiful— that he still fears oblivion more than servitude. He knows what it all means for him, how unbearable eternity will be, and nothingness should be a balm compared to that. Anyone sane would think so.
He wants a third choice. Another way. None has shown itself. No one and nothing coming gallantly to their rescue to make this easy.
It makes him wish he’d known where the others had gone, those tadpole-cursed creatures. Not friends, but— resources, maybe. Allies, yes. Of course it’s been ages now, they’re probably all dead.
Or changed.
He doesn’t notice he’s pressed hard enough on those talons to draw blood. Frozen in place with his fingers locked tight.
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He moves to speak, to offer assurances where comfort doesn't live, when he notices- "Astarion," Fenris' voice is firm. "What does bleeding do to a vampire?"
He doesn't move his hand; he'll only hurt Astarion worse.
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“Weakens us, same as lack of feeding. But you’d need to draw a lot of it to make an elder vampire sluggish, and...he’ll heal naturally on his own, quick as a burned wick.”
If only Astarion had something similar, he might be more useful right now.
“A thousand cuts? Maybe. But who has that kind of time?”
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Fenris isn't, actually, sure he can bring Astarion any comfort.
"I leave at daybreak tomorrow," Fenris says instead, but his eyes are on that hand, the blood welling up. "You should leave as well. Go farther from Baldur's Gate."
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The marks remain, faint little crimson lines across pale skin, harmless.
“And go where, exactly? How will I find you? How will you find me? What if you don’t come back at all?”
If this were anyone else, Astarion would be convinced this is a ruse. A lie to— abandon him, or all responsibility. A pretty little tale about a knight going off to fight a dragon and never coming home, except of course that knight’s slung up his armor, and he’s taking his drink one town over. But that reflexive thought dies the second it slithers up in his mind: he knows Fenris. The man would kill himself a thousand times over if it meant keeping his word. Astarion trusts in that.
But this? This is a tall ask. Taller than everything else so far.
“If I leave, neither of us will know the other is safe.”
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Fenris frowns, brings his hands up to gesture... something. The immensity of it. Somehow, he can make white-knuckled fists without stabbing himself.
"Every day of travel you are from him is another day of... chance. Possibility."
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Rescue. The word sounds stupid even to his mind as he says it.
But he would, he thinks, if it came to that.
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He wonders, with no small amount of worry, how much information Astarion has dramatized.
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Maybe he’s just too tired to.
“Depends on how much damage you do beforehand. Devastate enough of the coven and...maybe. I could come crawling back. Play at being a puppet as long as the shard holds out. Bide my time for an opportunity to throw us both out into the sun.”
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He does not reach out with his hand, still bloodied from Astarion's earlier attempts. He leans forward instead, a quick and awkward kiss to Astarion's jaw. "Without you, this world holds no purpose."
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As it is, he’ll be fleeing like a gutless coward and leaving Fenris to the cruelties of whatever wind finds him.
“Because it’ll take a damned miracle for this to work which— yes, if anyone out there were capable of pulling it off, it’d be you. But it...” his fingertips are raised, tensed and poised to fend off something that isn’t here, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself otherwise. Which is why he reaches forward after that kiss to hook his fingers at the edges of Fenris’ breastplate, holding fast. “It isn’t fair.”
“I thought he’d taken everything from me already. I thought to myself I’d never give him anything else that could possibly hurt. Now I’m sending the only thing that matters right into his teeth, and I’m having to trust that it’ll be fine.”
He cranes his neck forwards in that narrow space, his kiss deliberate and far from glancing; his contact demanding, even when he breaks momentarily for one last confession, the words pooling against Fenris’ skin.
“And I’ve never been any good at that.”
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With careful hands, Fenris moves to unhook himself from Astarion's grip. "Leaving will buy me more time. And perhaps distract you from fretting."
He can hope.
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Be weak for once, Fenris.
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All the feelings except anger, anyway.
"What- hmm. What pleases you?" Entirely unerotic. Fenris tries again. "I know you have... fantasies."
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If this is to be farewell, then at least it’ll be a good one. That, he can live with, he thinks. Better than sullen thoughts and darker skies.
“On the bed, then. Armor off. I’ll just be a moment.”
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At least he isn't worrying about Baldur's Gate and Cazador and his lover dead and stranded. That's... something.
Fenris' mood has a tendency to shift as well, though perhaps not as obviously as some.
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Nervousness on Fenris’ part is fine. Fair, even. But he takes care to measure the look of it before he lowers himself in perching over him, just to be sure it isn’t fear. Satisfied, he presses Fenris to the mattress, marking the edge of his jaw with mild, doting kisses— speaking between every scuffing catch.
“Now, no matter what happens, I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not going to bite.” Cazador and all his gifts aren’t welcome here tonight. This, the moment they’re going to share, the fantasy of it, is for them. Nothing more.
Well, mostly Astarion. But he’s a generous lover, even at his most selfish. So there’s that.
“If you want me to stop— need me to stop— all you have to do is ask.”
To that end, he takes that strip of crimson silk and lowers it— steadily— across the span of Fenris’ eyes.
“Do you trust me, darling?”
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Is it that he can't take it anymore, or that his worries are confirmed? It feels like both. The suspense breaks on a claustrophobic desire to see.
"Yes- No. Not- no, not that." He pulls the cloth from his eyes. "No. I won't."
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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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1/2
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ur perfect this is perfect sh shh
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