albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

Fenris shivers under that touch, and chooses to ignore it. "Monster hunters? What an idiotic profession."

But he can understand the hesitance. Privately, he suspects he'll be in more trouble than Astarion; his markings are more visibly monstrous. Then again-

"I worry more about the magic of this place. I've heard it's more... wild. Mages are allowed to terrorize whoever they like."

“I know we don’t see eye to eye on everything, but trust me when I say Thedosian abstinence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Oh, of course some abuse their power, as much as they’d abuse anyone even without it— but there’s a happy medium to be found, and most people are more inclined to survive and leave well enough alone: magic or otherwise.”

He decides he likes that little shiver. It’s such a rare thing, seeing the man at his side indulging in more than just anger or soured brooding like a caged drake. Still, he doesn’t chase the idea of another just yet, turning the back of his hand just slightly, and letting his knuckles dust their way down the elegant muscle of Fenris’ throat right down to the high cuff of his armor.

“Besides, if you’re as much a magnet for it as I suspect, you might even count yourself among the cantrip-using sort eventually. And wouldn’t that be something.”

A pause, just before a sharp intake of breath, as if remembering something important:

“—oh but don’t worry. Monster hunters and mages aside, I’ll be here to keep you safe. Just...remember I can’t loiter in water for too long, and that if anyone asks, we’re high elves, the both of us. Nice, decent high elves.”

"I will believe it when I see it," a promise, though it comes off as more of a threat in Fenris' voice. And, honestly, it will take a lot of seeing to engender the smallest of belief.

The pleasure-pain of Astarion's knuckles brushing over his throat and the markings there, though- that clears his mind of anything else. A stray hand, still gauntleted, grabs at Astarion's side, attempting to draw him closer.

"I will protect you in turn."

What's a high elf, he should be asking, but he can't bring his mind to it.

"You know I hate it when you're sweet like that."

It's said gently, all softness in the wake of that arm now wrapped round his middle. An anchor he won't divorce himself from, letting the rest of his muscles go slack with a sigh of utter concession: fine, fine, you've earned it, Fenris. His spine turning lax as he rolls back to lie down across grass and piss-poor excuse for bedding where it's bundled up behind them, dragging Fenris along with him and granting them both a view of wide, starry, starry skies.

"Gods, I'm never going to be able to wash all this dirt off me. I blame you, you know."

"Only you would confuse truth for sweetness."

Fenris works quickly to keep any sharp edges of his armor from hitting Astarion, which... is rather silly, isn't it? He sits up again, taking off his pauldrons and gauntlets, leaving only his breatplate and vest (and, you know, pants). The action leaves a fair bit of his markings on display, yet he feels he can trust Astarion with that. He feels he can trust him with anything.

Settling down again, his head rests awkwardly at Astarion's shoulder, his body stuff. He's lost some of that easy, thoughtless comfort that came from... bloodletting.

His life never goes in the direction he expects.

He closes his eyes, willing away that feeling of trespassing. He oughtn't be here, taking what isn't his, what he cannot handle. "You'll get it off," he murmurs, "I'll take whatever blame makes you feel better."

Edited (well IM going to SLEEP) 2021-05-15 03:49 (UTC)

“That’s because your truths dwell outside other people’s cruelties.”

Normally he’d say it’s because his conversational partner doesn’t know them like he does— people, that is. All their monstrous little flaws, all the ways they like to hurt someone else, just to make themselves feel better.

But he can’t do that with Fenris, and he knows it.

No, somehow the man at his side is just naturally kind at the core, and it’s so terribly infuriating to think someone like him ever suffered so much. Astarion, at the very least, feels far more deserving of his own miseries.

“Mm. Well. Blaming you never was as much fun as it should be.”

Fenris chuckles, a deep sound in his throat, and curls a little closer for the comfort of it. Astarion's prevarications always manage to set him at ease. Once he realized how much was frippery, it was easy to spot the truths, and Astarion became a straight-forward man with a penchant for ruffles, both verbal and physical. Both suited him.

"How so?" A smile drifts unbidden onto his face.

“How so, he asks, as if he doesn’t already know.”

But— no, this is Fenris they’re talking about: it’s entirely possible he hasn’t the slightest notion of why Astarion can’t seem to bring himself to bite. Figuratively speaking, anyway.

So there’s a tepid little sigh as he realizes (between the unmasked vulnerability of shed armor and the sight of those tattoos in the dark) that he’s not going to be able to play coy anymore. He’s careful where he brushes his hand around slight shoulders, not wanting to inflict more pain when they’re both drowsing down.

“Others deserve it more than you. Martyrdom. Hells, I’d rather blame myself every time I step in a puddle or blind myself in the glint of that armor of yours.”

The latter of course, is always his fault. He should know better than to stare.

“You make it very difficult— no, you make everything difficult”

Even so, he sounds fond of that fact, his voice gone as soft as a murmur when he adds:

“But I find I like that about you.”

It is something Fenris had missed. Yes, he'd noted that they had a strong friendship, and Fenris had valued that. But clearly Fenris had missed the depth of it. What Astarion describes is almost selfless, a term Fenris is sure Astarion would loathe to hear ascribed to him.

Gently, tentatively, Fenris worms closer, his breath now lingering on Astarion's throat. "I feel the same."

He inhales. It’s such a pointless habit, being vampire spawn and all, but there’s no helping it. The warmth of that breath, the sound of his voice— no, the promise that he feels the same, perhaps—

Astarion doesn’t mean to shiver, only does.

“You’re far too tempting right now.” A man stumbling blindly into darker waters with that closeness, that’s what Fenris is. Best to warn of it now, before there’s no turning back.

“I’ve already had a taste, but if you stay like this, darling...I’m not sure I’ll be able to play tame.”

Fenris isn't a complete idiot when it comes to these matters. He only wants to be wanted back, and that finally acknowledged, he melts happily into Astarion's side, contented.

"Tomorrow," Fenris says. "I was promised a bed."

And... he has plans for the morning. He's no good with romantic gestures, but practical ones, he hopes, will do the trick just as well.

"I will stay as I am. I know your strengths."

“Tomorrow indeed.” Nothing more than a faint chuckle, all breath-light and pleased for reasons he hardly needs to voice; sometimes that forthcomingness takes even him entirely by surprise.

No, not sometimes. Most of the time, in fact. Old as he is and still there’s new wonders to be discovered.

His nails brush slow and sweet across unmarked skin, his eyes lidded. Nighttime doesn’t call him to rest, but companionship does, and he hopes that— for his own sake of well-intentioned self control— Fenris will forgive him for applying the faintest little spell here between them. Not a full glamor, only a glimmer of it: numbing and pleasant, something to dull pain and incite bewitchingly peaceful rest.

If Fenris knew magic were being cast on him, he'd have stern words. But the magic of Astarion's world is different from Thedas, less colorful, more difficult to see and sense. He trusts Astarion, and assumes this lovely feeling is simply being close to another person in your total trust and intimate embrace.

In the morning, Fenris moves quietly, attempting not to wake Astarion as he goes on a hunt. He's good at moving quickly and quietly, or he'd be very dead by now. As it is, he's got his armor back on, sword in hand, disappeared into the wood near their campfire.

Thus, Astarion may wake to either the sound of Fenris quickly leaving, or later, the sound of a squealing animal in pain. From the underbrush, Fenris emerges with a boar over his shoulder, hefting the huge creature as though it were half the weight it is. It is not tied, but all its legs appear broken, and whatever tusks it once had were clearly pulled out, leaving bloody stumps.

Fenris lays it down before Astarion. "There," he says, pride obvious in his voice, "no vermes for you."

It's a lucky thing coming back from Thedas hasn't rescinded all the benefits of illithid tadpole-possession: he's well overslept by the time that screeching reaches his long ears, half laid in sunlight and jolting upright to put himself fully in it and—

Oh.

A few fingers reach up to brush across the side of his own cheek in bewilderment, most obviously at the tusks, which were done clearly out of courtesy, as though Fenris hadn't realized that Astarion has dined on this particular type of creature in all its full fury many a time without trouble. Or perhaps he simply wished to be kind, mutilating the pitiful thing thus.

Either way, he's entirely charmed. The corners of his own lips curling faintly upwards after a brief pause, as though this were a gift of flowers rather than a screaming, bleeding, bawling beast.

"Breakfast in bed, whatever did I do to deserve such a luxury?"

Asked as he rises, dusting his clothes before moving over to settle the beast with a lulling press of his hand to its throat, inciting a calm, painless stillness. "A moment, if you please."

It's rude to watch a man eat if you're not partaking, Fenris.

Fenris takes a moment, allowing himself the momentary pride of a job done well. He does not linger in it. A quick kiss, stolen more than given, and he turns his back to Astarion, sword and whetstone in hand.

"Take your time," he says, "I will keep watch."

The sunny pride stays in his voice despite himself. It's rare he can anticipate the needs of someone, rarer still that his hunches work out.

Gods, blushing at a chaste little kiss like that? He ought to be embarrassed, laughed right out of undeath for it. Still, he’d argue it isn’t his fault: the man’s so devoted in his commitment to stony dignity that any divergence is like stolen gold. He covets it for that alone, the lingering warmth still dashed across his lips.

And then it’s business, before that boar bleeds out through its own mangled maw.

Ugly work, distasteful— necessary. Better than rats, yes, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to thinking of a lengthy stretch of neck marked by pale silver leylines. A dream he’ll keep entirely to himself, thank you.

It takes enough time to finish feeding and cleaning away (dust and blood alike, of course) that the sun’s moved higher towards midday when he slithers once more over to Fenris’ side.

“Well, I feel refreshed.” A light beat, paused when one single thought comes to mind. “Tell me you’ve eaten.”

"I caught my own breakfast before I came back." River fish, he's learned, are easy to stun with a blade through water, and a Blade of Mercy heated it enough to be edible. It's not a good habit, to eat half-raw fish, but he'd wanted to hurry before Astarion woke.

He'll worry about himself in more detail later. He knows how to maintain the machine that is his body. It takes less upkeep than people think.

"You will have to tell me more about the nature of your... feeding habits. Mine are self-explanatory."

“Well there’s...not much to tell, actually. You see I’ve never had the luxury of feeding on anything but animals for sustenance.”

Strange, how it feels like a lifetime ago after spending so much time in Thedas. He thins his lips into a narrow frown, finally feeling yet another tether to this world solidify as reality, rather than a dream.

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

“It’s weakening. I can’t draw power from beasts, but it keeps me alive, so...”

His palms splay as he offers a little half shrug. Better than draining people, yes? Better than killing?

Fenris speaks with the sort of indulgent annoyance one does a with a close friend, which he considers the very least of what they are. "Yes, that, I'd gathered."

More seriously, "how often will you need to feed on me? And can you eat... normal food? Or does it disgust you?"

“None. Infrequently. Don’t be daft, darling, I can’t go sipping on you like— ” the cutoff is quick, like dropping under a river current, his voice raising without warning. “well I don’t know, do I? How much I can take, how much would hurt you. Kill you.”

He’s frustrated enough to bare sharp teeth in his enunciations, fitting them them together in jagged little patterns, hand rising to swat dismissively in emptied space.

“I can choose to eat if I want to, but it’s nothing. Paper. Ash. Whatever you want to call it, all vampires need is blood: the stronger the better.”

And then it ebbs as quickly as it’d come on, neck stretched long, expression low and sullen. It’s not unusual, he sulks often, the show of it cathartic in a way.

“At least your world was kinder to me in that regard. Never had to worry about killing a bloody apple in order to stay alive.”

Fenris is not, he thinks, a physical presence except in a fight. When he speaks, he focuses on words, and his hands move without his bidding, trying to make the world take shape between his lips. Whatever instinct has him putting a calming hand on Astarian's arm is something innate, learned before memory, before whatever self he had and then lost and then found again was formed.

"I meant no insult. Only to consider strategy."

Fenris finds the urge to kiss him very strong. How idiotic.

"I lost blood regularly for most of my remembered life, either in fights or... ritual. I know my limits."

He’s normally averse to comfort like that, being calmed in tension by touch. Yet those fingers find him as surely as the words they carry, and he withdraws from neither, all rounded at the edges as the pale curls tucked round his ears.

He sighs then, forearm turning to let his own hand brush light against Fenris’ elbow, dancing across the edge of that armor.

“Then you...” a bridging segue, tentative as steps along a ledge. “You must tell me everything. Don’t let me go too far, I’d never want that for you.”

He’d stop himself. He knows he would, but that doesn’t mean he might not inherently weaken the man, and that’s a danger Astarion desperately wishes to avoid in a world as cruel as this.

“I don’t need power half as much as I need you.”

Fenris ducks his head at those words, so honest coming from a man who loathes the frank truths Fenris trades in. He doesn't yet deserve them, but he reassures himself: he will in time.

"We will protect each other," he says, not a suggestion so much as a commitment. "You protected me last night. Now, I, you."

He means the boar. He's still absurdly proud of that.

"Not tonight again, but the same amount after, and with a good night's sleep I will be fine. Perhaps better meals than what a creek can offer, but I've survived worse places on far less."

“Trust me, I will see you fed and rested in no time. It’s the least I can do.”

And true to his word, it’s a half-day’s travel north along narrow roads before they reach a cozy little tavern tucked along the shores of a crystal clear riverbank. It isn’t bustling per se, but enough bodies are milling about that a pair of high elves checking themselves in for a hot meal in waning light hardly makes for a noticeable affair.

Astarion’s own portion he carts to their room. Something for Fenris to ferret away later: he’ll need his strength.

“Aha, how I’ve missed this.” Doublet already cast off, leaving the airy frills of his blouse untucked, he lances his arms out to either side of him as he tips dramatically backwards onto his own mattress— sinking into what surely must be handmade patch quilting, plush with wear and age alike. “Gods, no petty coin was ever spent better.”

His head turns, curls rucked up high around sharp cheekbones, those catlike teeth glinting in warm candlelight as he grins.

“A bed I’ve promised, and a bed I’ve delivered.” Two beds, in fact, which is clearly a show of prowess on Astarion’s own part. “Feel free to shower me in gratitude, I’ve more than earned it.”

Fenris lounges on one of the beds, having removed his gauntlets and pauldrons again. It's more comfortable, and Fenris feels safe enough to to be comfortable. A novelty in and of itself.

"I am utterly thankful you are a better pickpocket than I." Fenris didn't see it, but how else did he manage to get the coin for a private room? Unless such things are cheaper here. He doesn't know. "Have you missed it so in only two and a half days?"

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uhhh cw bad things happening to animals??

F e n r i s

romance~~~~~~

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