You understand the others but not her? [Is a real question, void of any strings or preconceptions given how bewilderment practically boils on his tongue for half a second, narrowing his eyes and cutting lines between dropped brows. Has Fenris met Petras? Has he seen Leon cut off those in need or followed Dalyria's flexible morality? Even Yousen has his moments, and even Aurelia's subdued cruelty is nothing to be scoffed at— ]
—I can only assume you've been sitting with your face turned away from half the group, if that's the way you've sized things up. [And Astarion's uncertain whether it's the droning music or the irritating burn of too much liquor polluted by a sea of piss poor company, but even the blind could see there's something gnawing underneath the surface. Spurring Fenris with its barbs when he ought to be settling down to rest.
It's a raw cut. A prickling miasma from without, not within. Most of all it's not intentional, and for all that Astarion reminds himself he should be patient—
Well.
He's a young thing yet. Full of emotion all his own.]
In what bloody world would I not be here? [He hisses, craning forwards in his seat.] You're my bodyguard, for gods' sakes— and I'm her friend because I'd rather a viper on my side that knows its limits rather than the other hundred here that don't.
[He's not wrong. He's not, for Fenris has seen and heard too much from the others to ever claim otherwise. Gods, Dalyria alone is a nightmare, never mind Petras and his antics, and yet—]
I tell you now, there will be a time when we are parted, for if an opportunity does not come, she will manufacture it— and when that happens, Astarion, she will bite all the harder.
[This isn't what he wants. This isn't what he's craving, and yet somehow it's all gone sour the way it always does. The bile rises up in his throat and he can't hold it back, not after a lifetime of keeping himself in check. And it's not the first time they've fought, no, for they both of them have sharp tongues— but perhaps it's the first time he's felt himself sink into that feeling, not wanting to and yet paradoxically not able to resist.]
You assume she knows her limits? You assume she cares? As if a bitch like her ever cares about anything but her own sadistic cravings and how best to sate them, never mind how to cover her tracks. How many servants has she gone through? How many times has she fucked her way through anyone she could, just to say she had?
[Not fair, not fair, the comparison cruel and not even intended— and yet perhaps not a shock, not when he continues:]
How long do you imagine she'll wait before she tries? A day? An hour? And all your protective rage will only fuel her further, for that is what people like her do, each and every time!
'Manufacture it?' Do you hear yourself? Do you know where we are? [Should be caring, should be sincere— is, on some deep, embedded level, buried underneath the puppish urge to bite when on his figurative heels with hackles raised. That tender, infallible sort of instinct that exists in every creature who knows what it is to hurt, whether or not they know what it means or why. Whether or not they're actually hurt, either, because gods know it's merely the suggestion that has Astarion run stiff throughout his shoulders and nearly snarling out each syllable, both to be heard over the din and just to simply be heard.]
'People like her' don't risk everything just to satisfy a whim, and if they did, Fenris, they'd be a damned idiot to think the rest of us would keep her in arms' reach—
[A beat, like a hook finding purchase in a storm; dulling the edge of his bite.]
[Like running full-tilt just to realize too late that he's skidded off a cliff— the words cut through his growing rage, leaving him balking on the back foot. The air bursts from his lungs and does not return, every subsequent inhale suddenly too shallow; he stares at Astarion for a few seconds too long, eyes wide, before he finds himself again.]
I mean people like her.
[The saccharine concoction Petras brought him has long since melted, neon colors now muddled and watered down. Fenris reaches for it anyway, draining the cup with a grimace. The sugar lingers on his tongue, nauseatingly cloying, but the world mercifully blurs a little more.]
Petty, pathetic children who despise their own weakness and take their bitterness out on anyone they can.
[Fenris, her lilting tone at such savage odds with the wide-eyed sadism shining in her eyes— and it's so overwhelmingly unfair that in the cloudy, smeared annals of his memory, it's that which he remembers with crystal-clear clarity.
And the thing is: he doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to say her name, as if she is a wraith who might somehow be summoned by the mere invocation. He doesn't want to give her anything, even this conversation— and yet he's never much had a choice when it comes to her, has he?]
. . . Hadriana.
[Has he ever sounded so bitter?]
My— Danarius' apprentice. A bitch of a sorcerer from a middling family who knew she was fated to amount to nothing— and so took every opportunity to torment those beneath her, just to distract herself from that fact. She hounded my sleep, denied me food, humiliated me, and she . . .
[The silence hangs between them, black and jagged, full of a thousand memories impossible to articulate.]
They could be twins, she and Violet. They act just the same.
[. . .]
You ruined twenty-five careers before I came along, but you did not destroy their lives. You thrill in seducing lesser nobles just to laugh about their subpar skills, but you do not rip them apart just to say you could.
[Leon, Dalyria, Aurelia . . . there are shades and shades of grey, but they all of them pale when placed against something so starkly black.]
There is a difference. And she is not like the other vipers whose company you keep.
[Much like the shades of this conversation, in fact, the differences run stark. Enough that Astarion's bearing slips back behind his shoulders, spine settling against his seat whilst his focus turns away— yet despite appearances, it's not a loss of interest.
There's a tug of contact as slim fingers clasp round Fenris' own. As he's pulled away from that saccharine drink and the covering gauze of draped curtains. Away from the throbbing bassline, the gossiping patrons, the source of his seething ire—
Into a narrow, black-paint lined corridor reminiscent of a backstage passage leading to two shoddy little restroom doors, neither of them labeled anymore, their plastic markers long worn off. Luxury, it seems, doesn't extend to the latrines. But it's quiet here, sectioned off and near the exit, all downsides well included.
His back is to the illuminated green of that emergency sign, arms folding tight across his chest.]
No good can come of having talks like this in places like that.
[One creak, once he's backed against the doorway, its opened seams letting in a gust of summer air.]
....she sounds a monster, your Hadriana.
[She sounds both like, and unlike Violet....but he won't say that just yet.]
[He follows with a dazed sort of obedience, unsure of where he's being led and yet trusting Astarion to steer him right. His hand is soft in Fenris' own: the only point of clarity in the sea of noise and neon lights, pale curls a steady star to orient himself towards. Until the overstimulating chaos of it all quiets down, and his anger has softened into something more exhausted.]
She—
. . . yes.
[He leans up against the wall, his posture a terse mirror of Astarion's own.]
The ordinary kind. The kind that snap and bite at their peers, but revel in vicious cruelties to anyone who cannot fight back. She would take her frustrations out on anyone, but she reserved the worst of her ire for me.
[He tips his head. There's no more anger in his gaze, for in truth, it was never Astarion he was upset with. Gently, then, so as not to be misunderstood:]
You must know the type.
[Not just Violet, no. Surely there are others among his peers who act just the same. And yet . . . he wonders. It isn't that Astarion is so willfully blind, but it's so easy to assume that everyone acts with the same cold civility you and yours do.]
Nothing ordinary about that, you know. [Cruelty— cruelty, yes, in this world, cruelty is ordinary regardless of whether it stands at the heels of higher echelons, or whether it's spat from the mouth of a spoiled noble— but the sort of dehumanizing wickedness that Fenris spoke of just before? No. That's a shade of malice that goes well beyond social ruin or trite dismissal.
Fenris tips his head. Astarion shakes his own, albeit both run gently in their course.]
You can't truly think Violet would starve you— beat you— had she the chance. She's a bloody bitch, I'll grant you, but....
[But leaves room for pause. For doubt. It's the moment he says but that he remembers the glint of a raised glass half-forgotten, and the coldness in her eyes.
Yet that was the squabbling of siblings, was it not?]
[But, and though it brings him no satisfaction to hear that sliver of doubt in Astarion's voice, perhaps there's a shade of relief. An exhale from the small part of him that's still eternally steeled against the world, waiting for the blow that will surely land. He won't believe you, what noble would ever take your side over their peers, and he thinks so much more of Astarion than that, but old habits die so hard.]
No? She was ready to concuss you half to death with a bottle for stopping her sport, and it was mild. What would she dare if she was the butt of a joke and she had nothing but bitterness and rage in her heart?
[Fenris takes a breath, trying to keep his thoughts steady. It's easier here, but he has to hold the reigns tightly, lest they slip from his grasp.]
Hadriana told me once that starvation wasn't a bad fate, for I would recover eventually. Salting my food was a joke. Bruises fade. Bones heal. I am scarred already, and what was a burn mark or two? And—
[And there are other, darker memories. Things that he cannot say, not just yet. Not here and not now. Not ever, maybe, but if those words come, they will emerge in the darkness, whispered against the back of Astarion's neck while they lie beneath the sheets.]
What would she dare if you humiliated her in front of some Duke? If Petras made her the butt of a joke for the next month? Do you truly think she would limit herself to just a few nasty remarks in return?
[It began as rhetorical, but somewhere along the way becomes a true question.]
You are not a fool, nor a child. Think of her, and tell me what you think she would do.
[Grabbing her was hardly mild, he thinks. Deflecting the responsibility of assertion into the hands of malleable deniability means ignoring the way things could've gone a little longer.
—No.
No, actually, it doesn't. There's always some part of him that knows how far into the depths of contempt they all too easily stray; packmates and compatriots and friends, so far as any term applies, but there are times he'd swear he'd slit the others' throats for but the slightest insult. Moments where he'd considered dragging Petras into ruin beyond rescue, void of either regret or keen restraint. There's a reason Fenris sits above them. Why his friendship holds his heart in ways no other does.
Astarion moves to stand beside him, pressing their shoulders together by degrees.]
....no less than murder, I expect. The literal sort. [Is muted, far from slurred. A blow against the brandy on his breath.]
[He rumbles his agreement for that assessment, some small part of him satisfied to hear it. Murder, yes, and it would not shock him to hear that Violet has ordered that done already, even if her hand hasn't struck the blow just yet. There's a streak of violence in her, one that will overflow sooner or later. Fenris has seen it before, and not just in Hadriana.
But oh, that question. That quiet, soft question, and when Astarion speaks in that tone it disarms all of Fenris' defenses. There's something so intimate about it, gentle in ways that he is not used to. Fenris swallows thickly, his head tipping down as he struggles to think of how to respond.
For he wants to, he does, but the memories muddle in his mind, incidents smearing into one another: flashes of blue eyes and black hair, his name breathed into his ear and a lithe body writhing above his own. Danarius' seething rage as Fenris tried his hardest to fight through a tournament while drugged up, his water tainted and Hadriana laughing just out of sight. Food kept just out of reach and water given only in a dog dish, his clothes stained and ripped, his sleep interrupted for days on end—
It goes on and on. And the words won't come, but that's never been his way. Lifting up just slightly off the wall, he turns towards Astarion. Carefully, he extends his thumb and pointer finger, wrapping them gently around the front of his throat for a long few seconds.]
She would collar me like a dog, and tie my lead to the wall.
[He does not keep the hold for long; in the next instant his thumb strokes gently against Astarion's neck, soft affection before he pulls away.]
And she would do anything she pleased with her caught prize, knowing that I could not report anything.
[He catches Astarion's eye, confirming and questioning all at once: do you understand? But he must. He's too clever not to.]
And I know she murdered at least one of her potential rivals in school, but I would not be shocked if that number was higher. Such competition was encouraged in Tevinter, so long as no one got caught.
Violet would thrive there, I suspect. Living in a world where all her worst tendencies were not just ignored, but revered.
[Violet would do more than flourish. Violet would adore it, in all fairness. Fenris is right in that assesment.
But there's so much rage in Astarion, prompted by the words collared like a dog, and tied my lead to the wall. A hard snap of eclipsing focus, and the subsequent drag of all his self-restraint as it threatens to give way under mounting, heated pressure— and a lingering draw towards that withdrawn touch, though he doesn't dare chase after it just yet, only stands there facing his companion— his bodyguard— as if better words might come to mind. The ones he needs. The ones he wishes he could will to do their job and ease off every shred of retained anguish, for it's the past that's in the present, now, when he looks at Violet and sees Hadriana's shadow.]
And if you'd struck out at her....well.... [A pause, thin as a razor's edge.]
Doesn't exactly take a clairvoyant to know it'd have gone over poorly, does it?
[The paradox of a question that isn't really a question at all.]
[Soft. His gaze is fixed on Astarion now, watching the emotions play out over his face (for he is so much less adept at hiding them than he thinks— or perhaps it's just that Fenris has gotten to know him so well). The rage that swells up in him, and the subsequent tells: his eyes flashing as his cheeks go pale, tension coiled up so tight in him it's as if he wants to go after Hadriana now. Tear her apart with laws and hands both, the only determining factor what would hurt her more.
It's thrilling. Alluring. Seductive, almost, in its viciousness; belated revenge no substitute for comfort, but still, he shudders beneath it.]
But there were times I forgot myself, and did anyway. It was not always a one-sided fight.
[There's a distant look in his eyes as he first cups Astarion's cheek, then moves to tuck a curl behind one pointed ear.]
Nothing I truly wanted to do, but still . . . I could blame my markings and faulty coding for the times when I snarled at her, or left her things behind when our master took us abroad. I humiliated her more than once in front of our master more than once, setting her up to fail— one of the worst things she could do in front of him, for he valued her first and foremost as a tool. Watching her simper pathetically for weeks on end to attempt to make up for it was not satisfying, not when I wished to stain my knuckles with her blood, but at least better than her smug.
[And it's nothing. Petty things, little things, things that didn't once make up for all the horror and grief, but at least made life a little less unbearable.
A moment's pause, and then:]
It's money and power that makes Violet so dangerous. Hadriana was leashed by Danarius just as much as I was, though she pretended otherwise. But Violet . . . if I were to attack her, enacting revenge when she inevitably tries something again . . . I have no doubt you would support me. [Little magistrate. Little love, who wants so badly to protect him.] But it still would be a foolish idea.
[And that's part of the bitterness and rage, too. The fact that he is just as chained as he was back then, free and yet not.]
Still: you thrilled me, drawing blood as you did. And I am proud of how swiftly you acted.
I never thought to expect such things from anyone, much less someone of your class. It is . . .
[He hesitates.]
You are more comforting than I can say. I have never had anyone I could rely upon without thinking like that, much less someone who would draw blood for me.
[It shouldn't be a question whether or not Astarion would stand decisively by Fenris' side in whatever story they'd settle on, were that to manifest as true: easy enough to claim Astarion ordered it, or that Violet was a threat (she might've been tonight were it not for the quick snap of someone else's grasp clasped around her own), and it'd be no more a crime than one more instance of drunken, overly ambitious children in a spat— worth only the gossip column that inevitably follows. He'd do it in a heartbeat, is the ripple of an afterthought with no home in sight to nestle in beyond the fingers at his ear, warm when he tips into them.
Nearly as warm as the smile he adopts; just a slanting of his lips high on one side, counterbalance to a sinking, lowered chin.]
We're more alike than I ever dared think, in that case. [Isn't blind or delusional, though gods above the uninitiated might think so after a conversation spanning torment, torture and status all. It's not as if Astarion's ever been cornered like an animal; spoken to as one or harshly tortured. The dullest of tutors remained only thus, and the most sadistic stood beneath him still, likely turning their malice as Hadriana did— elsewhere lower underfoot.
No, it's the trust that Astarion gives voice to, chasing the ley of Fenris' fingerprints. What had made all the difference even at the start when contempt was still in play. He'd never had another on his side without bartering for it. Bargaining for it. Vipers like Violet— the ones who knew their limits— or the others, that was the best he could scrounge up before Fenris came to his side. Acquaintances. Allies.
Not friends.
Not this.
And maybe they'd stop him from drinking himself to death or overdosing (—maybe— ) but they'd never take his side. Never take a stand should the world be at its worst.
This is new.]
Though I'd draw an immeasurable sea of blood to keep you safe from either of them. [Squares his stance until they're parallel— toe to toe— slim shoulders even: arms unfolded so his hands relax, with the knuckles of one nestling against the dead center of his fighter's taller chest, hello.] Or anyone.
[That's his birthright, after all. The one thing he's good for. ]
His own chaotic swirl of emotions suddenly clarified with a single, stunning sentence. Yes, he thinks, something warm solidifying deep in his heart. Yes, that's right, and it takes him a moment to understand it, for the trust isn't new. He had trusted Astarion to protect him even before the conversation began; he'd trusted him from that first night in bed, when his charge had whispered a promise to keep him safe.
But it's the line suddenly connecting them that shifts things. No more are they two utterly different creatures who have managed to forge a connection; suddenly, he looks at the elf nestled in his arms and thinks: you understand. What it is to be so lost and lonely that you cannot trust anyone but yourself; what it is to know that those around you wouldn't care if you lived or died, if you were miserable or happy, if you were sick or sad or tired, just so long as you kept doing whatever it was you were deigned to do.
You know what a wonder it is to have found someone like you, and a surge of protective adoration rises up within him, warm and soft and wonderful.]
I know.
[Said without a smile, but all the more sincere for it. What a strange, wonderful thing he's stumbled upon tonight, baffling and yet all the more perfect for it. His arms wrap around Astarion's waist, drawing him in close, as he bumps their noses together in a gentle nuzzle.]
I would see it someday, if ever Hadriana dares show her face in Baldur's Gate. Though you might need a few more lessons before you can actually manage to slit her throat.
[A slanted smile to echo Astarion's own, but it fades as he adds:]
Fierce thing . . . three centuries, and I have never known anyone like you.
As were you....[swears more than just the measure of his lowered voice: every inch of him wending nearer to that joining silhouette—demanding its attention, vying to smolder hot against his skin. Against Fenris in deep, shameless full, as though the nightclub and its distant headache-inducing atmosphere mean nothing to their present arrangement. Little to hide from the world and less to fear.
How very like Astarion.
It's as intoxicating as the muted burn of brandy on those lips. As the soft give of pallid hair underneath fine, spoiled fingers. It cranes him onto the balls of his feet, dull ache shivering sweetly through his arches just to meet it where it stands, knocking the bridges of their misaligned noses together once more— and again.]
....though you could've done us both the favor of turning up sooner.
[A kiss, pressed warm to the center of Fenris' drawn mouth.]
[He laughs softly against Astarion's mouth, a brief spark of amusement before he sinks into that kiss. Warm and soft and familiar, and he sinks into it, tipping his head to deepen it when Astarion initially tries to pull away. Come here, come here, for it's the only kiss they've had tonight, and Fenris means to savor it.
The risk is low this far out from Baldur's Gate, but never nonexistent, and caution has been his watchword since they've gotten here (to admittedly middling results). But right now, that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that one careless maginet photo might ruin them; it doesn't matter that there's a viper in their midst not fifty feet away, nor that she reminds him of one of the worst torturers he's endured. All that matters is the here and now, and the lithe young elf in his arms that makes life somehow worth living.
Love you, he thinks and does not say as their mouths part, emerald eyes catching golden ones. Love you, love you, the mantra a quiet song in his heart.]
The best I have celebrated yet.
[The only one he's celebrated to-date, and they both know it. Warm adoration changes to warm amusement as he adds:]
If I had come to you any sooner, little love, you would have had to wait decades longer still, for I would have known your real age from the start. You would not have found me quite so easy to seduce.
[Another kiss, this one swift and with a short nip at the end. He grins as he adds:]
Though if you wish to play at being a virginal little twenty-five year old tonight, I would not complain. Ask nicely and perhaps I'll even throw you over my shoulder, ravishing you the way I'm certain you would have longed for back then.
The only one you've celebrated— [Astarion echoes the heretofore unsaid joke for just a moment, the sly end of its punchline clipped short by Fenris' ensuing kiss— chased after when it tries to end, assailed by nips and ravishing contact that both scrapes and scuffs against their lips with equal aplomb. A hungry thing. A playful thing.
A stupid thing.]
—mmph. [Pales as punctuation when he only slips closer yet again, fingers fisting in thin fabric till they tangle, grin infectious. And warm.] But you'd have been younger too, no?
[He isn't refusing that offer; contrary to it, he's only leaning in, pressing his knee to the inner corner of Fenris' lean thigh.
[Drawled out, his voice low and richly amused. One hand slips down beneath Astarion's thigh, urging that probing leg upwards and outwards: come close to me, as he guides it around his hip and draws him in. Their hips press together, Fenris' back arching as he indulges in a single, sinful grind— and oh, it's too much. It's ruinous, it's dangerous— and yet right now, tipsy off liquor and drunk off adoration, Fenris doesn't care, not anymore.
In one swift motion he hoists the other elf up in his arms, thighs wrapped around his hips and his weight borne so easily; he then turns on his heel, pinning him up against the faded black wall. There you are, and there's such a satisfied look in Fenris' eye as he stares at him, held upright by the rock of Fenris' hips and one steady hand.]
And still, I will be able to thrill you with a single motion, little magistrate.
[Drawled as he runs one palm down his side, fingers lingering in all the artfully torn gaps ripped into expensive clothing, each touch searing against cold skin. Another little rock of his hips, slow and heavy, before he adds:]
Or do you truly think you'd come out on top? Such a squalling little brat who hasn't learned how to take instead of simply demanding . . . do you truly think my being two centuries instead of three would give you an advantage?
See? Practically a child. [Snorts Astarion blithely, clinging to his lover in the seconds before his heels are swiftly swept off of the floor— warned by the electric crackle of coarse friction and taut fabric seconds ahead of the grind that sets in— the dizzy-sweet fire in his veins, bearing down and holding fast against even the suggestion of gravity. Against the grain of futile movements, locking hot beneath strong hands.]
—shit. [Is a gasp. A groan. A knifing measure of control when all he can do is squirm beneath that touch despite himself— bare the borders of his blunt teeth and cede his eyelids to their fluttering, content to melt into it all. To curl his toes inside their boots and rut across lean hips; submerged heat.
A blooming thickness that even peripheral awareness can't ignore. Could never want to.
His spine strains to arch. To bring him closer, at least as nominally as movement will allow— broaching bare centimeters at best, straining to the limits of taut muscle under silk (every ripple of it catching at those fingers). Gods. Oh gods, darling, don't dare stop.]
You're— [ah] no better, you know.
Centuries older....and you're still panting at my heels like an unruly teenager, just like the rest of us. Salivating against a backstage wall for what you know you've won. [They both are, but hells, that only proves his point, doesn't it? Underscored in full by the angle of his lowered chin, his lidded eyes and spit-flocked lips, parted and wetter than his breath, and— ]
Or are you....stubbornly convincing yourself you're merely humoring my appetite with this?
[It's a purr, low and rumbling as his voice only gets when he's in a particularly patronizing mood. His eyes have dragged down to linger on Astarion's mouth, lingering on the subtle part of swollen lips (for oh, it's been too long since he's felt those lips wrapped around his cock— since he's gotten to indulge in the sight of Astarion on his knees, cheeks hollow and tongue flat, sluttishly eager to prove he's better at this than anyone else).
But that taunt earns his attention. His eyes flick up, his teeth gleaming as a flashbang smirk steals over his face for a few seconds.]
This isn't about indulging your appetites. I am well aware of what you want, [and there's a mercilessly hard grind of his hips, grinding and rutting until Astarion's eyes flutter, the sweetest little noises of desire slipping past those slick lips. Then it's back: cold air rushing between their hips as Fenris draws just far enough away to be missed, flexing his hand and keeping Astarion pinned all the while.]
But tonight what I want is to take a virginal little brat and teach him patience.
[He leans in, his breath hot as he rumbles out words meant for one person only.]
I want to lay you out on the bed and spread your legs open wide, so I can put my tongue to you. I won't go quickly. Little licks at first, perhaps, or spreading you open around the breadth of my tongue: getting you used to the feeling and stoking you higher and higher, until at last you're writhing for me. So overwhelmed that you can't do anything but whine at me, begging me for more, promising me anything and everything if I'll give you something thicker.
[His hips glide forward again, rocking in time with the slow rhythm of his voice.]
So I will.
I'll tie your hands to the headboard, just to be sure you won't disobey, and dip my fingers in that aphrodesic oil you love, so I can fuck you so slowly you'll forget how to speak by the time I'm through. You'll fuss, I'm certain. You'll squall and protest and demand— plead— wail for more, but sooner or later, you'll learn to love what you're given.
[His tongue flits against the line of one tapered ear, nipping sharply each time he feels a shaky exhale.]
And if you've managed to be a good boy . . . if you learned your lesson and haven't fought me the entire time— I'll give you every inch of what you've been craving, just as fast and hard as you please.
But to do that . . . we need to go back to the hotel first.
[Make no mistake: he's far from unaffected. There's a flush to his cheeks and ears as he draws back, his eyes dilated wide and his lips subtly parted. And though he moves back far enough to let Astarion wiggle down if he pleases, he isn't letting go just yet.]
And I do not want to deal with Violet or Petras again tonight.
Ditch them. So that we might enjoy this even faster.
....although you'd have to really let me go if you're committed to such a vulgar education.
[Testing the waters. Testing everything, really, including Fenris' normally fearsome resolve. A tall task over the rabbiting of his heart in his own hears (fluctuating pulse a mirror for the ache between his thighs, dizzying taxed senses further)—
But he's such a greedy thing, Astarion.
Overstimulation in his world is a synonym of contentment. Each rise of blistering hot bliss caught squirming between his teeth with every shameless moan he doesn't stifle in the slightest, almost daring plaster walls to carry it somewhere else. To carry it to someone else, garnering attention. He likes those roughened hands on him, the broad splay of strong fingers wrapped around his wrists, his ribs, his hips, covering more ground than he does when he sets his fingers to his skin. So much so that when Fenris eases off, it's Astarion that cinches his knees tighter, rocking down into that humid swell of heat between strong thighs.
His mouth is open. His breathing quick and wet, lips parted. If there was more than just one shitty, broken light clinging to taped wiring overhead, those eyes would shine with glassy hunger.
As things are, he just exhales it round white canines.]
....or is your cock too hard to make it to that bed without giving up and fucking me in the backseat of my car....?
[He's closer. Flexibility affords a nimble young thing the ability to defy lithe joints, and when he grinds this time to the point of quaking his own breath, his nose scuffs low across the edge of one tanned cheek— flirting with Fenris' jaw. Painting him with his voice.
Let go, urges the little thing that's wending tight around him.]
[Lithe little minx, sinfully seductive as he tempts Fenris into ruination with every smouldering glance and drawling word. With a low moan Fenris' head turns, meeting every knocking press with a hungry answer: yes, yes, don't stop, for the specifics matter so much less than the desperately growing desire to touch. His hands run against sweat-slick skin, feeling out curves and narrow spans; he marvels at the way his hand fits around Astarion's waist and shudders for the feeling of thighs tightening around his hips. Almost without realizing it Fenris has stepped forward, pinning Astarion back against the wall for the sheer sake of better leverage, their hips rutting and grinding as shamelessly as anyone out on the dance floor.]
I'd rather splay you over the hood.
[He growls it against Astarion's ear, teeth flashing as he bites in the next moment. Rough, yes. Rough and mean and hungry, just like the way his fingers tighten their grip, ravenous to leave the echo of his fingerprints on fair skin.]
Spread you open and watch you melt around my cock as you moan for the attention and the filth both, tongue lolling for how satisfied you are to have something big and thick in you . . .
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and he turns his head, teeth sinking in against the side of Astarion's neck, biting down once— twice— only to lap at the wound a moment later, every flick of his tongue smugly mocking. Delicate little thing.]
Then again . . . much as being fucked atop your Ferrari for all the world to see would thrill you, little exhibitionist, you've made me greedy.
[He tips his head back, regarding Astarion possessively.]
No one else gets to see you like that.
[No one else gets to see you like this.]
Down.
[And make no mistake: it's a heated order, not a worried demand, underscored by the way he licks a swift stripe up the line of Astarion's throat.]
Unless you want me to haul you out over my shoulder. I wouldn't mind. Either way, [he nips at Astarion's bottom lip,] I aim to be in you within ten minutes.
[He'll need a high collar tomorrow, is the only thought that floods in whilst thin fingers slack around strong shoulders— using them as a brace for the rest of his body to slide down. His neck is throbbing with the ghost of every bite, and when he tips his head under the shadow of Fenris' just to see the floor once glossed oxfords reach it, the open air feels wet and cold in how it kisses at the place where scented brandy (and the tackier hint of sugar) lingers on his skin.
Straightening his back hides how he shivers when his cock jumps hard against the smothered junction between thigh and hip, already counting out the steps to where the valet might've parked; straightening his button down hides the fact that his composure's no more than a toothless paper tiger, confidence quaking at its seams.]
Ten minutes?
[Earns a curious tilt of his head over his shoulder, rigid (oh in every sense, thank the gods he's turned himself away by the time his palm rests against the door) yet his movements run smooth enough to be an invitation all their own: come on then, old wolf. If you're so hungry, follow me. I'll wet your throat; slake that parched, aching tongue. A purr is in his throat, his blinks run slow and heavy.
The door swings open wide to reveal the black maw of pavement under a pitch night sky, city lights a neon spackle linking the borders of his coat— and catching on the glint of an object clutched tightly in his fingers, tossed to Fenris just a half second later.
Think fast.
Car keys. His own, in fact, the high end logo likely hefty in Fenris' hand if he managed to pluck it out of thin air. Which means that either immediately or eventually, this time it's the noble holding the door for his bodyguard, smirking with a confidence that belies the sharp heat whetting the nape of his neck.
The low pit of his stomach.]
Well then, if you want to have me stripped down and gasping your name over leather that quick, darling you'd better get hunting....
[There's a flash of a grin as smug punctuation when he lifts his free arm, emulating the click of pushing down on the lock of the car's key fob.]
Six minutes to go from overcrowded, overheated nightclub to basking in the cool air of the parking lot as he hunts for an elusive chirp, and from there, the backseat of Astarion's car, where he nudges his charge in with a low laugh before following himself. It's far from perfect— not the spaciousness of Astarion's bed nor the ease of access of a nearby wall— but the windows are tinted and the doors are locked, and drunk as they both are, it's as private as they can manage.
But the mood has shifted between one moment and the next, Fenris finds. Not his ravenous desire for the man currently wriggling between his thighs (so pretty pinned down across leather seats, his shirt rucked up and his curls mussed), but something in the way he looks at him. Not as prey ready to be taken, a little rabbit eager to be caught, but rather, something softer. Something more intimate, and perhaps that suits, given the day.
It means that when Fenris finally crawls over him and catches him in a kiss, it isn't the devouring thing he'd promised back in the club. It isn't fierce and dominant, though it is deep: an intimate kiss, and one meant to be savored. Hello, my love, as breathless as it is fond, as he tips his head and kisses him without shame. Hello, I love you, and they haven't said the words yet. They might never say them. But perhaps some part of it comes through anyway.]
Take off your shirt.
[A gentle command issued as he draws back, but a command nonetheless, and he'll wait as long as he needs to for Astarion to obey. Then it's back down: his hands bracing on either side of his chest as he ducks his head down, lips brushing sweetly against the side of his throat.]
You're beautiful.
[Soft. Sweet. Easily given, for this is only the start. His mouth moves down slowly, kissing bare skin and lean lines, the words spoken against sweat-glossed skin.]
Clever. [Another reverent kiss, this time laid by his collarbone.] And loyal. [A brief nuzzle against his chest, his palm stroking over one pectoral as he slowly moves down.]
You make it easy to forget the world, and my place in it.
[I love you, I love you, and he doesn't know when that began. He doesn't know when he started to feel something deeper than appreciation and fondness. It's so dangerous, so unnerving, and yet he cannot deny it, not when every thundering pulse of his heart sings it out. I love you, not blindly, not foolishly, but honestly. I love you in spite of all the warning signs, I love you even when you're at your worst, I love seeing you at your best, I love being with you, and he doesn't know what to do with all of that, save express it now with every adoring kiss and fervent touch. His hands look so broad around the span of narrow hips, his thumbs flitting over the jutting line of bone as he inches lower.]
You give me a sense of belonging as I have never known it. Dignity and autonomy as had been denied to me all my life. You are a wonder, stellula, and someday, I think, you will see it as I do. Not because of your wealth, or your standing. Not because of what society has given you on a silver platter.
But because of who you are in spite of it. Who are you are in the dark, as only I know.
[Tomorrow, maybe, he'll regret this. He'll fluster at his own honesty and despise himself for making himself so weak. This isn't what they do, this isn't how they work, and maybe tomorrow they'll silently agree to never bring it up again. But here, now, drunk and a little overwhelmed, he cannot help the way his heart aches to be heard.]
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—I can only assume you've been sitting with your face turned away from half the group, if that's the way you've sized things up. [And Astarion's uncertain whether it's the droning music or the irritating burn of too much liquor polluted by a sea of piss poor company, but even the blind could see there's something gnawing underneath the surface. Spurring Fenris with its barbs when he ought to be settling down to rest.
It's a raw cut. A prickling miasma from without, not within. Most of all it's not intentional, and for all that Astarion reminds himself he should be patient—
Well.
He's a young thing yet. Full of emotion all his own.]
In what bloody world would I not be here? [He hisses, craning forwards in his seat.] You're my bodyguard, for gods' sakes— and I'm her friend because I'd rather a viper on my side that knows its limits rather than the other hundred here that don't.
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I tell you now, there will be a time when we are parted, for if an opportunity does not come, she will manufacture it— and when that happens, Astarion, she will bite all the harder.
[This isn't what he wants. This isn't what he's craving, and yet somehow it's all gone sour the way it always does. The bile rises up in his throat and he can't hold it back, not after a lifetime of keeping himself in check. And it's not the first time they've fought, no, for they both of them have sharp tongues— but perhaps it's the first time he's felt himself sink into that feeling, not wanting to and yet paradoxically not able to resist.]
You assume she knows her limits? You assume she cares? As if a bitch like her ever cares about anything but her own sadistic cravings and how best to sate them, never mind how to cover her tracks. How many servants has she gone through? How many times has she fucked her way through anyone she could, just to say she had?
[Not fair, not fair, the comparison cruel and not even intended— and yet perhaps not a shock, not when he continues:]
How long do you imagine she'll wait before she tries? A day? An hour? And all your protective rage will only fuel her further, for that is what people like her do, each and every time!
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'People like her' don't risk everything just to satisfy a whim, and if they did, Fenris, they'd be a damned idiot to think the rest of us would keep her in arms' reach—
[A beat, like a hook finding purchase in a storm; dulling the edge of his bite.]
....what do you mean people like her?
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I mean people like her.
[The saccharine concoction Petras brought him has long since melted, neon colors now muddled and watered down. Fenris reaches for it anyway, draining the cup with a grimace. The sugar lingers on his tongue, nauseatingly cloying, but the world mercifully blurs a little more.]
Petty, pathetic children who despise their own weakness and take their bitterness out on anyone they can.
[Fenris, her lilting tone at such savage odds with the wide-eyed sadism shining in her eyes— and it's so overwhelmingly unfair that in the cloudy, smeared annals of his memory, it's that which he remembers with crystal-clear clarity.
And the thing is: he doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to say her name, as if she is a wraith who might somehow be summoned by the mere invocation. He doesn't want to give her anything, even this conversation— and yet he's never much had a choice when it comes to her, has he?]
. . . Hadriana.
[Has he ever sounded so bitter?]
My— Danarius' apprentice. A bitch of a sorcerer from a middling family who knew she was fated to amount to nothing— and so took every opportunity to torment those beneath her, just to distract herself from that fact. She hounded my sleep, denied me food, humiliated me, and she . . .
[The silence hangs between them, black and jagged, full of a thousand memories impossible to articulate.]
They could be twins, she and Violet. They act just the same.
[. . .]
You ruined twenty-five careers before I came along, but you did not destroy their lives. You thrill in seducing lesser nobles just to laugh about their subpar skills, but you do not rip them apart just to say you could.
[Leon, Dalyria, Aurelia . . . there are shades and shades of grey, but they all of them pale when placed against something so starkly black.]
There is a difference. And she is not like the other vipers whose company you keep.
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There's a tug of contact as slim fingers clasp round Fenris' own. As he's pulled away from that saccharine drink and the covering gauze of draped curtains. Away from the throbbing bassline, the gossiping patrons, the source of his seething ire—
Into a narrow, black-paint lined corridor reminiscent of a backstage passage leading to two shoddy little restroom doors, neither of them labeled anymore, their plastic markers long worn off. Luxury, it seems, doesn't extend to the latrines. But it's quiet here, sectioned off and near the exit, all downsides well included.
His back is to the illuminated green of that emergency sign, arms folding tight across his chest.]
No good can come of having talks like this in places like that.
[One creak, once he's backed against the doorway, its opened seams letting in a gust of summer air.]
....she sounds a monster, your Hadriana.
[She sounds both like, and unlike Violet....but he won't say that just yet.]
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She—
. . . yes.
[He leans up against the wall, his posture a terse mirror of Astarion's own.]
The ordinary kind. The kind that snap and bite at their peers, but revel in vicious cruelties to anyone who cannot fight back. She would take her frustrations out on anyone, but she reserved the worst of her ire for me.
[He tips his head. There's no more anger in his gaze, for in truth, it was never Astarion he was upset with. Gently, then, so as not to be misunderstood:]
You must know the type.
[Not just Violet, no. Surely there are others among his peers who act just the same. And yet . . . he wonders. It isn't that Astarion is so willfully blind, but it's so easy to assume that everyone acts with the same cold civility you and yours do.]
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Fenris tips his head. Astarion shakes his own, albeit both run gently in their course.]
You can't truly think Violet would starve you— beat you— had she the chance. She's a bloody bitch, I'll grant you, but....
[But leaves room for pause. For doubt. It's the moment he says but that he remembers the glint of a raised glass half-forgotten, and the coldness in her eyes.
Yet that was the squabbling of siblings, was it not?]
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No? She was ready to concuss you half to death with a bottle for stopping her sport, and it was mild. What would she dare if she was the butt of a joke and she had nothing but bitterness and rage in her heart?
[Fenris takes a breath, trying to keep his thoughts steady. It's easier here, but he has to hold the reigns tightly, lest they slip from his grasp.]
Hadriana told me once that starvation wasn't a bad fate, for I would recover eventually. Salting my food was a joke. Bruises fade. Bones heal. I am scarred already, and what was a burn mark or two? And—
[And there are other, darker memories. Things that he cannot say, not just yet. Not here and not now. Not ever, maybe, but if those words come, they will emerge in the darkness, whispered against the back of Astarion's neck while they lie beneath the sheets.]
What would she dare if you humiliated her in front of some Duke? If Petras made her the butt of a joke for the next month? Do you truly think she would limit herself to just a few nasty remarks in return?
[It began as rhetorical, but somewhere along the way becomes a true question.]
You are not a fool, nor a child. Think of her, and tell me what you think she would do.
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—No.
No, actually, it doesn't. There's always some part of him that knows how far into the depths of contempt they all too easily stray; packmates and compatriots and friends, so far as any term applies, but there are times he'd swear he'd slit the others' throats for but the slightest insult. Moments where he'd considered dragging Petras into ruin beyond rescue, void of either regret or keen restraint. There's a reason Fenris sits above them. Why his friendship holds his heart in ways no other does.
Astarion moves to stand beside him, pressing their shoulders together by degrees.]
....no less than murder, I expect. The literal sort. [Is muted, far from slurred. A blow against the brandy on his breath.]
....what would Hadriana do....?
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But oh, that question. That quiet, soft question, and when Astarion speaks in that tone it disarms all of Fenris' defenses. There's something so intimate about it, gentle in ways that he is not used to. Fenris swallows thickly, his head tipping down as he struggles to think of how to respond.
For he wants to, he does, but the memories muddle in his mind, incidents smearing into one another: flashes of blue eyes and black hair, his name breathed into his ear and a lithe body writhing above his own. Danarius' seething rage as Fenris tried his hardest to fight through a tournament while drugged up, his water tainted and Hadriana laughing just out of sight. Food kept just out of reach and water given only in a dog dish, his clothes stained and ripped, his sleep interrupted for days on end—
It goes on and on. And the words won't come, but that's never been his way. Lifting up just slightly off the wall, he turns towards Astarion. Carefully, he extends his thumb and pointer finger, wrapping them gently around the front of his throat for a long few seconds.]
She would collar me like a dog, and tie my lead to the wall.
[He does not keep the hold for long; in the next instant his thumb strokes gently against Astarion's neck, soft affection before he pulls away.]
And she would do anything she pleased with her caught prize, knowing that I could not report anything.
[He catches Astarion's eye, confirming and questioning all at once: do you understand? But he must. He's too clever not to.]
And I know she murdered at least one of her potential rivals in school, but I would not be shocked if that number was higher. Such competition was encouraged in Tevinter, so long as no one got caught.
Violet would thrive there, I suspect. Living in a world where all her worst tendencies were not just ignored, but revered.
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But there's so much rage in Astarion, prompted by the words collared like a dog, and tied my lead to the wall. A hard snap of eclipsing focus, and the subsequent drag of all his self-restraint as it threatens to give way under mounting, heated pressure— and a lingering draw towards that withdrawn touch, though he doesn't dare chase after it just yet, only stands there facing his companion— his bodyguard— as if better words might come to mind. The ones he needs. The ones he wishes he could will to do their job and ease off every shred of retained anguish, for it's the past that's in the present, now, when he looks at Violet and sees Hadriana's shadow.]
And if you'd struck out at her....well.... [A pause, thin as a razor's edge.]
Doesn't exactly take a clairvoyant to know it'd have gone over poorly, does it?
[The paradox of a question that isn't really a question at all.]
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[Soft. His gaze is fixed on Astarion now, watching the emotions play out over his face (for he is so much less adept at hiding them than he thinks— or perhaps it's just that Fenris has gotten to know him so well). The rage that swells up in him, and the subsequent tells: his eyes flashing as his cheeks go pale, tension coiled up so tight in him it's as if he wants to go after Hadriana now. Tear her apart with laws and hands both, the only determining factor what would hurt her more.
It's thrilling. Alluring. Seductive, almost, in its viciousness; belated revenge no substitute for comfort, but still, he shudders beneath it.]
But there were times I forgot myself, and did anyway. It was not always a one-sided fight.
[There's a distant look in his eyes as he first cups Astarion's cheek, then moves to tuck a curl behind one pointed ear.]
Nothing I truly wanted to do, but still . . . I could blame my markings and faulty coding for the times when I snarled at her, or left her things behind when our master took us abroad. I humiliated her more than once in front of our master more than once, setting her up to fail— one of the worst things she could do in front of him, for he valued her first and foremost as a tool. Watching her simper pathetically for weeks on end to attempt to make up for it was not satisfying, not when I wished to stain my knuckles with her blood, but at least better than her smug.
[And it's nothing. Petty things, little things, things that didn't once make up for all the horror and grief, but at least made life a little less unbearable.
A moment's pause, and then:]
It's money and power that makes Violet so dangerous. Hadriana was leashed by Danarius just as much as I was, though she pretended otherwise. But Violet . . . if I were to attack her, enacting revenge when she inevitably tries something again . . . I have no doubt you would support me. [Little magistrate. Little love, who wants so badly to protect him.] But it still would be a foolish idea.
[And that's part of the bitterness and rage, too. The fact that he is just as chained as he was back then, free and yet not.]
Still: you thrilled me, drawing blood as you did. And I am proud of how swiftly you acted.
I never thought to expect such things from anyone, much less someone of your class. It is . . .
[He hesitates.]
You are more comforting than I can say. I have never had anyone I could rely upon without thinking like that, much less someone who would draw blood for me.
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Nearly as warm as the smile he adopts; just a slanting of his lips high on one side, counterbalance to a sinking, lowered chin.]
We're more alike than I ever dared think, in that case. [Isn't blind or delusional, though gods above the uninitiated might think so after a conversation spanning torment, torture and status all. It's not as if Astarion's ever been cornered like an animal; spoken to as one or harshly tortured. The dullest of tutors remained only thus, and the most sadistic stood beneath him still, likely turning their malice as Hadriana did— elsewhere lower underfoot.
No, it's the trust that Astarion gives voice to, chasing the ley of Fenris' fingerprints. What had made all the difference even at the start when contempt was still in play. He'd never had another on his side without bartering for it. Bargaining for it. Vipers like Violet— the ones who knew their limits— or the others, that was the best he could scrounge up before Fenris came to his side. Acquaintances. Allies.
Not friends.
Not this.
And maybe they'd stop him from drinking himself to death or overdosing (—maybe— ) but they'd never take his side. Never take a stand should the world be at its worst.
This is new.]
Though I'd draw an immeasurable sea of blood to keep you safe from either of them. [Squares his stance until they're parallel— toe to toe— slim shoulders even: arms unfolded so his hands relax, with the knuckles of one nestling against the dead center of his fighter's taller chest, hello.] Or anyone.
[That's his birthright, after all. The one thing he's good for. ]
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His own chaotic swirl of emotions suddenly clarified with a single, stunning sentence. Yes, he thinks, something warm solidifying deep in his heart. Yes, that's right, and it takes him a moment to understand it, for the trust isn't new. He had trusted Astarion to protect him even before the conversation began; he'd trusted him from that first night in bed, when his charge had whispered a promise to keep him safe.
But it's the line suddenly connecting them that shifts things. No more are they two utterly different creatures who have managed to forge a connection; suddenly, he looks at the elf nestled in his arms and thinks: you understand. What it is to be so lost and lonely that you cannot trust anyone but yourself; what it is to know that those around you wouldn't care if you lived or died, if you were miserable or happy, if you were sick or sad or tired, just so long as you kept doing whatever it was you were deigned to do.
You know what a wonder it is to have found someone like you, and a surge of protective adoration rises up within him, warm and soft and wonderful.]
I know.
[Said without a smile, but all the more sincere for it. What a strange, wonderful thing he's stumbled upon tonight, baffling and yet all the more perfect for it. His arms wrap around Astarion's waist, drawing him in close, as he bumps their noses together in a gentle nuzzle.]
I would see it someday, if ever Hadriana dares show her face in Baldur's Gate. Though you might need a few more lessons before you can actually manage to slit her throat.
[A slanted smile to echo Astarion's own, but it fades as he adds:]
Fierce thing . . . three centuries, and I have never known anyone like you.
You were worth waiting for.
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How very like Astarion.
It's as intoxicating as the muted burn of brandy on those lips. As the soft give of pallid hair underneath fine, spoiled fingers. It cranes him onto the balls of his feet, dull ache shivering sweetly through his arches just to meet it where it stands, knocking the bridges of their misaligned noses together once more— and again.]
....though you could've done us both the favor of turning up sooner.
[A kiss, pressed warm to the center of Fenris' drawn mouth.]
Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.
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The risk is low this far out from Baldur's Gate, but never nonexistent, and caution has been his watchword since they've gotten here (to admittedly middling results). But right now, that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that one careless maginet photo might ruin them; it doesn't matter that there's a viper in their midst not fifty feet away, nor that she reminds him of one of the worst torturers he's endured. All that matters is the here and now, and the lithe young elf in his arms that makes life somehow worth living.
Love you, he thinks and does not say as their mouths part, emerald eyes catching golden ones. Love you, love you, the mantra a quiet song in his heart.]
The best I have celebrated yet.
[The only one he's celebrated to-date, and they both know it. Warm adoration changes to warm amusement as he adds:]
If I had come to you any sooner, little love, you would have had to wait decades longer still, for I would have known your real age from the start. You would not have found me quite so easy to seduce.
[Another kiss, this one swift and with a short nip at the end. He grins as he adds:]
Though if you wish to play at being a virginal little twenty-five year old tonight, I would not complain. Ask nicely and perhaps I'll even throw you over my shoulder, ravishing you the way I'm certain you would have longed for back then.
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A stupid thing.]
—mmph. [Pales as punctuation when he only slips closer yet again, fingers fisting in thin fabric till they tangle, grin infectious. And warm.] But you'd have been younger too, no?
[He isn't refusing that offer; contrary to it, he's only leaning in, pressing his knee to the inner corner of Fenris' lean thigh.
Love you.]
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[Drawled out, his voice low and richly amused. One hand slips down beneath Astarion's thigh, urging that probing leg upwards and outwards: come close to me, as he guides it around his hip and draws him in. Their hips press together, Fenris' back arching as he indulges in a single, sinful grind— and oh, it's too much. It's ruinous, it's dangerous— and yet right now, tipsy off liquor and drunk off adoration, Fenris doesn't care, not anymore.
In one swift motion he hoists the other elf up in his arms, thighs wrapped around his hips and his weight borne so easily; he then turns on his heel, pinning him up against the faded black wall. There you are, and there's such a satisfied look in Fenris' eye as he stares at him, held upright by the rock of Fenris' hips and one steady hand.]
And still, I will be able to thrill you with a single motion, little magistrate.
[Drawled as he runs one palm down his side, fingers lingering in all the artfully torn gaps ripped into expensive clothing, each touch searing against cold skin. Another little rock of his hips, slow and heavy, before he adds:]
Or do you truly think you'd come out on top? Such a squalling little brat who hasn't learned how to take instead of simply demanding . . . do you truly think my being two centuries instead of three would give you an advantage?
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—shit. [Is a gasp. A groan. A knifing measure of control when all he can do is squirm beneath that touch despite himself— bare the borders of his blunt teeth and cede his eyelids to their fluttering, content to melt into it all. To curl his toes inside their boots and rut across lean hips; submerged heat.
A blooming thickness that even peripheral awareness can't ignore. Could never want to.
His spine strains to arch. To bring him closer, at least as nominally as movement will allow— broaching bare centimeters at best, straining to the limits of taut muscle under silk (every ripple of it catching at those fingers). Gods. Oh gods, darling, don't dare stop.]
You're— [ah] no better, you know.
Centuries older....and you're still panting at my heels like an unruly teenager, just like the rest of us. Salivating against a backstage wall for what you know you've won. [They both are, but hells, that only proves his point, doesn't it? Underscored in full by the angle of his lowered chin, his lidded eyes and spit-flocked lips, parted and wetter than his breath, and— ]
Or are you....stubbornly convincing yourself you're merely humoring my appetite with this?
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[It's a purr, low and rumbling as his voice only gets when he's in a particularly patronizing mood. His eyes have dragged down to linger on Astarion's mouth, lingering on the subtle part of swollen lips (for oh, it's been too long since he's felt those lips wrapped around his cock— since he's gotten to indulge in the sight of Astarion on his knees, cheeks hollow and tongue flat, sluttishly eager to prove he's better at this than anyone else).
But that taunt earns his attention. His eyes flick up, his teeth gleaming as a flashbang smirk steals over his face for a few seconds.]
This isn't about indulging your appetites. I am well aware of what you want, [and there's a mercilessly hard grind of his hips, grinding and rutting until Astarion's eyes flutter, the sweetest little noises of desire slipping past those slick lips. Then it's back: cold air rushing between their hips as Fenris draws just far enough away to be missed, flexing his hand and keeping Astarion pinned all the while.]
But tonight what I want is to take a virginal little brat and teach him patience.
[He leans in, his breath hot as he rumbles out words meant for one person only.]
I want to lay you out on the bed and spread your legs open wide, so I can put my tongue to you. I won't go quickly. Little licks at first, perhaps, or spreading you open around the breadth of my tongue: getting you used to the feeling and stoking you higher and higher, until at last you're writhing for me. So overwhelmed that you can't do anything but whine at me, begging me for more, promising me anything and everything if I'll give you something thicker.
[His hips glide forward again, rocking in time with the slow rhythm of his voice.]
So I will.
I'll tie your hands to the headboard, just to be sure you won't disobey, and dip my fingers in that aphrodesic oil you love, so I can fuck you so slowly you'll forget how to speak by the time I'm through. You'll fuss, I'm certain. You'll squall and protest and demand— plead— wail for more, but sooner or later, you'll learn to love what you're given.
[His tongue flits against the line of one tapered ear, nipping sharply each time he feels a shaky exhale.]
And if you've managed to be a good boy . . . if you learned your lesson and haven't fought me the entire time— I'll give you every inch of what you've been craving, just as fast and hard as you please.
2/2
[Make no mistake: he's far from unaffected. There's a flush to his cheeks and ears as he draws back, his eyes dilated wide and his lips subtly parted. And though he moves back far enough to let Astarion wiggle down if he pleases, he isn't letting go just yet.]
And I do not want to deal with Violet or Petras again tonight.
Ditch them. So that we might enjoy this even faster.
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....although you'd have to really let me go if you're committed to such a vulgar education.
[Testing the waters. Testing everything, really, including Fenris' normally fearsome resolve. A tall task over the rabbiting of his heart in his own hears (fluctuating pulse a mirror for the ache between his thighs, dizzying taxed senses further)—
But he's such a greedy thing, Astarion.
Overstimulation in his world is a synonym of contentment. Each rise of blistering hot bliss caught squirming between his teeth with every shameless moan he doesn't stifle in the slightest, almost daring plaster walls to carry it somewhere else. To carry it to someone else, garnering attention. He likes those roughened hands on him, the broad splay of strong fingers wrapped around his wrists, his ribs, his hips, covering more ground than he does when he sets his fingers to his skin. So much so that when Fenris eases off, it's Astarion that cinches his knees tighter, rocking down into that humid swell of heat between strong thighs.
His mouth is open. His breathing quick and wet, lips parted. If there was more than just one shitty, broken light clinging to taped wiring overhead, those eyes would shine with glassy hunger.
As things are, he just exhales it round white canines.]
....or is your cock too hard to make it to that bed without giving up and fucking me in the backseat of my car....?
[He's closer. Flexibility affords a nimble young thing the ability to defy lithe joints, and when he grinds this time to the point of quaking his own breath, his nose scuffs low across the edge of one tanned cheek— flirting with Fenris' jaw. Painting him with his voice.
Let go, urges the little thing that's wending tight around him.]
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I'd rather splay you over the hood.
[He growls it against Astarion's ear, teeth flashing as he bites in the next moment. Rough, yes. Rough and mean and hungry, just like the way his fingers tighten their grip, ravenous to leave the echo of his fingerprints on fair skin.]
Spread you open and watch you melt around my cock as you moan for the attention and the filth both, tongue lolling for how satisfied you are to have something big and thick in you . . .
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and he turns his head, teeth sinking in against the side of Astarion's neck, biting down once— twice— only to lap at the wound a moment later, every flick of his tongue smugly mocking. Delicate little thing.]
Then again . . . much as being fucked atop your Ferrari for all the world to see would thrill you, little exhibitionist, you've made me greedy.
[He tips his head back, regarding Astarion possessively.]
No one else gets to see you like that.
[No one else gets to see you like this.]
Down.
[And make no mistake: it's a heated order, not a worried demand, underscored by the way he licks a swift stripe up the line of Astarion's throat.]
Unless you want me to haul you out over my shoulder. I wouldn't mind. Either way, [he nips at Astarion's bottom lip,] I aim to be in you within ten minutes.
So pick.
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Straightening his back hides how he shivers when his cock jumps hard against the smothered junction between thigh and hip, already counting out the steps to where the valet might've parked; straightening his button down hides the fact that his composure's no more than a toothless paper tiger, confidence quaking at its seams.]
Ten minutes?
[Earns a curious tilt of his head over his shoulder, rigid (oh in every sense, thank the gods he's turned himself away by the time his palm rests against the door) yet his movements run smooth enough to be an invitation all their own: come on then, old wolf. If you're so hungry, follow me. I'll wet your throat; slake that parched, aching tongue. A purr is in his throat, his blinks run slow and heavy.
The door swings open wide to reveal the black maw of pavement under a pitch night sky, city lights a neon spackle linking the borders of his coat— and catching on the glint of an object clutched tightly in his fingers, tossed to Fenris just a half second later.
Think fast.
Car keys. His own, in fact, the high end logo likely hefty in Fenris' hand if he managed to pluck it out of thin air. Which means that either immediately or eventually, this time it's the noble holding the door for his bodyguard, smirking with a confidence that belies the sharp heat whetting the nape of his neck.
The low pit of his stomach.]
Well then, if you want to have me stripped down and gasping your name over leather that quick, darling you'd better get hunting....
[There's a flash of a grin as smug punctuation when he lifts his free arm, emulating the click of pushing down on the lock of the car's key fob.]
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Six minutes to go from overcrowded, overheated nightclub to basking in the cool air of the parking lot as he hunts for an elusive chirp, and from there, the backseat of Astarion's car, where he nudges his charge in with a low laugh before following himself. It's far from perfect— not the spaciousness of Astarion's bed nor the ease of access of a nearby wall— but the windows are tinted and the doors are locked, and drunk as they both are, it's as private as they can manage.
But the mood has shifted between one moment and the next, Fenris finds. Not his ravenous desire for the man currently wriggling between his thighs (so pretty pinned down across leather seats, his shirt rucked up and his curls mussed), but something in the way he looks at him. Not as prey ready to be taken, a little rabbit eager to be caught, but rather, something softer. Something more intimate, and perhaps that suits, given the day.
It means that when Fenris finally crawls over him and catches him in a kiss, it isn't the devouring thing he'd promised back in the club. It isn't fierce and dominant, though it is deep: an intimate kiss, and one meant to be savored. Hello, my love, as breathless as it is fond, as he tips his head and kisses him without shame. Hello, I love you, and they haven't said the words yet. They might never say them. But perhaps some part of it comes through anyway.]
Take off your shirt.
[A gentle command issued as he draws back, but a command nonetheless, and he'll wait as long as he needs to for Astarion to obey. Then it's back down: his hands bracing on either side of his chest as he ducks his head down, lips brushing sweetly against the side of his throat.]
You're beautiful.
[Soft. Sweet. Easily given, for this is only the start. His mouth moves down slowly, kissing bare skin and lean lines, the words spoken against sweat-glossed skin.]
Clever. [Another reverent kiss, this time laid by his collarbone.] And loyal. [A brief nuzzle against his chest, his palm stroking over one pectoral as he slowly moves down.]
You make it easy to forget the world, and my place in it.
[I love you, I love you, and he doesn't know when that began. He doesn't know when he started to feel something deeper than appreciation and fondness. It's so dangerous, so unnerving, and yet he cannot deny it, not when every thundering pulse of his heart sings it out. I love you, not blindly, not foolishly, but honestly. I love you in spite of all the warning signs, I love you even when you're at your worst, I love seeing you at your best, I love being with you, and he doesn't know what to do with all of that, save express it now with every adoring kiss and fervent touch. His hands look so broad around the span of narrow hips, his thumbs flitting over the jutting line of bone as he inches lower.]
You give me a sense of belonging as I have never known it. Dignity and autonomy as had been denied to me all my life. You are a wonder, stellula, and someday, I think, you will see it as I do. Not because of your wealth, or your standing. Not because of what society has given you on a silver platter.
But because of who you are in spite of it. Who are you are in the dark, as only I know.
[Tomorrow, maybe, he'll regret this. He'll fluster at his own honesty and despise himself for making himself so weak. This isn't what they do, this isn't how they work, and maybe tomorrow they'll silently agree to never bring it up again. But here, now, drunk and a little overwhelmed, he cannot help the way his heart aches to be heard.]
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