[It doesn't matter what Fenris is doing. It doesn't matter that it's nigh on six in the morning, or that the cock four streets over's already crowed four times now, making it well and truly past their limit for both bedtime and anxious fretting.
Like a snake slithering through underbrush, Astarion slips under his covers the way he's done a thousand times before, starting from those first few nights when Fenris couldn't bear to sleep alone and— though Zevlor swears it was a dream— Astarion still stays certain he saw the frail little wisp of a stray elf weep until he did this, forging the bond that first made them inseparable.
Even now.]
Hey. [He starts, whispering as he tents the blankets with one palm, trying to let his eyes adjust within the dark.]
Fenris.
[He doesn't dare risk waking either Kanan or Zevlor. Not after the volatility of today. (Little does he know they're both far from sleep, discussing them in turn.)]
It doesn't matter what they're feeling (that first night full of agonizing despair, his sobs smothered safely in his pillow, for the thought of being overheard was too terrifying— up until he was. Up until a little voice whispered in the darkness, and when he'd desperately tried to cover it up, there was only a cool palm gently pushing him back down on the bed. It's okay, and time has erased the specific words, but the feeling will remain eternal. It's okay, you can cry, I won't tell). It doesn't matter what fights went on during the day, who said what or what the other swore. It doesn't matter if Zevlor is furious or Kanan is upset or if one of them threw a temper tantrum, because this is what they do.]
Yeah.
[His tone is flat as he stares owlishly in the dark at his counterpart. This is what they do, yes, and he shifts enough to make more room for Astarion, but that doesn't mean he has to make it easy. His mouth draws up tight, his shoulders hunching defensively— oh, he's up all right, for he's spent the whole night alternating between frustrated anger and agonized upset, tossing and turning until he'd outright given up on sleep.]
[But that's no more than the tepid grumbling of a packmate, sullen but not seething. And just to prove it, he reaches out, snagging his fingers lightly in the fabric of Astarion's sleepshirt. Stay.]
I was waiting.
[I knew you'd still come, even now, and the predictability is comforting.]
[He was a lot of things before he crawled under these covers. Guilty. Anxious. Hurt. Sad.
Still unbearably jealous.
But even that's not enough to keep him away for long. The reason why he'd come here is the same reason that finds him by way of those intertangled fingers wrapping tighter than they ever did before. And whatever the case for Fenris might be, for Astarion, it's the antagonistically powerful pull of bone-deep longing like a gravity well. A sense of suffused belonging he doesn't feel when they're apart, and the gap it carves out has him stuck in it up to his neck at the very least, unable to move or pull himself away. Unable to mind it, either.
It cuts the sharpness of his frown. Releases a handful of visibly pinched wrinkles on his brows even in the dark.]
Yeah.
[He mutters to the shape of Fenris' balled-up fist.]
....I was too.
[Were they both just playing one big metaphorical game of chicken with each other from across the Moulin Rouge?]
After what happened earlier, I didn't want to wake Zev and Kanan up.
[They'd be grounded till the second coming of Andraste.]
Did he talk to you....? [Is a good excuse to curl up with his toes tucked in underneath him where he sits.]
Edited (dw that wasn't the icon i chose) 2025-07-16 18:14 (UTC)
[He grunts a small, fervent agreement to the idea of avoiding waking either of their guardians up. Zevlor wasn't nearly as stern as he could have been, to be fair, but still: he'd rather not go through another round of lectures and well-meaning (if not somewhat dubiously taken) advice.]
Yeah.
[Astarion curls up and Fenris sits up just a little, rising up on one elbow to meet his counterpart halfway. They're like two pups warily circling one another, ears flat and heads cocked; not friendly, not by a long shot, but not angling to fight either.]
He . . .
[Mm . . . but how much does he want to reveal to Astarion? It's not a secret, not the way Elise was, and it's not like when they were younger, and he'd sometimes hide some bit of praise just to avoid a fight with Astarion. Instead, it's . . . it's private is the word that he eventually settles on. Private because he's still turning over the words in his mind, weighing them out against his own sense of duty and bouts of anger.
But there's some things he can share. Like:]
He said I— we— delayed the play again.
[It's so minor in the scheme of things, but let them work their way backwards to the fight. Fenris' thumb smooths against soft fabric, some tiny part of him unwilling to let go just yet.]
And . . .
[Mmph.]
I . . .
[Oh, say it. Thank the Maker for a dark room, though, for even to elvish eyes the sudden heat in his cheeks and ears is barely visible.]
I should not have bitten you. Or fought you at all.
[It's not as if things have changed much since they were younger, if that's the metric gone by. The only reason they fought boils down to him finding out about Elise, which means that if he never knew, they never would've fought at all— case open, case shut. Astarion would've asked his fragile question, they'd have agreed to sneak away, crawled up into the attic, and—
Fought.
Because Fenris couldn't have kissed Elise and said nothing. Because if Astarion didn't know and found out later, they'd have fought again anyway. Because as tempestuous as they can be on their worst days neither of them like keeping secrets from each other compared to anyone else— that's the game they play for mischief's sake, for fun, when the reality of living as adopted sons working on the back end of a brothel becomes about as draining as its own description sounds.
Maybe the only outcome Astarion wants to change is that Fenris kissed Elise at all, is the only real conclusion his heart comes to at the epicenter of what he's being told, what he's thinking, and what his constricted-to-the-point-of-being-painful heart is feeling, balled up tight as Fenris' grip and just as committed to its course. That the only reason he can't sort his own mess out is because it's the one thing he can't change, and all that's left around it is what Kanan told him. What Zevlor told Fenris. What he knows is true, and what Fenris' hold and the still-red spot on his neck (and the angry words) all have in common, inevitably driven home.]
It's fine.
[That it's not fair of him to be upset if he's supposed to kiss other people too.]
It's not like we burned the scripts or ruined the stage or anything. [He sounds less like the poised courtesans he tries to emulate when he swipes his free hand across the bridge of his nose, discreetly pushing aside a residual bit of tightness in his throat. A touch of damp humidity around his eyes.] Zevlor fusses about everything, don't let him freak you out or make you think the theater's about to close because they missed one practice session. That's not how it works.
[His glance is to the side. Lowered.]
Besides, I wanted to fight you. It's why I kicked you, after all.
[Well, Zevlor did make him freak out, actually. He did think the theater was about to close, because he's always half-convinced that everything around him is on the verge of slipping through his fingers without warning. And the only person who ever manages to counter that, so sturdy and solid and steady that he's been an eternal foundation upon which to build any kind of sense of self, wasn't there.
And Fenris still doesn't understand why. And then again he does, sort of, in a vague kind of way, but it's all so muddled in his mind. There's a part of him that's still angry, a gnawing sullenness in the pit of his stomach that won't go away no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. There's a part of him that hears the tightness in Astarion's voice and suddenly wants to tug him down, pressing their mouths together again and again until both their miseries are forgotten and the world outside ceases to exist. There's a part of him that wants to blurt out something like it was you I wanted to kiss, not her, and yet the words stick in his throat.]
And now what do you want?
[It's not a challenge, but a question, soft-throated and yet direct. From the open window, a warm breeze drifts in, a relief from the summer heat and yet not quite what either of them are craving. He still hasn't let go of Astarion's sleepshirt, though by all rights he's far too old and mature to cling. His green eyes are solemn, and there's so many questions layered beneath that one.]
What made you come here?
[Oh, he knows why. Of course he does. But he wants to hear it, when everything seems so fragile and there's a sudden drifting distance between them.]
[Is it a sudden drifting distance when the covers seem to bow in tight around them? When their voices— soft and small and full of everything— take so little effort to hear? What made him come here? (That the idea of being alone is more unbearable than the opposite. That there are places in the Moulin Rouge meant only for them according to the spaces they've carved out like rat's tunnels, right down to the way they're hunkered here now beneath bedsheets.) It feels better to feel the idle weight of Fenris' taut fingertips when he shifts (when he breathes) than the heaviness of their shape across the mattress instead. But he'd have come to that conclusion in due time. One or two fitful nights would've seen to that, alongside a resentful batch of tears no doubt. So then, why come here tonight?]
To apologize. [Be the bigger man is a lingering echo from Kanan's urging, but like everything, there's more to that beneath the surface.]
I shouldn't have called you names just because she kissed you.
[His eyes stay fixed over a shallow point across the mattress. A momentary flicker brings them back— turns them down.]
....or because things didn't go the way I wanted them to.
[It's never quite the thrilling rush he thinks it will be when Astarion apologizes. With others, there's always a sense of vicious vindication whenever they're the ones to apologize. That's right, you should be sorry, say it again, the urge born of too many formative years spent learning not to flinch beneath the lash. It's an ugly trait, and one both Kanan and Zevlor have tried to ease him out of (with varying rates of success). And you'd think, wouldn't you, that the feeling would only intensify with Astarion. Their fights are more personal, the emotions dig deeper, and Maker knows Astarion would rather get a tooth pulled than ever say I'm sorry— gods, it should be so utterly satisfying whenever he admits he was wrong.
But it's not. Fenris always walks away with a fractured heart newly mended: satisfying in the long-run, but so damned wearying in the short. He isn't happy Astarion admitted it, because he isn't happy about this fight in the first place. At best, there's a sense of that gnawing searing rage gently being put out, steam rising and hissing from the dampening embers: it wasn't my fault, you shouldn't have been so mean, you shouldn't have yelled at me, you shouldn't have ruined it—
But then it quiets, and he's left alone in the dark with the person he trusts and loves more than anyone in the entire world. Not such a subtle thing, not ever to him. Not such a clever little liar with a silver tongue, not when Fenris knows every tell, every giveaway. When he sees the way his mouth thins, his eyes flick away, and can extrapolate a thousand conclusions from that alone.
It makes his confusion about earlier so much starker. So often he knows Astarion blind; to have been clouded to his thoughts and intentions still feels so wrong. And maybe that's another reason he never lingers in vindication: because it feels so much better to stumble towards joyful reunion instead.]
You . . .
[No. He won't mess up this time. This moment is important, Fenris thinks. Just like that moment all those years ago when they'd struck their bargain, he can feel the heaviness in the air around them— but it's thicker now. The atmosphere around them is thick with all the things they aren't saying, and yet Fenris feels like a fish staring through glass: able to know his own rising anxiety and longing, able to see Astarion's hesitance and uncharacteristic withdrawal, and yet not able to confirm what he's feeling. Not able to attune to him the way he normally does.
I don't even like her, I didn't even like kissing her that much, you were better, and all those things are true, but he won't bring Elise into the room right now. It was never about her, anyway.
He sits up. Licks his lips (when had his mouth gone so dry?) and stares at Astarion, his eyes drifting along the delicate line of his jaw. The way his skin looks in the grey, pre-dawn light that's filled the room, all of him colored in muted tones, the line of his body just barely visible through the thin fabric of his sleepshirt. And he knows even know that he can only look because Astarion isn't staring at him.]
You shouldn't —don't call illiterate again, [he says instead, and means it, for all that it's a distraction. But they're best friends (or were, or are, or will always be). They've said worse to each other before, and he's sure they'll snarl again someday. It's just what they do.
But it's hard to say what he really wants to. His voice nearly shakes for the sudden surge of nervousness clawing up his throat. His teachers would scold him for it (a bodyguard isn't meant to be visible, he has no emotions, he does not interfere until he is needed). But he's not a bodyguard, not around Astarion. He's his rawest self, always, just as Astarion is never a courtesan. And surely that won't ever change. Surely the world will see them as they project themselves to be, but to one another . . . don't leave me, he thinks suddenly. Don't ever shut me out.
And yet it's too frightening to declare what he wants. He has a thought to sweep in and kiss him, but what might come easily for his adult self is far too hard for a teenager. Even releasing Astarion's sleepshirt and skimming two fingers up his forearm feels overwhelmingly daring in a way it has no right to be, not when it's the least little bit of contact.]
But . . . if you want, if, if you— if you want, you can—
[Of all the fucking times for his voice to break— oh, he goes red as he sharply clears his throat, hating his fucking vocal chords and his fucking voice and his fucking agonizing hell of a life all at once. Vishante kaffas, the curse a silent seething snarl, and shoves the rest of the words out of his mouth.]
You can try again.
[He overcompensates, his voice thick and gruff and indifferent to try mask for terror and abject, toe-curling, utterly awful humiliation.]
[He seizes him with both hands. Fingers to the flush run rampant in tanned cheeks, the outside world etched across his skin as surely as the lack thereof stains Astarion pale and pallid as the plaster posters he admires. There's no forethought this time— like Fenris, he can finally say that he's done this before— his mouth over his companion's, tangled up in the interconnected push and pull of hands and fingertips, elbows and knees and the fabric that they tangle in as he falls over him with all his weight. A scant drop in the bucket compared to how tall and athletic Fenris has become. How childishly, stupidly soft Astarion has stayed, not a callous on his knuckles.
I won't call you that again.
They're best friends. Sworn brothers by choice. They were before tonight, and they always will be. The next time they fight, it'll be something else maybe, but not that.
I'm sorry.
And there was nothing in need of compensating, not when Fenris was his in all those moments spent together. The shadow that he clung to whether they smelled like sherry and failed mischief, or whether it was huddled up together in this same bed after a storm, or whether— whether— (whether the beat of his heart felt like this through a half open shirt, muscle and sinew run rich beneath tight, twitching fingertips that grip less like they don't know where to place themselves, and more like all the want is to be)—
Close.
And he can try again. And he does. And it is full of everything that matters beyond all the bickering and strife; cultivated passion.]
[It feels like sunrise when he breaks away, flush again but for the right reasons. Not anger, not a will to hit each other or bite or hurl the kind of insults that should hurt. The way it should've been before, but wasn't, and though this won't undo what happened, it undoes the worst of the entangled knot within his heart— his hand having slipped just over Fenris' somewhere along the way, both of them clutching at his shirt.
It leaves them forehead to forehead. It leaves Fenris prettier than he's ever looked before, Astarion thinks to himself, lost within the gold-green catch of reflected light in stunning eyes.]
....how....[he starts again for what feels like the twentieth time in the last few days] ....how was it that time?
[They tumble back on the sheets, Astarion a gloriously warm weight above him, and all Fenris can think about in those first few moments is how small he feels in his arms. It's a spark of a thought among a thousand others, each of them giddy and excited and overwhelmed in turn, but still: small, he thinks, and when had that happened? Time was they could trade clothes easily, but somewhere along the way he's gotten broader, taller, stronger, able to hoist Astarion up and reposition him ever-so-slightly as their mouths meet. Come here, like this, his thighs properly straddling his hips, and oh! what a dizzying discovery: he can nearly fit his fingers around the span of a narrow waist, a fact he barely has time to consider (storing it away for fascinated, private contemplation at a later date).
One hand stays locked on his waist; the other fumbles blindly, eager to hold his hand again in any way he can manage, and all the while their mouths move. It's nothing like before, all terrified hyperawareness, no: his nerves are gone, his fear shoved by the wayside in favor of glorious, adoring hunger. More— more— more— every rhythmic push met with an eager pull, teeth clicking and tongues tangling in something that's so much more hunger and enthusiasm than poise. It's no kiss worth of the Moulin Rouge, not when it's so searingly hot and eagerly clumsy— and yet that makes it all the better. It means that he's never gotten his fill no matter how many times they kiss, the end of each one heralded by another eager attempt, once more, once more, air a forgotten necessity, until at last Astarion pulls away— and Fenris whines.
But falling back brings its own intimacy. He pants softly as he lies against the sheets, so close to Astarion that it's nearly another kind of kiss: his breath hot against the other boy's lips and their foreheads pressed together (and he nearly butts against him, the urge rising up in him like a forgotten instinct, but not yet). Pretty, he thinks in unwitting echo. So pretty, so perfectly wonderful when he's disheveled like this, hair askew and the collar of his sleepshirt tugged down just far enough to give a daring peek of one pale shoulder. No one else gets to see him like this, Fenris thinks. No one else ever gets to know Astarion like this— he's all Fenris' in this moment, and that's exactly how it should be, for no one ever gets to see Fenris like this either.
This is for them, only them, because that's what it's always come back to. Just them united against the world eternally and forever, no matter what form it takes. Playing in the rafters or whispering furiously under the sheets, and now this . . . and oh, what a sight Astarion makes. It's nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times before, and yet right now, everything feels like it's bathed in new light. In quiet fascination he winds two fingers around the one stubborn curl Astarion can never get to behave, and smiles in amusement when his ear twitches as he goes to tuck it back.]
I don't know.
[Coy. Breathlessly playful, his lips curling up into a little smile as he drinks in the sight of reddened lips. Then, glancing back up at his Astarion, he adds:]
Try it again and I'll tell you.
[But without waiting he darts up, stealing a kiss (clumsy, so clumsy, and someday he'll laugh at his own overslick efforts), then another, before gamely trying to catch Astarion's bottom lip between his teeth. It's a short nip, a little too tame and a little too overeager, before he falls back on the bed. Now he's grinning, for now, finally, he remembers how this goes between them. It's a new kind of game, one more thrilling and daring than they've ever played before, but there's always a rhythm to how they interact with one another.
Come get me. Come show me. Come play with me, as his heart thunders in his chest and electric sparks of thrill pulse through his veins.]
[Everything in him is ready to try again. And again. And again, if that's what it takes to get to where they both want to be. Grinning in the first half-beat as their teeth click when they knock together between open-mouthed kisses, each break flooded with sweltering humidity, with desire, with the way his own lower lip burns from being caught for just a second. He tries to return the favor, of course, his nightshirt pulling hard against his skin like a too-taut band when he leans forward, bunched up beneath his grip where the sleeve has sunken progressively lower by the second, and leaving every formerly loose button to fend for themselves in harsh succession.
And there, in the middle of it all, sits one residual pang of irritation welling up at the brief memory of Elise— (did she put her hands here, her knees there, did she do better, know more)— before Astarion drives it all aside, unwilling to spare the cost of jealousy a second time: he can resent her later, glower later, right now, all he wants is what he has.
Which is....so strange.
So uniquely unreal.
They'd grown up together side-by-side, and he'd loved Fenris throughout, and yet he'd never looked at him like this. Never thought to play like this, or if— despite the thrill washed over all his senses— there was a part of him that had, that's all it would've been before now, just play. But there was a heaviness to asking Fenris to kiss him before anyone else was given half a chance, and there's something hot and tender that swirls in his awareness when he looks at him, and it's too new to name it what it is.
He plants both hands on either shoulder and shoves Fenris down against the mattress, smirking. It's the advantage of leverage, not height or weight, but it makes him feel like he's winning all the same.]
So tell me, mister bodyguard.
[Astarion urges through the pink palor on his spit-slicked lips, grin a flash of white in dawnlit space.]
[The air bursts out of his lungs as he hits the sheets, his eyes widening as his face goes red— or, or redder, maybe, he doesn't know, because every single coherent thought has flown out of his mind in one fell swoop. It's a two-second delay, as short and overwhelming as an electric shock, and all that's left in the aftermath is a swiftly swelling sense of desire. Oh, he thinks stupidly, and blinks, trying to focus on the words Astarion is saying. But oh, oh, that had felt so good, and he doesn't quite know why just yet— only that Astarion looks so good when he's smug and pinning him down like this.]
Yeah.
[It's not, like, the wittiest comeback in the world, but to be fair to Fenris: it's a miracle he's thinking at all right now. His mouth is throbbing, his tongue darting out to lick at one swollen spot as though he might taste Astarion there (and he swears he does, that sweet taste that's so unlike anything his tongue has ever touched before). Both hands slide down his waist, mapping out the span of it, fascinated by the way he knows this body and yet not— and determined to relearn every inch of him.]
But . . .
[He hesitates for just a second, struggling to find the words awash in a sea of hormones.]
. . . I think you're gonna need a lot more practice before you get there first.
[His eyes darken just a little as his fingers flick up, working their way deftly beneath the hem of his nightshirt—
— or try to, anyway. Want to, except Astarion still always wears things that are two sizes too big, which means he ends up drowning in a damned sea of fabric. And it means that here and now, Fenris can't do the very sexy, very suave thing he meant to, which means there's a petulant little frown on his face for a split second. Fuck it, he thinks, and suddenly the world spins—
— and now it's Astarion flat on his back, with Fenris above him looking so unfairly smug. Deliberately he rests one hand against Astarion's shoulder, letting him feel the weight and strength of that pin (do you see how strong I've become, do you see how easily I can toss you around, does that thrill you), before he tips his head.]
You still have the bitemark . . .
[Oh, yes. His gown's fallen open enough for Fenris to see reddened flesh and the faintest hint of a bruise, and that's . . . it takes him a few seconds too long to tear his eyes away from the sight.]
Maybe we both need practice. Hold still . . .
[His eyes flicker over Astarion's face, but when there's no hint of no, Fenris lowers himself down. One hand catches Astarion's chin and gently tips his head back, baring the vulnerable skin of his throat, all pale lines and bobbing swallows. He stares in fascination for a moment, marveling at how much thrills at the sight (so ordinary just a day ago, and now something he wants to lap and lick and bite at). Then, ever so gently, he presses a kiss to the side of his throat. And then another, sweeter, and another, as he slowly works his way down to the crook of his neck, until at last—
Such a gentle bite at first. Such a teasing little nip, and then another, bolder as he hears no protest, catching pale skin between fledgling fangs until he feels Astarion's breath hitch. His lips swiftly follow, his tongue lapping at the sore spot as he sucks a clumsy bruise into pale skin (and he doesn't know how to gauge that, either, which means that Astarion is going to have such a hickey in a few hours).]
Mm?
[It's a rumbling hum, a silent question: do you like this, do you want more, his lips slick and his heart thundering in his chest.]
[Don't fucking rub it in— is what he aims to growl back, only a half-shade furious compared to everything that started this, grousing in a form of exaggerated play: if he's going to keep real anger from his jealous heart, he doesn't want to think about their fight again at all, shoving once with both his hands until he feels thin forearms buckle against a stronger frame.
It lasts even less than that.
In fact, it might all be in his head, that fleeting game of retribution, because the second warm fingers close around his jaw (when the heady shock and dizzying adrenaline ebb enough for self-awareness to creep in, enough that) he can feel his head tilt back of its own accord— gently guided until softness wraps itself around his neck. Wet and slow and beckoning as that first kiss melts into a second, as the second melts into the slow lathe of an overeager tongue— teeth so tentative that he jolts beneath that first pass, his heart beating against the walls of his ribs like a wild animal. So excited that it hurts in a way, the oddest ache extending well beyond the borders of clenched fingers, curled toes, mostly rattling his chest. His breaths. He swallows hard and audible, his stare unfixed when it runs high enough to try taking in Fenris' face (his neck pulsing to the rhythm in his veins, dull yet far from distant), though with pupils blown wide beneath long lashes, all he finds is that he's seeing double. Clinging hard. If he made a noise, he can't remember. Doesn't care.
He's yanked Fenris' shirt down to his elbows; thin fabric swims around locked knuckles and cinched knees. Around the middle of his belly, highlighting every shallow breath that he sucks in. Bitterness the farthest thing from his own mind when he breathlessly manages in earnest:]
....did....did she teach you that?
[Credit where credit is due if so, even from him.]
[It's so overwhelming. Everything, all of it— every moment a burst of tastes and touches and sounds, every detail so precious that he hastily tries to commit it to memory, only to be overwhelmed in the next instant. Growing up in the Moulin Rouge had taught him that attraction was a methodical set of principles, nuanced but formulaic; he'd never dreamed that you could be attracted to the hitch in someone's breath, or the way they tremble between your thighs. The painful-pleasurable way Astarion grabs, blunt nails dragging against his skin and the heat of his breath against his ear— fasta vass, and he breathes the curse out against his neck, his body stiff as he unconsciously fights the urge to buck his hips down and grind.
He's panting when he draws back, his lips slick with spit (a crystalline line of saliva connecting them for a precious few seconds, and that shouldn't make something deep in his belly jolt with arousal). For a moment he stares down at Astarion, goosebumps rising on exposed bare skin and nothing but adoration in his eyes. And then he asks that question, all earnestness and no acidity, and yet:]
Eech, no.
[The sneering curl of his upper lip is wholly meant, if not a little exaggerated for Astarion's sake. Elise had been . . . Elise had been fine, but it's like comparing porridge to custard cake; both are foods, but there's only one Fenris will ever idly daydream about. No, Elise hadn't taught him this . . . his scowl eases, a touch of fluster replacing it as he wrinkles his nose down at Astarion.]
I just . . . I thought about it. With you. After everything.
[He'd thought about the way Astarion had jolted beneath him; he'd thought about how good it felt to sink his teeth into tender flesh, and wondered at his own desire to suckle there. He can feel self-consciousness fluttering on the edges of his heart, making him so hyperaware of everything (is he too heavy? does Astarion notice the stubborn bit of softness on his thighs? does he think he looks foolish right now, half-dressed and drooling like some simpleton rather than something worthy of desire?)— still, the look his counterpart gives him drives it all away.
So he offers up a smirk far cockier than he feels and angles himself back down, languidly arching his back as he comes close. Affectionately he nuzzles against his cheek (he can't help that), steals a swift kiss, and then murmurs:]
Mmhmm- [Is so quick an answer. The red aurora spread across his cheeks and ears all the more apparent when he tugs his own shirt lower and cocks his lean neck completely to one side, nearly shedding his upper layers if not for the way they encircle both his wrists, or the scant few buttons left still fastened round his middle. His chest isn't heaving, but every breath's apparent all the same with how hard his heart is racing— how his eyes are still so wide and glazed and dark with awestruck fascination— as if he's been tugged from the shallows of awareness into deeper ocean shoals without a chance to catch his breath. Everything that was mundane before— or that he only thought was uneventful in design (like: the way people laid their hands over each others' at fine tables, like: the lovedrunk smiles carved from pure excitement in the halls whilst whispering, like: why it mattered sitting here or there, or placing fingers in a certain spot across a shoulder even when still dressed)— all of that begins to take on a secondary meaning, as if something's been unlocked for understanding in his senses. His shivering nerves. His smoldering temperature already peppered with light sweat beneath covers that weren't desert-hot before.
And it's petty, and small (it really, really is within the grander scheme of this one moment— ) but he's burning all the brighter for that confirmation, too. Something he'll boast to Kanan later: that the tiefling had been right after all. That it was nothing, and Fenris hadn't betrayed him (oh, Astarion....selfish, spoiled little Astarion), and she was only within her rights to be too eager to kiss someone so handsome and clever as his Fenris.
The red spot on his neck hurts just a bit. Heavy with its own weight and scalding presence over otherwise unmarked skin; he hopes it stays that way forever.
Or at least a week.
He slips one leg between Fenris', bearing higher, trying to emulate the courtesans he'd seen a thousand times. Wishing he'd asked Satine more. Learned at least a little about what other men might like when being courted instead of being guided only by blind sensation. But still, the friction's nice. And the balm of febrile contact. And— ]
[Zevlor's hair is an unkempt mess between his horns when he lifts his head from Kanan's shoulder, squinting blearily into the dark of their shut room. What would be a coalhot glow is— through narrowness itself— merely a slitted glimmer of alertness shining smack dab in the center of their sleep. Exhaustion paints the corners of his features with fine lines as he casts his gaze (or what passes for a gaze when his eyelids are almost fully shut) up towards the ceiling, hearing far too many muted little noises for his liking.
And then he's face down in the junction between his husband's shoulder and chest once more, grumbling softly in the back of his own throat.]
It's too early....[Is an argument made with himself and no one else.] I'm not parenting a thing before noon.
[You deal with them today, may or may not find itself sleep-muttered into the borders of Kanan's arm.]
[There's sunlight breaking round thick curtains when he wakes in Fenris' bed, clutching his counterpart tight across the middle. Blankets, sheets and shirts are all knotwork patterns swirled between their arms and legs to the point of proving unrecognizable in disarray, but pleasant comfort's buzzing through his body, and when he shifts— mm, there's the little pang of tender welling on his throat. The surest sign that last night had absolutely happened, and that they hounded each other till exhaustion took well over: mellowing adrenaline minute by minute that they'd spent kissing, touching, teasing— until it was all hazy and listless. Until he remembers draping against one another, and saying....hm, he doesn't know. Maybe that he's glad they made up. Maybe that he liked this, or that he was sorry again for what he'd said, reiterating that he'd never meant it. Murmuring until they fell asleep.
Now that afternoon is here, he can't remember much beyond that afterglow. That lingering sensation of contentment, now feathered in Fenris' dark hair. Denned down like the light that limns it alongside all those handsome features. The ones that've shifted across the years. Grown stronger. Sharper.
He's tired, but he can't stop staring. Tracing with his eyes the nonexistent slant from Fenris' forehead towards his nose, dipping lower into softset lips still kissed with warmer hues.
[And why should they? What's the point of being the two adopted sons of the owners if you can't sleep in once in a while?
It's not something Fenris would ever profess, but something along those lines plays out in his mind as he, entirely unwillingly, begins to stir. The afternoon sunlight plays a part in his rousing, but it's the movement that truly awakens him: some part of him waking when he feels lithe limbs gliding against his body. Cool to the touch and so familiar that they only faintly register as safe; it's only once he cracks open his eyes that he realize it's Astarion in his bed. Why . . . for a long few seconds Fenris stares dazedly up at him, vaguely pleased and utterly baffled both as to why they're entangled. Was there a storm again . . .? Or—
Oh. Oh, and the memories don't flood back so much as drift: pleasing little recollections rediscovered one after another, each more satisfying than the last. He beams at up Astarion (he tries, anyway, though it's probably more of a dazed thing than anything) and leans in to try and nuzzle at him. He ends up sort of mushing his face against his bare collarbone, but that's all right too.]
Hi . . .
[No, that's not enough. He feels around until he can latch his fingers around the back of his neck, gently urging him to lie back down. There's a multitude of jobs they need to attend to, and that's to say nothing of all the menial work Zevlor had given them as punishment, but oh, can't they have this? Just one afternoon. Just one more hour of this blissful, sleepy state . . .]
Lie down. Lie down with me . . .
[What could be more important than this? Astarion glimmering in the golden light, his hair shining and his cheeks warmed, still wearing all those pretty little marks Fenris had bitten in last night . . . no, they shouldn't do anything today, Fenris decides. For once in his life he's going to be selfish. For once in his life he'll be the one to demand they take a day off. For once in his life—]
[Kanan's voice is loud, but that's only because he knows how deeply Fenris sleeps. And true, the boy's never once overslept, but there's a first time for everything. He raps sharply at the door twice. There's the sound of sheets moving, a sharp hiss of inhaled breath, but no answer. Nothing substantial— and in his defense, he'd normally respect his privacy (especially as both boys enter their teenage years), but one, again, he’s watched Fenris sleep through an entire brass band playing, never mind a sharp knock, and two, he lost a lot of privileges this week. Oversleeping is the last straw. So he opens the door, and—]
[It's a yowl of protesting outrage, Fenris sitting up and snarling even as he scrambles to, what, cover Astarion? But there's no getting around it, and anyway, his panic only makes it worse— it's not as if it's the first time they've been caught in bed, and as long as they play it cool—
But it's too late, for Kanan's sharp eye is already taking in the lack of shirts and the little reddened marks peppered all over Astarion's skin . . . not to mention the way Fenris has gone red as he never has before.
Oh, I see.
He says archly, and Fenris actually bares his teeth in agonized humiliation.]
Get out, get out—!
[Five minutes, or I'm coming back up with Zevlor this time, Kanan says serenely, utterly unfazed by his son's yowling. There's an unbearable smirk plastered on his face and the most awful little gleam in his eye— oh, he's outright grinning as he turns to close the door again. Oh, sweetheart, he calls, the most obnoxious little lilt in his voice.
Which leaves Fenris wide awake now, sitting up and glaring fiercely at the door. His hair is mussed, black strands sticking up every which way and his expression the picture of indigence. Yes, okay, they woke up late, and yes, okay, they have jobs to do, but also: what the fuck. And this isn't what he wanted to start his day, and this isn't how he wanted their guardians to know (if they ever would! maybe he just wouldn't tell them at all!), and—]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
Like a snake slithering through underbrush, Astarion slips under his covers the way he's done a thousand times before, starting from those first few nights when Fenris couldn't bear to sleep alone and— though Zevlor swears it was a dream— Astarion still stays certain he saw the frail little wisp of a stray elf weep until he did this, forging the bond that first made them inseparable.
Even now.]
Hey. [He starts, whispering as he tents the blankets with one palm, trying to let his eyes adjust within the dark.]
Fenris.
[He doesn't dare risk waking either Kanan or Zevlor. Not after the volatility of today. (Little does he know they're both far from sleep, discussing them in turn.)]
Are you awake?
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It doesn't matter what they're feeling (that first night full of agonizing despair, his sobs smothered safely in his pillow, for the thought of being overheard was too terrifying— up until he was. Up until a little voice whispered in the darkness, and when he'd desperately tried to cover it up, there was only a cool palm gently pushing him back down on the bed. It's okay, and time has erased the specific words, but the feeling will remain eternal. It's okay, you can cry, I won't tell). It doesn't matter what fights went on during the day, who said what or what the other swore. It doesn't matter if Zevlor is furious or Kanan is upset or if one of them threw a temper tantrum, because this is what they do.]
Yeah.
[His tone is flat as he stares owlishly in the dark at his counterpart. This is what they do, yes, and he shifts enough to make more room for Astarion, but that doesn't mean he has to make it easy. His mouth draws up tight, his shoulders hunching defensively— oh, he's up all right, for he's spent the whole night alternating between frustrated anger and agonized upset, tossing and turning until he'd outright given up on sleep.]
Are you gonna kick me again?
2/2
I was waiting.
[I knew you'd still come, even now, and the predictability is comforting.]
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Still unbearably jealous.
But even that's not enough to keep him away for long. The reason why he'd come here is the same reason that finds him by way of those intertangled fingers wrapping tighter than they ever did before. And whatever the case for Fenris might be, for Astarion, it's the antagonistically powerful pull of bone-deep longing like a gravity well. A sense of suffused belonging he doesn't feel when they're apart, and the gap it carves out has him stuck in it up to his neck at the very least, unable to move or pull himself away. Unable to mind it, either.
It cuts the sharpness of his frown. Releases a handful of visibly pinched wrinkles on his brows even in the dark.]
Yeah.
[He mutters to the shape of Fenris' balled-up fist.]
....I was too.
[Were they both just playing one big metaphorical game of chicken with each other from across the Moulin Rouge?]
After what happened earlier, I didn't want to wake Zev and Kanan up.
[They'd be grounded till the second coming of Andraste.]
Did he talk to you....? [Is a good excuse to curl up with his toes tucked in underneath him where he sits.]
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Yeah.
[Astarion curls up and Fenris sits up just a little, rising up on one elbow to meet his counterpart halfway. They're like two pups warily circling one another, ears flat and heads cocked; not friendly, not by a long shot, but not angling to fight either.]
He . . .
[Mm . . . but how much does he want to reveal to Astarion? It's not a secret, not the way Elise was, and it's not like when they were younger, and he'd sometimes hide some bit of praise just to avoid a fight with Astarion. Instead, it's . . . it's private is the word that he eventually settles on. Private because he's still turning over the words in his mind, weighing them out against his own sense of duty and bouts of anger.
But there's some things he can share. Like:]
He said I— we— delayed the play again.
[It's so minor in the scheme of things, but let them work their way backwards to the fight. Fenris' thumb smooths against soft fabric, some tiny part of him unwilling to let go just yet.]
And . . .
[Mmph.]
I . . .
[Oh, say it. Thank the Maker for a dark room, though, for even to elvish eyes the sudden heat in his cheeks and ears is barely visible.]
I should not have bitten you. Or fought you at all.
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Fought.
Because Fenris couldn't have kissed Elise and said nothing. Because if Astarion didn't know and found out later, they'd have fought again anyway. Because as tempestuous as they can be on their worst days neither of them like keeping secrets from each other compared to anyone else— that's the game they play for mischief's sake, for fun, when the reality of living as adopted sons working on the back end of a brothel becomes about as draining as its own description sounds.
Maybe the only outcome Astarion wants to change is that Fenris kissed Elise at all, is the only real conclusion his heart comes to at the epicenter of what he's being told, what he's thinking, and what his constricted-to-the-point-of-being-painful heart is feeling, balled up tight as Fenris' grip and just as committed to its course. That the only reason he can't sort his own mess out is because it's the one thing he can't change, and all that's left around it is what Kanan told him. What Zevlor told Fenris. What he knows is true, and what Fenris' hold and the still-red spot on his neck (and the angry words) all have in common, inevitably driven home.]
It's fine.
[That it's not fair of him to be upset if he's supposed to kiss other people too.]
It's not like we burned the scripts or ruined the stage or anything. [He sounds less like the poised courtesans he tries to emulate when he swipes his free hand across the bridge of his nose, discreetly pushing aside a residual bit of tightness in his throat. A touch of damp humidity around his eyes.] Zevlor fusses about everything, don't let him freak you out or make you think the theater's about to close because they missed one practice session. That's not how it works.
[His glance is to the side. Lowered.]
Besides, I wanted to fight you. It's why I kicked you, after all.
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And Fenris still doesn't understand why. And then again he does, sort of, in a vague kind of way, but it's all so muddled in his mind. There's a part of him that's still angry, a gnawing sullenness in the pit of his stomach that won't go away no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. There's a part of him that hears the tightness in Astarion's voice and suddenly wants to tug him down, pressing their mouths together again and again until both their miseries are forgotten and the world outside ceases to exist. There's a part of him that wants to blurt out something like it was you I wanted to kiss, not her, and yet the words stick in his throat.]
And now what do you want?
[It's not a challenge, but a question, soft-throated and yet direct. From the open window, a warm breeze drifts in, a relief from the summer heat and yet not quite what either of them are craving. He still hasn't let go of Astarion's sleepshirt, though by all rights he's far too old and mature to cling. His green eyes are solemn, and there's so many questions layered beneath that one.]
What made you come here?
[Oh, he knows why. Of course he does. But he wants to hear it, when everything seems so fragile and there's a sudden drifting distance between them.]
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To apologize. [Be the bigger man is a lingering echo from Kanan's urging, but like everything, there's more to that beneath the surface.]
I shouldn't have called you names just because she kissed you.
[His eyes stay fixed over a shallow point across the mattress. A momentary flicker brings them back— turns them down.]
....or because things didn't go the way I wanted them to.
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[It's never quite the thrilling rush he thinks it will be when Astarion apologizes. With others, there's always a sense of vicious vindication whenever they're the ones to apologize. That's right, you should be sorry, say it again, the urge born of too many formative years spent learning not to flinch beneath the lash. It's an ugly trait, and one both Kanan and Zevlor have tried to ease him out of (with varying rates of success). And you'd think, wouldn't you, that the feeling would only intensify with Astarion. Their fights are more personal, the emotions dig deeper, and Maker knows Astarion would rather get a tooth pulled than ever say I'm sorry— gods, it should be so utterly satisfying whenever he admits he was wrong.
But it's not. Fenris always walks away with a fractured heart newly mended: satisfying in the long-run, but so damned wearying in the short. He isn't happy Astarion admitted it, because he isn't happy about this fight in the first place. At best, there's a sense of that gnawing searing rage gently being put out, steam rising and hissing from the dampening embers: it wasn't my fault, you shouldn't have been so mean, you shouldn't have yelled at me, you shouldn't have ruined it—
But then it quiets, and he's left alone in the dark with the person he trusts and loves more than anyone in the entire world. Not such a subtle thing, not ever to him. Not such a clever little liar with a silver tongue, not when Fenris knows every tell, every giveaway. When he sees the way his mouth thins, his eyes flick away, and can extrapolate a thousand conclusions from that alone.
It makes his confusion about earlier so much starker. So often he knows Astarion blind; to have been clouded to his thoughts and intentions still feels so wrong. And maybe that's another reason he never lingers in vindication: because it feels so much better to stumble towards joyful reunion instead.]
You . . .
[No. He won't mess up this time. This moment is important, Fenris thinks. Just like that moment all those years ago when they'd struck their bargain, he can feel the heaviness in the air around them— but it's thicker now. The atmosphere around them is thick with all the things they aren't saying, and yet Fenris feels like a fish staring through glass: able to know his own rising anxiety and longing, able to see Astarion's hesitance and uncharacteristic withdrawal, and yet not able to confirm what he's feeling. Not able to attune to him the way he normally does.
I don't even like her, I didn't even like kissing her that much, you were better, and all those things are true, but he won't bring Elise into the room right now. It was never about her, anyway.
He sits up. Licks his lips (when had his mouth gone so dry?) and stares at Astarion, his eyes drifting along the delicate line of his jaw. The way his skin looks in the grey, pre-dawn light that's filled the room, all of him colored in muted tones, the line of his body just barely visible through the thin fabric of his sleepshirt. And he knows even know that he can only look because Astarion isn't staring at him.]
You shouldn't —don't call illiterate again, [he says instead, and means it, for all that it's a distraction. But they're best friends (or were, or are, or will always be). They've said worse to each other before, and he's sure they'll snarl again someday. It's just what they do.
But it's hard to say what he really wants to. His voice nearly shakes for the sudden surge of nervousness clawing up his throat. His teachers would scold him for it (a bodyguard isn't meant to be visible, he has no emotions, he does not interfere until he is needed). But he's not a bodyguard, not around Astarion. He's his rawest self, always, just as Astarion is never a courtesan. And surely that won't ever change. Surely the world will see them as they project themselves to be, but to one another . . . don't leave me, he thinks suddenly. Don't ever shut me out.
And yet it's too frightening to declare what he wants. He has a thought to sweep in and kiss him, but what might come easily for his adult self is far too hard for a teenager. Even releasing Astarion's sleepshirt and skimming two fingers up his forearm feels overwhelmingly daring in a way it has no right to be, not when it's the least little bit of contact.]
But . . . if you want, if, if you— if you want, you can—
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no subject
4/4
You can try again.
[He overcompensates, his voice thick and gruff and indifferent to try mask for terror and abject, toe-curling, utterly awful humiliation.]
1/2
I won't call you that again.
They're best friends. Sworn brothers by choice. They were before tonight, and they always will be. The next time they fight, it'll be something else maybe, but not that.
I'm sorry.
And there was nothing in need of compensating, not when Fenris was his in all those moments spent together. The shadow that he clung to whether they smelled like sherry and failed mischief, or whether it was huddled up together in this same bed after a storm, or whether— whether— (whether the beat of his heart felt like this through a half open shirt, muscle and sinew run rich beneath tight, twitching fingertips that grip less like they don't know where to place themselves, and more like all the want is to be)—
Close.
And he can try again. And he does. And it is full of everything that matters beyond all the bickering and strife; cultivated passion.]
2/2
It leaves them forehead to forehead. It leaves Fenris prettier than he's ever looked before, Astarion thinks to himself, lost within the gold-green catch of reflected light in stunning eyes.]
....how....[he starts again for what feels like the twentieth time in the last few days] ....how was it that time?
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One hand stays locked on his waist; the other fumbles blindly, eager to hold his hand again in any way he can manage, and all the while their mouths move. It's nothing like before, all terrified hyperawareness, no: his nerves are gone, his fear shoved by the wayside in favor of glorious, adoring hunger. More— more— more— every rhythmic push met with an eager pull, teeth clicking and tongues tangling in something that's so much more hunger and enthusiasm than poise. It's no kiss worth of the Moulin Rouge, not when it's so searingly hot and eagerly clumsy— and yet that makes it all the better. It means that he's never gotten his fill no matter how many times they kiss, the end of each one heralded by another eager attempt, once more, once more, air a forgotten necessity, until at last Astarion pulls away— and Fenris whines.
But falling back brings its own intimacy. He pants softly as he lies against the sheets, so close to Astarion that it's nearly another kind of kiss: his breath hot against the other boy's lips and their foreheads pressed together (and he nearly butts against him, the urge rising up in him like a forgotten instinct, but not yet). Pretty, he thinks in unwitting echo. So pretty, so perfectly wonderful when he's disheveled like this, hair askew and the collar of his sleepshirt tugged down just far enough to give a daring peek of one pale shoulder. No one else gets to see him like this, Fenris thinks. No one else ever gets to know Astarion like this— he's all Fenris' in this moment, and that's exactly how it should be, for no one ever gets to see Fenris like this either.
This is for them, only them, because that's what it's always come back to. Just them united against the world eternally and forever, no matter what form it takes. Playing in the rafters or whispering furiously under the sheets, and now this . . . and oh, what a sight Astarion makes. It's nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times before, and yet right now, everything feels like it's bathed in new light. In quiet fascination he winds two fingers around the one stubborn curl Astarion can never get to behave, and smiles in amusement when his ear twitches as he goes to tuck it back.]
I don't know.
[Coy. Breathlessly playful, his lips curling up into a little smile as he drinks in the sight of reddened lips. Then, glancing back up at his Astarion, he adds:]
Try it again and I'll tell you.
[But without waiting he darts up, stealing a kiss (clumsy, so clumsy, and someday he'll laugh at his own overslick efforts), then another, before gamely trying to catch Astarion's bottom lip between his teeth. It's a short nip, a little too tame and a little too overeager, before he falls back on the bed. Now he's grinning, for now, finally, he remembers how this goes between them. It's a new kind of game, one more thrilling and daring than they've ever played before, but there's always a rhythm to how they interact with one another.
Come get me. Come show me. Come play with me, as his heart thunders in his chest and electric sparks of thrill pulse through his veins.]
no subject
And there, in the middle of it all, sits one residual pang of irritation welling up at the brief memory of Elise— (did she put her hands here, her knees there, did she do better, know more)— before Astarion drives it all aside, unwilling to spare the cost of jealousy a second time: he can resent her later, glower later, right now, all he wants is what he has.
Which is....so strange.
So uniquely unreal.
They'd grown up together side-by-side, and he'd loved Fenris throughout, and yet he'd never looked at him like this. Never thought to play like this, or if— despite the thrill washed over all his senses— there was a part of him that had, that's all it would've been before now, just play. But there was a heaviness to asking Fenris to kiss him before anyone else was given half a chance, and there's something hot and tender that swirls in his awareness when he looks at him, and it's too new to name it what it is.
He plants both hands on either shoulder and shoves Fenris down against the mattress, smirking. It's the advantage of leverage, not height or weight, but it makes him feel like he's winning all the same.]
So tell me, mister bodyguard.
[Astarion urges through the pink palor on his spit-slicked lips, grin a flash of white in dawnlit space.]
Am I going to be a Diamond someday?
no subject
Yeah.
[It's not, like, the wittiest comeback in the world, but to be fair to Fenris: it's a miracle he's thinking at all right now. His mouth is throbbing, his tongue darting out to lick at one swollen spot as though he might taste Astarion there (and he swears he does, that sweet taste that's so unlike anything his tongue has ever touched before). Both hands slide down his waist, mapping out the span of it, fascinated by the way he knows this body and yet not— and determined to relearn every inch of him.]
But . . .
[He hesitates for just a second, struggling to find the words awash in a sea of hormones.]
. . . I think you're gonna need a lot more practice before you get there first.
[His eyes darken just a little as his fingers flick up, working their way deftly beneath the hem of his nightshirt—
— or try to, anyway. Want to, except Astarion still always wears things that are two sizes too big, which means he ends up drowning in a damned sea of fabric. And it means that here and now, Fenris can't do the very sexy, very suave thing he meant to, which means there's a petulant little frown on his face for a split second. Fuck it, he thinks, and suddenly the world spins—
— and now it's Astarion flat on his back, with Fenris above him looking so unfairly smug. Deliberately he rests one hand against Astarion's shoulder, letting him feel the weight and strength of that pin (do you see how strong I've become, do you see how easily I can toss you around, does that thrill you), before he tips his head.]
You still have the bitemark . . .
[Oh, yes. His gown's fallen open enough for Fenris to see reddened flesh and the faintest hint of a bruise, and that's . . . it takes him a few seconds too long to tear his eyes away from the sight.]
Maybe we both need practice. Hold still . . .
[His eyes flicker over Astarion's face, but when there's no hint of no, Fenris lowers himself down. One hand catches Astarion's chin and gently tips his head back, baring the vulnerable skin of his throat, all pale lines and bobbing swallows. He stares in fascination for a moment, marveling at how much thrills at the sight (so ordinary just a day ago, and now something he wants to lap and lick and bite at). Then, ever so gently, he presses a kiss to the side of his throat. And then another, sweeter, and another, as he slowly works his way down to the crook of his neck, until at last—
Such a gentle bite at first. Such a teasing little nip, and then another, bolder as he hears no protest, catching pale skin between fledgling fangs until he feels Astarion's breath hitch. His lips swiftly follow, his tongue lapping at the sore spot as he sucks a clumsy bruise into pale skin (and he doesn't know how to gauge that, either, which means that Astarion is going to have such a hickey in a few hours).]
Mm?
[It's a rumbling hum, a silent question: do you like this, do you want more, his lips slick and his heart thundering in his chest.]
no subject
It lasts even less than that.
In fact, it might all be in his head, that fleeting game of retribution, because the second warm fingers close around his jaw (when the heady shock and dizzying adrenaline ebb enough for self-awareness to creep in, enough that) he can feel his head tilt back of its own accord— gently guided until softness wraps itself around his neck. Wet and slow and beckoning as that first kiss melts into a second, as the second melts into the slow lathe of an overeager tongue— teeth so tentative that he jolts beneath that first pass, his heart beating against the walls of his ribs like a wild animal. So excited that it hurts in a way, the oddest ache extending well beyond the borders of clenched fingers, curled toes, mostly rattling his chest. His breaths. He swallows hard and audible, his stare unfixed when it runs high enough to try taking in Fenris' face (his neck pulsing to the rhythm in his veins, dull yet far from distant), though with pupils blown wide beneath long lashes, all he finds is that he's seeing double. Clinging hard. If he made a noise, he can't remember. Doesn't care.
He's yanked Fenris' shirt down to his elbows; thin fabric swims around locked knuckles and cinched knees. Around the middle of his belly, highlighting every shallow breath that he sucks in. Bitterness the farthest thing from his own mind when he breathlessly manages in earnest:]
....did....did she teach you that?
[Credit where credit is due if so, even from him.]
no subject
He's panting when he draws back, his lips slick with spit (a crystalline line of saliva connecting them for a precious few seconds, and that shouldn't make something deep in his belly jolt with arousal). For a moment he stares down at Astarion, goosebumps rising on exposed bare skin and nothing but adoration in his eyes. And then he asks that question, all earnestness and no acidity, and yet:]
Eech, no.
[The sneering curl of his upper lip is wholly meant, if not a little exaggerated for Astarion's sake. Elise had been . . . Elise had been fine, but it's like comparing porridge to custard cake; both are foods, but there's only one Fenris will ever idly daydream about. No, Elise hadn't taught him this . . . his scowl eases, a touch of fluster replacing it as he wrinkles his nose down at Astarion.]
I just . . . I thought about it. With you. After everything.
[He'd thought about the way Astarion had jolted beneath him; he'd thought about how good it felt to sink his teeth into tender flesh, and wondered at his own desire to suckle there. He can feel self-consciousness fluttering on the edges of his heart, making him so hyperaware of everything (is he too heavy? does Astarion notice the stubborn bit of softness on his thighs? does he think he looks foolish right now, half-dressed and drooling like some simpleton rather than something worthy of desire?)— still, the look his counterpart gives him drives it all away.
So he offers up a smirk far cockier than he feels and angles himself back down, languidly arching his back as he comes close. Affectionately he nuzzles against his cheek (he can't help that), steals a swift kiss, and then murmurs:]
Should I do it again?
1/?
And it's petty, and small (it really, really is within the grander scheme of this one moment— ) but he's burning all the brighter for that confirmation, too. Something he'll boast to Kanan later: that the tiefling had been right after all. That it was nothing, and Fenris hadn't betrayed him (oh, Astarion....selfish, spoiled little Astarion), and she was only within her rights to be too eager to kiss someone so handsome and clever as his Fenris.
The red spot on his neck hurts just a bit. Heavy with its own weight and scalding presence over otherwise unmarked skin; he hopes it stays that way forever.
Or at least a week.
He slips one leg between Fenris', bearing higher, trying to emulate the courtesans he'd seen a thousand times. Wishing he'd asked Satine more. Learned at least a little about what other men might like when being courted instead of being guided only by blind sensation. But still, the friction's nice. And the balm of febrile contact. And— ]
2/?
And then he's face down in the junction between his husband's shoulder and chest once more, grumbling softly in the back of his own throat.]
It's too early....[Is an argument made with himself and no one else.] I'm not parenting a thing before noon.
[You deal with them today, may or may not find itself sleep-muttered into the borders of Kanan's arm.]
3/3
Now that afternoon is here, he can't remember much beyond that afterglow. That lingering sensation of contentment, now feathered in Fenris' dark hair. Denned down like the light that limns it alongside all those handsome features. The ones that've shifted across the years. Grown stronger. Sharper.
He's tired, but he can't stop staring. Tracing with his eyes the nonexistent slant from Fenris' forehead towards his nose, dipping lower into softset lips still kissed with warmer hues.
He doesn't want to go to work.
He really doesn't want to get up.]
1/?
It's not something Fenris would ever profess, but something along those lines plays out in his mind as he, entirely unwillingly, begins to stir. The afternoon sunlight plays a part in his rousing, but it's the movement that truly awakens him: some part of him waking when he feels lithe limbs gliding against his body. Cool to the touch and so familiar that they only faintly register as safe; it's only once he cracks open his eyes that he realize it's Astarion in his bed. Why . . . for a long few seconds Fenris stares dazedly up at him, vaguely pleased and utterly baffled both as to why they're entangled. Was there a storm again . . .? Or—
Oh. Oh, and the memories don't flood back so much as drift: pleasing little recollections rediscovered one after another, each more satisfying than the last. He beams at up Astarion (he tries, anyway, though it's probably more of a dazed thing than anything) and leans in to try and nuzzle at him. He ends up sort of mushing his face against his bare collarbone, but that's all right too.]
Hi . . .
[No, that's not enough. He feels around until he can latch his fingers around the back of his neck, gently urging him to lie back down. There's a multitude of jobs they need to attend to, and that's to say nothing of all the menial work Zevlor had given them as punishment, but oh, can't they have this? Just one afternoon. Just one more hour of this blissful, sleepy state . . .]
Lie down. Lie down with me . . .
[What could be more important than this? Astarion glimmering in the golden light, his hair shining and his cheeks warmed, still wearing all those pretty little marks Fenris had bitten in last night . . . no, they shouldn't do anything today, Fenris decides. For once in his life he's going to be selfish. For once in his life he'll be the one to demand they take a day off. For once in his life—]
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[Kanan's voice is loud, but that's only because he knows how deeply Fenris sleeps. And true, the boy's never once overslept, but there's a first time for everything. He raps sharply at the door twice. There's the sound of sheets moving, a sharp hiss of inhaled breath, but no answer. Nothing substantial— and in his defense, he'd normally respect his privacy (especially as both boys enter their teenage years), but one, again, he’s watched Fenris sleep through an entire brass band playing, never mind a sharp knock, and two, he lost a lot of privileges this week. Oversleeping is the last straw. So he opens the door, and—]
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[It's a yowl of protesting outrage, Fenris sitting up and snarling even as he scrambles to, what, cover Astarion? But there's no getting around it, and anyway, his panic only makes it worse— it's not as if it's the first time they've been caught in bed, and as long as they play it cool—
But it's too late, for Kanan's sharp eye is already taking in the lack of shirts and the little reddened marks peppered all over Astarion's skin . . . not to mention the way Fenris has gone red as he never has before.
Oh, I see.
He says archly, and Fenris actually bares his teeth in agonized humiliation.]
Get out, get out—!
[Five minutes, or I'm coming back up with Zevlor this time, Kanan says serenely, utterly unfazed by his son's yowling. There's an unbearable smirk plastered on his face and the most awful little gleam in his eye— oh, he's outright grinning as he turns to close the door again. Oh, sweetheart, he calls, the most obnoxious little lilt in his voice.
Which leaves Fenris wide awake now, sitting up and glaring fiercely at the door. His hair is mussed, black strands sticking up every which way and his expression the picture of indigence. Yes, okay, they woke up late, and yes, okay, they have jobs to do, but also: what the fuck. And this isn't what he wanted to start his day, and this isn't how he wanted their guardians to know (if they ever would! maybe he just wouldn't tell them at all!), and—]
4/4
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2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
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2/2 PLEASE I WOULD LOVE THIS
THEN IT WILL HAPPEN....SOON >:]
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