[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.]
If not on the spot, (heart hammering, bare chest left shallow from breathlessness unprompted), then in the inevitable hardship of living on the run or faking his own death— or both. In a car he's pictured submerged beneath the surface of the bay with a brick jammed tight against the pedals, he's struck with inspiration made up of one part the unthinkable, and the other woven out of desperation. A desire to make this easy on them; reducing the odds of failure to a pinprick nonexistence by way of a bottle of poison and the matter of inheritance.
Anything to keep this view.
To keep those warm, rough hands clutched across his sides.
(....it's not as if his father wouldn't do it first, he thinks. Or tells himself, the way that any highborn adolescent in Baldur's Gate does. When decorum has a nasty habit of confessing its own limits behind closed doors, it's hard to trust the concept. Even Petras is convinced his parents tried to drown him at least once.
Though in their defense if true, that song was fucking annoying.)
Astarion's softened exhale almost sells the idea of oblivious confusion. (If he's wrong about the look in gold-green eyes— if this has nothing to do with the way those fingers arrest over his ribs and everything to do with indigestion or a second shot of bourbon, then he needs it: the easy smile on his mouth. The one that hitches only when it's watched closely.)]
....hells below, what's gotten into you, darling? [Is tender. Deep-throated in a way he'd curse, if not for the fact that his hands have already moved to gather up around an angled jawline marked by magic, smoothing the imprint of his thumbs with care over those cheeks.
He can't stand being the fool.
He plays it just to have agency first, but gods, he can't take it anymore.
....for this, though....]
First you want to fuck me till I see nothing else but stars, now you're pouring out your soul....
[He's smiling, ready to laugh it off the second Fenris confesses that he's drunk and didn't mean it. Leave it on the car floor with his shirt and keys.
It doesn't hide the audible click when he next swallows.]
[It's a paper mask. A flimsy façade that a child could see through in an instant, for Astarion betrays himself so easily in the way he stares. All smiles, yes, his tone teasing and lighthearted, but one glance at his eyes betrays just how fragile all of that is.
Or maybe it isn't obvious. Maybe Fenris has just grown to know him that well, that he can see the terrified uncertainty shining out of those golden eyes. And maybe it works in reverse, too, for it's the slow slide of soft palms against his jaw that keeps him tethered where he might have otherwise shied away. Don't go, don't leave me, and even afraid, there's nothing scornfully mocking in Astarion's tone.
His own stomach churns with nerves, his heart thundering in his chest— and yet despite that, Fenris feels oddly serene. Calm in a way he only ever gets in battle, somewhat detached and yet present all the same.]
You begged me once to make you mine.
[He can't say it. He can't offer that much of his heart, not yet, not when the risk of failure is so large. But there's something steady and fervent in his gaze; this is no joke, and he finds nothing amusing in it.]
You offered me anything and everything, if only I would have you.
[Fenris, name it. Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours. I'm yours. Please, and it had broken his heart that night to refuse, but there are no regrets there. Not when they were still so breathlessly new; not when he couldn't be sure Astarion wasn't just carried along by the moment.
But things are different now. The scales have tipped, and what was once unthinkable has become something normal. Are you all right, Astarion's eyes shining with rage and his teeth bared in a snarl, and he would not do that for a mere dalliance, Fenris knows.
One hand lifts, his fingers careful as he tucks back an endlessly errant curl behind Astarion's ear.]
Do you no longer want such things?
[It's a rhetorical question and it isn't, all at once.]
I would have you here, now— and later, too. When we are home again, and we are forced to don our guises and play our roles once more. I would have you now that such offers have expired, and you stayed anyway. When I ceased to be fun, or charming, or fun to rile, still, you wished to be near me. You wished to know me.
I would be . . . [He hesitates, swallowing thickly, and amends it back to:]
I would have you be mine, if you still desired it. And I would be— I would be yours. If it was still wanted.
[Everything in him hitches. Rucks over himself in a momentary instant. It stills his fingertips. Sobers the darkness in his stare. He hasn't lost his appetite for sex, he's lost his focus for it. The part of him that thinks in terms of teeth on flesh falls silent, and little save for rapt consideration stays behind in his own place.
(Oh, this isn't how things go.
This isn't how they go: gentle and sincere in sips or solely when they're settled in and speaking, making time for all the conversations that prove more difficult to bear— sex is sex. Partitioned off by years of tight-locked jerks of muscle movement in snug spaces, wetted lips merely a mutual means to an end for everyone involved.)
That night, on the other hand, was that night. A different beast completely. An offer made by someone who hardly knew any better— much to his own chagrin looking back, he can see his own childishness clearly— that at the time he'd been someone who had nothing else to give for assurance.
It doesn't matter that the question is rhetorical, and it doesn't matter that the leather seatbacks squeal in vexing protest when he pries up his own to lay his palm across Fenris' cheek: he does it anyway. Answers anyway, through the pressure of that touch and the hooking of his ankle round the back of his bodyguard's own, which has the uncomfortable downside of scraping his knee along the console's edge until it pinches (ask him if he cares). On a night when he'd nearly taken a glass straight to his scalp the theme of tonight remains: his guard drops.
He's too distracted by better things.]
You'd have to have been fun and charming in the first place to warrant stating that those offers have expired. [Carefully— tentatively— with his heart still in his throat and uncertainty a rare sight in his movements, he lifts his chin to bump against Fenris whilst still gently intertwined. Noses first, then foreheads— nearly their mouths, though spent air makes the difference with its coiled warmth.]
You were annoying. [Sets the edge of his short canines against a softer lip.] And stubborn. [Lowers the shadow of his lashes.] And you never let me be to the point that I couldn't tell whether it was for my sake or yours that you were aggravatingly diligent.
[His fingers tighten when he laughs— mostly to himself.]
I suppose it was both.
[It had to have been. He hadn't any choice.
Maybe that's why he lingered on I would be. Maybe that's why it matters that he shifts his phrasing first, and why Astarion leaves it lay, fingers slipping down to hook in Fenris' shirt collar, hanging.]
And I do know you now. In the dark, as you so eloquently put it. In the light, too, when there are so many eyes on you and I and yet you still can't help the glances that you steal or the exhaustion in that stare as you disagree with everything I am. [There's a grin in his voice, if not his lips.] It's why I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet.
[I love you, his heart sings— and yet the ease with which Astarion returns that love almost takes him aback, though Fenris can't say why. Though, he thinks in the next moment, perhaps it's because there are so few things in his life that have ever come easily. Not the little things, indulgences or habits, and as for something so monumental as love . . . surely there must be a catch, his scarred soul whispers. Surely there must be something he's missed: some clause, some hesitation, some snag that will pull the rug out from under him and leave him whimpering in misery and pain, foolish boy, three centuries old and you still don't know better than to hope?
And awfully, just for a moment, his mind flashes to that party a year ago: that idiotic boy wriggling around in Astarion's lap, panting and mewling and staring at his conqueror with such devotion— and how swiftly Astarion had been rid of him. How easy it was for him to use him and forget him just as soon as he was tired of that little ploy . . . but that's an unworthy thought, and guilt floods through Fenris a moment later, scolding him for daring to compare the two.
It's just that suddenly he's so terrifyingly aware of how inexperienced he is at this. How fragile his heart is, and how easy it would be to fall so hard so fast, just like every simpering maidservant destined to have her heart broken by a careless master . . . but Astarion means it, Fenris swears he does. He's proven it a thousand times over already, in little moments and larger ones. Times where he's defended him, yes, but more than that: in little conversations. In the way that they talk, equal to equal, and in how Astarion asks after him. Wants to know his thoughts or his opinions, and tolerates them, even when they're disagreeable. Especially when they're disagreeable, Fenris thinks, and stares down at a face he knows almost as well as his own.
Astarion wouldn't have called it courting all those months ago. He wouldn't grow so incensed whenever Fenris is patronized or belittled; he would not snarl and seethe at his friends, risking his own neck, unless he well and truly cared. Beyond infatuation, beyond fascination . . . he would not risk his reputation and his standing for something less than love.
(Love, but they can't say that word just yet— but that's what it is, Fenris knows).
There's nothing but adoration in Astarion's face right now. Nothing but gentle devotion in the bump of their noses and the press of their lips, fragile and delicate and everything that a noble heir shouldn't be. We don't use words like that, Astarion had told him once, and yet here he is, his voice soft as anything, whispering devotion so sincerely it hurts. His fingers are so slight as they catch in Fenris' collar, tentative adoration laced within every trembling motion.
He means it, Fenris thinks, and as his expression softens, something swells in his chest, joyful and light and adoring as he never is. It burns away all the doubt and fear, leaving nothing but love in its wake. I love you, he thinks without thinking again, and rumbles in pleasure as he noses against one pale cheek.]
Since when?
[Tell me, as he nips gently at a sharp jawline. Tell me all the details, where and when and why, all the mundane things that interest no one but them. But another thought steals over him, and Fenris draws back just enough to catch his— his, his, his— beloved's eye.]
Tell me what it means to you, to be mine.
[It isn't a challenge. Whatever doubt had flashed through his mind a moment ago is long gone, replaced by dizzying adoration. But what might seem simple to slaves becomes vastly more complex when it comes to nobles— and vice-versa, for that matter. And it would be good to know.
Still: this is a moment of bliss, not fretfulness, and there's something so besotted in the way he cards his fingers through gel-slick curls, smoothing them back and ruining hours of work.]
It was both.
[His thoughts leap from one to another, and he knows he ought to slow down, but alcohol makes him clumsy. Another fretful push of his nose against Astarion's cheek, equal parts affectionate and assuring: it was both.]
I will not say it was not self-serving, but . . . nor will I ever let you be hurt, not as long as I am there to guard you. Not from foolishly inept tutors, [and for a moment the old anger rises, but ah, ah, not here and now,], nor your family, nor some mob armed with guns and knives. Nothing will touch you, nothing will come near you, not if it is within my power to keep you safe.
For that is— at least in part— what it means to be mine.
[He likes hearing it. The words ring in his ears like something he hadn't known he'd needed (mine, and he could turn the sound of it over again and again between his fingers as if studying a banded ring and never tire of the way it feels for pressure), blooming in fine features and settling warm into the tips of his sharp ears; those places where he's gone more flush than when he's sucking cock: pink across the bridge of his nose, the bow of his lips, the shell of his ear and the underside of his slim throat— bare and slightly bobbing when he swallows, smiling (stupidly) against the press of every nudge.
There's little danger in this world of theirs that doesn't come from within. Nobility fears the greed of common rabble readily enough, but it's their own greed that poisons entire lineages at the root, and shunts its heirs in vain disgrace. The sort of thing Fenris reasonably can't safeguard against, and the sort of thing he can't— without seizing his established place— protect Fenris from in turn.
But....
(His fingers sink a little deeper under rough-edged fabric. His opposing hand roams higher, burying itself in silver hair and clutching, emblematic of the kind of selfishness he was born to know. The kind of selflessness he wasn't.)]
It means whatever pain you've known before you and I met?
You won't know it again.
[And he still feels the echo of their first discussion, outlining all the things he was told he couldn't promise, undercutting the sincerity swept across his lips as they harass dusk-kissed, sunset skin— but he wants it to be true. Enough that there's nothing he wouldn't give to make it so, and underneath that lens of limitless desire, maybe it could be, he tells himself. Maybe it is.
So it is, he thinks again, letting the pressure of their ankles pinch a little more, grasping.] Because you'll always have a magistrate under your thumb and in your bed, ready to condemn the world itself at your request.
[His laugh is mild, it pushes back against Fenris' buried profile, warm as sunlight.]
[It's less of a starry-eyed promise this time, Fenris thinks— or maybe he's just learned more about Astarion, and all the ways in which his resolve can be steely if he so wishes. Bratty and rich and spoiled to an indulgent fault, oh, yes, but not stupid. Not naive, not the way some of his peers are, thinking themselves worldly because they've seen so much through the lens of magitech. I'll keep you safe, I'll keep you in comfort, and it isn't a blanket promise, waving away all the dangers and pitfalls of the world.
It's comforting. Loving. Adoring, and just as earnest as Fenris' own promise was: nothing will harm you, not so long as it's within my power to keep you safe.
What more can he ask for?
It's different than last time. Or he's different— or maybe it's just that they know each other so much better now, and there's a foundation to build those promises upon. It means that when Astarion laughs, warm and sweet, everything in Fenris alights, another wave of adoration crashing over him like an endless tsunami, dizzying in the best way.]
Well, not that . . . I would prefer your skull intact, even if it comes at an insult to my pride.
[A tease to hide just how endearing he finds that offer, his cheeks warm for the memory. He's growing brighter, though he doesn't realize it just yet: nanites shifting in response to his mood, the rush of adrenaline and dopamine making him incrementally brighter by the second. He tips his head back and rumbles out a soft groan, pleased by the way slender fingers tighten their grip and keep him close.]
I will not deny the power thrills me . . . but it's Astarion Ancunín that I enjoy having in my bed, not a magistrate.
[He does not truly think it needs to be said, so there's no real urgency in his tone— but still. It matters that he articulates it, and fights to catch Astarion's eye, underscoring the point (albeit hazily, distracted by liquor and that thrilling, leashing grip on his hair).
But catch Astarion's eye means looking down at him again, drinking in the flush that colors his nose and cheeks and bare throat . . . and oh, Fenris can't help but soften all over again, endeared by the sight of his little magistrate.]
You aim to spoil me?
[Tell me, little one, as he slides his fingers so lightly against the line of one sharp ear. Tell me how you'll keep me safe and comfortable, as Fenris tries very hard to see if he can distract his lover through touch alone.]
I spoil you already. [Is the distrait response of a noble heir who's been unseated by the worrying at his ear; not so dazed as much as dazzled by the sentiment that guides those fingers already, the nail in the coffin for where the pupils of his eyes shift (flickering erratically), is that all-consuming softness where rough knuckles glide across his skin— buzzing through his nervous system like white noise.
Because normally he'd have something in mind already when it comes to coy responses, or even clever ones, no matter how sincere. Something to give tenderness a brace before its gentle foyer meets its basement with a thoughtless whimper, or a mood-killing fumble of his words.
But he knows, even with the thickness of alcohol on their breath, rolling in the air between them (his fingertips still tucked in places he can't see and his bare skin sticking to expensive leather), Fenris doesn't care about all that. Let his fumble be a fumble. Let his ear twitch until it snaps flat against his white curls with a shudder.
It's the truth, if nothing else.]
Where else [he starts again, tugging on thick cloth just to get his bearings while his knees dig hard against the console,] would you find yourself getting to fuck a lordling in a car worth twice as much as the average household income?
[It's not scolding, no matter that there's tinges of it tangled in the way he groans it out. Wryness, too, and rueful satisfaction, an amalgam of emotions that emerge with every sharp nip of Fenris' teeth against Astarion's jawline. Don't say such things, for though they thrill him to his core, he cannot deny there's a part of him that flinches as well. It's the same part of him that grimaces to see the way Astarion and his friends throw money away as if it means nothing; it's the same part of him that sneers at the idle wealth and foolishness of the aristocracy, no matter that he's in love with one in particular. It's contradictory, but isn't everyone?
And right now, with his face tucked beneath a sharp jaw and his teeth merciless as he bites little reddened marks down the line of a pale throat, Fenris doesn't care. He groans and huffs because it's an easy way to let out some of his own overwhelming feelings, his heart still singing and his adoration almost too much to bear.]
Not just any lordling.
[He knows. He knows, but Fenris insists upon the point anyway. His hand drifts down, skimming over bare skin until he finds the waistband of Astarion's pants, opening them with a deft flick of his fingers. His head tips up, his voice low as he promises:]
Only you.
[Only ever you. His fingers glide against swelling heat, knuckles brushing against velvet skin in slow greeting. From there he takes him in hand, fingers squeezing tight as he strokes him from root to crown— it's a slow start, for he isn't nearly ready to stop talking just yet.
And he wants to watch Astarion unravel beneath him.]
I'll put my tongue to you if the little lordling can tell me what kind of car he's lying in, so eager to be debauched.
[An affectionate challenge offered as he ducks his head down again, tongue tracking against the thundering pulsepoint just beneath Astarion's jaw.]
[Their world is paper; it falls apart each and every day in new ways, brought on by the clattering of coin in different palms. Who has what— who has nothing— the fine line that separates is the exhilarating thrill, and the arrogance of those born of high bloodlines paints that would-be thrill as a sort of pretend game between children: falls from grace happen to other people, not them. Never them. It's a rollercoaster with a lap bar, a tiger that's been dosed. It's toothless (until it isn't), and yet those cyclical trains of thought are the most the lot of them ever have the luxury of feeling.
He'd call it a high, but they do that too.
And yet it's miles from this. This rush. This shiver. This squeeze of compressed gravity between them, the click of his belt buckle (unclasped) jittering across deft fingertips is deafening. He hears it in his blood, like a shudder laced with sound. Feels the dig of a knuckle here— so molten hot he shivers at first touch before the rest sinks down around him— rough against soft measures, tugging up his sanity by the root and nearly coaxing searing oblivion from a start that's far more punctuation than prelude.
His head drops back against the seat. His shoulders drag until they scrub at pitch dark leather. He groans, and his eyes roll back behind dark lashes, and he fists both hands (and every knuckle) in the lengthy fall of Fenris' pale hair, panting just to tighten both his thighs.
Gods above, he loves this game.]
....one....[catches along the back of his own tongue, fighting to wait until he's finished his response before setting itself to the lowest reaches of his lover's throat]....that I bought and paid for.
[(Somewhere in that teasing. That goading, loving push and pull of wicked meanness, there's just one missable whisper of only you let loose into the frozen air of a stagnant car. Into the smell of alcohol and sugar and long-since dried cologne, all mingled.
The places where his skin still burns with righteous longing.)]
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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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If not on the spot, (heart hammering, bare chest left shallow from breathlessness unprompted), then in the inevitable hardship of living on the run or faking his own death— or both. In a car he's pictured submerged beneath the surface of the bay with a brick jammed tight against the pedals, he's struck with inspiration made up of one part the unthinkable, and the other woven out of desperation. A desire to make this easy on them; reducing the odds of failure to a pinprick nonexistence by way of a bottle of poison and the matter of inheritance.
Anything to keep this view.
To keep those warm, rough hands clutched across his sides.
(....it's not as if his father wouldn't do it first, he thinks. Or tells himself, the way that any highborn adolescent in Baldur's Gate does. When decorum has a nasty habit of confessing its own limits behind closed doors, it's hard to trust the concept. Even Petras is convinced his parents tried to drown him at least once.
Though in their defense if true, that song was fucking annoying.)
Astarion's softened exhale almost sells the idea of oblivious confusion. (If he's wrong about the look in gold-green eyes— if this has nothing to do with the way those fingers arrest over his ribs and everything to do with indigestion or a second shot of bourbon, then he needs it: the easy smile on his mouth. The one that hitches only when it's watched closely.)]
....hells below, what's gotten into you, darling? [Is tender. Deep-throated in a way he'd curse, if not for the fact that his hands have already moved to gather up around an angled jawline marked by magic, smoothing the imprint of his thumbs with care over those cheeks.
He can't stand being the fool.
He plays it just to have agency first, but gods, he can't take it anymore.
....for this, though....]
First you want to fuck me till I see nothing else but stars, now you're pouring out your soul....
[He's smiling, ready to laugh it off the second Fenris confesses that he's drunk and didn't mean it. Leave it on the car floor with his shirt and keys.
It doesn't hide the audible click when he next swallows.]
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Or maybe it isn't obvious. Maybe Fenris has just grown to know him that well, that he can see the terrified uncertainty shining out of those golden eyes. And maybe it works in reverse, too, for it's the slow slide of soft palms against his jaw that keeps him tethered where he might have otherwise shied away. Don't go, don't leave me, and even afraid, there's nothing scornfully mocking in Astarion's tone.
His own stomach churns with nerves, his heart thundering in his chest— and yet despite that, Fenris feels oddly serene. Calm in a way he only ever gets in battle, somewhat detached and yet present all the same.]
You begged me once to make you mine.
[He can't say it. He can't offer that much of his heart, not yet, not when the risk of failure is so large. But there's something steady and fervent in his gaze; this is no joke, and he finds nothing amusing in it.]
You offered me anything and everything, if only I would have you.
[Fenris, name it. Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours. I'm yours. Please, and it had broken his heart that night to refuse, but there are no regrets there. Not when they were still so breathlessly new; not when he couldn't be sure Astarion wasn't just carried along by the moment.
But things are different now. The scales have tipped, and what was once unthinkable has become something normal. Are you all right, Astarion's eyes shining with rage and his teeth bared in a snarl, and he would not do that for a mere dalliance, Fenris knows.
One hand lifts, his fingers careful as he tucks back an endlessly errant curl behind Astarion's ear.]
Do you no longer want such things?
[It's a rhetorical question and it isn't, all at once.]
I would have you here, now— and later, too. When we are home again, and we are forced to don our guises and play our roles once more. I would have you now that such offers have expired, and you stayed anyway. When I ceased to be fun, or charming, or fun to rile, still, you wished to be near me. You wished to know me.
I would be . . . [He hesitates, swallowing thickly, and amends it back to:]
I would have you be mine, if you still desired it. And I would be— I would be yours. If it was still wanted.
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(Oh, this isn't how things go.
This isn't how they go: gentle and sincere in sips or solely when they're settled in and speaking, making time for all the conversations that prove more difficult to bear— sex is sex. Partitioned off by years of tight-locked jerks of muscle movement in snug spaces, wetted lips merely a mutual means to an end for everyone involved.)
That night, on the other hand, was that night. A different beast completely. An offer made by someone who hardly knew any better— much to his own chagrin looking back, he can see his own childishness clearly— that at the time he'd been someone who had nothing else to give for assurance.
It doesn't matter that the question is rhetorical, and it doesn't matter that the leather seatbacks squeal in vexing protest when he pries up his own to lay his palm across Fenris' cheek: he does it anyway. Answers anyway, through the pressure of that touch and the hooking of his ankle round the back of his bodyguard's own, which has the uncomfortable downside of scraping his knee along the console's edge until it pinches (ask him if he cares). On a night when he'd nearly taken a glass straight to his scalp the theme of tonight remains: his guard drops.
He's too distracted by better things.]
You'd have to have been fun and charming in the first place to warrant stating that those offers have expired. [Carefully— tentatively— with his heart still in his throat and uncertainty a rare sight in his movements, he lifts his chin to bump against Fenris whilst still gently intertwined. Noses first, then foreheads— nearly their mouths, though spent air makes the difference with its coiled warmth.]
You were annoying. [Sets the edge of his short canines against a softer lip.] And stubborn. [Lowers the shadow of his lashes.] And you never let me be to the point that I couldn't tell whether it was for my sake or yours that you were aggravatingly diligent.
[His fingers tighten when he laughs— mostly to himself.]
I suppose it was both.
[It had to have been. He hadn't any choice.
Maybe that's why he lingered on I would be. Maybe that's why it matters that he shifts his phrasing first, and why Astarion leaves it lay, fingers slipping down to hook in Fenris' shirt collar, hanging.]
And I do know you now. In the dark, as you so eloquently put it. In the light, too, when there are so many eyes on you and I and yet you still can't help the glances that you steal or the exhaustion in that stare as you disagree with everything I am. [There's a grin in his voice, if not his lips.] It's why I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet.
I'm already yours.
[Make it official.]
I have been for a long, long time.
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And awfully, just for a moment, his mind flashes to that party a year ago: that idiotic boy wriggling around in Astarion's lap, panting and mewling and staring at his conqueror with such devotion— and how swiftly Astarion had been rid of him. How easy it was for him to use him and forget him just as soon as he was tired of that little ploy . . . but that's an unworthy thought, and guilt floods through Fenris a moment later, scolding him for daring to compare the two.
It's just that suddenly he's so terrifyingly aware of how inexperienced he is at this. How fragile his heart is, and how easy it would be to fall so hard so fast, just like every simpering maidservant destined to have her heart broken by a careless master . . . but Astarion means it, Fenris swears he does. He's proven it a thousand times over already, in little moments and larger ones. Times where he's defended him, yes, but more than that: in little conversations. In the way that they talk, equal to equal, and in how Astarion asks after him. Wants to know his thoughts or his opinions, and tolerates them, even when they're disagreeable. Especially when they're disagreeable, Fenris thinks, and stares down at a face he knows almost as well as his own.
Astarion wouldn't have called it courting all those months ago. He wouldn't grow so incensed whenever Fenris is patronized or belittled; he would not snarl and seethe at his friends, risking his own neck, unless he well and truly cared. Beyond infatuation, beyond fascination . . . he would not risk his reputation and his standing for something less than love.
(Love, but they can't say that word just yet— but that's what it is, Fenris knows).
There's nothing but adoration in Astarion's face right now. Nothing but gentle devotion in the bump of their noses and the press of their lips, fragile and delicate and everything that a noble heir shouldn't be. We don't use words like that, Astarion had told him once, and yet here he is, his voice soft as anything, whispering devotion so sincerely it hurts. His fingers are so slight as they catch in Fenris' collar, tentative adoration laced within every trembling motion.
He means it, Fenris thinks, and as his expression softens, something swells in his chest, joyful and light and adoring as he never is. It burns away all the doubt and fear, leaving nothing but love in its wake. I love you, he thinks without thinking again, and rumbles in pleasure as he noses against one pale cheek.]
Since when?
[Tell me, as he nips gently at a sharp jawline. Tell me all the details, where and when and why, all the mundane things that interest no one but them. But another thought steals over him, and Fenris draws back just enough to catch his— his, his, his— beloved's eye.]
Tell me what it means to you, to be mine.
[It isn't a challenge. Whatever doubt had flashed through his mind a moment ago is long gone, replaced by dizzying adoration. But what might seem simple to slaves becomes vastly more complex when it comes to nobles— and vice-versa, for that matter. And it would be good to know.
Still: this is a moment of bliss, not fretfulness, and there's something so besotted in the way he cards his fingers through gel-slick curls, smoothing them back and ruining hours of work.]
It was both.
[His thoughts leap from one to another, and he knows he ought to slow down, but alcohol makes him clumsy. Another fretful push of his nose against Astarion's cheek, equal parts affectionate and assuring: it was both.]
I will not say it was not self-serving, but . . . nor will I ever let you be hurt, not as long as I am there to guard you. Not from foolishly inept tutors, [and for a moment the old anger rises, but ah, ah, not here and now,], nor your family, nor some mob armed with guns and knives. Nothing will touch you, nothing will come near you, not if it is within my power to keep you safe.
For that is— at least in part— what it means to be mine.
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There's little danger in this world of theirs that doesn't come from within. Nobility fears the greed of common rabble readily enough, but it's their own greed that poisons entire lineages at the root, and shunts its heirs in vain disgrace. The sort of thing Fenris reasonably can't safeguard against, and the sort of thing he can't— without seizing his established place— protect Fenris from in turn.
But....
(His fingers sink a little deeper under rough-edged fabric. His opposing hand roams higher, burying itself in silver hair and clutching, emblematic of the kind of selfishness he was born to know. The kind of selflessness he wasn't.)]
It means whatever pain you've known before you and I met?
You won't know it again.
[And he still feels the echo of their first discussion, outlining all the things he was told he couldn't promise, undercutting the sincerity swept across his lips as they harass dusk-kissed, sunset skin— but he wants it to be true. Enough that there's nothing he wouldn't give to make it so, and underneath that lens of limitless desire, maybe it could be, he tells himself. Maybe it is.
So it is, he thinks again, letting the pressure of their ankles pinch a little more, grasping.] Because you'll always have a magistrate under your thumb and in your bed, ready to condemn the world itself at your request.
[His laugh is mild, it pushes back against Fenris' buried profile, warm as sunlight.]
Or take a glass to the head for you. Either one.
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It's comforting. Loving. Adoring, and just as earnest as Fenris' own promise was: nothing will harm you, not so long as it's within my power to keep you safe.
What more can he ask for?
It's different than last time. Or he's different— or maybe it's just that they know each other so much better now, and there's a foundation to build those promises upon. It means that when Astarion laughs, warm and sweet, everything in Fenris alights, another wave of adoration crashing over him like an endless tsunami, dizzying in the best way.]
Well, not that . . . I would prefer your skull intact, even if it comes at an insult to my pride.
[A tease to hide just how endearing he finds that offer, his cheeks warm for the memory. He's growing brighter, though he doesn't realize it just yet: nanites shifting in response to his mood, the rush of adrenaline and dopamine making him incrementally brighter by the second. He tips his head back and rumbles out a soft groan, pleased by the way slender fingers tighten their grip and keep him close.]
I will not deny the power thrills me . . . but it's Astarion Ancunín that I enjoy having in my bed, not a magistrate.
[He does not truly think it needs to be said, so there's no real urgency in his tone— but still. It matters that he articulates it, and fights to catch Astarion's eye, underscoring the point (albeit hazily, distracted by liquor and that thrilling, leashing grip on his hair).
But catch Astarion's eye means looking down at him again, drinking in the flush that colors his nose and cheeks and bare throat . . . and oh, Fenris can't help but soften all over again, endeared by the sight of his little magistrate.]
You aim to spoil me?
[Tell me, little one, as he slides his fingers so lightly against the line of one sharp ear. Tell me how you'll keep me safe and comfortable, as Fenris tries very hard to see if he can distract his lover through touch alone.]
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Because normally he'd have something in mind already when it comes to coy responses, or even clever ones, no matter how sincere. Something to give tenderness a brace before its gentle foyer meets its basement with a thoughtless whimper, or a mood-killing fumble of his words.
But he knows, even with the thickness of alcohol on their breath, rolling in the air between them (his fingertips still tucked in places he can't see and his bare skin sticking to expensive leather), Fenris doesn't care about all that. Let his fumble be a fumble. Let his ear twitch until it snaps flat against his white curls with a shudder.
It's the truth, if nothing else.]
Where else [he starts again, tugging on thick cloth just to get his bearings while his knees dig hard against the console,] would you find yourself getting to fuck a lordling in a car worth twice as much as the average household income?
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[It's not scolding, no matter that there's tinges of it tangled in the way he groans it out. Wryness, too, and rueful satisfaction, an amalgam of emotions that emerge with every sharp nip of Fenris' teeth against Astarion's jawline. Don't say such things, for though they thrill him to his core, he cannot deny there's a part of him that flinches as well. It's the same part of him that grimaces to see the way Astarion and his friends throw money away as if it means nothing; it's the same part of him that sneers at the idle wealth and foolishness of the aristocracy, no matter that he's in love with one in particular. It's contradictory, but isn't everyone?
And right now, with his face tucked beneath a sharp jaw and his teeth merciless as he bites little reddened marks down the line of a pale throat, Fenris doesn't care. He groans and huffs because it's an easy way to let out some of his own overwhelming feelings, his heart still singing and his adoration almost too much to bear.]
Not just any lordling.
[He knows. He knows, but Fenris insists upon the point anyway. His hand drifts down, skimming over bare skin until he finds the waistband of Astarion's pants, opening them with a deft flick of his fingers. His head tips up, his voice low as he promises:]
Only you.
[Only ever you. His fingers glide against swelling heat, knuckles brushing against velvet skin in slow greeting. From there he takes him in hand, fingers squeezing tight as he strokes him from root to crown— it's a slow start, for he isn't nearly ready to stop talking just yet.
And he wants to watch Astarion unravel beneath him.]
I'll put my tongue to you if the little lordling can tell me what kind of car he's lying in, so eager to be debauched.
[An affectionate challenge offered as he ducks his head down again, tongue tracking against the thundering pulsepoint just beneath Astarion's jaw.]
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He'd call it a high, but they do that too.
And yet it's miles from this. This rush. This shiver. This squeeze of compressed gravity between them, the click of his belt buckle (unclasped) jittering across deft fingertips is deafening. He hears it in his blood, like a shudder laced with sound. Feels the dig of a knuckle here— so molten hot he shivers at first touch before the rest sinks down around him— rough against soft measures, tugging up his sanity by the root and nearly coaxing searing oblivion from a start that's far more punctuation than prelude.
His head drops back against the seat. His shoulders drag until they scrub at pitch dark leather. He groans, and his eyes roll back behind dark lashes, and he fists both hands (and every knuckle) in the lengthy fall of Fenris' pale hair, panting just to tighten both his thighs.
Gods above, he loves this game.]
....one....[catches along the back of his own tongue, fighting to wait until he's finished his response before setting itself to the lowest reaches of his lover's throat]....that I bought and paid for.
[(Somewhere in that teasing. That goading, loving push and pull of wicked meanness, there's just one missable whisper of only you let loose into the frozen air of a stagnant car. Into the smell of alcohol and sugar and long-since dried cologne, all mingled.
The places where his skin still burns with righteous longing.)]