You weren't there, Kanon, you didn't hear the awful things she was saying about Fenris!
[In other words: no. It's absolutely not enough.
He sits up on his elbows, eyebrows knitting in the middle before he reaches out to fix one of the sections of that garment that's gone and tangled— helping, yes, but in the way that any child helps when what they're really after is attention.
[Bid for attention or not, it's still helpful. Still: Kanan doesn't answer right away, flicking another few pins deftly through sheer fabric, before he glances up again.]
You'll do no such thing.
[Mild, that, but only because he doesn't think Astarion means it. But then he sighs and sets his project down in his lap.]
You have to stop, Astarion. There's no way this ends well for you— and you cannot keep unfairly punishing her for nothing.
[Oh, as if it will be as easy as that— but at least this will introduce the subject, if nothing else.]
Then what about fairly punishing her? [He asks, tipping his chin up in the middle of his efforts, managing to almost sound hopeful— not to mention innocent.
Almost.
He mimics Kanan's efforts, stabbing a few pins into the costume in key places along the h— ah. No. Just stabbing. And stabbing.]
Anyway you don't need to lie to me. You and Zevlor work here, so— not sweet, not always— but kind people do just fine.
[Stab. Stab. Absent, idle stab.]
I won't hurt her for being a misery inducing cunt.
You won't hurt her at all, intentionally or otherwise. Stop that—
[Stabbing the garment, he means. It doesn't leave such a big hole, but on the other hand, it would be nice to have a costume that doesn't seem inclined to fall apart on the third night in.]
She did nothing wrong, Astarion, no matter that your heart is still sore. Count yourself lucky she was inclined to play rather than strike you down, for she could have easily. She still could, and will, unless you mind yourself. You've seen it happen plenty of times, I know you have.
[From Elise, yes, but Brienne too, and Etudíe, and Violet, and Satine, and all the others who have come and gone through these halls. Vicious as harpies and keenly aware of the social pecking order, and it's just the way of things. Entering into the Moulin Rouge's employment means learning that and adapting to it— or not.
But the boys haven't had to learn it, not yet. Exempt from the hierarchy by virtue of being the two sons of the proprietor, they've gotten to enjoy years of wandering around with no limits nor leashes. After all: no one is going to put a toddler nor a child in their place, not when they could tease and dote upon them. Even when they began to hit puberty, there was a grace period where no one looked at them as anything but gangling, gawky little things, nonthreatening and relatively unimportant.
But now . . . now, things are shifting. It began yesterday, Kanan realizes, and he was foolish not to realize it.]
You cannot keep antagonizing people here on a whim. Especially not if those people are to be your coworkers— and especially not if you want any of them to see you as anything other than the temperamental child they watched grow up.
Sulking and pouting won't win you their respect, Astarion. And picking a fight over nothing is only going to make things harder in the long run.
I know— [comes out so much harsher than he means, even if it is nothing more than a whine— he hears himself and wilts into the covers, correcting himself before Kanan feels like he has to, letting his arms and wrists go slack as he sinks into the crook of them, face-down.] I know....but it's just—
[A muffled grunt of frustration, eyebrows locked together when he lifts his head again, glaring into nothing.]
[Poor thing, Kanan thinks mildly. Poor vexed thing, struggling with the growing pains they all of them have to go through— and it's not that Astarion shouldn't, but oh, his are a uniquely difficult set, aren't they? Fated to try and carve out a niche within a world that's watched him go from bossy toddler to lanky-limbed Diamond-in-training . . . Kanan leans over, running his fingers through his hair just once, back to front.]
They weren't. And you had many years to get used to tugging their tails as you pleased.
[It's hard. And it's not that Zevlor can't be sympathetic in his own way, but oh, his husband is a blunter thing. Compassionate, but not one to let either of their boys wallow overlong. Kanan has a little more room for that— which is why it's he, not Zevlor, that Astarion so often goes to when he's fretful.]
But you have time to learn again. And, [he adds, tweaking one downtipped ear,] it doesn't mean you can never spar with them. Simply . . . gentler. Less presumptuous. And not until you earn your place among them.
[Which is all very good in the longer sense, of course, but Astarion needs some more immediate course-correcting.]
But for now, you could start by not flaunting Fenris around like a prize. No one wants to see that.
[Zevlor included, and perhaps it's not a shock his husband's temper is a little more strained than it might otherwise be.]
[His hair sticks up the opposite way, little white fingers of curls going this way or that, which winds up matching the way he twists around where he lies to squint over his shoulder at Kanan. His lip pinched up on one side over his teeth, his brow knotted up tighter than the jewelry in his washroom cabinet— a tight-wound sign he's struggling to process what he's just heard.
Not the first part.
The second.]
In the Moulin Rouge?
[Is so incredulous that his tiny voice breaks all on its own.]
Where pople pay good money to see flaunti—
[He gasps. Scoots up onto his hands and knees, leaning to view Kanan eye-to-eye like a dog squinting at an unfamiliar hound.]
[Though that's in no small part why he's saying it here and now, but never mind that. Kanan sets the costume down so he can tick off each crisp point on slender fingers, one after the other.]
First of all: people pay good money to see beautiful, experienced courtesans enact rehearsed displays of flaunted lewdity, carefully choreographed and expertly delivered. Secondly: they pay to see adults. You'll note nowhere in there did I say they wanted to watch two teenage boys shoving their tongues inelegantly down one another's throats with no thought for anyone's pleasure but their own.
And thirdly, no one in this company is paying to see you two. Point in fact, I'd wager one or two of them would pay to not see you go at it— and that, my dear, is where Zevlor comes in.
Have mercy on him. He's still getting used to you being a teenager, never mind dallying with Fenris. Have mercy on all of us, who have to live and breathe sex and sensuality without having to endure it on our off-times. And if nothing else, Astarion . . .
[A little more affectionate, then:]
Savor keeping such things private. There won't be much chance of that the further you get in your training— and you deserve to have something to yourself.
[The well-defeated grumble underneath his breath roughly translates to 'fine' by any and all adolescent standards, and the thing is— he's not so childish that he can blatantly ignore all the telltale hallmarks of Kanan's heartfelt reaching, intermingled with the rest. The way he counts off on his fingers might be coy, but the rest? The interthreaded emotion, the hint of something bordering on heartbreak or happiness, too unfamiliar to be read with any expert deftness by a younger creature lacking in experience, but it catches all the same. Bounces off awareness like a tuning fork, leaving slight ripples in its wake.
He sits back on his heels. He thinks. And for a moment, he's retreated fully inward: consumed by thoughts left unconveyed.
And then, in pure defiance of the frustration that'd seen needles plunged through sequin scales (oh so much the child that he was before these last few years), his grin is bright and shining. A shimmer in pale silver eyes, electric when he throws his arms round Kanan's throat, past those still-raised fingers.]
—Thank you, Kanan.
[He gets it, now, he does. The point of all this, strung between the last conversation that they'd had and this one. The faceted, important bottom line he'd overlooked like the foolish thing he was.]
[He corners Fenris once the theater's cleared out. Nothing but paper scraps and dust and the props that need to be wiped down and put away before the evening crowds descend. Like dawn, the sunset portion of the day is oddly quiet what with most of the cast off getting in their washing and meals and rest, and it has the added effect of pouring Astarion's slight voice around within that empty space, making it louder than it should be.
Or maybe just as loud.
His arms are folded around the plush velvet of a theater seat from behind, grinning hard enough to show all his teeth as Fenris sweeps.]
I know what I have to do now.
[Oh yes, he'd deciphered his parent's cryptic code. He's grasped the secrets of maturity and beyond and tapped into the Rosetta Stone of Maturity that they'd both lacked, all underlining why it's been so vexing and so hard.]
To fix all this. Get Zevlor and everyone off our backs and make it so we can do what we want without getting punished for it.
[He pulls his hands back, palms together facing downwards in a steeple, tapping his fingertips against the seat back the way that someone reveals an earth-shattering play.]
[The broom clatters so loudly as it drops to the floor.
Fenris dives down in the next second, scrambling to pick it up and secretly grateful for the distraction it provides, because—
Well, because a lot of things, actually, starting with the expression on Astarion's face, stopping somewhere in the middle for the word sex being uttered by his paramour of not even a week, and ending around the steamy, searing implications behind I need to get better at it.]
I—
[Broom: upright. Fenris: also upright, his ears flushed dark and his brain no more ready to supply coherent thought than it had been a minute ago. Belatedly he glances around, but of course they're alone. They're always alone this time of day.]
With— with me?
[Of course with you, some tiny sense of ego shrieks— only to then double back, whimpering softly: surely with me? It's just that Astarion's lessons with Satine are going to pick up speed soon; it's just that all of this is so sudden, so overwhelming, and he can barely keep up.]
[Fenris rubs his hand over his mouth, scowling faintly, trying to think (it's just that the word sex keeps blaring in his mind like a klaxon, overwhelming and utterly unable to ignore). But then a thought strikes at him, and he adds:]
What do you mean, it'll fix everything? How is you getting good at sex going to help anything? Zevlor's not gonna—
[But he can't think about Zevlor and sex at the same time, it's too WEIRD and gross and uncomfortable.]
All he's gonna do is get even more upset at us. And why's it just you and not us?
It'll be both of us. [Pretends it didn't just watch the broom nearly crack the theater in half by force before being seized between tanned hands— his own chin tucked in his palm around a smug, self-satisfied grin— cattishly slitted eyes busy taking in the line of Fenris' neck. The slant up to reddened, tucked-in ears.
He's thought this through.]
In the Moulin Rouge, beauty and skill are everything: we're not children anymore, Fenris, isn't it obvious? I'm learning, yes, but— well, I mean, even you were quick to point out that I still had more to learn forsomeonewithnaturaltalent. And I'm only going to have to progress my studies more and more, and now that we're together, everyone knows who I'll choose to practice on— and now that I am? Of course it'd drive the others crazy. Of course Zevlor would bark at us for stealing away.
[He stands up from his perch, the chair creaking slightly in its moors as he leans all his weight across it.]
[Something about that logic doesn't quite scan, but for the life of him he can't figure out what. It's a little because sex is still written in searing ink across the backs of his eyelids, a little because he's still giddily caught on studies and all that implies— but mostly it's because of the way Astarion is looking at him.
He very much likes that look.
He swallows thickly and wills himself to, if not calm down, at least appear that way. Setting the broom down, he comes forward until the seat's edge presses into his thighs, only a few inches between them.]
So . . .
[Hm. His pulse is still hammering, but some of the shock is beginning to ebb. His eyes flit over Astarion's face, taking in the glittering thrill in his gaze (familiar, for he looks so smugly self-satisfied before every clever little plan he hatches) and the way his lips are flushed red from bitten vexation (new, and so, so endlessly fascinating).]
So if we have sex and get really good at it, that'll make them all look better in turn? [Or something like that . . .? God, he could absolutely not give a shit about the reasoning right now, not when Astarion has that excited flush to his cheek. He hesitates, then reaches between them, catching one of Astarion's hands in his own and twining their fingers together.]
So . . . when, when do you wanna?
[No, that's not good enough. It isn't the way he'd been the other night, suave and confident. Lifting their joined hands, he skims his fingers against the inside of his wrist, his eyes flicking down and then up again.]
Tonight. When everybody's busy . . . nobody'll be looking for us in my room.
[He'd suggest their usual spot, but, well, no. It's uncomfortable and too small, and Maker forbid someone actually catch them in the middle of it. It doesn't matter that he's seen everyone in a state of near-nakedness since he was ten; he doesn't want anyone seeing him that way.]
Mmhm. More like....they'll know we're serious about this.
[They are, aren't they? One glance cast down towards their tangled fingers. A distant look of ardent consideration housed within pale eyes.]
That we're not just the same stupid kids still playing about the rafters like we used to.
['Used to', as if they weren't up there yesterday or the day before entirely of their own unserious volition. As if they wouldn't retreat there now, because sophistication and Santa Claus have one thing in common, and it's that they both obviously arrive overnight.]
Kanan said no one 'wants to watch two teenage boys shoving their tongues inelegantly down one another's throats'. [Which is the point, but he quickly murmurs when he adds that a few would pay not to see it as per that same conversation. There was something in there about savoring what they have solely to themselves, but Astarion already does that, doesn't he? What more is there to do but focus up? Start planning for the futures that they want in earnest, rather than pantomiming it to an audience of none like children.] We've spent our whole lives in the theater. Satine took me in as her pupil. [Kanan and Zevlor are right.] We have to be mature about this. Grow up.
After the doors open, then.
[Busy. Everyone will be busy. So much noise and light and energy, and it's not like they're allowed to loiter during work hours unless it's to get something from the storeroom or grab a costume from backstage for mending; no one will even know what they're up to.
His eyes don't lift for a beat longer, but his smile does. Sharp and self-assured.]
[He's sweeter than honeyed wine backstage in that short prelude to opetide, purring once again like the favored 'little star' he'd always been before he grew well past the point of stubby fingers and dinner-stained cheeks. So much so that even the other courtesans forgive him, slipping back into (mostly) doting words. Letting him use their perfumes, combing out his tangled hair and pinning jewelry to his ears— and it mostly fits him now, though they do droop a bit from the added weight. Too oversized to fully self-sustain under the press of rhinestones and imitation gold. He looks at himself in the mirror and he's pleased to find he looks like any of the other performers. The collared choker might sag a little near his throat, and the gauzy shirt might not stay on both shoulders, but that's nothing at all worth noting.
He looks at himself in the mirror and he tugs the necklace back. Pulls the shirt a little lower in the front, lacing loose across his sternum.
He looks at himself in the mirror and takes the fucking necklace off. Combs his hair a different way. Glares at the gloss across his lips because it doesn't catch the light the way he wants it to, tugging makeup out of console drawers.
He's forty minutes late to show up at Fenris' door, shifting from one foot to the other, a cloud of cologne choking out the air in his wake.]
[Thank the Maker for those forty minutes, because Fenris needs every single one of them. The moment they part he races up to his room, desperately racing around to try and fix— gods, everything, or so it feels. It doesn't matter that Astarion has seen his room a thousand times before (indeed, that he slept in it the other day); it's now far too messy. Far too embarrassing, full of childhood trinkets and old posters— nothing like what it should be. Nothing like an adult's room is, and he barely knows what that means, save that it's not this. Real adults don't fuck beneath pictures of France's best boxing stars. Real adults don't lose their virginity on sheets that haven't been cleaned in two days (oh gods) and a faded blue bedspread that he's used since he was ten (oh gods).
There's nothing to do about the sheets, nor the posters. The dirty laundry he gathers in a hurry and shoves into his closet; the blankets he hastily makes, tucking them beneath the pillows. He runs around to all the linen closets he can find and grabs every candle he can, throwing them around his room and lighting them with no care for how much tallow he's wasting. The effect is pleasing, and the low lighting helps hide some of the worst sins of his childhood bedroom— but then there's another fear. Does his room smell? Well, does it? Is it possible he's just never noticed and no one has ever told him, and he throws open the windows, letting in the breeze— and then, finally, impossibly, tries to decide what to wear.
Does he dress up? Look casual? There's no time to take a bath, but he ducks his head in the sink and scrubs with a washcloth as best he can, just in case. Then it's clothes (he settles on a shirt that Astarion has always complimented him in, a loose poet's shirt that he suspects Astarion himself once planted into his wardrobe; dark pants that cling to his figure are shimmied on, though he suspects they won't stay on for long). Then it's scent. Scent is good, right? All the courtesans wear it, and Kanan had bought him some of his very own for his last birthday. He splashes some over his hands and rubs it behind his ears, over his chest, and shoves his fingers through his hair to be rid of the rest of it. It's a very strong scent, and he coughs once or twice, but surely it will fade soon. And then there's brushing his teeth (and brushing them again when he's half-convinced he didn't do a good enough job the first time), and scrubbing his face, and fussing over jewelry and makeup (he wears neither, but maybe Astarion would like him in it), and then—
A knock.]
—fasta vass!
[Don't mind the clatter of books, nor the sound of heavy weight stumbling, for neither matter. He's at the door in an instant, yanking it open and breathlessly surveying—
Oh, perfection.
He can't remember the last time Astarion looked so pretty. He always looks pretty, Fenris' mind amends loyally, but dressed so finely, so sweetly made up . . . not since they were children, and even then, the effect was nothing like this. His eyes flit from golden jewelry pinned to upturned ears (gorgeous, every rhinestone ruby shimmering in the candlelight) to the glimmer of gloss on his lip (so damned pretty, inviting Fenris to fixate on the swell and flush of it) to the way his eyes look so damned striking lined in black like that. And that's to say nothing of the hang of his shirt (Fenris' eyes flick down, lingering on the curve of soft pectorals, the sharp line of a collarbone, thrilling for how they're half-hidden behind white silk), of the lean line of his neck—
Gods, and it takes him too long to remember to look up into Astarion's eyes again, much less how to speak.]
You—
[He licks his lips, aware of how dry they've gone.]
You look beautiful.
[Oh, never doubt he means it, not when he sounds so awed. Belatedly he takes a half-step back, making room.]
Come in. I, ah— here, I can—
[Oh, damn, the windows are still open, and he turns, hastily slamming them shut. No need to be overheard (even if he doubts very much anyone could overhear him, not when the show's already in full swing). Then he turns, facing Astarion again. He isn't quite sure what to do with his hands (he's always known before, why does he not know now?), and ends up fidgeting with them for a moment before shoving them in his pockets. Which makes him look stupid when he then crosses the room, pulling them right out again so he can take Astarion's hand.]
[He's been confident this whole time— and if not that (looking at you, his own reflection in the dressing room mirror), he's been ready for this: eager to move up and move on from the discomfort of existing with one foot in his onesie and the other in a glamorous future void of patronization or ridicule (how long ago was it that his self-assured remarks stopped sparking amusement and started instigating derision or correction instead?) fed up and too damned tired to spare a second thought for maybe not, but now— ?
Astarion swallows so hard he can hear it in his ears. Astarion stares so long that the static in his eyes makes him feel blind; forgetting to blink as he catches a glimpse of muscle underneath loose fabric here or there whilst Fenris shutters windows closed and tugs him towards the bed— that his grip is strong is as much an electrifying revelation as it had been when they were uncorking sherry together, for some reason, like the things that'd always impressed him before seem striking now. Not striking as in beautiful either, no. Striking as in he feels hit by a carriage car and run over. Striking as in he's forgotten how to be a living creature as his brain sloughs out his heavy ears, red up to the tips of them and wild-eyed with incoherency, silent as the grave (or a deer in headlights), leaving the shiver in his stomach to do the heavy lifting of piloting him now. And all it can think of is that he's gorgeous, the handsome thing holding his clammy, limpid fingers. And all he can think of is that he's terrified, because overconfidence doesn't bother to consort with boring trivialities like foresight, or how he'd have to sit here eventually, face-to-face with all his mortal inexperience. His perspiring lack of knowledge.
He'd spent so long thinking he knew what he was doing that he actually believed it, and now tomorrow's Astarion has become tonight's problem.
Has he been sitting here for a minute holding hands and smiling? Holding hands and smiling and not blinking? Fuck— ]
You smell nice.
[The room reeks of every scent imaginable now that they're locked within it, but mostly them.] Is that— is that new?
[No. Wait.]
—and you look great.
Too.
That is.
[Use your brain for something, for pity's sake. Think, Astarion, think. What have you overheard?]
[There's a long moment where he stares (so stupidly) at Astarion as his mind frantically rifles through old memories, hunting for a hint of an inside joke or a line from a play. The moon must be jealous, the words almost nonsensical for how hard he tries to understand him, and it takes him far, far too long to realize it's a compliment.]
Oh! I— aha, yeah. Um. You too.
[Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods, the words building into a shrieking mantra in the back of his mind. He's so aware of how he's suddenly sweating (does it show? white soaks up sweat so quickly; he doesn't dare check, but who would to fuck someone with growing sweatstains beneath their arms?). He's so aware of the fact his hair is still damp with cologne and water both, flat and decidedly pathetic looking. He's so godsdamned aware of how stupid his body is, all knobby knees and skinny frame, not nearly the muscle-bound creature he wants to be right now. He wants to sweep Astarion up in his arms; he wants to lift him up and— and— well, he doesn't quite know what just yet, but something, for he's seen others fuck that way. He wants to hear that familiar gasp take on a new form; he wants to see the excitement glittering in Astarion's eyes, awe and delight and adoration glimmering there (who could ever compare, who could ever be as good as you, I don't like any of them half as much as I love you, and he is a jealous soul even now, knowing what the future will hold).
And all he can think of is how inexperienced he is. There's a vast gaping chasm between his fantasies and how he's sitting right now, and for the life of him, Fenris has no idea how to bridge it. Every word feels clumsier than the last, every motion somehow the wrong one . . . gods, he should have spent more time paying attention to the courtesans, but it's too late now.]
It's, um. It's new, yeah. The scent. Or— not new. Kanan got it for me last year. So.
[With every word he can feel himself withering into smaller and smaller pieces. Sooner or later he's bound to just fold beneath the weight of agonized self-consciousness and burst into incredibly embarrassed flames.]
[No. No. This is stupid, he tells himself, because this is Astarion. How many years have they spent together? How many times have they gotten in and out of trouble together— seen each other at their weakest, pettiest, ugliest states? The only thing to be nervous about is sex, and that's— well, that's terrifying, but still. It's Astarion. How can he be this clumsy in front of him?
Besides: his heart is still threatening to beat its way out of his chest, but now that the initial wave of terror has crested, he can take in the finer details in his boyfriend's appearance. Like the way he's flushed so dark, or the way his eyes are still wide and awestruck. If Fenris is in over his head (and he assuredly is), at least he's not alone.
So he swallows and tries for a smirk, which ends up looking only the slightest bit queasy.]
And whose lipstick did you steal this time, hm?
[He teases gently. One hand dares to lift between them, catching Astarion's chin as he swipes a gentle thumb over the ruddy stain there.]
[His spine might snap in half from the shiver that runs up it under the press of Fenris' thumb, heart pounding in his chest until it *aches.*
Who's tittering breathlessly? Oh, it's him. Oh gods it's *him*, and that's a nightmarish revelation all its own, lips pulled back far enough on one side to crinkle his nose and flash the white of his canine, twitching through his features for the longest second of his life.]
Everyone's.
[ —what?! Don't just blurt out the truth, are you crazy?]
No-uh-no-ones! No, I just— they gave it to me, that's all. To use. For.... [Well. Not us. Not us, because they don't know about this. No one does. That's the whole bloody point of this, and when he tries to flatten out his ears in a sharp glance downwards, the earrings nearly drag them to his shoulders (or so it feels), alarmingly heavy.
[Oh, he’s nervous. *Oh*, and the revelation strikes at the heart of his nerves. They don’t disappear (oh, far from it), but some of the insecurity abates. Astarion isn’t sitting there silently laughing; he isn’t internally rolling his eyes, scoffing at his idiot of a boyfriend. He’s uncertain, wanting to impress just as badly as Fenris does, and that’s comforting.]
Of course I do.
[Calm and a little arch, the tone a familiar one. It’s the same one he takes whenever Astarion gets snappish in his nervousness: calm down, firm and not unsympathetic all at once. It’s a hell of a tone to manage when his stomach is still fluttering, but his voice only wavers a bit.]
Who says we only have tonight? The show runs all week. And I—
[Hm. A thought crosses his mind, his brow furrowing faintly.]
I don’t want to do this just to fulfill an obligation. And I don’t want to rush.
[He’d liked that shiver. He’d liked it a lot, actually, and there’s a growing need to have it happen again. Fenris leans in, his eyes flicking over Astarion’s face just once in silent question before he kisses him. Gently, sweetly, and yet for not nearly long enough before he pulls back.]
It's not just an obligation— [Frustration brimming in his voice before he's cut off by a kiss that might've burned it all away for how much urgency is left behind within its wake. Settled. Startled. Tingling against his cupid's bow and soft.
Silver eyes flicker. Flick down. He's redder than before, and not solely from rouge or shallow compliments, twisting his fingers against one another in his lap, mired in stern thought.]
Of course I do. [Is so unmasked in its sincerity that defensiveness threatens to take hold, swaying low within his throat.]
I wouldn't be here like this if I didn't.
[He doesn't want to be misunderstood. Doesn't want this to be misunderstood.] I wouldn't have kissed you, either.
[Easily said, because he believes Astarion without question. If there was doubt, it was only ever a sliver of it born from teenage insecurity and inexperience. And though the world of sex and romance is still such a baffling one, his trust in Astarion is ironclad— comforting, here and now, when everything else is so confusing.
He reaches for those twisting fingers, prying one hand free so he can take it within both of his. This time it feels less forced, and he likes that, too. He likes the way Astarion's fingers are a little slimmer than his own, and the way he can cover his hand entirely like this. He likes the way soft skin feels against the small callouses he's been earning, and the way Astarion looks when he's blushing red like this, stark and sincere despite all efforts to the contrary.]
Good, then.
[It's getting easier, which isn't the same as this becoming easy. He's still flustered, still sweaty, still half-convinced that any move he makes is going to be the wrong one, but . . . he knows this. He knows them. And much like trying sherry or getting the flu or dealing with the agonies of acne and growing pains, they've always ventured forward together. This is just a different flavor, that's all.
And though the rest of sex is still a hazy unknown, Fenris at least knows how it starts.]
So come here. Come here, [he murmurs, and gently urges Astarion into lying back on his bed. The briefest hesitation, and then in a fit of courage Fenris swings one leg over to straddle his hips, and just like that he's atop him. And oh, that connection— oh, that friction— it's barely anything, but to a teenage boy, Maker, even the slightest bit of touch is dizzying. He can feel the heat of him through their pants; with a thrill he realizes that he can even feel the shape of him, thick and noticeable, which is such a dizzying thought that he can't linger there for long. He ducks forward, one hand bracing by his head as the other cups Astarion's cheek just once— and then Fenris kisses him.
Not just once, not like before, but again and again: his mouth finding the gliding rhythm of the other night, his breathing growing heavier as he steals another, and another. His tongue flits clumsily between them, trying to coax Astarion's mouth open, thrilled when he tastes gliding sweetness there. He kisses him until his hands stop trembling; until the terror of what next simply becomes a promise: another kiss, another, please, soft words replaced by little groans and hungry whimpers.
And slowly, without any fanfare, he skims his hand down Astarion's side. His fingers trace over soft curves and thin fabric before he finds the hem and slips beneath, one palm caressing his stomach. It's nowhere he hasn't gone before, nothing they haven't tentatively explored— but it's still a step forward. Still an overture, cautious but hungry for more.]
Yeah?
[He's panting as he breaks their kiss, his eyes flicking over Astarion's face. His consent he has, he's certain, but . . . oh, all of this is so much. And maybe it's not about checking in so much as it's about taking the plunge together: locking eyes as his fingers trace downwards, toying tentatively with the fastenings of his trousers.]
Why wouldn't I be? [Breaks across his lips so that it's nothing more than air and hoarse affection on his tongue, the wording just as retortive by nature as if they were still young, but the rest is new. Enticing. His own fingers stilled and twitching in midair with an anxiety he's never known before, running cartwheels underneath taut ribs— coiling in the places where Fenris' touch is fiddling—
And in the aftermath of instincts, he finds himself renewed. Recrudescent. Soft around his edges, not so keen to be anything but seen by the person he's spent almost every waking moment beside since the first minute that they'd found each other. His palms grasping onto either shoulder, an arch of his hips to push them into Fenris' hands as he drags him down into a kiss he drinks like honeyed wine— little puffs of air in every break timed to the depthless rise and fall of his own chest. Overheated. Overfond.]
....I'm with you. [I'm with you, after all, so how could he not be all right? This is what he wanted. Where he wants to be, even when it feels like he's gone deaf from the rushing of his blood between his ears.
And elsewhere.
Stiff against the edge of his own belly in the meridian that divides it and his thigh. Straining through more than the bites he fits to Fenris' lower lip again and again, his eyes half-lidded and restive in their shifting. Touch slid lower towards the laces of an opened shirt.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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[In other words: no. It's absolutely not enough.
He sits up on his elbows, eyebrows knitting in the middle before he reaches out to fix one of the sections of that garment that's gone and tangled— helping, yes, but in the way that any child helps when what they're really after is attention.
Or a break from the monotony of their chores.
Or both.]
Maybe I should poison her.
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You'll do no such thing.
[Mild, that, but only because he doesn't think Astarion means it. But then he sighs and sets his project down in his lap.]
You have to stop, Astarion. There's no way this ends well for you— and you cannot keep unfairly punishing her for nothing.
[Oh, as if it will be as easy as that— but at least this will introduce the subject, if nothing else.]
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Almost.
He mimics Kanan's efforts, stabbing a few pins into the costume in key places along the h— ah. No. Just stabbing. And stabbing.]
Anyway you don't need to lie to me. You and Zevlor work here, so— not sweet, not always— but kind people do just fine.
[Stab. Stab. Absent, idle stab.]
I won't hurt her for being a misery inducing cunt.
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[Stabbing the garment, he means. It doesn't leave such a big hole, but on the other hand, it would be nice to have a costume that doesn't seem inclined to fall apart on the third night in.]
She did nothing wrong, Astarion, no matter that your heart is still sore. Count yourself lucky she was inclined to play rather than strike you down, for she could have easily. She still could, and will, unless you mind yourself. You've seen it happen plenty of times, I know you have.
[From Elise, yes, but Brienne too, and Etudíe, and Violet, and Satine, and all the others who have come and gone through these halls. Vicious as harpies and keenly aware of the social pecking order, and it's just the way of things. Entering into the Moulin Rouge's employment means learning that and adapting to it— or not.
But the boys haven't had to learn it, not yet. Exempt from the hierarchy by virtue of being the two sons of the proprietor, they've gotten to enjoy years of wandering around with no limits nor leashes. After all: no one is going to put a toddler nor a child in their place, not when they could tease and dote upon them. Even when they began to hit puberty, there was a grace period where no one looked at them as anything but gangling, gawky little things, nonthreatening and relatively unimportant.
But now . . . now, things are shifting. It began yesterday, Kanan realizes, and he was foolish not to realize it.]
You cannot keep antagonizing people here on a whim. Especially not if those people are to be your coworkers— and especially not if you want any of them to see you as anything other than the temperamental child they watched grow up.
Sulking and pouting won't win you their respect, Astarion. And picking a fight over nothing is only going to make things harder in the long run.
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[A muffled grunt of frustration, eyebrows locked together when he lifts his head again, glaring into nothing.]
They weren't my coworkers before.
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They weren't. And you had many years to get used to tugging their tails as you pleased.
[It's hard. And it's not that Zevlor can't be sympathetic in his own way, but oh, his husband is a blunter thing. Compassionate, but not one to let either of their boys wallow overlong. Kanan has a little more room for that— which is why it's he, not Zevlor, that Astarion so often goes to when he's fretful.]
But you have time to learn again. And, [he adds, tweaking one downtipped ear,] it doesn't mean you can never spar with them. Simply . . . gentler. Less presumptuous. And not until you earn your place among them.
[Which is all very good in the longer sense, of course, but Astarion needs some more immediate course-correcting.]
But for now, you could start by not flaunting Fenris around like a prize. No one wants to see that.
[Zevlor included, and perhaps it's not a shock his husband's temper is a little more strained than it might otherwise be.]
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Not the first part.
The second.]
In the Moulin Rouge?
[Is so incredulous that his tiny voice breaks all on its own.]
Where pople pay good money to see flaunti—
[He gasps. Scoots up onto his hands and knees, leaning to view Kanan eye-to-eye like a dog squinting at an unfamiliar hound.]
—are you just saying that because of Zevlor??
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[Though that's in no small part why he's saying it here and now, but never mind that. Kanan sets the costume down so he can tick off each crisp point on slender fingers, one after the other.]
First of all: people pay good money to see beautiful, experienced courtesans enact rehearsed displays of flaunted lewdity, carefully choreographed and expertly delivered. Secondly: they pay to see adults. You'll note nowhere in there did I say they wanted to watch two teenage boys shoving their tongues inelegantly down one another's throats with no thought for anyone's pleasure but their own.
And thirdly, no one in this company is paying to see you two. Point in fact, I'd wager one or two of them would pay to not see you go at it— and that, my dear, is where Zevlor comes in.
Have mercy on him. He's still getting used to you being a teenager, never mind dallying with Fenris. Have mercy on all of us, who have to live and breathe sex and sensuality without having to endure it on our off-times. And if nothing else, Astarion . . .
[A little more affectionate, then:]
Savor keeping such things private. There won't be much chance of that the further you get in your training— and you deserve to have something to yourself.
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He sits back on his heels. He thinks. And for a moment, he's retreated fully inward: consumed by thoughts left unconveyed.
And then, in pure defiance of the frustration that'd seen needles plunged through sequin scales (oh so much the child that he was before these last few years), his grin is bright and shining. A shimmer in pale silver eyes, electric when he throws his arms round Kanan's throat, past those still-raised fingers.]
—Thank you, Kanan.
[He gets it, now, he does. The point of all this, strung between the last conversation that they'd had and this one. The faceted, important bottom line he'd overlooked like the foolish thing he was.]
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Or maybe just as loud.
His arms are folded around the plush velvet of a theater seat from behind, grinning hard enough to show all his teeth as Fenris sweeps.]
I know what I have to do now.
[Oh yes, he'd deciphered his parent's cryptic code. He's grasped the secrets of maturity and beyond and tapped into the Rosetta Stone of Maturity that they'd both lacked, all underlining why it's been so vexing and so hard.]
To fix all this. Get Zevlor and everyone off our backs and make it so we can do what we want without getting punished for it.
[He pulls his hands back, palms together facing downwards in a steeple, tapping his fingertips against the seat back the way that someone reveals an earth-shattering play.]
I have to get better at sex.
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Fenris dives down in the next second, scrambling to pick it up and secretly grateful for the distraction it provides, because—
Well, because a lot of things, actually, starting with the expression on Astarion's face, stopping somewhere in the middle for the word sex being uttered by his paramour of not even a week, and ending around the steamy, searing implications behind I need to get better at it.]
I—
[Broom: upright. Fenris: also upright, his ears flushed dark and his brain no more ready to supply coherent thought than it had been a minute ago. Belatedly he glances around, but of course they're alone. They're always alone this time of day.]
With— with me?
[Of course with you, some tiny sense of ego shrieks— only to then double back, whimpering softly: surely with me? It's just that Astarion's lessons with Satine are going to pick up speed soon; it's just that all of this is so sudden, so overwhelming, and he can barely keep up.]
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What do you mean, it'll fix everything? How is you getting good at sex going to help anything? Zevlor's not gonna—
[But he can't think about Zevlor and sex at the same time, it's too WEIRD and gross and uncomfortable.]
All he's gonna do is get even more upset at us. And why's it just you and not us?
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He's thought this through.]
In the Moulin Rouge, beauty and skill are everything: we're not children anymore, Fenris, isn't it obvious? I'm learning, yes, but— well, I mean, even you were quick to point out that I still had more to learn forsomeonewithnaturaltalent. And I'm only going to have to progress my studies more and more, and now that we're together, everyone knows who I'll choose to practice on— and now that I am? Of course it'd drive the others crazy. Of course Zevlor would bark at us for stealing away.
[He stands up from his perch, the chair creaking slightly in its moors as he leans all his weight across it.]
We're making them look less polished.
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He very much likes that look.
He swallows thickly and wills himself to, if not calm down, at least appear that way. Setting the broom down, he comes forward until the seat's edge presses into his thighs, only a few inches between them.]
So . . .
[Hm. His pulse is still hammering, but some of the shock is beginning to ebb. His eyes flit over Astarion's face, taking in the glittering thrill in his gaze (familiar, for he looks so smugly self-satisfied before every clever little plan he hatches) and the way his lips are flushed red from bitten vexation (new, and so, so endlessly fascinating).]
So if we have sex and get really good at it, that'll make them all look better in turn? [Or something like that . . .? God, he could absolutely not give a shit about the reasoning right now, not when Astarion has that excited flush to his cheek. He hesitates, then reaches between them, catching one of Astarion's hands in his own and twining their fingers together.]
So . . . when, when do you wanna?
[No, that's not good enough. It isn't the way he'd been the other night, suave and confident. Lifting their joined hands, he skims his fingers against the inside of his wrist, his eyes flicking down and then up again.]
Tonight. When everybody's busy . . . nobody'll be looking for us in my room.
[He'd suggest their usual spot, but, well, no. It's uncomfortable and too small, and Maker forbid someone actually catch them in the middle of it. It doesn't matter that he's seen everyone in a state of near-nakedness since he was ten; he doesn't want anyone seeing him that way.]
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[They are, aren't they? One glance cast down towards their tangled fingers. A distant look of ardent consideration housed within pale eyes.]
That we're not just the same stupid kids still playing about the rafters like we used to.
['Used to', as if they weren't up there yesterday or the day before entirely of their own unserious volition. As if they wouldn't retreat there now, because sophistication and Santa Claus have one thing in common, and it's that they both obviously arrive overnight.]
Kanan said no one 'wants to watch two teenage boys shoving their tongues inelegantly down one another's throats'. [Which is the point, but he quickly murmurs when he adds that a few would pay not to see it as per that same conversation. There was something in there about savoring what they have solely to themselves, but Astarion already does that, doesn't he? What more is there to do but focus up? Start planning for the futures that they want in earnest, rather than pantomiming it to an audience of none like children.] We've spent our whole lives in the theater. Satine took me in as her pupil. [Kanan and Zevlor are right.] We have to be mature about this. Grow up.
After the doors open, then.
[Busy. Everyone will be busy. So much noise and light and energy, and it's not like they're allowed to loiter during work hours unless it's to get something from the storeroom or grab a costume from backstage for mending; no one will even know what they're up to.
His eyes don't lift for a beat longer, but his smile does. Sharp and self-assured.]
I'll see you then.
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He looks at himself in the mirror and he tugs the necklace back. Pulls the shirt a little lower in the front, lacing loose across his sternum.
He looks at himself in the mirror and takes the fucking necklace off. Combs his hair a different way. Glares at the gloss across his lips because it doesn't catch the light the way he wants it to, tugging makeup out of console drawers.
He's forty minutes late to show up at Fenris' door, shifting from one foot to the other, a cloud of cologne choking out the air in his wake.]
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There's nothing to do about the sheets, nor the posters. The dirty laundry he gathers in a hurry and shoves into his closet; the blankets he hastily makes, tucking them beneath the pillows. He runs around to all the linen closets he can find and grabs every candle he can, throwing them around his room and lighting them with no care for how much tallow he's wasting. The effect is pleasing, and the low lighting helps hide some of the worst sins of his childhood bedroom— but then there's another fear. Does his room smell? Well, does it? Is it possible he's just never noticed and no one has ever told him, and he throws open the windows, letting in the breeze— and then, finally, impossibly, tries to decide what to wear.
Does he dress up? Look casual? There's no time to take a bath, but he ducks his head in the sink and scrubs with a washcloth as best he can, just in case. Then it's clothes (he settles on a shirt that Astarion has always complimented him in, a loose poet's shirt that he suspects Astarion himself once planted into his wardrobe; dark pants that cling to his figure are shimmied on, though he suspects they won't stay on for long). Then it's scent. Scent is good, right? All the courtesans wear it, and Kanan had bought him some of his very own for his last birthday. He splashes some over his hands and rubs it behind his ears, over his chest, and shoves his fingers through his hair to be rid of the rest of it. It's a very strong scent, and he coughs once or twice, but surely it will fade soon. And then there's brushing his teeth (and brushing them again when he's half-convinced he didn't do a good enough job the first time), and scrubbing his face, and fussing over jewelry and makeup (he wears neither, but maybe Astarion would like him in it), and then—
A knock.]
—fasta vass!
[Don't mind the clatter of books, nor the sound of heavy weight stumbling, for neither matter. He's at the door in an instant, yanking it open and breathlessly surveying—
Oh, perfection.
He can't remember the last time Astarion looked so pretty. He always looks pretty, Fenris' mind amends loyally, but dressed so finely, so sweetly made up . . . not since they were children, and even then, the effect was nothing like this. His eyes flit from golden jewelry pinned to upturned ears (gorgeous, every rhinestone ruby shimmering in the candlelight) to the glimmer of gloss on his lip (so damned pretty, inviting Fenris to fixate on the swell and flush of it) to the way his eyes look so damned striking lined in black like that. And that's to say nothing of the hang of his shirt (Fenris' eyes flick down, lingering on the curve of soft pectorals, the sharp line of a collarbone, thrilling for how they're half-hidden behind white silk), of the lean line of his neck—
Gods, and it takes him too long to remember to look up into Astarion's eyes again, much less how to speak.]
You—
[He licks his lips, aware of how dry they've gone.]
You look beautiful.
[Oh, never doubt he means it, not when he sounds so awed. Belatedly he takes a half-step back, making room.]
Come in. I, ah— here, I can—
[Oh, damn, the windows are still open, and he turns, hastily slamming them shut. No need to be overheard (even if he doubts very much anyone could overhear him, not when the show's already in full swing). Then he turns, facing Astarion again. He isn't quite sure what to do with his hands (he's always known before, why does he not know now?), and ends up fidgeting with them for a moment before shoving them in his pockets. Which makes him look stupid when he then crosses the room, pulling them right out again so he can take Astarion's hand.]
Let's sit on the bed.
[That's a good first start, right?]
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Astarion swallows so hard he can hear it in his ears. Astarion stares so long that the static in his eyes makes him feel blind; forgetting to blink as he catches a glimpse of muscle underneath loose fabric here or there whilst Fenris shutters windows closed and tugs him towards the bed— that his grip is strong is as much an electrifying revelation as it had been when they were uncorking sherry together, for some reason, like the things that'd always impressed him before seem striking now. Not striking as in beautiful either, no. Striking as in he feels hit by a carriage car and run over. Striking as in he's forgotten how to be a living creature as his brain sloughs out his heavy ears, red up to the tips of them and wild-eyed with incoherency, silent as the grave (or a deer in headlights), leaving the shiver in his stomach to do the heavy lifting of piloting him now. And all it can think of is that he's gorgeous, the handsome thing holding his clammy, limpid fingers. And all he can think of is that he's terrified, because overconfidence doesn't bother to consort with boring trivialities like foresight, or how he'd have to sit here eventually, face-to-face with all his mortal inexperience. His perspiring lack of knowledge.
He'd spent so long thinking he knew what he was doing that he actually believed it, and now tomorrow's Astarion has become tonight's problem.
Has he been sitting here for a minute holding hands and smiling? Holding hands and smiling and not blinking? Fuck— ]
You smell nice.
[The room reeks of every scent imaginable now that they're locked within it, but mostly them.] Is that— is that new?
[No. Wait.]
—and you look great.
Too.
That is.
[Use your brain for something, for pity's sake. Think, Astarion, think. What have you overheard?]
The moon must be jealous.
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[There's a long moment where he stares (so stupidly) at Astarion as his mind frantically rifles through old memories, hunting for a hint of an inside joke or a line from a play. The moon must be jealous, the words almost nonsensical for how hard he tries to understand him, and it takes him far, far too long to realize it's a compliment.]
Oh! I— aha, yeah. Um. You too.
[Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods, the words building into a shrieking mantra in the back of his mind. He's so aware of how he's suddenly sweating (does it show? white soaks up sweat so quickly; he doesn't dare check, but who would to fuck someone with growing sweatstains beneath their arms?). He's so aware of the fact his hair is still damp with cologne and water both, flat and decidedly pathetic looking. He's so godsdamned aware of how stupid his body is, all knobby knees and skinny frame, not nearly the muscle-bound creature he wants to be right now. He wants to sweep Astarion up in his arms; he wants to lift him up and— and— well, he doesn't quite know what just yet, but something, for he's seen others fuck that way. He wants to hear that familiar gasp take on a new form; he wants to see the excitement glittering in Astarion's eyes, awe and delight and adoration glimmering there (who could ever compare, who could ever be as good as you, I don't like any of them half as much as I love you, and he is a jealous soul even now, knowing what the future will hold).
And all he can think of is how inexperienced he is. There's a vast gaping chasm between his fantasies and how he's sitting right now, and for the life of him, Fenris has no idea how to bridge it. Every word feels clumsier than the last, every motion somehow the wrong one . . . gods, he should have spent more time paying attention to the courtesans, but it's too late now.]
It's, um. It's new, yeah. The scent. Or— not new. Kanan got it for me last year. So.
[With every word he can feel himself withering into smaller and smaller pieces. Sooner or later he's bound to just fold beneath the weight of agonized self-consciousness and burst into incredibly embarrassed flames.]
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Besides: his heart is still threatening to beat its way out of his chest, but now that the initial wave of terror has crested, he can take in the finer details in his boyfriend's appearance. Like the way he's flushed so dark, or the way his eyes are still wide and awestruck. If Fenris is in over his head (and he assuredly is), at least he's not alone.
So he swallows and tries for a smirk, which ends up looking only the slightest bit queasy.]
And whose lipstick did you steal this time, hm?
[He teases gently. One hand dares to lift between them, catching Astarion's chin as he swipes a gentle thumb over the ruddy stain there.]
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Who's tittering breathlessly? Oh, it's him. Oh gods it's *him*, and that's a nightmarish revelation all its own, lips pulled back far enough on one side to crinkle his nose and flash the white of his canine, twitching through his features for the longest second of his life.]
Everyone's.
[ —what?! Don't just blurt out the truth, are you crazy?]
No-uh-no-ones! No, I just— they gave it to me, that's all. To use. For.... [Well. Not us. Not us, because they don't know about this. No one does. That's the whole bloody point of this, and when he tries to flatten out his ears in a sharp glance downwards, the earrings nearly drag them to his shoulders (or so it feels), alarmingly heavy.
Or more accurately: irritatingly heavy.]
We only have tonight.
Do you still want to do this?
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Of course I do.
[Calm and a little arch, the tone a familiar one. It’s the same one he takes whenever Astarion gets snappish in his nervousness: calm down, firm and not unsympathetic all at once. It’s a hell of a tone to manage when his stomach is still fluttering, but his voice only wavers a bit.]
Who says we only have tonight? The show runs all week. And I—
[Hm. A thought crosses his mind, his brow furrowing faintly.]
I don’t want to do this just to fulfill an obligation. And I don’t want to rush.
[He’d liked that shiver. He’d liked it a lot, actually, and there’s a growing need to have it happen again. Fenris leans in, his eyes flicking over Astarion’s face just once in silent question before he kisses him. Gently, sweetly, and yet for not nearly long enough before he pulls back.]
Do you still wish to? With me?
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Silver eyes flicker. Flick down. He's redder than before, and not solely from rouge or shallow compliments, twisting his fingers against one another in his lap, mired in stern thought.]
Of course I do. [Is so unmasked in its sincerity that defensiveness threatens to take hold, swaying low within his throat.]
I wouldn't be here like this if I didn't.
[He doesn't want to be misunderstood. Doesn't want this to be misunderstood.] I wouldn't have kissed you, either.
[Not like Elise.]
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[Easily said, because he believes Astarion without question. If there was doubt, it was only ever a sliver of it born from teenage insecurity and inexperience. And though the world of sex and romance is still such a baffling one, his trust in Astarion is ironclad— comforting, here and now, when everything else is so confusing.
He reaches for those twisting fingers, prying one hand free so he can take it within both of his. This time it feels less forced, and he likes that, too. He likes the way Astarion's fingers are a little slimmer than his own, and the way he can cover his hand entirely like this. He likes the way soft skin feels against the small callouses he's been earning, and the way Astarion looks when he's blushing red like this, stark and sincere despite all efforts to the contrary.]
Good, then.
[It's getting easier, which isn't the same as this becoming easy. He's still flustered, still sweaty, still half-convinced that any move he makes is going to be the wrong one, but . . . he knows this. He knows them. And much like trying sherry or getting the flu or dealing with the agonies of acne and growing pains, they've always ventured forward together. This is just a different flavor, that's all.
And though the rest of sex is still a hazy unknown, Fenris at least knows how it starts.]
So come here. Come here, [he murmurs, and gently urges Astarion into lying back on his bed. The briefest hesitation, and then in a fit of courage Fenris swings one leg over to straddle his hips, and just like that he's atop him. And oh, that connection— oh, that friction— it's barely anything, but to a teenage boy, Maker, even the slightest bit of touch is dizzying. He can feel the heat of him through their pants; with a thrill he realizes that he can even feel the shape of him, thick and noticeable, which is such a dizzying thought that he can't linger there for long. He ducks forward, one hand bracing by his head as the other cups Astarion's cheek just once— and then Fenris kisses him.
Not just once, not like before, but again and again: his mouth finding the gliding rhythm of the other night, his breathing growing heavier as he steals another, and another. His tongue flits clumsily between them, trying to coax Astarion's mouth open, thrilled when he tastes gliding sweetness there. He kisses him until his hands stop trembling; until the terror of what next simply becomes a promise: another kiss, another, please, soft words replaced by little groans and hungry whimpers.
And slowly, without any fanfare, he skims his hand down Astarion's side. His fingers trace over soft curves and thin fabric before he finds the hem and slips beneath, one palm caressing his stomach. It's nowhere he hasn't gone before, nothing they haven't tentatively explored— but it's still a step forward. Still an overture, cautious but hungry for more.]
Yeah?
[He's panting as he breaks their kiss, his eyes flicking over Astarion's face. His consent he has, he's certain, but . . . oh, all of this is so much. And maybe it's not about checking in so much as it's about taking the plunge together: locking eyes as his fingers trace downwards, toying tentatively with the fastenings of his trousers.]
Is that— are you okay?
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And in the aftermath of instincts, he finds himself renewed. Recrudescent. Soft around his edges, not so keen to be anything but seen by the person he's spent almost every waking moment beside since the first minute that they'd found each other. His palms grasping onto either shoulder, an arch of his hips to push them into Fenris' hands as he drags him down into a kiss he drinks like honeyed wine— little puffs of air in every break timed to the depthless rise and fall of his own chest. Overheated. Overfond.]
....I'm with you. [I'm with you, after all, so how could he not be all right? This is what he wanted. Where he wants to be, even when it feels like he's gone deaf from the rushing of his blood between his ears.
And elsewhere.
Stiff against the edge of his own belly in the meridian that divides it and his thigh. Straining through more than the bites he fits to Fenris' lower lip again and again, his eyes half-lidded and restive in their shifting. Touch slid lower towards the laces of an opened shirt.]
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2/2
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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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2/2
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1/2
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1/2
2/2
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