[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printpads are like sparks to dark, velveted tinder and they snare down to the heat of him before he even names it: each withdrawn burst of electrified sensation knocking low between his legs and careening up into clenched teeth, reverberating— accelerating.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.]
[The second those barking cries begin Fenris darts up and crashes their mouths together, teeth knocking and lips throbbing from the force of that messy kiss. Shut up meeting oh Maker please please please, his tongue thrusting forward in subduing command even as he trembles to pieces beneath his boyfriend. More wait please more, for the swollen head of Astarion's cock is wedged by the barest inch within him, thick enough to make him feel like he's stretched to burst and yet paradoxically not enough, not yet. His hips thrust up in needy half-inches as he tries instinctively to fuck himself, but Astarion isn't hard enough, not yet— and so all he ends up doing is grinding himself against him, whining softly all the while. It's pathetic, or so he would have thought a few days ago. Worse than a bitch in heat, all instinct and mindless passion— but the Fenris of a few days ago didn't know how fucking good it felt to be spread open. He'd never felt those shockwaves of being stretched ripple through him, gagging him, electrifying him; he'd never thought about being bent over and spread apart until he could taste Astarion in his throat, but now—
Now it's all he wants.]
You're so loud.
[He wrenches his mouth back just long enough to growl that out, teeth nipping in sharp scolding as he grinds against him.]
S-so damned loud, you're gonna get us caught, and—
[Fuck. There's a long moment of silence as he teeters on the edge of balking humiliation and ravenous lust, and then Fenris swallows thickly.]
And I want you to fuck me before we stop. Really fuck me, not just put it in. And I want you to come in me.
[It isn't just the swell of his prick that's driving Fenris to distraction, no— not when he can feel searing heat dripping down his legs. Thick droplets of come (it must be, though he can't look down and spot it just yet) slide down the inside of his trembling thighs, leaving trailmark streaks of shining cream against swollen curves and flushed flesh, and thought of it— the thought of being covered in Astarion's claim, in being marked by him, tan skin painted over in vulgar shades of pearl— leaves Fenris breathless.
No, not just breathless— overwhelmed. Insatiable for this new aspect of attraction he'd never once thought about before, his mind fixated on the thought of Astarion coming on him, in him, come dripping down his thighs and fucked into him, lodged so deep that he can't get it out—
Instinctively some part of him recoils, for surely he shouldn't think such things. Surely that isn't how it works, that isn't how decent people think— and yet there's no uncorking a bottle. It's so easy right now to shove protests away in favor of pure, mouth-watering desire. I want more, he thinks greedily, and licks at the swell of Astarion's bottom lip.]
So stay quiet, brat. And wait til you get hard again.
[His finger, formerly stilled, pick up its rhythm again; in the next moment he adds a second one, thrilling in the slick way Astarion spreads for him. Tight, so tight, every cinching squeeze a paradox (get out meeting don't go, his body squeezing him in desperate, possessive hunger). Slickly he pumps them in and out with damning rhythm, working his way in deeper and deeper with every pass.]
Come's spilled out searing-hot between his fingertips, matched only by the little stretch they're still sunken into to the knuckle— his teeth ache slightly in periphery, too dizzy or too drunk on his own overdriven climax to comprehend why— all of it painted over by the ringing in his ears; it makes it hard to hear what Fenris tells him, though Andraste's naked tits, he feels a brutally saccading wave snap through him in an instant, rolling back his eyes.
Yes, that sounds so good, he thinks (as what lingers of awareness drips down over his fingertips onto the mattress).
Yes, he wants to— he wants to—
Oh, gods. The wince that has him by the throat once he hears it all finally echo in his skull, groaning over nothing but the plush measure of Leto's tongue. Yes, yes, yes he wants to fuck him, that's all he wants, and all he wants to spur himself towards as his hips lance forwards by degrees, fighting just to straighten against overstimulation's brutal grasp. If he pumps in deep enough, or spreads his fingers a little more, or—
The noise he makes when Fenris starts to work hard into him is meant to be coherent. Begging or wailing out his name, or pleading for a moment— a moment just to catch his breath— it's the first time in his life he can remember being called a brat and not snarling, not biting, not hitting back with the rawness of childish offense. Because this time, writhing over his companion's pistoning attention, he whines with his whole chest. So hard, so agonizingly hard, that what should've been an outcry of coherence spills out of his chest as mmrrhhghg.]
His eyes snap open as his tongue falters in its demanding exploration of Astarion's mouth, all of him suddenly and swiftly consumed by the sound of that whine. Vulgar and raw and needy— and to Fenris' adolescent ears, the most alluring sound of fornication known to man. Forget the fluttery moans or breathless whines the others will sometimes evoke just to tease, for those were nothing more than irritating noises. Something like this— Maker, how can anything compare? How can anything be better than such a needy, helpless little mewl, and all of it for him, because of him. Outright begging him wordlessly not to stop, not to falter, not to do anything except take him—
He'll take him—
To his distant shock, he growls as his fingers redouble their efforts: wrist snapping sharply as his fingers plunge in deep over and over, faster and faster, all of him intent on earning more of those filthy little noises. The slick sounds of oil splattering and flesh meeting flesh fill the air between them as Fenris pants against his lover's mouth, eyes fixated on his face. Every motion is an experiment: his fingers scissoring open wide or hooking down as he forces them deeper still, trying to see what makes Astarion wail in overheated response.]
That's it—
[He breathes it out against swollen lips, taunting and coaxing all at once. Any thought he'd for the others has swiftly dissipated; as far as Fenris is concerned, they're alone here. His hips jerk up just once, squeezing tight around the swell of Astarion's cock and caught fingers, eyes fluttering as he does— Maker, that's still something he wants desperately, but soon. After this, after this: this delicious show, this intoxicating new way of driving his boyfriend into wordless ecstasy.]
Are you gonna come a third time?
[He bites sharp at Astarion's bottom lip, punctuation to the mean way he breathes out that taunt. His wrist is aching for the angle and yet he doesn't slow his pace: just fucks into him the way he wants to be, now. Rhythmic and hard and unrelenting, living on every stuttering moan and desperate whine.
Unseen, his other hand creeps between them, flitting to wedge itself between his own thighs. Two fingers glide over the slick swell of Astarion's cock, rubbing faintly (and measuring, with distant awe, just how wide he feels, oh Maker how will I fit— it doesn't matter, he will).]
Do I have to help you, or can you do it all on your own again?
I can d— [There's no room for stubbornness. There's barely any room for his half-hard prick within the interlay of a stretched narrow and their aching fingers. When he swallows next, it's hard enough that the necklace he's been wearing shoves up tight against his adam's apple, adding a faint jingling percussion to the act of violently jolting—
Oh be careful what you wish for, Fenris.
It'll be easy to find what makes him wail with change to spare at this rate, but ease is what'll bring on the next outcry that risks their secrecy. The next collapse into world-shattering oblivion shaped like Fenris' shuttling fingers as they spur him deeper and deeper, until there's no measure of the sounds he's making or the things he's saying— no measure of what anything is except for pure, unbridled perfection. The table he's been sat beside since childhood, reserved for people older than him. Smarter than him. Richer or better or more elegant. Bright, blinding, gleaming courtesans and their famous counterparts uncorking bottle after bottle of something that he'd never even caught a real whiff of in the air—
And now it's him sitting at that table.
Now the bottle is uncapped within his pearl-glazed hands, and he starves to squeeze it up against his lips and drink down every last drop as quick as it all comes. Now that he knows how consuming that it is, the reason why it's coveted— hoarded— there's no such thing as patience or sharing or restraint. Restraint. Restraint.
He isn't hard enough—
—and then he is. Between one stroke and the next he makes himself a mirror to the pressure fucking hard and fast inside him, scissoring, stretching, taking— each pump needier and more demanding than the last. Teaching him how hard, how deep, to lay himself, biting or kissing at anything in reach. Not to seduce, but to anchor.
He wants to make this last.
He knows he won't.]
Nngh— do you.
[He swallows air. Spit. Bliss.]
Do you need help getting off....
[His words are a hoarse whisper split between them, gleaming wet.]
That's the only word he can think of in this blinding eclipse of blown-out synapses and blinding arousal— the only word that matters right now. Yes, yes, yes, yes, roaring approval and panting desperation all tangled up into one heady wave poised to crash over him. Yes please yes, and it barely matters what the question is or what he's spurring on. Yes to the way Astarion feels between his legs, his thighs burning from the strain and the slick slide of skin against skin as he wraps his legs around him; yes to the burning pressure that stretches him open in one short, sharp thrust, forcing him wider with every ravenous pass until he swears he can't take anymore (and then does). Yes to the way he fucks him, hard and fast and and mercilessly, wedging his thickened prick in deeper and deeper until he can all but feel him in his throat, stuffed full and drowning in lust. Yes to the bites that send sharp shocks ricocheting through him, a deliciously dizzying counterpart to every hammering thrust, yes, yes, yes, yes—]
Yeah . . .
[Wait, what? The word slips past his lips in a daze, his eyes blown out black and utterly unfocused. It takes him a long second to realize that Astarion was taunting him; the moment the words register it sends another pulsing wave of arousal crashing through him, overwhelming enough to make him whine. Or maybe he'd already been doing that, maybe he's been doing that this whole time: whining and moaning and whimpering with unheeded volume, every bit of him consumed utterly with how fucking good this all feels.
Focus. Focus . . . but the trouble with that is that all he can think of now is how this is the first time. He'd been so lost in the moment he'd almost forgotten, but oh, that's another virginity that belongs to Astarion. First kiss (first real kiss, anyway, for Elise doesn't count, not right now), first orgasm . . . and now, the first time fucked. And that's hot for reasons he can't say; it's a possessive thrill that he and Astarion have one another's firsts (and he curls his fingers again, just to remind himself of it, this, this right here, this is mine).
He swallows thickly, scrambling to try and think of anything that isn't please please please keep fucking me please.]
Tell me when you get tired.
[Not a taunt, not this time. His retort comes in the way he squeezes tight around Astarion's cock, watching with satisfaction as his boyfriend's eyes roll back.]
[He won't last long in the grasp of overstimulation. Too much too fast will have him jolting where he's hunched on hand-and-knees like Fenris was when he'd first been rubbing at him: absent in his body, whimpering out plea after plea for him to wait— to stop long enough for him to catch his breath as the world ebbs slowly back into focus, carried on waves of acclimating stillness that remind him of what normalcy once felt like (no more after this). No going back. No corking the bottle again.
The thought comes secondhand. Puppeteering him on strings when he's sumberged fully in constricted heat— hips rocking, teeth searching— he's not present as he reaches back to grab hold of strong wrists, pulling them up until Fenris' hands (and the slightly sticking tack of slickened fingers) brace on either hip. Stay here. Be here. Work him with nothing but those muscles and the bruising need to see this through again. Again. As many times as it takes for them to fall apart completely, useless and unrecognizable come morning light. Zevlor and Kanan might mourn them but gods above he won't— not if this is how he goes, buried within the only boy he's ever loved, cock first, tongues winding over one another. His first. His last. His everything.]
I'm tired.
[He says as if he wasn't just fighting yet another out-of-body shudder with his eyes rolled back under their lids, now instead unblinking. His hands still a vice around those wrists, his hips still working at a shiftless pace.
Not careful (dark lashes flicking up in shadow, gazing at the lover underneath him like a moth fixed on bright flame), indulgent.]
[Fenris shudders beneath the indulgent rock of pale hips, his back arching as his fingers go tight around the span of a narrow waist. He hadn't realized that the shiftless, languid way Astarion shuttles his cock in and out could feel just as good as going hard and fast and desperate. It's the complete antithesis of before, a building pressure that leaves him melting in panting desire, and Fenris sinks into it: his eyes fluttering as he squirms against the sheets, hips rocking up again and again with needy little whines.]
Okay . . . okay—
[Up. Up— with an effort he forces his eyes open. There's a part of him that could lie here for hours in lazy contentment, but he wants the opposite, too. He wants to see Astarion between his thighs, squirming needily against the the sheets as he moans out petitions for more.
Still: that doesn't mean he has to disrupt everything. Fenris rises, but languidly so, using the momentum to catch Astarion in a kiss that's every bit as sweet and lazy as the slow pulse of his cock. Come here, sweet, the words whispered between them before he tangles their tongues together and pries his wrists free of that tight grip. Slowly his palms drift up the planes of Astarion's body, tracing out the sweat-slick span of his waist, feeling up the swell of his arms, until at last they brace on his shoulders. Let me try this, let me show you what I can do, let me ride you, as he pushes him down against the sheets and draws back to seat himself fully on his boyfriend's cock.
And nearly comes then and there from how fucking good it feels.
Not better. Not better, for that would mean anything before this was lesser, and that Fenris isn't willing to concede— but Maker, it feels good. It feels divine, Astarion's cock obscenely thick and heavy and so deep in him that Fenris swears somehow he's managed to gain another inch somehow. For a moment he teeters there, swallowing thickly as he sways, but oh— this is about showing off.
For perched like this, he's so aware of how— well, how defined he is. All those hours of training, all those endless sit-ups and push-ups and laps around the block, gods, they're paying off now, for there's such effortlessness to the way he can rise up and drop down over and over without losing his breath. His thighs flex, the muscles in his belly rippling as he finds his rhythm (is he watching, does he like this, does he like seeing me like this, does he notice, and he's so preoccupied with how Astarion sees him that he forgets to try and be graceful— but then again, inexperience lends its own confidence, and he's no idea of how much better he'll learn how to be). Up and down, back and forth, the pace (nearly) effortlessly steady. He plants one palm against Astarion's chest, panting down at him as he bounces and ruts.]
Feel— feel good?
[It's not a taunt, not right now, for they aren't competing in this moment. This is them, just them, adoring and hungry and blissfully in love. He leans forward, nudging their noses together just once before catching him in a slick kiss, hungry to taste every moan and whine that vibrates on his boyfriend's tongue.]
[He wasn't really tired. He just wanted to see what it was like. Had to know if it'd feel different with their bodies angled in a different way, or if the view might suffocate him in a way he can't come back from (and it does)— its tideline rising in his lungs to push out all the air he rasps for, filling him with hadal spans of lightless pressure— let him drown here, let it have him. Possibility already calcified as truth the moment that his shoulders hit the mattress across a swath of tangled sheets that smell like home and heaven all at once; he isn't breathing as strong legs slip tight around him, he's lost the compass of his thoughts just to look up and find a body that— gods, it seems like overnight— stands already fit for fighting, wearing sculpted ridgelines under smooth, dark skin. He salivates around his molars for it like an animal waiting to be fed, clenches an aching jaw as sweat forms soft around his collarbone and paints him with that unchecked proof of wanting, for with gravity on their side this time it—
Fuck, it does feel different.
Tighter.
Hotter.
Sharper.
A piercing sense of ricocheting pressure bouncing up and down across the stiff span of his cock, painting the walls in a percussive slap-slap-slap that echoes back each time it's mete out, leaving him all but seizing in its' wake. His mouth is open. His tongue is lolled and wet. His eyes are glassy as they stare at Fenris without blinking and— like the fever-kindled plunge of his own overswollen prick— through him, kept spellbound by the creature that sits perched atop him in a haze of backcast lantern light, long fingers fanned out in an arc across Astarion's caught heart, milking him to the edge of his succumbing limit: a Diamond in everything but name.]
Nh— mm-hm....yes.
[It doesn't matter that they're young. It doesn't matter that his only metric for this came out of picture books and pantomime and stolen words from eavesdropped conversations: he's convinced Fenris belongs here, not just in the Moulin Rouge, but here— right here— teaching him how to better fit into the whole of their perpetually shared shadows as a single mergered measure. Letting him taste the back of his tongue and piston his wild cock into places he'd never let anyone else see, let alone touch. Possessive and needy and greedy in a paradoxic twist that runs both servile and mean before—
Before—
His back arches. His hips can't— tanned thighs and a canting, pretty swell have pinioned them down— twisting up his fingertips in cotton as he whines the start of a sharp, suffocating cry that only hitches. Rises. Drops into a whisper whilst the rest of him stays high and stiff and locked.]
There's no world in which he doesn't give Astarion what he wants.
Because of how pretty he looks in orgasmic desperation (disheveled hair and sweat-touched skin glimmering in the warm lantern glow, his mouth red and slick and bitten as he gasps up at his beloved). Because of how he sounds as he begs (raw and throaty and starkly desperate, with none of that coy charm or arrogant grace to be found). Because of how fucking good he feels as he trembles taut between Fenris' thighs, his cock wedged in thick and deep and throbbing in need. Yes, Fenris thinks without thinking, his hips picking up their rhythm, for you, anything, always, yes, yes, yes, the word echoing in time with the slick sound of skin on skin. It's the only possible answer, generosity colored a vulgar shade but all the more earnest for it.
Yes, yes, yes, and he fights to squeeze over and over around the swell of Astarion's cock while still bouncing atop him, clumsy in lust and earnest in love. He can't keep rhythm, can't milk him the way he instinctively longs to, and for a moment he hesitates— only to realize a split second later that it barely matters just so long as he keeps moving, rocking, letting Astarion fuck into somewhere hot and tight and slick, yes yes yes—]
Come for me, sweet . . .
[He breathes it out coaxingly— and then watches in awe as Astarion unravels. His eyes dart around as he soaks up every detail, greedily hoarding each and every one (no one else will see him like this, no one else will know what it looks like when he truly falls apart). Astarion's expression contorts sweetly, and Fenris groans in sympathetic echo each time he whines or whimpers or wails his pleasure. His tips his head back, exposing the long, lean line of his throat, and Fenris darts down, biting a mark into unmarred skin, savoring the way Astarion jolts in avid response. Again and again he rocks with him, slamming his hips down for every frantic buck up, until at last—
Fenris shudders as Astarion's climax finally subsides, and it's only a little to do with how he's still achingly hard. But there's something about knowing that he's come in him— that he's claimed him . . .
And it doesn't mean anything, of course— but then again, it does. There's something deliciously possessive about it, primal and instinctive and right. Not definitive and cruel like a collar had once been, but rather something intimate: above anyone else, I chose you, I want you, you're mine and I'm yours.
And it's hot. Maybe it doesn't need more analysis than that.]
I liked you coming in me.
[There's questions he wants to ask. Vulgar ones, ones that he can't possibly think of articulating right now, even when he's speared atop his boyfriend's cock. Questions like can you see it on your cock if I lift up or do you think you've filled me up; things that burn at his brain but that his tongue outright refuses to curl around.
Next time. He'll ask next time, maybe, but right now . . . he nuzzles at Astarion's cheek, pressing a few aimless kisses to damp skin. Right now, he wants nothing more than to shower his boyfriend in doting affection. One hand cards through his hair as he noses against him, listening to the way he pants.
[Everything trickles at a distance after that, soft and hazy-muted. His mouth is cotton with a wet smack of tacky dryness, and every sound is like the sharp buzz of copper wiring rife with electricity, exposed to open air. Like that, all he knows is this: His ears are burning. His cheeks are burning (a bright, rashy red, a whimper in his throat he barely swallows in response to the kiss of a whisper at his earlobe).
Every part of him is burning.
Gunpowder made up of tight-clenched inner thighs pulled close against his hips; kindling is the catch— the squeeze— wrung around the pith of his worn cock, hitching and shifting and settling around the way they're merged together, wrenching a scalding noise out of still-parted lips that he (oh, at this rate) might never close again. Gulping. Gagging, even. Whining like the spoiled thing he is and always has been. A mess of contradictions with a name he can't remember, swallowing air that feels like burning coal.
Air that feels like burning from the inside out.]
....I did too.
[That's what Fenris said, right? That he liked this— the come, or coming— something about that. Something beautiful. Something vulgar that leaves him shuddering hard enough for his teeth to chatter like he's cold— but he's not. Not Astarion. Astarion is still embers, after all. Belongs to heat and not the absence of it, still burning holes in messy sheets with lanky limbs and dumbstruck love and eyes that can't stay open, unlike the rest of him. He reaches out as if he were on a thread within the apex of it all, fingers trembling to the sound of ringing in his ears (and the dull pop of the flat top of his sandpaper tongue each time he moves to swallow), one hand falling around the junction of Fenris' leg and hip, and the other....
Oh it's where it belongs before he knows it. Bedded in the shadows under a strong stomach and narrowed ribs. Stroking at the stiff, heavy breadth of what's increasingly familiar to him now. What it is to hold his boyfriend's prick with hungry familiarity, greeting the little differences touch-first. A little leaner here; a little more flared there; straining heavy at the tip as it drools needily over his fingertips (those movements dangerously close to mirroring the sweatsoaked carding through his hair— high to low— high to low—) instead of starting at a laden hilt. He doesn't know how he knows the way it's meant to be, only that a shiver rouses in him, thinking right here. Right there. Like this.
Face canting to one side, searching with the outline of his teeth for baser contact.
(Or the memory of how to speak instead of thinking what it'd be like to bury his own tongue between tanned thighs.)
It's not fair they're out of sync.
It's not fair he's the only one who's spent.]
I wonder....[Astarion exhales into negative space and clips the edge of his newly claimed boyfriend's ear] ....if my bodyguard would look more handsome painted slick across my belly— or his own.
[I wonder if I could make you beg, too, underscores the rasping of each word. Too hard-ridden to sound like himself, not without a drink of water or wine. Not without giving up on the only thing he wants.]
That's the only answer that counts, and it barely matters what the question is. Yes to the unspoken question of if he could get him to beg (easily, eagerly, whining and whimpering as if he's never known an ounce of shame). Yes to the way Astarion's fingers stroke his come-slick prick, high to low, high to low, and it's stunning how something so simple as a change in direction makes his thighs tremble and something searing hook deep in the pit of his belly. Yes to the suggestion of teeth against his ear and a slick palm roaming against his hip; yes to the sound of Astarion's voice low and throaty in his ear, murmuring such filth that sets off fireworks in his mind and dazes him to his core, yes, yes, yes—]
Ngh—
[A low moan slips past his lips instead of Astarion's name, and can anyone blame him? When his boyfriend whispers things that make him wring around the swell of his prick, face burning with desire and embarrassment both— when the thought of swaying on his heels, dripping with his own come and staring up at an enraptured, lustful Astarion captures his mind— when Astarion says such deliciously possessive things like my bodyguard— oh, Maker, he's only mortal.
He swallows thickly, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to focus— to remember how to think, or speak, or do anything beyond rut his hips forward and whimper in blatant approval. Jerking his head back, he stares down at his boyfriend.]
Across your belly.
[There, now. Fenris tips his head, dark hair hanging like a curtain around his face as he peers down at him.]
So that I can have a claim, too.
[He brushes his knuckles against the edge of one sweat-damp cheek.]
You came in me— claimed me— made me yours— and now I want the same. I want you to be mine, even if the two of us are the only ones who ever know it.
So . . . make me come on you, Astarion.
[Experimentally he moves his hips just once, rocking them back to see if he can wring out one last noise from his boyfriend.]
He wrings out more than that. The noises Astarion makes (the noises that he's been making) are ones he's never heard before in all his life— not even here behind closed doors or when they (once, and only once) crawled through the vents between walls on hands and knees, places where stoked cries of whores and clients both were amplified like echoes— and he has to shut his mouth rather than his ears this time to silence them. He's not the catalyst (oh that is spread out over him, tight and fluttering around him and drenched with enough sweat and slick and heat and come that it threatens to smother him with its beauty— he's obssessed, memories fly off the shelves to make room for the buzzing trapped beneath his tongue— and he reels, and— ) he's just the source. Just the reactive set of muscle and teeth that snaps shut around his own sleeve whilst he stares up at heaven through a haze of scalding tears. Just the part of him that exhales noisily through it, whimpering at the aftershocks lithe hips strive to massage loose without letting his soft cock slip free.
He hears the silk of his sleeve tear. Feels the stitches popping loose between his teeth as his vision blurs beneath another squinting whine, each breath bellowed back into his own nose by soft silk. By the weight and shape of his forearm, his other fingers groping deep into tanned thighs with deeper, more demanding strokes than before— catching on occasion with a ring finger or a pinky the soft, supple hang of swollen curves behind it; hot and velvet-soft in a way that's tempting him to stop and wrap around them— but he can't right now. Not yet. Not when he feels the jolt of tensed-up muscles. Hears the telling strain in Fenris' roughened voice. He's starting to know the warning signs, what to chase and when to make things come apart. Or maybe that's just hubris— but he thinks he does. He thinks he does.
So this time he runs high.
This time he doesn't care how much silk he ruins when he pulls his jaw back from his arm, spit trailing sticky in slight strands from the wet-cold spot of where his mouth had been and where his tongue pants pink between childishly delicate canines— only long enough to speak.]
I'm already yours.
[It burns his lungs, the strain that holds his breath inside them at the height of their expansion. The effort that it takes to speak instead of keening like he wants to, feeling his own ribs grip back against soft flesh, trying to squeeze another outcry from him. The sort of mutiny that makes the world spin and his senses smear like paint on canvas, turning Fenris' handsomeness into a wetter haze— but he holds on.]
Make it undeniable.
[Another stroke. Another catch of fingers. Another glazing streak of movement wrapped around a still-glossed crown that shivers in his grasp.]
Like throwing gasoline onto a blazing inferno: Fenris moans without shame as he throws his weight forward, bracing himself against Astarion so that he can rut. Fucking himself with a fervor that grows more frantic with every passing second, his hips snapping forward to grind needily against Astarion's palm, shuddering with every wringing twist of pale fingers. More oh Maker please Astarion please I need it I need you please, his words slurred and broken up by the growing cacophony of moans and whimpers and mewls, until at last it simply becomes an endless echo of please. His thighs tremble as he gasps down at his boyfriend, eyes rolling back for every squeezing tug (please please please), electricity jolting up his spine whenever knuckles tap against soft curves (please more please don't stop). And when he manages to force open his eyes—
Fenris doesn't have words for what it is to see Astarion looking like that as he lies between tanned thighs. Glimmering eyes filled with tears that spill down flushed cheeks, the imprint of bitemarks vivid against sweat-soaked skin, the rise and fall of a narrow chest as he exhales hotly with every panting breath, and that's to say nothing of the saliva glittering against his chin, nor the way he's so overwhelmed he has to bite and tear his precious silks just to stay silent— Maker. He's damningly seductive in his messiness, all his pretty veneers stripped away into this raw, panting, perfect Diamond.
Come, his incubus whispers, and Fenris can do nothing but obey.
He's deaf to the hoarse scream that rips its way out of his throat and echoes around the room; he's blind to the way it looks as the first pulsing splatter of pearl lands atop Astarion's belly. Head thrown back and throat bared, he's too busy rocking into that coaxing grip, fucking himself blind— no instincts, no rhythm, no thought, nothing but longing and lust thundering through his veins. Again and again and again, until with one final, shuddering thrust of his hips . . .
. . . he's spent. His softening prick drools out one or two more droplets that form a viscous connection between stomach and cock; sweat drips along his temples and trickles down his spine as Fenris shivers atop his mate.
And then—
But there's nothing. No thoughts. No desperation. That last orgasm wiped him clean, and for a long moment Fenris simply sways there, a loud ringing in his ears and all of him so spent. Sooner or later he'll remember how to talk, perhaps, but for now there's only the increasingly adoring way he's looking down at Astarion. Oh, it's you, something in him murmurs. I love you, simple and yet so powerful he doesn't dare say it. Not now. Maybe not ever, or maybe tomorrow.
They're teenagers, after all. Fickle things in love and lust (and maybe there's a part of Fenris that will take a long time to accept that Astarion means to be his).
No, wait. There's one thought that permeates all that fog. Fenris blinks slowly, and then, with great force of effort, mumbles:]
[Happily is the key word. The underscoring. The pith, messy and pretty and still tight in all the places that it counts, beating with the slippery staccato rhythm of their pulses. He's slack around his elbows and tensed up round his cheeks and lower belly, so dizzy that the room around them is still spinning. That his thoughts themselves are going utterly lopsided, bullied by inertia and the way it pushes them in close.
He thinks with the same amount of grace he swallows by, scratchy and bobbing and as ungainly as a child—
—something he isn't now, though, is what comes rising to the surface. Through the high-pitched ringing in his ears that still sounds like Fenris' screaming and the shrill numbness of his fingertips now slid up around the nape of that lithe neck, left to shiver weakly in wet white hair. Through all the sticky, sweltering— and around their silhouettes, cold— sensations crawling in around them, he knows he's not a child anymore.
Children don't fall in love like this.
Children don't want to burn out from the inside and lap up come like cream, oh, no. That level of debauchery prints money here, and there's a reason why the sign on the front door makes damned well certain the only patrons passing through are those with age behind them. His heart is beating slower. Stronger. The jewelry he'd borrowed fits better where it's rucked up, gemstones glittering like welling droplets in the divots of his countours.
He feels taller, meeting Leto eye-to-eye at last now that they've grown. Face to face in ways they haven't been in years.
And then Leto arches forwards just enough to shift the pressure where they're bottled, and he lets out a heady groan as the entirety of his vision blurs (the slightest trickle slithering down between two sets of tangled thighs, coiled like a snake).]
And you....said I'm loud....
[He's smiling at a distance, ten thousand meters away from the place where an upwards angled cheek pushes hot against another. He wants to keep him here forever. Forever and a day, or as long as it takes to find the strength to wrap devotion round strong fingers like a band.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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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Now it's all he wants.]
You're so loud.
[He wrenches his mouth back just long enough to growl that out, teeth nipping in sharp scolding as he grinds against him.]
S-so damned loud, you're gonna get us caught, and—
[Fuck. There's a long moment of silence as he teeters on the edge of balking humiliation and ravenous lust, and then Fenris swallows thickly.]
And I want you to fuck me before we stop. Really fuck me, not just put it in. And I want you to come in me.
[It isn't just the swell of his prick that's driving Fenris to distraction, no— not when he can feel searing heat dripping down his legs. Thick droplets of come (it must be, though he can't look down and spot it just yet) slide down the inside of his trembling thighs, leaving trailmark streaks of shining cream against swollen curves and flushed flesh, and thought of it— the thought of being covered in Astarion's claim, in being marked by him, tan skin painted over in vulgar shades of pearl— leaves Fenris breathless.
No, not just breathless— overwhelmed. Insatiable for this new aspect of attraction he'd never once thought about before, his mind fixated on the thought of Astarion coming on him, in him, come dripping down his thighs and fucked into him, lodged so deep that he can't get it out—
Instinctively some part of him recoils, for surely he shouldn't think such things. Surely that isn't how it works, that isn't how decent people think— and yet there's no uncorking a bottle. It's so easy right now to shove protests away in favor of pure, mouth-watering desire. I want more, he thinks greedily, and licks at the swell of Astarion's bottom lip.]
So stay quiet, brat. And wait til you get hard again.
[His finger, formerly stilled, pick up its rhythm again; in the next moment he adds a second one, thrilling in the slick way Astarion spreads for him. Tight, so tight, every cinching squeeze a paradox (get out meeting don't go, his body squeezing him in desperate, possessive hunger). Slickly he pumps them in and out with damning rhythm, working his way in deeper and deeper with every pass.]
Just wait . . .
[Wait until I get you ready to take me.]
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Oh. Oh, neither of them can—
Come's spilled out searing-hot between his fingertips, matched only by the little stretch they're still sunken into to the knuckle— his teeth ache slightly in periphery, too dizzy or too drunk on his own overdriven climax to comprehend why— all of it painted over by the ringing in his ears; it makes it hard to hear what Fenris tells him, though Andraste's naked tits, he feels a brutally saccading wave snap through him in an instant, rolling back his eyes.
Yes, that sounds so good, he thinks (as what lingers of awareness drips down over his fingertips onto the mattress).
Yes, he wants to— he wants to—
Oh, gods. The wince that has him by the throat once he hears it all finally echo in his skull, groaning over nothing but the plush measure of Leto's tongue. Yes, yes, yes he wants to fuck him, that's all he wants, and all he wants to spur himself towards as his hips lance forwards by degrees, fighting just to straighten against overstimulation's brutal grasp. If he pumps in deep enough, or spreads his fingers a little more, or—
The noise he makes when Fenris starts to work hard into him is meant to be coherent. Begging or wailing out his name, or pleading for a moment— a moment just to catch his breath— it's the first time in his life he can remember being called a brat and not snarling, not biting, not hitting back with the rawness of childish offense. Because this time, writhing over his companion's pistoning attention, he whines with his whole chest. So hard, so agonizingly hard, that what should've been an outcry of coherence spills out of his chest as mmrrhhghg.]
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His eyes snap open as his tongue falters in its demanding exploration of Astarion's mouth, all of him suddenly and swiftly consumed by the sound of that whine. Vulgar and raw and needy— and to Fenris' adolescent ears, the most alluring sound of fornication known to man. Forget the fluttery moans or breathless whines the others will sometimes evoke just to tease, for those were nothing more than irritating noises. Something like this— Maker, how can anything compare? How can anything be better than such a needy, helpless little mewl, and all of it for him, because of him. Outright begging him wordlessly not to stop, not to falter, not to do anything except take him—
He'll take him—
To his distant shock, he growls as his fingers redouble their efforts: wrist snapping sharply as his fingers plunge in deep over and over, faster and faster, all of him intent on earning more of those filthy little noises. The slick sounds of oil splattering and flesh meeting flesh fill the air between them as Fenris pants against his lover's mouth, eyes fixated on his face. Every motion is an experiment: his fingers scissoring open wide or hooking down as he forces them deeper still, trying to see what makes Astarion wail in overheated response.]
That's it—
[He breathes it out against swollen lips, taunting and coaxing all at once. Any thought he'd for the others has swiftly dissipated; as far as Fenris is concerned, they're alone here. His hips jerk up just once, squeezing tight around the swell of Astarion's cock and caught fingers, eyes fluttering as he does— Maker, that's still something he wants desperately, but soon. After this, after this: this delicious show, this intoxicating new way of driving his boyfriend into wordless ecstasy.]
Are you gonna come a third time?
[He bites sharp at Astarion's bottom lip, punctuation to the mean way he breathes out that taunt. His wrist is aching for the angle and yet he doesn't slow his pace: just fucks into him the way he wants to be, now. Rhythmic and hard and unrelenting, living on every stuttering moan and desperate whine.
Unseen, his other hand creeps between them, flitting to wedge itself between his own thighs. Two fingers glide over the slick swell of Astarion's cock, rubbing faintly (and measuring, with distant awe, just how wide he feels, oh Maker how will I fit— it doesn't matter, he will).]
Do I have to help you, or can you do it all on your own again?
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Oh be careful what you wish for, Fenris.
It'll be easy to find what makes him wail with change to spare at this rate, but ease is what'll bring on the next outcry that risks their secrecy. The next collapse into world-shattering oblivion shaped like Fenris' shuttling fingers as they spur him deeper and deeper, until there's no measure of the sounds he's making or the things he's saying— no measure of what anything is except for pure, unbridled perfection. The table he's been sat beside since childhood, reserved for people older than him. Smarter than him. Richer or better or more elegant. Bright, blinding, gleaming courtesans and their famous counterparts uncorking bottle after bottle of something that he'd never even caught a real whiff of in the air—
And now it's him sitting at that table.
Now the bottle is uncapped within his pearl-glazed hands, and he starves to squeeze it up against his lips and drink down every last drop as quick as it all comes. Now that he knows how consuming that it is, the reason why it's coveted— hoarded— there's no such thing as patience or sharing or restraint. Restraint. Restraint.
He isn't hard enough—
—and then he is. Between one stroke and the next he makes himself a mirror to the pressure fucking hard and fast inside him, scissoring, stretching, taking— each pump needier and more demanding than the last. Teaching him how hard, how deep, to lay himself, biting or kissing at anything in reach. Not to seduce, but to anchor.
He wants to make this last.
He knows he won't.]
Nngh— do you.
[He swallows air. Spit. Bliss.]
Do you need help getting off....
[His words are a hoarse whisper split between them, gleaming wet.]
....now that I'm inside you.
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That's the only word he can think of in this blinding eclipse of blown-out synapses and blinding arousal— the only word that matters right now. Yes, yes, yes, yes, roaring approval and panting desperation all tangled up into one heady wave poised to crash over him. Yes please yes, and it barely matters what the question is or what he's spurring on. Yes to the way Astarion feels between his legs, his thighs burning from the strain and the slick slide of skin against skin as he wraps his legs around him; yes to the burning pressure that stretches him open in one short, sharp thrust, forcing him wider with every ravenous pass until he swears he can't take anymore (and then does). Yes to the way he fucks him, hard and fast and and mercilessly, wedging his thickened prick in deeper and deeper until he can all but feel him in his throat, stuffed full and drowning in lust. Yes to the bites that send sharp shocks ricocheting through him, a deliciously dizzying counterpart to every hammering thrust, yes, yes, yes, yes—]
Yeah . . .
[Wait, what? The word slips past his lips in a daze, his eyes blown out black and utterly unfocused. It takes him a long second to realize that Astarion was taunting him; the moment the words register it sends another pulsing wave of arousal crashing through him, overwhelming enough to make him whine. Or maybe he'd already been doing that, maybe he's been doing that this whole time: whining and moaning and whimpering with unheeded volume, every bit of him consumed utterly with how fucking good this all feels.
Focus. Focus . . . but the trouble with that is that all he can think of now is how this is the first time. He'd been so lost in the moment he'd almost forgotten, but oh, that's another virginity that belongs to Astarion. First kiss (first real kiss, anyway, for Elise doesn't count, not right now), first orgasm . . . and now, the first time fucked. And that's hot for reasons he can't say; it's a possessive thrill that he and Astarion have one another's firsts (and he curls his fingers again, just to remind himself of it, this, this right here, this is mine).
He swallows thickly, scrambling to try and think of anything that isn't please please please keep fucking me please.]
Tell me when you get tired.
[Not a taunt, not this time. His retort comes in the way he squeezes tight around Astarion's cock, watching with satisfaction as his boyfriend's eyes roll back.]
And I'll ride you instead.
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The thought comes secondhand. Puppeteering him on strings when he's sumberged fully in constricted heat— hips rocking, teeth searching— he's not present as he reaches back to grab hold of strong wrists, pulling them up until Fenris' hands (and the slightly sticking tack of slickened fingers) brace on either hip. Stay here. Be here. Work him with nothing but those muscles and the bruising need to see this through again. Again. As many times as it takes for them to fall apart completely, useless and unrecognizable come morning light. Zevlor and Kanan might mourn them but gods above he won't— not if this is how he goes, buried within the only boy he's ever loved, cock first, tongues winding over one another. His first. His last. His everything.]
I'm tired.
[He says as if he wasn't just fighting yet another out-of-body shudder with his eyes rolled back under their lids, now instead unblinking. His hands still a vice around those wrists, his hips still working at a shiftless pace.
Not careful (dark lashes flicking up in shadow, gazing at the lover underneath him like a moth fixed on bright flame), indulgent.]
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Okay . . . okay—
[Up. Up— with an effort he forces his eyes open. There's a part of him that could lie here for hours in lazy contentment, but he wants the opposite, too. He wants to see Astarion between his thighs, squirming needily against the the sheets as he moans out petitions for more.
Still: that doesn't mean he has to disrupt everything. Fenris rises, but languidly so, using the momentum to catch Astarion in a kiss that's every bit as sweet and lazy as the slow pulse of his cock. Come here, sweet, the words whispered between them before he tangles their tongues together and pries his wrists free of that tight grip. Slowly his palms drift up the planes of Astarion's body, tracing out the sweat-slick span of his waist, feeling up the swell of his arms, until at last they brace on his shoulders. Let me try this, let me show you what I can do, let me ride you, as he pushes him down against the sheets and draws back to seat himself fully on his boyfriend's cock.
And nearly comes then and there from how fucking good it feels.
Not better. Not better, for that would mean anything before this was lesser, and that Fenris isn't willing to concede— but Maker, it feels good. It feels divine, Astarion's cock obscenely thick and heavy and so deep in him that Fenris swears somehow he's managed to gain another inch somehow. For a moment he teeters there, swallowing thickly as he sways, but oh— this is about showing off.
For perched like this, he's so aware of how— well, how defined he is. All those hours of training, all those endless sit-ups and push-ups and laps around the block, gods, they're paying off now, for there's such effortlessness to the way he can rise up and drop down over and over without losing his breath. His thighs flex, the muscles in his belly rippling as he finds his rhythm (is he watching, does he like this, does he like seeing me like this, does he notice, and he's so preoccupied with how Astarion sees him that he forgets to try and be graceful— but then again, inexperience lends its own confidence, and he's no idea of how much better he'll learn how to be). Up and down, back and forth, the pace (nearly) effortlessly steady. He plants one palm against Astarion's chest, panting down at him as he bounces and ruts.]
Feel— feel good?
[It's not a taunt, not right now, for they aren't competing in this moment. This is them, just them, adoring and hungry and blissfully in love. He leans forward, nudging their noses together just once before catching him in a slick kiss, hungry to taste every moan and whine that vibrates on his boyfriend's tongue.]
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Fuck, it does feel different.
Tighter.
Hotter.
Sharper.
A piercing sense of ricocheting pressure bouncing up and down across the stiff span of his cock, painting the walls in a percussive slap-slap-slap that echoes back each time it's mete out, leaving him all but seizing in its' wake. His mouth is open. His tongue is lolled and wet. His eyes are glassy as they stare at Fenris without blinking and— like the fever-kindled plunge of his own overswollen prick— through him, kept spellbound by the creature that sits perched atop him in a haze of backcast lantern light, long fingers fanned out in an arc across Astarion's caught heart, milking him to the edge of his succumbing limit: a Diamond in everything but name.]
Nh— mm-hm....yes.
[It doesn't matter that they're young. It doesn't matter that his only metric for this came out of picture books and pantomime and stolen words from eavesdropped conversations: he's convinced Fenris belongs here, not just in the Moulin Rouge, but here— right here— teaching him how to better fit into the whole of their perpetually shared shadows as a single mergered measure. Letting him taste the back of his tongue and piston his wild cock into places he'd never let anyone else see, let alone touch. Possessive and needy and greedy in a paradoxic twist that runs both servile and mean before—
Before—
His back arches. His hips can't— tanned thighs and a canting, pretty swell have pinioned them down— twisting up his fingertips in cotton as he whines the start of a sharp, suffocating cry that only hitches. Rises. Drops into a whisper whilst the rest of him stays high and stiff and locked.]
Please— Fenris, please please please—
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There's no world in which he doesn't give Astarion what he wants.
Because of how pretty he looks in orgasmic desperation (disheveled hair and sweat-touched skin glimmering in the warm lantern glow, his mouth red and slick and bitten as he gasps up at his beloved). Because of how he sounds as he begs (raw and throaty and starkly desperate, with none of that coy charm or arrogant grace to be found). Because of how fucking good he feels as he trembles taut between Fenris' thighs, his cock wedged in thick and deep and throbbing in need. Yes, Fenris thinks without thinking, his hips picking up their rhythm, for you, anything, always, yes, yes, yes, the word echoing in time with the slick sound of skin on skin. It's the only possible answer, generosity colored a vulgar shade but all the more earnest for it.
Yes, yes, yes, and he fights to squeeze over and over around the swell of Astarion's cock while still bouncing atop him, clumsy in lust and earnest in love. He can't keep rhythm, can't milk him the way he instinctively longs to, and for a moment he hesitates— only to realize a split second later that it barely matters just so long as he keeps moving, rocking, letting Astarion fuck into somewhere hot and tight and slick, yes yes yes—]
Come for me, sweet . . .
[He breathes it out coaxingly— and then watches in awe as Astarion unravels. His eyes dart around as he soaks up every detail, greedily hoarding each and every one (no one else will see him like this, no one else will know what it looks like when he truly falls apart). Astarion's expression contorts sweetly, and Fenris groans in sympathetic echo each time he whines or whimpers or wails his pleasure. His tips his head back, exposing the long, lean line of his throat, and Fenris darts down, biting a mark into unmarred skin, savoring the way Astarion jolts in avid response. Again and again he rocks with him, slamming his hips down for every frantic buck up, until at last—
Fenris shudders as Astarion's climax finally subsides, and it's only a little to do with how he's still achingly hard. But there's something about knowing that he's come in him— that he's claimed him . . .
And it doesn't mean anything, of course— but then again, it does. There's something deliciously possessive about it, primal and instinctive and right. Not definitive and cruel like a collar had once been, but rather something intimate: above anyone else, I chose you, I want you, you're mine and I'm yours.
And it's hot. Maybe it doesn't need more analysis than that.]
I liked you coming in me.
[There's questions he wants to ask. Vulgar ones, ones that he can't possibly think of articulating right now, even when he's speared atop his boyfriend's cock. Questions like can you see it on your cock if I lift up or do you think you've filled me up; things that burn at his brain but that his tongue outright refuses to curl around.
Next time. He'll ask next time, maybe, but right now . . . he nuzzles at Astarion's cheek, pressing a few aimless kisses to damp skin. Right now, he wants nothing more than to shower his boyfriend in doting affection. One hand cards through his hair as he noses against him, listening to the way he pants.
And then, murmured in his ear:]
I liked you begging, too.
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Every part of him is burning.
Gunpowder made up of tight-clenched inner thighs pulled close against his hips; kindling is the catch— the squeeze— wrung around the pith of his worn cock, hitching and shifting and settling around the way they're merged together, wrenching a scalding noise out of still-parted lips that he (oh, at this rate) might never close again. Gulping. Gagging, even. Whining like the spoiled thing he is and always has been. A mess of contradictions with a name he can't remember, swallowing air that feels like burning coal.
Air that feels like burning from the inside out.]
....I did too.
[That's what Fenris said, right? That he liked this— the come, or coming— something about that. Something beautiful. Something vulgar that leaves him shuddering hard enough for his teeth to chatter like he's cold— but he's not. Not Astarion. Astarion is still embers, after all. Belongs to heat and not the absence of it, still burning holes in messy sheets with lanky limbs and dumbstruck love and eyes that can't stay open, unlike the rest of him. He reaches out as if he were on a thread within the apex of it all, fingers trembling to the sound of ringing in his ears (and the dull pop of the flat top of his sandpaper tongue each time he moves to swallow), one hand falling around the junction of Fenris' leg and hip, and the other....
Oh it's where it belongs before he knows it. Bedded in the shadows under a strong stomach and narrowed ribs. Stroking at the stiff, heavy breadth of what's increasingly familiar to him now. What it is to hold his boyfriend's prick with hungry familiarity, greeting the little differences touch-first. A little leaner here; a little more flared there; straining heavy at the tip as it drools needily over his fingertips (those movements dangerously close to mirroring the sweatsoaked carding through his hair— high to low— high to low—) instead of starting at a laden hilt. He doesn't know how he knows the way it's meant to be, only that a shiver rouses in him, thinking right here. Right there. Like this.
Face canting to one side, searching with the outline of his teeth for baser contact.
(Or the memory of how to speak instead of thinking what it'd be like to bury his own tongue between tanned thighs.)
It's not fair they're out of sync.
It's not fair he's the only one who's spent.]
I wonder....[Astarion exhales into negative space and clips the edge of his newly claimed boyfriend's ear] ....if my bodyguard would look more handsome painted slick across my belly— or his own.
[I wonder if I could make you beg, too, underscores the rasping of each word. Too hard-ridden to sound like himself, not without a drink of water or wine. Not without giving up on the only thing he wants.]
Match the way you look inside.
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That's the only answer that counts, and it barely matters what the question is. Yes to the unspoken question of if he could get him to beg (easily, eagerly, whining and whimpering as if he's never known an ounce of shame). Yes to the way Astarion's fingers stroke his come-slick prick, high to low, high to low, and it's stunning how something so simple as a change in direction makes his thighs tremble and something searing hook deep in the pit of his belly. Yes to the suggestion of teeth against his ear and a slick palm roaming against his hip; yes to the sound of Astarion's voice low and throaty in his ear, murmuring such filth that sets off fireworks in his mind and dazes him to his core, yes, yes, yes—]
Ngh—
[A low moan slips past his lips instead of Astarion's name, and can anyone blame him? When his boyfriend whispers things that make him wring around the swell of his prick, face burning with desire and embarrassment both— when the thought of swaying on his heels, dripping with his own come and staring up at an enraptured, lustful Astarion captures his mind— when Astarion says such deliciously possessive things like my bodyguard— oh, Maker, he's only mortal.
He swallows thickly, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to focus— to remember how to think, or speak, or do anything beyond rut his hips forward and whimper in blatant approval. Jerking his head back, he stares down at his boyfriend.]
Across your belly.
[There, now. Fenris tips his head, dark hair hanging like a curtain around his face as he peers down at him.]
So that I can have a claim, too.
[He brushes his knuckles against the edge of one sweat-damp cheek.]
You came in me— claimed me— made me yours— and now I want the same. I want you to be mine, even if the two of us are the only ones who ever know it.
So . . . make me come on you, Astarion.
[Experimentally he moves his hips just once, rocking them back to see if he can wring out one last noise from his boyfriend.]
And then see what you find hotter.
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He wrings out more than that. The noises Astarion makes (the noises that he's been making) are ones he's never heard before in all his life— not even here behind closed doors or when they (once, and only once) crawled through the vents between walls on hands and knees, places where stoked cries of whores and clients both were amplified like echoes— and he has to shut his mouth rather than his ears this time to silence them. He's not the catalyst (oh that is spread out over him, tight and fluttering around him and drenched with enough sweat and slick and heat and come that it threatens to smother him with its beauty— he's obssessed, memories fly off the shelves to make room for the buzzing trapped beneath his tongue— and he reels, and— ) he's just the source. Just the reactive set of muscle and teeth that snaps shut around his own sleeve whilst he stares up at heaven through a haze of scalding tears. Just the part of him that exhales noisily through it, whimpering at the aftershocks lithe hips strive to massage loose without letting his soft cock slip free.
He hears the silk of his sleeve tear. Feels the stitches popping loose between his teeth as his vision blurs beneath another squinting whine, each breath bellowed back into his own nose by soft silk. By the weight and shape of his forearm, his other fingers groping deep into tanned thighs with deeper, more demanding strokes than before— catching on occasion with a ring finger or a pinky the soft, supple hang of swollen curves behind it; hot and velvet-soft in a way that's tempting him to stop and wrap around them— but he can't right now. Not yet. Not when he feels the jolt of tensed-up muscles. Hears the telling strain in Fenris' roughened voice. He's starting to know the warning signs, what to chase and when to make things come apart. Or maybe that's just hubris— but he thinks he does. He thinks he does.
So this time he runs high.
This time he doesn't care how much silk he ruins when he pulls his jaw back from his arm, spit trailing sticky in slight strands from the wet-cold spot of where his mouth had been and where his tongue pants pink between childishly delicate canines— only long enough to speak.]
I'm already yours.
[It burns his lungs, the strain that holds his breath inside them at the height of their expansion. The effort that it takes to speak instead of keening like he wants to, feeling his own ribs grip back against soft flesh, trying to squeeze another outcry from him. The sort of mutiny that makes the world spin and his senses smear like paint on canvas, turning Fenris' handsomeness into a wetter haze— but he holds on.]
Make it undeniable.
[Another stroke. Another catch of fingers. Another glazing streak of movement wrapped around a still-glossed crown that shivers in his grasp.]
Come, Fenris.
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All at once he's on the brink of orgasm.
Like throwing gasoline onto a blazing inferno: Fenris moans without shame as he throws his weight forward, bracing himself against Astarion so that he can rut. Fucking himself with a fervor that grows more frantic with every passing second, his hips snapping forward to grind needily against Astarion's palm, shuddering with every wringing twist of pale fingers. More oh Maker please Astarion please I need it I need you please, his words slurred and broken up by the growing cacophony of moans and whimpers and mewls, until at last it simply becomes an endless echo of please. His thighs tremble as he gasps down at his boyfriend, eyes rolling back for every squeezing tug (please please please), electricity jolting up his spine whenever knuckles tap against soft curves (please more please don't stop). And when he manages to force open his eyes—
Fenris doesn't have words for what it is to see Astarion looking like that as he lies between tanned thighs. Glimmering eyes filled with tears that spill down flushed cheeks, the imprint of bitemarks vivid against sweat-soaked skin, the rise and fall of a narrow chest as he exhales hotly with every panting breath, and that's to say nothing of the saliva glittering against his chin, nor the way he's so overwhelmed he has to bite and tear his precious silks just to stay silent— Maker. He's damningly seductive in his messiness, all his pretty veneers stripped away into this raw, panting, perfect Diamond.
Come, his incubus whispers, and Fenris can do nothing but obey.
He's deaf to the hoarse scream that rips its way out of his throat and echoes around the room; he's blind to the way it looks as the first pulsing splatter of pearl lands atop Astarion's belly. Head thrown back and throat bared, he's too busy rocking into that coaxing grip, fucking himself blind— no instincts, no rhythm, no thought, nothing but longing and lust thundering through his veins. Again and again and again, until with one final, shuddering thrust of his hips . . .
. . . he's spent. His softening prick drools out one or two more droplets that form a viscous connection between stomach and cock; sweat drips along his temples and trickles down his spine as Fenris shivers atop his mate.
And then—
But there's nothing. No thoughts. No desperation. That last orgasm wiped him clean, and for a long moment Fenris simply sways there, a loud ringing in his ears and all of him so spent. Sooner or later he'll remember how to talk, perhaps, but for now there's only the increasingly adoring way he's looking down at Astarion. Oh, it's you, something in him murmurs. I love you, simple and yet so powerful he doesn't dare say it. Not now. Maybe not ever, or maybe tomorrow.
They're teenagers, after all. Fickle things in love and lust (and maybe there's a part of Fenris that will take a long time to accept that Astarion means to be his).
No, wait. There's one thought that permeates all that fog. Fenris blinks slowly, and then, with great force of effort, mumbles:]
. . . fuck.
[Articulate. But happily so, at least.]
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He thinks with the same amount of grace he swallows by, scratchy and bobbing and as ungainly as a child—
—something he isn't now, though, is what comes rising to the surface. Through the high-pitched ringing in his ears that still sounds like Fenris' screaming and the shrill numbness of his fingertips now slid up around the nape of that lithe neck, left to shiver weakly in wet white hair. Through all the sticky, sweltering— and around their silhouettes, cold— sensations crawling in around them, he knows he's not a child anymore.
Children don't fall in love like this.
Children don't want to burn out from the inside and lap up come like cream, oh, no. That level of debauchery prints money here, and there's a reason why the sign on the front door makes damned well certain the only patrons passing through are those with age behind them. His heart is beating slower. Stronger. The jewelry he'd borrowed fits better where it's rucked up, gemstones glittering like welling droplets in the divots of his countours.
He feels taller, meeting Leto eye-to-eye at last now that they've grown. Face to face in ways they haven't been in years.
And then Leto arches forwards just enough to shift the pressure where they're bottled, and he lets out a heady groan as the entirety of his vision blurs (the slightest trickle slithering down between two sets of tangled thighs, coiled like a snake).]
And you....said I'm loud....
[He's smiling at a distance, ten thousand meters away from the place where an upwards angled cheek pushes hot against another. He wants to keep him here forever. Forever and a day, or as long as it takes to find the strength to wrap devotion round strong fingers like a band.]
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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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