[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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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.
no subject
(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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.)]