[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.]
[His next inhale is a shuddering thing, soft and too emotional for what they're doing. I'm with you, three little words spoken with such plain earnestness that it makes something buckle within him, his heart thudding in his ears and emotions he has no real name for swelling up impossibly large within him. It's too much to parse, too confusing to pick apart, but it's something to do with them. With him. With the little boy who had once taken his hand in bleakest darkness, coaxing him out into the warmth and light for no other reason than he could. I'm with you, and in that moment Fenris thinks that there is nothing he won't do to keep Astarion safe. He'll dedicate himself doubly to his training. He'll learn all the things that aren't necessary, he'll become the best of the best, deadly and sharp and never, ever prone to mistakes, for there can be nothing that hurts his miraculous, starlit boy.
The boy he loves. The boy who saved him all those years ago.
I'm with you, and someday he'll tell him just what it means to hear that—
— but not tonight.]
Just— ah— just, just tell me . . . tell me if it's good—
[Murmured half-nonsensically, his ability to speak rapidly eroding in wake of every playful bite and honeyed kiss and all his attention focused on opening Astarion's pants. He's clumsier than he thinks he should be, fumbling in a way the courtesans always crow they never do. Let me just— I'm almost,, little mumbles as fingers (still faintly shaking) pry at unfamiliar knots, until at last he gives up and simply glances down. It's clumsy and inelegant and not at all sexy— and yet somehow it doesn't ruin things.
He wants so badly to look, but there's courage and courage, and it's easier to lean forward and resume their kiss as his hand slips down. Soft skin meets questing fingertips, and then all at once there's searing heat and heavy stiffness (because of me, because of me!), and on instinct he wraps his fingers around the swell of Astarion's prick.
Oh, he thinks faintly, and then forgets to think at all.
Thank the Maker he's plenty practiced with his own, for the first exploratory rocks of his hand are pure muscle memory. He stares down at Astarion, his breath trembling, drinking in his expression with a near-fervent stare— trying to drink in how he looks, trying to see what it's like. Trying not to collapse out of sheer nerves, frankly, for it's so frightening to look him in the eye right now, and yet Fenris couldn't glance away if he wanted to. Slowly he sets in on a rhythm, trying with all his might to remember how he himself likes to be touched (is this too much, is this too slow, what if I try—). An experimental squeeze, his pace picking up a little faster, and all the while he keeps his eyes locked on his boyfriend, hunting for guidance.]
[Because of him there's electricity that shuts down all his senses. Because of him he makes a noise against soft lips that are then bitten for a thieving trespass that they didn't start— misdirection staining Fenris' lips dark red from injury and lipstick both— too keyed up to apologize, only tucking his face into the heart of his twin shadow's neck: exhaling once. Twice. Each time with a shudder that threatens to unmake him from the inside out, squeezing his grip around the front of cotton lacework.
It groans alongside him.
Something like mmhmm slips out, or yes— so far away he isn't sure. This is a brothel, after all, it could be coming from downstairs, or two rooms over. But the voice is small and slight and senseless in its lack of oxygen, and he can feel himself unraveling along with every stroke. Every glimpse of heavy pressure lost between their stomachs and (slightly) loose clothes. It stills the scalding buzzing of his body. No— eclipses it, replacing it with something so grand that there's not scarcely a beginning to it: one minute Fenris touches him (Fenris shrouding him, heavy and beautiful and safe), and the next, he's on fire. He's made of embers. Made of formless heat and the shape of licking his lips as he, like any good kindling, begs for more.
But that's not what a courtesan does.
As Elise or Satine or Brienne would, he should be leading this dance, not selfishly dining at its table.
....Unless....]
Wait— [he gasps loosely through his teeth.]
Wait, wait—
[Long enough to halt those hands, at least. Stop. Wait. Enough to furrow his sweatpricked brows in that telltale indication of deep focus that only Astarion could wear, trailing his own grip down to work open all the clasps and front work of Fenris' trousers, slipping a hand into dense heat and letting his fingers coil around thick, velveted weight and giving one singular tug—
Ah. No.
Just as he thought.
That does nothing for him.
Well.
....other than feel pleasant in his grasp. Satisfying just to roll his thumb over or let strain against him in a way that blacks already blown-out pupils, but that's not the same as getting off. Dull pressure drawn against his palm not even remotely close to the crack of his world coming apart when Fenris worked at him, which then makes the act itself one-sided if he leaves it as it was.
Which he won't.
Another deepening tangle of those knitted brows, and then he shoves at Fenris with his free hand, aiming to sit up.]
[Dazedly said. In truth, there's nothing Astarion could have ordered that Fenris wouldn't have happily obeyed right now. His prick is still throbbing from that electrifying (overwhelming, thrilling, life-altering) touch, white-hot sparks flying behind his eyes and his mouth slick with saliva (hastily he swallows, embarrassed by the reaction and desperate for Astarion not to notice). Everything feels so good right now, dizzying and all-consuming in a way that he's never felt before, and so long as that feeling continues, oh, he's content indeed. Roll over, on your back, and he does just as asked, panting softly all the while.
But obedience doesn't mean a lack of eagerness— and it isn't a moment later that he's sitting up on one elbow, his other hand reaching needily for Astarion. That dazedly pleased feeling is still there, but there's a sharp undercurrent rising from the depths— for he's not being touched anymore. And if he's not being touched, and Astarion isn't being touched, then what on earth are they doing? He'd be content just to wrap his fingers around his boyfriend, for now that the initial embarrassment has faded, Fenris finds he wants to go further. Explore more. Earn another of those little noises, shockingly sweet and inherently fascinating; he wants to see if he can make Astarion shudder again, squirming or writhing just from his touch alone.
For now, he limits himself to one plaintive palm skimming down his side, his eyes darting about Astarion's face in eager excitement.]
Come back. Let me—
[His fingers slip down the line of sharp hipbones (gods he wants to trace them with his tongue, he thinks, startled-and-yet-not by the revelation) so he can brush up against the swell of Astarion's prick. He is big, a quick flick of his eyes confirms— and then a quick glance isn't nearly long enough, and his eyes drag down yet again. Thick and long and heavy with heat, flushed dark with arousal and stiff enough to make his mouth water again (again he swallows hastily). With a little groan of need he leans forward, uncaring of position so long as he can wrap his fingers around him again—]
[They're as exploratory as they are fascinated, attention sharper than a knife as focus rockets to the forefront of sensation, and newness overtakes what used to be mundane; when even proximity is charged, they're only strangers to experience. A hand here, a few fingers working taut there— measuring the look of bliss scrawled across Fenris' reclining face just to make sure it's what he wants (movement gliding over fevered skin, exhausting his own body as his thighs reflexively tense in sympathetic rhythms) before their mirrored hold on each other takes him by surprise, wracking up his shoulders and leaving him groaning with his head tipped partway back, eyes shut.]
—fuck.
[Is a dimly muttered curse, making some part of him aware of just how much he'd be in trouble for it if he'd been overheard.
And then remembering that what he's up to now is worse by Kanan's standards.
They'd be scolded till next century for sneaking off for sex (that's what this is, right? It feels too damn good not to be), he thinks, dizzy with euphoria that scoots him closer. Tighter. Presses him flush against the elven boy beneath him until their knuckles brush together— stooping forwards not for performance's sake, but for his: he wants to kiss him again. He wants to feel those exhales as they work their way free, catching them with his own teeth.]
....is this good?
[He licks his own lips, but the effort catches Fenris' with his tongue in the process, somewhere just around his lower lip.]
[He swallows thickly, some part of him bemoaning the fact he can't answer in a sexier way (and again comes that question of what, exactly, that means— he doesn't know, only that it isn't that). But it's a small part, vague and easy to ignore, for right now his mind is so utterly overwhelmed by— gods, by everything right now.
The searing sensation of slender fingers squeezing tight around his cock, stroking him in steady patterns, oh, yes, he's consumed by that. Every slow stroke leaves Fenris arching up, his hips rocking in needy little patterns, squirming as his body instinctively chases after what it's already being fed. Astarion's fingers are cool and soft, squeezing and kneading his prick in ways that feel so stunningly new (or maybe that's just because no one else has ever touched him like this). Heady bliss comes with every pump, every snap; he drags his thumb against the head of his cock and Fenris moans, the noise unintentional (and thankfully quiet, muffled both by his own vague sense of privacy and Astarion's lips both).
But other sensations fight their way to be noticed, a dizzying cacophony that Fenris swears he could drown in. The dull sparks of pain that come from the knocking of their knuckles as Fenris snaps his wrist in eager echo, staring up in awe at his boyfriend as he learns second by second what's good— what earns little whimpers and sighs and bitten-back moans, each of them greedily coveted. Like that? Like that, and it takes him so little time to learn that Astarion's eyes roll back if he rubs his thumb just beneath the head of his cock; that his breath shudders and shakes each time Fenris squeezes even tighter than before.
It's so much, it's so good, and he's blind from it, overwhelmed by it, his eyes fighting to roll back and his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he fights the urge to moan loudly, lewdly, crying out for no other reason than pleasure. Searing bliss sparks up his spine over and over, his hips jerking up needily as he fights to fuck into Astarion's hand, and it's so good, it's too good, it's—]
[His left hand darts down, gripping Astarion's wrist, even as he keeps up his own hungry strokes. Fenris swallows thickly, hesitating for a single moment, before:]
Just . . . give me a second.
[And don't laugh at him for coming nearly a minute into sex, please.]
[Years from now Fenris will never be able to escape the irrefutable knowledge that between the two of them, inseperable and predetermined as they are, he was the one who came first. And years from now he won't have to endure that suffering alone without a counterbalance, if only for the fact that Astarion—
—thought he did something wrong in causing it.]
—what?
[He gasps out at the hot press of rougher fingers at his wrist, alight with the differences between the places they'd been touching: soft skin not as molten as the space between their legs, slickness trickling between his own clenched fingertips but he can't see it round the grip that's locked onto him; all of his alarm so quick to flare that all he focuses on in those split seconds is Fenris' face and shuttered shoulders. The way his body tenses and the hiss within his voice, near-pained as it entreats Astarion to stop.]
What is it?
[Astarion asks again, leaning forwards to get a better look at him up close, thin clothing clinging to his elbows and tangled against something for the way it pulls with every inched degree, as heavy in that moment as the jewelry snaked around him, fastened.]
Did I do something wrong? [Did I hurt you? —is what his mind strains to ask without voicing it in words, anxious to even vocalize the possibility that he might've screwed this up, important as it was. (Elise was right. Kanan was right. Oh gods, they're going to have to explain to Zevlor that he's broken Fenris' cock because he didn't bed him right, won't he? And then not only will he be grounded, but he'll never live it down. He'll lose his lessons. He'll have to get a menial job scrubbing floors with his cursed, cock-ruining hands and then what? Pay taxes?? Adopt a normal sleeping schedule like the common plebs?? And what about Fenris— how will he ever survive being functionally disfigured on the best night of his life?
[He chokes on the word until it becomes little more than an unintelligible groan, overwhelmed and desperate for more. Don't stop, every instinct in him begs, don't stop, don't stop, his cock throbbing between Astarion's fingers, precome drooling out an obscene trail. Even his worry at Astarion's obvious distress can't fully distract him: for a long few seconds he teeters on the edge, a heavy hook in the pit of his stomach and everything in him howling, begging, whining for just a little more oh Maker please—
Fuck. Fuck, and he swallows thickly. Takes in a deep breath, slow and steady, and wills himself to calm down. Not to think about the way Astarion looks the picture of sinful downfall, clothing disheveled and sweat gleaming on pale skin draped in gold, nor how fucking good his hand feels, febrile fingers so wickedly clever as he squeezes him so tight, coaxing him into— stop.]
No— no, it wasn't— no. [For he knows that frantic tone from every lost baby tooth knocked out of his mouth and split lip from a scrap gone wrong, and he can all but hear the panic setting in. He licks his lips, perfectly aware his fingers are still locked around Astarion's cock, and wills himself not to stroke.] You didn't do anything wrong— just the opposite, it was perfect, Astarion, it was really, really good.
[His voice is intense, for it's vital Astarion not take the wrong thing from this— or, Maker forbid, think he needs to stop.]
I simply—
[Mm . . . he glances away, a little scowl forming. It's ridiculous to feel embarrassed when they're half-naked and have their cocks pressed together, but god, it was so quick. He's never come so fast, not even the first time, but it's all so different with someone else.]
I don't want to finish yet. I don't want to stop this yet. So.
[Don't. And don't stop. It's so hard to see the lines between— the median divide when he's too young and too untrained to know the difference at a glance, and pantomimed exclamations behind closed doors were more like jokes than any sort of codex.
And while vestigial instincts demand he fuss over the creature underneath him like the precious little shadow he'd once been (worried about irreparable harm and its inevitably spiderwebbing spread of consequence), once assurance settles in on trembling lips, there's nothing left to take Fenris for but his word.
Or maybe just his sight.
The sight of him, that is, laid back and bare around a heaving chest. Love-blacked eyes so unfixed they barely find him between blinks that haze like fogged up glass: each swipe of clarity short lived beyond belief. It's only then Astarion can feel the beating of his pulse jumping thick throughout that still-held cock; it's only then he feels the honeyed trickle of sweet climax (or arousal) slithering richly through his fingers. It wasn't obvious before, that whining. It wasn't a language that he could hear over the sunset of their childhood, now passed.
It is now.
He licks his lips and feels the sting of salt across them, sweat intermingling with perfume and champagne-colored lipstick. He twists his wrist to feel the breadth of Fenris' caught prick as the grip that holds his arm melts back— finding a gentle, innate rhythm. Beneath raised brows his silver stare looks hangdog, checking again and again through flicks of his own stare that measure every stroke before silently lifting just to see if Fenris wants it still. If he likes it in that strange, disconnected way that paints fine features finer. Makes the rough and tumble boy that scrubs bar countertops look like gold-framed oil paintings.
That ethereal, transcendent state of being that until now seemed only to exist in otherworldly art bought by the richest patrons.
It's slow.
It's slower than before.
He finds he wants to make this last, too.
The view beneath him, and the way it makes him shiver.]
[The strained invocation of his name might come across as fretful if it wasn't for the way Fenris is outright melting right now. His cheeks and ears are flushed and stark against the pale blue of his pillow; dark lashes flutter over and over as he fights not to let his eyes roll back and close— and oh, Maker, it's so tempting when every sinfully slow tug of clever fingers makes something deep within him roil. Hot and heavy and so much better than it's ever been before, but he wants to see this. He wants to watch the shape of Astarion's lips as he whispers something so sinfully dark as I won't stop, not until you tell me to, a wicked promise dripping in desire. I won't stop, and he doesn't want him to, not ever, not even once he comes.
His chest heaves as his hips rock up, needy little motions minimized for fear of disrupting this perfect pattern. Yes, and he hopes Astarion can read it on his face, feel in the thunder of his heartbeat or the pulsing in his prick. Yes, this is what he needs, coasting deliciously on the edge of orgasm without outright coming yet, yes—]
Yes, yes—
[He breathes it out without realizing he's speaking, every bit of him too busy happily drowning to bother with thinking. But oh— their knuckles knock together, and with a sharp inhale Fenris realizes he's forgotten to keep up his end of the bargain, so consumed was he. And he wants to pleasure Astarion— gods, does he ever.
So: slow. His fingers squeeze tight as he echoes the rhythm Astarion sets, his hand rocking down when Astarion's pumps up, his thumb rubbing insistently against his slit each time there's a stutter in patient breathing. Sweat glints on pale skin, a bead of it dripping down Astarion's neck, and on impulse Fenris darts up, licking it up with a little moan. A bite, then, teeth catching against soft skin— and another, harder, his tongue lapping at the spot as he blindly wraps his free hand around Astarion's neck, urging him to lie down atop him again. It's easier to kiss him (mouths messy, teeth clicking, his tongue slipping forward to tangle clumsily with Astarion's own); it's easier to bite him this way, teeth sinking savagely into soft skin as his wrist picks up the pace, hungry to spur Astarion into whimpering— whining— feeling the same overwhelming heat that's consuming him.]
You like that?
[It's a real question, but the roughened way he mutters it makes it sound more alluring. Do you like this, is this good, as flashbangs of fantasies ricochet through his mind— thoughts of Astarion with his legs spread and sprawled out; thoughts of pale thighs with bruises bitten in and an achingly hard cock begging to be touched— to be tasted, though Fenris has never once dreamed of doing such a thing before.]
I w-want— I want to— fuck—
[Oh, it's too hard to say when his own orgasm is rising within him, searing hot and overwhelming— too soon, too soon, but he can't help it, just like he can't help the way he writhes and rocks and whimpers into Astarion's mouth. Don't stop, don't stop, the chanting demand becoming a plea moaned against his lover's lips as he feels himself teeter over that edge and finally spill— one great bursting pulse that becomes two, three, come splattering over his belly and Astarion's fingers as he muffles his moans with another savage bite, shaking fitfully beneath his lover's form— and all the while his own hand still moves, desperate not to stop, desperate to never stop, hungry to drive Astarion to a finish and yet to keep this going for as long as he possibly can.]
[Fenris finds his grip again in less time than it takes Astarion to think he's found his rhythm. His pace. His means, for lack of a better term, if only to liken it to the things he knows like how to keep thread held just right so that plucked beads don't go spilling all over the floor, or how to ink inside the margins so that Zevlor's ledger isn't impossibly illegible. Where to push his brush against his scalp so that it doesn't yank his curls. The slow, soft cut of a kohl-laden brush against his lashes till it just kisses the skin around it without blurring.
And all at once, it is too overwhelming.
—No.
No, it's surged far beyond that.
There aren't words for this. There's no comparison; the snagging of rough printpads are like sparks to dark, velveted tinder and they snare down to the heat of him before he even names it: each withdrawn burst of electrified sensation knocking low between his legs and careening up into clenched teeth, reverberating— accelerating. It wasn't like that only minutes before now. Not the first time he'd felt Fenris coax around him with soft strokes— and so amplified, sound pours from his hunched chest that sounds like whining, strong and clear. Too fucking strong, in fact. And in the reprise of their first tussle, he can hardly recognize it; hadn't meant to cry out like that, like a half-dazed passenger in his own body clinging stiffly to the prick he'd been attending, trying to will himself back into service. Vying to work his fingers and not just wilt into the aftershock of something that's knifing its way through him the way a pear's supple flesh leans tenderly into the blade. (Keep giving Fenris what you promised, only twitches through his fingers as a narrow clutch. You should be doing more than arching yourself, grinding thick into the channel of that palm. Tensing his hips and feeling how his bare knees spread, canting into trickles of perfumed sweat. The calcified bite-back of salt, clinging even to his cupid's bow. His temples. His nape, running hotter by the second. You said you—) No friction, only slick subsumption.
There's a softness at his neck. It's quick and damp, and it engulfs his mouth before he chases it with a fevered sort of clumsiness— clinging as he can to it with the wet measure of his lips, or the blunt edges of his teeth, or—
Or.
Or.
The world jolts as if it were a record, needle skipped. Spinning. Careening. Snapping when it hits the very same jagged spot on repeat, buzzing till it rings inside his ears: jaws sunk into the already-bitten spot on his neck above the necklace he'd been given, now clattering noisily as it's jostled by the way he hitches into Fenris' grasp— the span of his stomach beyond that, crying out in a way that'd wake the ancient dead. Squirming through the tremors that've caught him in their pull, driving him down flush into the silhouette beneath him— beside him— he doesn't know. Doesn't care. It feels so bloody good he'd tie them both together if he could, and suddenly he understands why Fenris went so desperate for a moment.
His own litany is different, though. The buried, still-loud echo of his lover's given name. He's never been as prone to self-restraint as his companion.
(Maybe, if they're lucky, it'll be mistaken for another argument.)]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
1/2
[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.
2/2
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.]
no subject
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?]
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.]
2/2
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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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The boy he loves. The boy who saved him all those years ago.
I'm with you, and someday he'll tell him just what it means to hear that—
— but not tonight.]
Just— ah— just, just tell me . . . tell me if it's good—
[Murmured half-nonsensically, his ability to speak rapidly eroding in wake of every playful bite and honeyed kiss and all his attention focused on opening Astarion's pants. He's clumsier than he thinks he should be, fumbling in a way the courtesans always crow they never do. Let me just— I'm almost,, little mumbles as fingers (still faintly shaking) pry at unfamiliar knots, until at last he gives up and simply glances down. It's clumsy and inelegant and not at all sexy— and yet somehow it doesn't ruin things.
He wants so badly to look, but there's courage and courage, and it's easier to lean forward and resume their kiss as his hand slips down. Soft skin meets questing fingertips, and then all at once there's searing heat and heavy stiffness (because of me, because of me!), and on instinct he wraps his fingers around the swell of Astarion's prick.
Oh, he thinks faintly, and then forgets to think at all.
Thank the Maker he's plenty practiced with his own, for the first exploratory rocks of his hand are pure muscle memory. He stares down at Astarion, his breath trembling, drinking in his expression with a near-fervent stare— trying to drink in how he looks, trying to see what it's like. Trying not to collapse out of sheer nerves, frankly, for it's so frightening to look him in the eye right now, and yet Fenris couldn't glance away if he wanted to. Slowly he sets in on a rhythm, trying with all his might to remember how he himself likes to be touched (is this too much, is this too slow, what if I try—). An experimental squeeze, his pace picking up a little faster, and all the while he keeps his eyes locked on his boyfriend, hunting for guidance.]
Yeah?
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It groans alongside him.
Something like mmhmm slips out, or yes— so far away he isn't sure. This is a brothel, after all, it could be coming from downstairs, or two rooms over. But the voice is small and slight and senseless in its lack of oxygen, and he can feel himself unraveling along with every stroke. Every glimpse of heavy pressure lost between their stomachs and (slightly) loose clothes. It stills the scalding buzzing of his body. No— eclipses it, replacing it with something so grand that there's not scarcely a beginning to it: one minute Fenris touches him (Fenris shrouding him, heavy and beautiful and safe), and the next, he's on fire. He's made of embers. Made of formless heat and the shape of licking his lips as he, like any good kindling, begs for more.
But that's not what a courtesan does.
As Elise or Satine or Brienne would, he should be leading this dance, not selfishly dining at its table.
....Unless....]
Wait— [he gasps loosely through his teeth.]
Wait, wait—
[Long enough to halt those hands, at least. Stop. Wait. Enough to furrow his sweatpricked brows in that telltale indication of deep focus that only Astarion could wear, trailing his own grip down to work open all the clasps and front work of Fenris' trousers, slipping a hand into dense heat and letting his fingers coil around thick, velveted weight and giving one singular tug—
Ah. No.
Just as he thought.
That does nothing for him.
Well.
....other than feel pleasant in his grasp. Satisfying just to roll his thumb over or let strain against him in a way that blacks already blown-out pupils, but that's not the same as getting off. Dull pressure drawn against his palm not even remotely close to the crack of his world coming apart when Fenris worked at him, which then makes the act itself one-sided if he leaves it as it was.
Which he won't.
Another deepening tangle of those knitted brows, and then he shoves at Fenris with his free hand, aiming to sit up.]
Roll over. Lie down on your back.
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[Dazedly said. In truth, there's nothing Astarion could have ordered that Fenris wouldn't have happily obeyed right now. His prick is still throbbing from that electrifying (overwhelming, thrilling, life-altering) touch, white-hot sparks flying behind his eyes and his mouth slick with saliva (hastily he swallows, embarrassed by the reaction and desperate for Astarion not to notice). Everything feels so good right now, dizzying and all-consuming in a way that he's never felt before, and so long as that feeling continues, oh, he's content indeed. Roll over, on your back, and he does just as asked, panting softly all the while.
But obedience doesn't mean a lack of eagerness— and it isn't a moment later that he's sitting up on one elbow, his other hand reaching needily for Astarion. That dazedly pleased feeling is still there, but there's a sharp undercurrent rising from the depths— for he's not being touched anymore. And if he's not being touched, and Astarion isn't being touched, then what on earth are they doing? He'd be content just to wrap his fingers around his boyfriend, for now that the initial embarrassment has faded, Fenris finds he wants to go further. Explore more. Earn another of those little noises, shockingly sweet and inherently fascinating; he wants to see if he can make Astarion shudder again, squirming or writhing just from his touch alone.
For now, he limits himself to one plaintive palm skimming down his side, his eyes darting about Astarion's face in eager excitement.]
Come back. Let me—
[His fingers slip down the line of sharp hipbones (gods he wants to trace them with his tongue, he thinks, startled-and-yet-not by the revelation) so he can brush up against the swell of Astarion's prick. He is big, a quick flick of his eyes confirms— and then a quick glance isn't nearly long enough, and his eyes drag down yet again. Thick and long and heavy with heat, flushed dark with arousal and stiff enough to make his mouth water again (again he swallows hastily). With a little groan of need he leans forward, uncaring of position so long as he can wrap his fingers around him again—]
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—fuck.
[Is a dimly muttered curse, making some part of him aware of just how much he'd be in trouble for it if he'd been overheard.
And then remembering that what he's up to now is worse by Kanan's standards.
They'd be scolded till next century for sneaking off for sex (that's what this is, right? It feels too damn good not to be), he thinks, dizzy with euphoria that scoots him closer. Tighter. Presses him flush against the elven boy beneath him until their knuckles brush together— stooping forwards not for performance's sake, but for his: he wants to kiss him again. He wants to feel those exhales as they work their way free, catching them with his own teeth.]
....is this good?
[He licks his own lips, but the effort catches Fenris' with his tongue in the process, somewhere just around his lower lip.]
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[He swallows thickly, some part of him bemoaning the fact he can't answer in a sexier way (and again comes that question of what, exactly, that means— he doesn't know, only that it isn't that). But it's a small part, vague and easy to ignore, for right now his mind is so utterly overwhelmed by— gods, by everything right now.
The searing sensation of slender fingers squeezing tight around his cock, stroking him in steady patterns, oh, yes, he's consumed by that. Every slow stroke leaves Fenris arching up, his hips rocking in needy little patterns, squirming as his body instinctively chases after what it's already being fed. Astarion's fingers are cool and soft, squeezing and kneading his prick in ways that feel so stunningly new (or maybe that's just because no one else has ever touched him like this). Heady bliss comes with every pump, every snap; he drags his thumb against the head of his cock and Fenris moans, the noise unintentional (and thankfully quiet, muffled both by his own vague sense of privacy and Astarion's lips both).
But other sensations fight their way to be noticed, a dizzying cacophony that Fenris swears he could drown in. The dull sparks of pain that come from the knocking of their knuckles as Fenris snaps his wrist in eager echo, staring up in awe at his boyfriend as he learns second by second what's good— what earns little whimpers and sighs and bitten-back moans, each of them greedily coveted. Like that? Like that, and it takes him so little time to learn that Astarion's eyes roll back if he rubs his thumb just beneath the head of his cock; that his breath shudders and shakes each time Fenris squeezes even tighter than before.
It's so much, it's so good, and he's blind from it, overwhelmed by it, his eyes fighting to roll back and his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he fights the urge to moan loudly, lewdly, crying out for no other reason than pleasure. Searing bliss sparks up his spine over and over, his hips jerking up needily as he fights to fuck into Astarion's hand, and it's so good, it's too good, it's—]
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[His left hand darts down, gripping Astarion's wrist, even as he keeps up his own hungry strokes. Fenris swallows thickly, hesitating for a single moment, before:]
Just . . . give me a second.
[And don't laugh at him for coming nearly a minute into sex, please.]
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—thought he did something wrong in causing it.]
—what?
[He gasps out at the hot press of rougher fingers at his wrist, alight with the differences between the places they'd been touching: soft skin not as molten as the space between their legs, slickness trickling between his own clenched fingertips but he can't see it round the grip that's locked onto him; all of his alarm so quick to flare that all he focuses on in those split seconds is Fenris' face and shuttered shoulders. The way his body tenses and the hiss within his voice, near-pained as it entreats Astarion to stop.]
What is it?
[Astarion asks again, leaning forwards to get a better look at him up close, thin clothing clinging to his elbows and tangled against something for the way it pulls with every inched degree, as heavy in that moment as the jewelry snaked around him, fastened.]
Did I do something wrong? [Did I hurt you? —is what his mind strains to ask without voicing it in words, anxious to even vocalize the possibility that he might've screwed this up, important as it was. (Elise was right. Kanan was right. Oh gods, they're going to have to explain to Zevlor that he's broken Fenris' cock because he didn't bed him right, won't he? And then not only will he be grounded, but he'll never live it down. He'll lose his lessons. He'll have to get a menial job scrubbing floors with his cursed, cock-ruining hands and then what? Pay taxes?? Adopt a normal sleeping schedule like the common plebs?? And what about Fenris— how will he ever survive being functionally disfigured on the best night of his life?
Oh gods.
Oh gods, it's all over— ]
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[He chokes on the word until it becomes little more than an unintelligible groan, overwhelmed and desperate for more. Don't stop, every instinct in him begs, don't stop, don't stop, his cock throbbing between Astarion's fingers, precome drooling out an obscene trail. Even his worry at Astarion's obvious distress can't fully distract him: for a long few seconds he teeters on the edge, a heavy hook in the pit of his stomach and everything in him howling, begging, whining for just a little more oh Maker please—
Fuck. Fuck, and he swallows thickly. Takes in a deep breath, slow and steady, and wills himself to calm down. Not to think about the way Astarion looks the picture of sinful downfall, clothing disheveled and sweat gleaming on pale skin draped in gold, nor how fucking good his hand feels, febrile fingers so wickedly clever as he squeezes him so tight, coaxing him into— stop.]
No— no, it wasn't— no. [For he knows that frantic tone from every lost baby tooth knocked out of his mouth and split lip from a scrap gone wrong, and he can all but hear the panic setting in. He licks his lips, perfectly aware his fingers are still locked around Astarion's cock, and wills himself not to stroke.] You didn't do anything wrong— just the opposite, it was perfect, Astarion, it was really, really good.
[His voice is intense, for it's vital Astarion not take the wrong thing from this— or, Maker forbid, think he needs to stop.]
I simply—
[Mm . . . he glances away, a little scowl forming. It's ridiculous to feel embarrassed when they're half-naked and have their cocks pressed together, but god, it was so quick. He's never come so fast, not even the first time, but it's all so different with someone else.]
I don't want to finish yet. I don't want to stop this yet. So.
[Give him a damn minute.]
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And while vestigial instincts demand he fuss over the creature underneath him like the precious little shadow he'd once been (worried about irreparable harm and its inevitably spiderwebbing spread of consequence), once assurance settles in on trembling lips, there's nothing left to take Fenris for but his word.
Or maybe just his sight.
The sight of him, that is, laid back and bare around a heaving chest. Love-blacked eyes so unfixed they barely find him between blinks that haze like fogged up glass: each swipe of clarity short lived beyond belief. It's only then Astarion can feel the beating of his pulse jumping thick throughout that still-held cock; it's only then he feels the honeyed trickle of sweet climax (or arousal) slithering richly through his fingers. It wasn't obvious before, that whining. It wasn't a language that he could hear over the sunset of their childhood, now passed.
It is now.
He licks his lips and feels the sting of salt across them, sweat intermingling with perfume and champagne-colored lipstick. He twists his wrist to feel the breadth of Fenris' caught prick as the grip that holds his arm melts back— finding a gentle, innate rhythm. Beneath raised brows his silver stare looks hangdog, checking again and again through flicks of his own stare that measure every stroke before silently lifting just to see if Fenris wants it still. If he likes it in that strange, disconnected way that paints fine features finer. Makes the rough and tumble boy that scrubs bar countertops look like gold-framed oil paintings.
That ethereal, transcendent state of being that until now seemed only to exist in otherworldly art bought by the richest patrons.
It's slow.
It's slower than before.
He finds he wants to make this last, too.
The view beneath him, and the way it makes him shiver.]
....then I won't stop.
[Is that right? Is he reading this correctly?]
Not until you tell me to.
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[The strained invocation of his name might come across as fretful if it wasn't for the way Fenris is outright melting right now. His cheeks and ears are flushed and stark against the pale blue of his pillow; dark lashes flutter over and over as he fights not to let his eyes roll back and close— and oh, Maker, it's so tempting when every sinfully slow tug of clever fingers makes something deep within him roil. Hot and heavy and so much better than it's ever been before, but he wants to see this. He wants to watch the shape of Astarion's lips as he whispers something so sinfully dark as I won't stop, not until you tell me to, a wicked promise dripping in desire. I won't stop, and he doesn't want him to, not ever, not even once he comes.
His chest heaves as his hips rock up, needy little motions minimized for fear of disrupting this perfect pattern. Yes, and he hopes Astarion can read it on his face, feel in the thunder of his heartbeat or the pulsing in his prick. Yes, this is what he needs, coasting deliciously on the edge of orgasm without outright coming yet, yes—]
Yes, yes—
[He breathes it out without realizing he's speaking, every bit of him too busy happily drowning to bother with thinking. But oh— their knuckles knock together, and with a sharp inhale Fenris realizes he's forgotten to keep up his end of the bargain, so consumed was he. And he wants to pleasure Astarion— gods, does he ever.
So: slow. His fingers squeeze tight as he echoes the rhythm Astarion sets, his hand rocking down when Astarion's pumps up, his thumb rubbing insistently against his slit each time there's a stutter in patient breathing. Sweat glints on pale skin, a bead of it dripping down Astarion's neck, and on impulse Fenris darts up, licking it up with a little moan. A bite, then, teeth catching against soft skin— and another, harder, his tongue lapping at the spot as he blindly wraps his free hand around Astarion's neck, urging him to lie down atop him again. It's easier to kiss him (mouths messy, teeth clicking, his tongue slipping forward to tangle clumsily with Astarion's own); it's easier to bite him this way, teeth sinking savagely into soft skin as his wrist picks up the pace, hungry to spur Astarion into whimpering— whining— feeling the same overwhelming heat that's consuming him.]
You like that?
[It's a real question, but the roughened way he mutters it makes it sound more alluring. Do you like this, is this good, as flashbangs of fantasies ricochet through his mind— thoughts of Astarion with his legs spread and sprawled out; thoughts of pale thighs with bruises bitten in and an achingly hard cock begging to be touched— to be tasted, though Fenris has never once dreamed of doing such a thing before.]
I w-want— I want to— fuck—
[Oh, it's too hard to say when his own orgasm is rising within him, searing hot and overwhelming— too soon, too soon, but he can't help it, just like he can't help the way he writhes and rocks and whimpers into Astarion's mouth. Don't stop, don't stop, the chanting demand becoming a plea moaned against his lover's lips as he feels himself teeter over that edge and finally spill— one great bursting pulse that becomes two, three, come splattering over his belly and Astarion's fingers as he muffles his moans with another savage bite, shaking fitfully beneath his lover's form— and all the while his own hand still moves, desperate not to stop, desperate to never stop, hungry to drive Astarion to a finish and yet to keep this going for as long as he possibly can.]
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And all at once, it is too overwhelming.
—No.
No, it's surged far beyond that.
There aren't words for this. There's no comparison; the snagging of rough printpads are like sparks to dark, velveted tinder and they snare down to the heat of him before he even names it: each withdrawn burst of electrified sensation knocking low between his legs and careening up into clenched teeth, reverberating— accelerating. It wasn't like that only minutes before now. Not the first time he'd felt Fenris coax around him with soft strokes— and so amplified, sound pours from his hunched chest that sounds like whining, strong and clear. Too fucking strong, in fact. And in the reprise of their first tussle, he can hardly recognize it; hadn't meant to cry out like that, like a half-dazed passenger in his own body clinging stiffly to the prick he'd been attending, trying to will himself back into service. Vying to work his fingers and not just wilt into the aftershock of something that's knifing its way through him the way a pear's supple flesh leans tenderly into the blade. (Keep giving Fenris what you promised, only twitches through his fingers as a narrow clutch. You should be doing more than arching yourself, grinding thick into the channel of that palm. Tensing his hips and feeling how his bare knees spread, canting into trickles of perfumed sweat. The calcified bite-back of salt, clinging even to his cupid's bow. His temples. His nape, running hotter by the second. You said you—) No friction, only slick subsumption.
There's a softness at his neck. It's quick and damp, and it engulfs his mouth before he chases it with a fevered sort of clumsiness— clinging as he can to it with the wet measure of his lips, or the blunt edges of his teeth, or—
Or.
Or.
The world jolts as if it were a record, needle skipped. Spinning. Careening. Snapping when it hits the very same jagged spot on repeat, buzzing till it rings inside his ears: jaws sunk into the already-bitten spot on his neck above the necklace he'd been given, now clattering noisily as it's jostled by the way he hitches into Fenris' grasp— the span of his stomach beyond that, crying out in a way that'd wake the ancient dead. Squirming through the tremors that've caught him in their pull, driving him down flush into the silhouette beneath him— beside him— he doesn't know. Doesn't care. It feels so bloody good he'd tie them both together if he could, and suddenly he understands why Fenris went so desperate for a moment.
His own litany is different, though. The buried, still-loud echo of his lover's given name. He's never been as prone to self-restraint as his companion.
(Maybe, if they're lucky, it'll be mistaken for another argument.)]
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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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