[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.)]
[Later he'll fret. Later he'll fluster and fuss, agonizing over whether or not they were unheard, knowing the only way to find out is to listen for the inevitable humiliating tease from one of the staff, affectionate and yet all the more humiliating for it. He'll beg his exhibitionistic lover for silence next time, or, barring that, at least an attempt at it. He'll insist on bitten hands and moans muffled by kisses, and once they start he'll forget all about it, but for now—
For now, the world, if it manages to exist at all, is a faraway thing. There's only them right now, cocooned together in this small golden space that feels so shockingly intimate. He hadn't known you could feel like this. Even when they would lie together and whisper childish secrets or exchange gossip, it hadn't been like this.]
Astarion . . .
[He murmurs it with no real end in sight, invoking his name as a faraway anchor to the present while Fenris tries to process what just happened. How it just happened. The shuddering aftermath of his orgasm still thrums through him, echoes of pleasure pulsing through his body as he fights to return to himself. It's just that all his senses are a little unfocused right now; it's just that there's such a haze in his mind, coherent thought wiped clean in favor of pure animalistic instinct.
And it takes a little while. Panting seconds or long minutes, he isn't certain, but sooner or later his brain begins to work again. Even then, it's only in snapshots: Astarion chanting his name— moaning it— whining it, voice strangled and heavy, heated longing woven within every syllable. Sticky heat drips down the plane of his belly as he finally loosens his grip on a softened prick; sweat beads on his forehead and drips down Astarion's shoulder, and he thinks again of the salty-sweet taste of it. Of him. The way they're joined together in a tangle of limbs, the way Astarion had writhed above him— the hoarse screams and guttural cries, the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, needed—
Maker's breath . . . how are they ever meant to do anything else?
And all the while, he holds him close. Not quite clinging and not quite possessive— just needful. Stay, don't go, stay, a longing he'd never once felt before now filling him. He turns his head, nosing fitfully against sweat-soaked curls, and tightens his arms around his love.]
You're so loud . . .
[A rumbling chuckle accompanies that toothless teasing, and he chases it with a fond nip to one pointed ear. Hello, hello, as affectionate and benignly irritating as a pup mouthing at his littermate. Pay attention to me, I love you, as his hands begin to slide up and down Astarion's back.
When he's older, he'll murmur such things and leave it at that, confident in his own prowess (and exceedingly familiar with all the ways to make Astarion melt). But so new at this, so young, it's only natural a tendril of doubt begins to creep in.]
Did you like it? Was it— was that good?
[It sounded like it, but on the other hand, few people are extraordinarily good at things their first time. And yet Astarion had been extraordinary— Maker, he'd been all that and more, Fenris' dazzled mind insists. Every stroke of his fingers, every kiss and sly comment, all of it was perfect. But Astarion has studied this kind of thing since they were old enough to understand it, so . . . who knows? Maybe Fenris isn't so good just yet, but he wants to be. He wants to earn more of those whines and whimpers— and oh, his mind veers down into his former thoughts then, lingering on those half-formed desires. He wants to do so much with Astarion, but . . .
He wants to get good at it, too. So it isn't just Fenris that's overwhelmed (so that once Astarion begins his career, he won't ever think someone else is better).]
[His eyes are shut, his body uselessly unstrung as the whole world feels too loud, too bright, too large within the only sliver of awareness he affords it: easier to stay pulled forward into the shallow crook of Fenris' shoulder than go back to living like he did before. Easier to fill his barely conscious thoughts with how it feels like breathing— how it feels like the innate shiver of his pulse— to be intertwined like this. His wrist crooked so awkwardly between them that it's numb, his body singing out an echo that he's never known before, where stickiness is a comforting glaze around perception's every facet. He tilts his neck to lean harder against each nudge and playful nip, hardly noticing the kinetic jolts that ripple through him in response. A twitch within his fingertips like longing, caught there between the urge to slide along soft spaces, or—
He groans out something boneless as his arm winds back, inhaling and exhaling in one single, heaving movement. His salt-tinged touch winds up twisting silver strands back and forth between them in slow rhythms.]
Mm. [A hazy stand-in for:] ....Mmmhm....
[Which is all that he can manage in his drunken stupor, blown out pupils barely capable of focus despite his slanted smile. He feels tired, but he isn't. He feels overrun with exhaustion but it's bliss.]
You're amazing, you know that? [No, he doubts Fenris understands, even if he feels the same; he's been surrounded by this but he's never studied it the way the rest of the Moulin Rouge has— but whatever he might think, he was incredible. No, more than that. More than all of that.] —perfect.
You were perfect.
[(Astarion, the one given to self-centered gravity above all else, and he can't so much as muster a thought in that direction.)]
[Soft and wondrous, a different sort of warm pleasure rippling through him for the praise. Astarion wouldn't say that if he didn't mean it. Maker, he'd barely say it even if he did mean it, for some days it's like pulling teeth to get him to admit Fenris is good at something, but . . .
That was when they were children— immature brats competing over attention or affection or who could run faster or climb higher. They're adults now, he thinks, pressing a lazy kiss against one pale temple, and that brings its own maturity.
(Still: perfect, and silently he preens over it, not questioning it in the slightest).]
So were you.
[Oh, he means it. But it's not enough to echo the compliment, not after something so monumentally earth-shattering as that. Fenris blinks up hazily at the ceiling, trying to remember how words work, never mind how to order them the right way . . . Maker, it's hard to even remember how it all went, save that it was so good as to almost defy understanding. No wonder all those rich idiots pay so much money for the courtesans downstairs— gods, if they're half as good as Astarion is, it's a wonder they don't all come every single night.
(Hah, he thinks, chuckling softly to himself. Come every night . . . hah).]
More than perfect . . . the things you said— Astarion, that was . . .
[A thousand things, each more difficult to articulate than the last. How to describe the way his stomach had dropped in the most indulgent way when Astarion had whispered such filth? Even now his cock twitches faintly within the circle of soft fingers, making a valiant effort to stiffen again for the sheer memory of I won't stop. He thinks of all the bawdy plays he's seen, the purring compliments he's heard the courtesans practice backstage; he calls upon every compliment and flattery his addled mind can remember, and finally comes up with:]
[He can't help it— his ears twitch when they take in that last compliment. So red they're burning up against the pinned back angles they've adopted, making him feel sweltering in a single ragged heartbeat.
He isn't shrinking back against the whiteness of damp curls, more like they're engulfing him when he's arched over like this, and the way he's blushing starkens that sharp contrast enough to underscore the nearly sheepish illusion. Add one slanted, lipstick-smeared grin into the mix and— oh. Oh he's a right mess in all the best damned ways. Feels as as drunk on this exchange (and the addictive weight he still holds captive) as he had been on 'borrowed' wine a couple years ago: it's all of the thrill, and....only some of the risk.]
We don't have to be done yet.
I can say more.
[Does he actually know any more pillow talk? No. But that's not the point, he can figure it out as they go, and his prick— maybe both of theirs, he thinks, sliding his thumb a little over the plush length he still holds captive— won't be ready to go for a little while yet. That buys him some time to put a lifetime of living in a high-end brothel to use (a short lifetime, maybe, but a lifetime nevertheless).]
I can say anything you want.
[Broadens his grin, sinking down in a flash to mark the side of his bodyguard-to-be's neck with his teeth the way it had been done to him. Tit for tat.]
—do anything you want.
[Gives chase with a broad swipe of his tongue over reddened skin. Red like his ears. Red like his cheeks, his nose, his lips and the center of his heaving chest. Like their cocks too, probably, remembering the first few times he'd caught a glimpse of his own fully tented beneath sunlit sheets.
[It's a livewire pressed straight to his spine: Fenris jolts for the electrifying duel sensations pulsing through him— teeth sinking sharp into his neck as a playful thumb rubs slickly against his slit. White sparks fly in front of his vision as his overtaxed nerves shriek. Too much, his oversensitive body howls, too much too much I can't, and with a whine he drags Astarion's head back just to crash their mouths together, kissing him hungrily in a futile attempt at displacement. Please please—
—and yet the moment it fades Fenris groans needily. He can't get hard again, not right away, and yet he wants to, that promise paradoxically filling him with a frantic impatience. For yes, they ostensibly have hours, but privacy is cheap around here. People have an inconvenient habit of wandering in and out of rooms, especially theirs. They ought to cram in as much as they possibly can as fast as they can, for who knows when they'll be interrupted?]
Like what?
[Murmured breathlessly against Astarion's lips as he draws back. One good thing about this rest period, at least: he can drink in the details of his boyfriend's appearance. The smeared lipstick over swollen lips, color stark against pale skin, and the visible echo of Fenris' own mouth there . . . it's a good look, Fenris thinks. He catches his chin with one hand, his thumb pressing firm against supple flesh, nudging it this way and back with fixated curiosity.]
I don't want to be done.
[No, not yet. Not now, not ever, or at least not until dawn approaches. They need hours upon hours to explore this new pleasure, even if the specific details of how are still a little vague. He tongues at the side of his mouth, struggling to think (even if part of him is so, so aware of the heavy weight his fingers are still curled around).]
Whatever we do, I do not want to be done. Not for hours. But what . . .
[He should know this, growing up in a brothel as he has— but then again, Zevlor and Kanan both were fairly firm about keeping them upstairs once the night began in earnest. Dancing and bawdy plays were one thing, but watching the courtesans ply their trade was quite another.]
Mm, what exactly did you have in mind?
[To do, he means, but he won't turn down whatever filthy talk Astarion has up his sleeve.]
Or we could just . . .
[He smirks a little, a two-second warning before he glides his thumb teasingly up the length of his cock. Tit for tat indeed.]
M-maker—fuck—gods— [blazes through him like electricity itself. Starting from the slight pressure on his cock, it snaps everything in his body upright save that singular part that caused it, shoulders clenched up around his jaw— which winds up rolled back towards the ceiling at an angle, gold eyes stricken wide in aptly named shock as he fights to suck in curses through chattering teeth and exhale sharp breaths in t—
No.
No, wait. That goes the other way around— ] —shit, -Fenris-!
[Balls a fist that drums against the middle of his counterpart's lean chest, clearly meant to scold despite the way it tumbles under gravity more than actually manages to strike.]
You— nngh....
[Oh he winces when he comes (when he plummets in a listless freefall) back to earth, mirrored profiles winding up so near to one another that their lashes brush each time he blinks his way out of what lingers of that grimace, soft and featherlight. Mirrored profiles winding up so near to one another that he can taste Fenris' lips by breathing, so tempted by the promise of radiant heat lodged there that some part of him stirs darkly, wondering what else besides his tongue he might slip between their parted measure. As things are, though, caught up in slick aftershocks, he only puts his teeth to task— and earns himself a glistening trickle of spun dewdrops in return, connecting the kiss that was to the kiss that lingers.
Swallow first. Catch your breath.]
....is....
....is that really the war you want to start while I'm still learning where to press?
[Two fingers— ring and accompanying little, both slender and uniquely agile— slither well low beneath the hang of supple curves, coursing between tanned thighs to push against sweltering confines caught there under his touch. Moving as if tamping down a button, he's no idea what he'll find out delving in the lightless depths of tangled covers.
But whatever it is, he's guessing it'll make his boyfriend ( —his boyfriend, his boyfriend, his boyfriend— ) squirm.]
[He expects— Maker, he doesn't know what he expects. The same kind of all-encompassing shock, maybe: a blinding jolt of overtaxed nerves shrieking to life and dismissing his smug amusement, hips thrusting and body thrashing as a scream beds itself in the base of his throat and golden eyes shine with triumph. Pointlessly competitive and utterly thrilling, and he's steeled for it, he waits for it—
And it's nothing like that.
His expression goes slack, that cocksure grin melting off his face in favor of something far, far needier. Soft whines and half-formed words brush against Astarion's mouth, little puffs of air shared between them as Fenris tries not to outright melt in heady pleasure. Their sex before had been so frantic, ravenous hunger all-consuming as they'd moved together; here, now, he feels something more languid. Pleasure floods through him like molasses, slow-roiling and yet all the more overwhelming, drowning him inch by tantalizing inch.
And it's only belatedly that he realizes where and what and how Astarion is teasing him, but . . . Maker, this is the right way to go about it, for he can't fluster now.]
Keep . . .
[Forget the game. Forget the petty war between adoptive brothers, for right now Fenris wants nothing more than to melt. His thighs spread wider in silent encouragement, and then he squirms: his hips rocking up to meet Astarion's fingers with every pulsing press. More, like that, and little matter his cock is still soft against his belly. He'd never known you could feel good without getting hard, but Maker, he could do this for hours.
But it's not enough to just lie here and melt; with a low groan Fenris kisses his boyfriend (his boyfriend), pushing his head up into it. It's as languid as the slow tap of Astarion's fingers, and all the more heated for it: every slow push and eager pull aching with hunger. Every slow motion deepens it, and it's only once he feels the other boy shudder does he think of pushing his tongue forward. Don't stop, don't stop, as he slides his hands down Astarion's body, palming at his hips, urging him to come closer so that Fenris might do the very same thing to him. Around instead of between, his fingers a little less deft as he seeks out his prize— and whereas Astarion thrills in teasing taps, Fenris opts to simply glide instead, an unrelenting pleasure meant to overwhelm Astarion inch by infuriating inch.]
[Humidity boils in the air between them, adding weight to every drop of beaded sweat, every slick patina drawn across smooth skin, the sheen of saliva on his tongue. Their mouths are open more often than they aren't— ( oh, their mouths are just open—) whether it's to pant, or to lap, or bite....even when they close in on each other for rushed kisses it's only the act of bracketing their tongues with hungry lips that seals off the fever burrowing inside them. Keeps it selfishly their own and no one else's, wrapped tight around soundless moans.
Wrapped around the sunken tips of their fingers.
He bucks. Up against the insistent press that's driven his leg higher, rocking his hip until the innermost joint bites him in exchange for its trapped nerves— even then, he doesn't stop: bears the dizzying-sweet ache knotting up like wire through his limbs just to take in more of what has him in its grasp. His forearms locked and trembling; he's using them as brace and motivation, tangled. All tangled. Not just an urge, but a necessity— something to keep him from slipping as he pumps lithe fingers steadily back and forth against the grain to a rhythm he can't name, to a depth that he can't quantify. And it doesn't matter that they're both still too overblown to spill back past the precipice of climax yet; it doesn't matter that sensation boils over in ways that paint awareness searing white, like all of this, it feels too good. It feels too damned good to stop, and there's nothing to compare it to. And there's nothing he wants more than he wants to understand it. Have it. Keep it. The marzipan treats shaped like candied fruits or roses that he used to want so badly that he'd beg and cry and even steal them when the other cast weren't looking, the glittering bottles of enchanted wine saved only for the most esteemed of guests that smelled ambrosial enough to make his mouth water, kept tightly under lock and key and never tasted— suddenly that pales. Shrinks. Shrivels and recedes into nothing more than childish infatuation.
[Entangled as they are, Astarion feels more than hears the way Fenris' next inhale shudders. His eyes widen as his tongue darts out impulsively, lapping at the swell of his lower lip (and Astarion's by extension), all of him suddenly and overwhelmingly distracted. A roiling heat boils through him as his mind desperately turns those words over, lured in by that dark promise and fascinated with all the implications he can't yet parse through. What does it mean to be kept? What would it mean to be kept by Astarion? He pilfers through countless scenes from endless ribald plays, stealing the filthiest bits and inserting them into his own slapdash fantasies: thoughts of being pinned, being tied— arms above his head. A collar around his throat. Kept captive in the sweetest way and forced to wait until his beloved returns, just so he can greet him with open thighs and needy pleas. Dressed up in whatever way suits his weathervane wants best, toys that Fenris barely knows the names for scattered around the mattress— the tease of touch, of playing keepaway, of being so pent up from such a long absence that he begs for it the second his legs are spread—
It's intoxicating, that fantasy. Thrilling enough that his cock gives a feeble twitch, eager to stir (and not so far off from stiffening, his refractory period blown to bits right now). For a long moment he stares up at Astarion, imagining him in it, sadistic and arrogant and mean—
And then thinks of it the other way.
For that suits more, doesn't it? Astarion, who loves to dress up and preen. Astarion, who looks so pretty like this, jewels adorning his body and sweat making his skin shine, every inch the disheveled odalisque. Astarion, who would look so good with his hands bound above his head; Astarion that Fenris can never help but play with, eager to bait him into a fuss and tussle with all night long . . . Astarion would look good begging, Fenris thinks distantly. Astarion would look so good begging him for his cock, his expression screwed up and his hips bucking up in desperation, promising Fenris anything if only he'd give it to him—
Maker.
All at once it's not enough. This molten exploration, this slow courtship, it isn't enough, and with a moan Fenris surges up, catching Astarion in a searing kiss. Mine, the kiss asserts, every hungry push and pull demanding Astarion cede more— teeth catching at his bottom lip, his tongue darting forward to thrust into his mouth, give it to me, you're mine, all mine, as blindly his hand moves faster. Every slick slide has more pressure behind it now (and with a thrill Fenris realizes he can feel him opening, tight cinch fluttering as his hips buck back, oh, oh)—
He gasps as he breaks away, panting up at his boyfriend.]
Do you think you can?
[Of course he can. Of course he can, but not if Fenris does it first. Gold meets green as Fenris keeps his eyes locked upwards, some part of him even now cautious about taking where it isn't wanted— but Astarion will tell him. Astarion will let him know if this is too much (if this is even how it works, or if he's about to make a dreadful mistake— but it must work like this, he's heard Mathias bragging about it). Slowly, slowly one finger slips forward, pushing into that slick ring of muscle, coaxing him to open, to cede, as his other finger glides along the rim.]
[If it means that I don't have to wipe down the bar—
Is a joke that never leaves his lips, or if it does, it's only as a cry he barely smothers along the edge of Fenris' cheek, smearing it along until he's tipped fully forwards— the wet glide of warm skin underneath him no one else's fault but his own: the drool he can't keep back as he pants and whines and writhes has all but painted his companion's jaw, and it's the last thing on his mind. The last thing he could care about when his wrists feel shy of breaking and his fingertips keep burrowing against taut suction, his knuckles searing from a mix of heat and constant friction. He's never touched anyone like this. He has no idea if this is even how it's done— ]
—Ah.
[A guttural, throaty sound. Primal in its form, incoherent in the way he almost chokes on it in turn, reeling as his hips roll back. Roll down, oh— oh gods.]
Oh, gods—
[ —this is how it's done.
This has to be— this has to be how it's done, the lessons he has yet to learn. It feels so good to take him in, to clench until he feels every last contour sliding in like a strange, intoxicating weight. Foreign yet still more right than anything else ever has been— please keep him like this. Please, please keep him. Keep him, he doesn't care how. Because he can't bear to stop. Because he's needy and hungry and anything is better than nothing even when it's almost too damned much to bear— every part of him plunged into unbearable near-ecstasy— not odalisque, not pretty, but a desperate, starving boy in borrowed finery whimpering just to be touched. Just to pump his own into the entry tucked beneath a half-soft cock and think— without once thinking— that he should pull those fingers free and squeeze his prick between them. Would, if his length wasn't swollen-soft against his thigh and drooling out rivulets of nothingness. Just as frenzied. Just as close to begging. Take him. Keep him. Let him have you. Let this be the only thing they do from now until—
In a whirlwind rush of arousal wearing the face of vexed frustration, Astarion yanks his spare hand free to hike up one tanned leg, pushing it back nearly to the mattress just so he can— he doesn't know— watch. Or pin him. Or have better access to that little flush-limned hole that he's been prying his own fingers into. Or. Or. Or—
They spread, stretching with what little strength he can employ against a grip much stronger than his own, Astarion lining up the crown of his barely roused cock between them (oh it is a vulgar shade of pink), his gold eyes saturated with clear lust as he fights to drive it in. To make it stiffen. Or fit. Or just push along that meager gap before—
Maker help him, he isn't ever quiet when he comes.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.]
1/2
[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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For now, the world, if it manages to exist at all, is a faraway thing. There's only them right now, cocooned together in this small golden space that feels so shockingly intimate. He hadn't known you could feel like this. Even when they would lie together and whisper childish secrets or exchange gossip, it hadn't been like this.]
Astarion . . .
[He murmurs it with no real end in sight, invoking his name as a faraway anchor to the present while Fenris tries to process what just happened. How it just happened. The shuddering aftermath of his orgasm still thrums through him, echoes of pleasure pulsing through his body as he fights to return to himself. It's just that all his senses are a little unfocused right now; it's just that there's such a haze in his mind, coherent thought wiped clean in favor of pure animalistic instinct.
And it takes a little while. Panting seconds or long minutes, he isn't certain, but sooner or later his brain begins to work again. Even then, it's only in snapshots: Astarion chanting his name— moaning it— whining it, voice strangled and heavy, heated longing woven within every syllable. Sticky heat drips down the plane of his belly as he finally loosens his grip on a softened prick; sweat beads on his forehead and drips down Astarion's shoulder, and he thinks again of the salty-sweet taste of it. Of him. The way they're joined together in a tangle of limbs, the way Astarion had writhed above him— the hoarse screams and guttural cries, the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, needed—
Maker's breath . . . how are they ever meant to do anything else?
And all the while, he holds him close. Not quite clinging and not quite possessive— just needful. Stay, don't go, stay, a longing he'd never once felt before now filling him. He turns his head, nosing fitfully against sweat-soaked curls, and tightens his arms around his love.]
You're so loud . . .
[A rumbling chuckle accompanies that toothless teasing, and he chases it with a fond nip to one pointed ear. Hello, hello, as affectionate and benignly irritating as a pup mouthing at his littermate. Pay attention to me, I love you, as his hands begin to slide up and down Astarion's back.
When he's older, he'll murmur such things and leave it at that, confident in his own prowess (and exceedingly familiar with all the ways to make Astarion melt). But so new at this, so young, it's only natural a tendril of doubt begins to creep in.]
Did you like it? Was it— was that good?
[It sounded like it, but on the other hand, few people are extraordinarily good at things their first time. And yet Astarion had been extraordinary— Maker, he'd been all that and more, Fenris' dazzled mind insists. Every stroke of his fingers, every kiss and sly comment, all of it was perfect. But Astarion has studied this kind of thing since they were old enough to understand it, so . . . who knows? Maybe Fenris isn't so good just yet, but he wants to be. He wants to earn more of those whines and whimpers— and oh, his mind veers down into his former thoughts then, lingering on those half-formed desires. He wants to do so much with Astarion, but . . .
He wants to get good at it, too. So it isn't just Fenris that's overwhelmed (so that once Astarion begins his career, he won't ever think someone else is better).]
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He groans out something boneless as his arm winds back, inhaling and exhaling in one single, heaving movement. His salt-tinged touch winds up twisting silver strands back and forth between them in slow rhythms.]
Mm. [A hazy stand-in for:] ....Mmmhm....
[Which is all that he can manage in his drunken stupor, blown out pupils barely capable of focus despite his slanted smile. He feels tired, but he isn't. He feels overrun with exhaustion but it's bliss.]
You're amazing, you know that? [No, he doubts Fenris understands, even if he feels the same; he's been surrounded by this but he's never studied it the way the rest of the Moulin Rouge has— but whatever he might think, he was incredible. No, more than that. More than all of that.] —perfect.
You were perfect.
[(Astarion, the one given to self-centered gravity above all else, and he can't so much as muster a thought in that direction.)]
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[Soft and wondrous, a different sort of warm pleasure rippling through him for the praise. Astarion wouldn't say that if he didn't mean it. Maker, he'd barely say it even if he did mean it, for some days it's like pulling teeth to get him to admit Fenris is good at something, but . . .
That was when they were children— immature brats competing over attention or affection or who could run faster or climb higher. They're adults now, he thinks, pressing a lazy kiss against one pale temple, and that brings its own maturity.
(Still: perfect, and silently he preens over it, not questioning it in the slightest).]
So were you.
[Oh, he means it. But it's not enough to echo the compliment, not after something so monumentally earth-shattering as that. Fenris blinks up hazily at the ceiling, trying to remember how words work, never mind how to order them the right way . . . Maker, it's hard to even remember how it all went, save that it was so good as to almost defy understanding. No wonder all those rich idiots pay so much money for the courtesans downstairs— gods, if they're half as good as Astarion is, it's a wonder they don't all come every single night.
(Hah, he thinks, chuckling softly to himself. Come every night . . . hah).]
More than perfect . . . the things you said— Astarion, that was . . .
[A thousand things, each more difficult to articulate than the last. How to describe the way his stomach had dropped in the most indulgent way when Astarion had whispered such filth? Even now his cock twitches faintly within the circle of soft fingers, making a valiant effort to stiffen again for the sheer memory of I won't stop. He thinks of all the bawdy plays he's seen, the purring compliments he's heard the courtesans practice backstage; he calls upon every compliment and flattery his addled mind can remember, and finally comes up with:]
It was so hot.
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He isn't shrinking back against the whiteness of damp curls, more like they're engulfing him when he's arched over like this, and the way he's blushing starkens that sharp contrast enough to underscore the nearly sheepish illusion. Add one slanted, lipstick-smeared grin into the mix and— oh. Oh he's a right mess in all the best damned ways. Feels as as drunk on this exchange (and the addictive weight he still holds captive) as he had been on 'borrowed' wine a couple years ago: it's all of the thrill, and....only some of the risk.]
We don't have to be done yet.
I can say more.
[Does he actually know any more pillow talk? No. But that's not the point, he can figure it out as they go, and his prick— maybe both of theirs, he thinks, sliding his thumb a little over the plush length he still holds captive— won't be ready to go for a little while yet. That buys him some time to put a lifetime of living in a high-end brothel to use (a short lifetime, maybe, but a lifetime nevertheless).]
I can say anything you want.
[Broadens his grin, sinking down in a flash to mark the side of his bodyguard-to-be's neck with his teeth the way it had been done to him. Tit for tat.]
—do anything you want.
[Gives chase with a broad swipe of his tongue over reddened skin. Red like his ears. Red like his cheeks, his nose, his lips and the center of his heaving chest. Like their cocks too, probably, remembering the first few times he'd caught a glimpse of his own fully tented beneath sunlit sheets.
He'd have to pull back to get a look at them now.
He doesn't want to yet.]
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[It's a livewire pressed straight to his spine: Fenris jolts for the electrifying duel sensations pulsing through him— teeth sinking sharp into his neck as a playful thumb rubs slickly against his slit. White sparks fly in front of his vision as his overtaxed nerves shriek. Too much, his oversensitive body howls, too much too much I can't, and with a whine he drags Astarion's head back just to crash their mouths together, kissing him hungrily in a futile attempt at displacement. Please please—
—and yet the moment it fades Fenris groans needily. He can't get hard again, not right away, and yet he wants to, that promise paradoxically filling him with a frantic impatience. For yes, they ostensibly have hours, but privacy is cheap around here. People have an inconvenient habit of wandering in and out of rooms, especially theirs. They ought to cram in as much as they possibly can as fast as they can, for who knows when they'll be interrupted?]
Like what?
[Murmured breathlessly against Astarion's lips as he draws back. One good thing about this rest period, at least: he can drink in the details of his boyfriend's appearance. The smeared lipstick over swollen lips, color stark against pale skin, and the visible echo of Fenris' own mouth there . . . it's a good look, Fenris thinks. He catches his chin with one hand, his thumb pressing firm against supple flesh, nudging it this way and back with fixated curiosity.]
I don't want to be done.
[No, not yet. Not now, not ever, or at least not until dawn approaches. They need hours upon hours to explore this new pleasure, even if the specific details of how are still a little vague. He tongues at the side of his mouth, struggling to think (even if part of him is so, so aware of the heavy weight his fingers are still curled around).]
Whatever we do, I do not want to be done. Not for hours. But what . . .
[He should know this, growing up in a brothel as he has— but then again, Zevlor and Kanan both were fairly firm about keeping them upstairs once the night began in earnest. Dancing and bawdy plays were one thing, but watching the courtesans ply their trade was quite another.]
Mm, what exactly did you have in mind?
[To do, he means, but he won't turn down whatever filthy talk Astarion has up his sleeve.]
Or we could just . . .
[He smirks a little, a two-second warning before he glides his thumb teasingly up the length of his cock. Tit for tat indeed.]
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No.
No, wait. That goes the other way around— ] —shit, -Fenris-!
[Balls a fist that drums against the middle of his counterpart's lean chest, clearly meant to scold despite the way it tumbles under gravity more than actually manages to strike.]
You— nngh....
[Oh he winces when he comes (when he plummets in a listless freefall) back to earth, mirrored profiles winding up so near to one another that their lashes brush each time he blinks his way out of what lingers of that grimace, soft and featherlight. Mirrored profiles winding up so near to one another that he can taste Fenris' lips by breathing, so tempted by the promise of radiant heat lodged there that some part of him stirs darkly, wondering what else besides his tongue he might slip between their parted measure. As things are, though, caught up in slick aftershocks, he only puts his teeth to task— and earns himself a glistening trickle of spun dewdrops in return, connecting the kiss that was to the kiss that lingers.
Swallow first. Catch your breath.]
....is....
....is that really the war you want to start while I'm still learning where to press?
[Two fingers— ring and accompanying little, both slender and uniquely agile— slither well low beneath the hang of supple curves, coursing between tanned thighs to push against sweltering confines caught there under his touch. Moving as if tamping down a button, he's no idea what he'll find out delving in the lightless depths of tangled covers.
But whatever it is, he's guessing it'll make his boyfriend ( —his boyfriend, his boyfriend, his boyfriend— ) squirm.]
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[He expects— Maker, he doesn't know what he expects. The same kind of all-encompassing shock, maybe: a blinding jolt of overtaxed nerves shrieking to life and dismissing his smug amusement, hips thrusting and body thrashing as a scream beds itself in the base of his throat and golden eyes shine with triumph. Pointlessly competitive and utterly thrilling, and he's steeled for it, he waits for it—
And it's nothing like that.
His expression goes slack, that cocksure grin melting off his face in favor of something far, far needier. Soft whines and half-formed words brush against Astarion's mouth, little puffs of air shared between them as Fenris tries not to outright melt in heady pleasure. Their sex before had been so frantic, ravenous hunger all-consuming as they'd moved together; here, now, he feels something more languid. Pleasure floods through him like molasses, slow-roiling and yet all the more overwhelming, drowning him inch by tantalizing inch.
And it's only belatedly that he realizes where and what and how Astarion is teasing him, but . . . Maker, this is the right way to go about it, for he can't fluster now.]
Keep . . .
[Forget the game. Forget the petty war between adoptive brothers, for right now Fenris wants nothing more than to melt. His thighs spread wider in silent encouragement, and then he squirms: his hips rocking up to meet Astarion's fingers with every pulsing press. More, like that, and little matter his cock is still soft against his belly. He'd never known you could feel good without getting hard, but Maker, he could do this for hours.
But it's not enough to just lie here and melt; with a low groan Fenris kisses his boyfriend (his boyfriend), pushing his head up into it. It's as languid as the slow tap of Astarion's fingers, and all the more heated for it: every slow push and eager pull aching with hunger. Every slow motion deepens it, and it's only once he feels the other boy shudder does he think of pushing his tongue forward. Don't stop, don't stop, as he slides his hands down Astarion's body, palming at his hips, urging him to come closer so that Fenris might do the very same thing to him. Around instead of between, his fingers a little less deft as he seeks out his prize— and whereas Astarion thrills in teasing taps, Fenris opts to simply glide instead, an unrelenting pleasure meant to overwhelm Astarion inch by infuriating inch.]
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Wrapped around the sunken tips of their fingers.
He bucks. Up against the insistent press that's driven his leg higher, rocking his hip until the innermost joint bites him in exchange for its trapped nerves— even then, he doesn't stop: bears the dizzying-sweet ache knotting up like wire through his limbs just to take in more of what has him in its grasp. His forearms locked and trembling; he's using them as brace and motivation, tangled. All tangled. Not just an urge, but a necessity— something to keep him from slipping as he pumps lithe fingers steadily back and forth against the grain to a rhythm he can't name, to a depth that he can't quantify. And it doesn't matter that they're both still too overblown to spill back past the precipice of climax yet; it doesn't matter that sensation boils over in ways that paint awareness searing white, like all of this, it feels too good. It feels too damned good to stop, and there's nothing to compare it to. And there's nothing he wants more than he wants to understand it. Have it. Keep it. The marzipan treats shaped like candied fruits or roses that he used to want so badly that he'd beg and cry and even steal them when the other cast weren't looking, the glittering bottles of enchanted wine saved only for the most esteemed of guests that smelled ambrosial enough to make his mouth water, kept tightly under lock and key and never tasted— suddenly that pales. Shrinks. Shrivels and recedes into nothing more than childish infatuation.
Addiction has a new name, after all.
And he puts his teeth on it. Devours it.
Sinks into it, inch by steady inch.]
I....
I want to keep you here like this....
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It's intoxicating, that fantasy. Thrilling enough that his cock gives a feeble twitch, eager to stir (and not so far off from stiffening, his refractory period blown to bits right now). For a long moment he stares up at Astarion, imagining him in it, sadistic and arrogant and mean—
And then thinks of it the other way.
For that suits more, doesn't it? Astarion, who loves to dress up and preen. Astarion, who looks so pretty like this, jewels adorning his body and sweat making his skin shine, every inch the disheveled odalisque. Astarion, who would look so good with his hands bound above his head; Astarion that Fenris can never help but play with, eager to bait him into a fuss and tussle with all night long . . . Astarion would look good begging, Fenris thinks distantly. Astarion would look so good begging him for his cock, his expression screwed up and his hips bucking up in desperation, promising Fenris anything if only he'd give it to him—
Maker.
All at once it's not enough. This molten exploration, this slow courtship, it isn't enough, and with a moan Fenris surges up, catching Astarion in a searing kiss. Mine, the kiss asserts, every hungry push and pull demanding Astarion cede more— teeth catching at his bottom lip, his tongue darting forward to thrust into his mouth, give it to me, you're mine, all mine, as blindly his hand moves faster. Every slick slide has more pressure behind it now (and with a thrill Fenris realizes he can feel him opening, tight cinch fluttering as his hips buck back, oh, oh)—
He gasps as he breaks away, panting up at his boyfriend.]
Do you think you can?
[Of course he can. Of course he can, but not if Fenris does it first. Gold meets green as Fenris keeps his eyes locked upwards, some part of him even now cautious about taking where it isn't wanted— but Astarion will tell him. Astarion will let him know if this is too much (if this is even how it works, or if he's about to make a dreadful mistake— but it must work like this, he's heard Mathias bragging about it). Slowly, slowly one finger slips forward, pushing into that slick ring of muscle, coaxing him to open, to cede, as his other finger glides along the rim.]
Maybe I'll keep you . . . would you like that?
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Is a joke that never leaves his lips, or if it does, it's only as a cry he barely smothers along the edge of Fenris' cheek, smearing it along until he's tipped fully forwards— the wet glide of warm skin underneath him no one else's fault but his own: the drool he can't keep back as he pants and whines and writhes has all but painted his companion's jaw, and it's the last thing on his mind. The last thing he could care about when his wrists feel shy of breaking and his fingertips keep burrowing against taut suction, his knuckles searing from a mix of heat and constant friction. He's never touched anyone like this. He has no idea if this is even how it's done— ]
—Ah.
[A guttural, throaty sound. Primal in its form, incoherent in the way he almost chokes on it in turn, reeling as his hips roll back. Roll down, oh— oh gods.]
Oh, gods—
[ —this is how it's done.
This has to be— this has to be how it's done, the lessons he has yet to learn. It feels so good to take him in, to clench until he feels every last contour sliding in like a strange, intoxicating weight. Foreign yet still more right than anything else ever has been— please keep him like this. Please, please keep him. Keep him, he doesn't care how. Because he can't bear to stop. Because he's needy and hungry and anything is better than nothing even when it's almost too damned much to bear— every part of him plunged into unbearable near-ecstasy— not odalisque, not pretty, but a desperate, starving boy in borrowed finery whimpering just to be touched. Just to pump his own into the entry tucked beneath a half-soft cock and think— without once thinking— that he should pull those fingers free and squeeze his prick between them. Would, if his length wasn't swollen-soft against his thigh and drooling out rivulets of nothingness. Just as frenzied. Just as close to begging. Take him. Keep him. Let him have you. Let this be the only thing they do from now until—
Oh fuck.
Oh, fuck. Fuck.] —Fenris— fuck— [Fuck. Don't stop. Don't dare stop.] It feels—
[It feels so—
It feels—
In a whirlwind rush of arousal wearing the face of vexed frustration, Astarion yanks his spare hand free to hike up one tanned leg, pushing it back nearly to the mattress just so he can— he doesn't know— watch. Or pin him. Or have better access to that little flush-limned hole that he's been prying his own fingers into. Or. Or. Or—
They spread, stretching with what little strength he can employ against a grip much stronger than his own, Astarion lining up the crown of his barely roused cock between them (oh it is a vulgar shade of pink), his gold eyes saturated with clear lust as he fights to drive it in. To make it stiffen. Or fit. Or just push along that meager gap before—
Maker help him, he isn't ever quiet when he comes.]
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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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