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Elessar figured that he had seen the worst Elvhenan had to offer. Certainly, none of the fawning Dalish tales of The Good Old Days had held up. At least Abelas’ worst sin had been the lack of eyebrows, but with the other Elvhen he’d had to endure…
---
“Y’know, Scratch, it looks about your size. …makes sense, given the ears.”
“Put that shit down before I set it on fire.” Elessar eyed the strange, undulating leather armor in Varric’s stubby fingers with abject horror. He had seen that little halla stamp before. Not just in this strange section of the Crossroads, but crudely marked out by the sartors of Clan Lavellan on the hides they tanned. Ghilan’nain’s symbol. The youngest of their gods, curious and driven. His mother had worn her vallaslin, peeking grey beneath her hood as she taught him his letters.
It rippled on the cuff of the breathing coat. How Varric didn’t fling it away, feeling the body heat under his fingers, was beyond Elessar’s comprehension.
He distantly wondered if it was because Varric didn’t feel the reverberation of elven blood that crackled between himself and the cloth.
---
Standing over him with crossed arms, Felassan’s vallaslin creased across his brow. “It wouldn’t be as troublesome as you seem to think,” he half-argued, half-coaxed. “None of it would extend past the bounds of your dignity.”
---
“What- what is this?” The witch sounded… terrified. Hiding it well enough, but Elessar knew every tell. He’d been hiding them for years.
Her mother - his blood’s mother, their mutual mother, the All-Mother - stared back at her impassively. Almost… approvingly. As Morrigan struggled to move, Mythal’s rounded ears held his gaze and her words were lost to the air. He dumbly wondered if the lines of his vallaslin would encircle his throat if he tried to run.
---
“And what, in Elgar’nan’s name,” Elessar groused, looking up at the other elf balefully. “Would you know of dignity?”
---
The temple of Dirthamen was horrifying.
Those called to the vir’dirthera were lorekeepers. And these were no exception - Cole dutifully brought him every scrap of surviving parchment in the flooded halls, cataloguing and itemizing every horror inflicted on the high priest that had hallowed the sunken ruin. Elessar had taken to jamming them straight into his pouch when the first mention of degloving had arisen.
---
Like a supplicant, Felassan folded onto one knee before him. Elessar didn’t even do him the courtesy of setting aside his book. “You once said you would help me,” the Elvhen man quietly accused. “I have drawn much upon your kindness since, but has that oath been withdrawn?”
----
Cupping his cheek, Solas smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone. “I never imagined one like you, in all of my years of wandering,” he murmured with a wry smile. “The brilliance of your spirit in the Fade… it is unlike anything I have known.”
With a little scoff, Elessar mumbled, “Yes, well. You and I both.”
He hadn’t even wondered, in the moment, why Solas’s face had fallen so.
---
The former Inquisitor lifted up Hard in Hightown to block his view of those hopeful eyes. “Help you, yes.” Lips downturned, he muttered, “But I never promised to indulge your every perversion.”
Stretching up to put his chin over the dust jacket of the battered novel, Felassan finally dropped the stern mien to don his customary shit-eating grin. “Samahlin…” he whinged gleefully.
Elessar gave in to temptation and whacked him over the head with the book. The worst of Elvhenan.
---
It was haunting to watch the elf regard Amund so impassively. The Avvar usually generated some reaction from onlookers outside of blank acknowledgment. To his credit, the enormous human puttered away on his ritual with no care for his audience.
Elessar kept watching the elf. The Elvhen.
He had been picked up on the edges of the Frostback Mountains, carving out a meagre existence even by Dalish standards. It wasn’t unheard of for a Dalish to be made Tranquil. What was unheard of was one who freely admitted to not being Dalish, despite his vallaslin, and candidly explaining to the Inquisition scouts that he was a former General in the army of Fen’Harel. Luckily for the impassive idiot, he had run into Lace Harding rather than any other person, who would have (at best) dismissed him as insane. After obediently traipsing back to Skyhold with her, he had been presented to Elessar by Harding with the apprehension of one gingerly handing over one of Sera’s bee grenades.
There was no brand upon his forehead, but he was as lifeless as the other Tranquil that had haunted the Skyhold libraries. Cassandra and the remnants of the Seekers had been working their way through the Tranquil that would consent to Enchanter Rhys’s cure (those that hadn’t been made into ocularums, he reminded himself darkly) but Elessar wouldn’t have entered the White Spire for any reason in this world or the next. This was a compromise.
“The gods cluster around us,” the Skywatcher said mildly. “Might they recognize you?”
The Elvhen didn’t so much as cock his head. “What is left to recognize?”
It made Elessar’s skin crawl.
“Do you need to be like that?” he groused, looking away before those dull violet eyes could find him. “That was a normal question.”
Most Tranquil didn’t bother to perform expressions. This one, creepily enough, had taken to donning an unsettling death-mask grin when snapped at. He did so, replying, “Forgive me, Inquisitor. You are going out of your way for this. Even though it is quite possible that I will go mad and murder you immediately following the administered cure.”
“Mythal’enaste,” Elessar grumbled, giving it up. He returned to his prowling circuit of the hilltop, keeping one eye on the ancient elf in their midst. Between himself and the Skywatcher, the queer Elvhen would be handled.
Amund sat back on his heels, clear satisfaction on what little of his face could be seen. A heap of unidentified fur sat on a little stone table before him - Elessar noted a little trickle of blood down one side of it and swiftly looked away. Beneath, a small, smoky fire and some arrangement of rune-carved bones. At the Tranquil’s suggestion, Amund had sought out a spirit (to him, a god) of Devotion, opposite them beyond the Veil. It had seemed to bring a strange, abstract sort of amusement to their subject.
Had he known what sort of nuisance Felassan would wind up being, he may have kicked the whole damned altar down the mountain.
But probably not.
---
“No.”
Felassan, draped over his shoulders at the table like some sort of irritating cloak, gave a wordless whine. Elessar ignored him and continued eviscerating his lunch.
“Samahlin…”
He had never asked why Felassan called him ‘laughter’ - the answer would have unquestionably been ridiculous.
“Go fuck a shrub.”
At once, Felassan’s fingers started creeping down towards his waistband. Elessar shrugged him off hard enough to send the other elf toppling sideways. “A shrub, you nuisance.”
The Elvhen’s elbow landed on the table, posed with a smirk worthy of Varric with a handful of aces. “I prefer bush.”
Elessar glowered at him. Half out of direct annoyance, half because his first instinct had been to lean over and kiss the stupid expression off his face. “Mythal’enaste,” he groused, stabbing a piece of roasted potato hard enough to screech the fork across the plate. It didn’t help that the lunch was delicious. Felassan was a hell of a cook. If he would stick to the things that made him useful rather than the things that pissed Elessar off, they’d get along just fine.
‘Fine’ wasn’t the point, he’d come to suspect. His vexing houseguest pestered him incessantly, but so compulsively that it felt like he needed to do so. And whenever Elessar didn’t respond, the other would become increasingly agitated. At first, he’d humored him out of wary concern that the former Tranquil would start ripping up the floorboards with his powerful, erratic magic. Honestly, the first few times had been from explicit self-preservation. After spending a few weeks with Felassan, and seeing firsthand how often his mania could turn self-destructive, it became Felassan-preservation. If Elessar didn’t give him a good enough scowl whenever he played housecat and knocked over a vase, he’d slink off to a corner and stare holes in his own thighs with those gem-bright eyes.
Bastard. Damningly, Elessar understood. He’d dealt with abandonment rather differently, but no better. And he’d only lost an arm. Felassan had lost his mind.
Still, he wasn’t the type to coddle. Not that he thought the Elvhen would accept it, even if he was. So, when Felassan flopped back onto the surface of the table hard enough to rattle his mug, he only said, “Can you fuck off?”
“I certainly could,” Felassan mused mournfully. “I could wander out into the wilderness with only the clothes on my back and shoes on my feet, living like the poor Dalish until my merciless samahlin would have me back.”
Elessar muttered, “You don’t wear shoes.”
“But I will not!” continued Felassan, giving a dramatic wave. “For what would my poor, ornery, grouchy, cranky, quarrelsome Elessar do without me? Return to eating sticks and mud? No, he must not be left to languish in starvation, devoid of this Broken Arrow’s compassio-”
He thumped the Elvhen on the gut with the stump of his left arm, making him wheeze. And Elessar didn’t say You aren’t broken. He wasn’t in the habit of coddling or lying. Instead, he just reached out to steady his mug and gave Felassan another grimace. “At least sticks and mud are quiet.”
Felassan only went limp and draped backwards over the table. It seemed he was satisfied with his outburst. Turning back to his plate, Elessar left him to it. After a moment, the irritating man shuffled sideways and let one wrist rest against the stump of his arm. Rather than swatting him away, Elessar nudged back. They never talked about it. They didn’t want to. Even, he suspected, they didn’t need to. For all that Felassan fondly disparaged the Dalish, it was a very Dalish way of dealing with their mutual issues. Bury it under a tree, put the blame on someone else, and find community in spite of it all.
As he knocked back the last slug of weak ale, Elessar gave Felassan a poke with his fork. Instantly, the Elvhen sat up and grinned down at him. “Samahlin?”
“I’m finished.” Shoving his empty plate away, he stood from the table. “Go do the dishes.”
The prosthetic was fine. Elessar suspected it was a damn sight better than any other in his situation could have hoped for. Still, after the second shattered teacup, he’d foisted the eternal chore of washing up on Felassan. It suited them both fine. The Elvhen was the better cook among them, after all, so it was only fair that he be the one to tidy as he went. And Felassan didn’t complain. He never did, not seriously. Sometimes Elessar wished he would just so he’d feel more justified in his own snarking.
Then Felassan snatched up the discarded fork and stuck it between his own lips, giving an over-the-top, wanton moan at the taste of Elessar’s mouth, and Elessar thanked the false creators that Felassan was only exactly as irritating as he was.
With a disgusted scoff, he stalked off to the bedroom. Their little Free Marches house had two - three, in fact, if he could have been bothered to spend Inquisition coin on more shemlen furniture - but he wouldn’t sleep on the main floor. Not after the second night in Kirkwall, when he’d woken to some ex-Templar militia member peeking through the window. And, naturally, Felassan refused to sleep alone. After catching a glimpse of the sorts of nightmares the Elvhen could be victim to, Elessar barely complained about his presence in the bed. At least the ‘Herald of Andraste’ warranted a decently sized mattress. In theory, there was plenty of room for two. In practice, he crushed himself against one wall in as small a heap as he could manage and invariably woke boxed in by a broad, warm chest.
Elessar heard the clinking of ceramic downstairs as he opened the window and reeled the clothesline in. The sprinkling, misty rain of the last week had finally cleared up enough to allow for a proper laundry day, so there was a prodigious mound of clothing heaped on the dresser-top when all was gathered. It was oddly nice, feeling the sun-warmed fabric with its soft, clean smell piled up in his arms. Arm. Whatever. The material was all far finer than anything he would have seen in Clan Lavellan, save maybe the halla-leather gloves of the Keeper.
Though his fingers were stiffer and clumsier, they remembered how to roll the leggings and smooth the shirts. He’d done it countless times with his mamae. First from her lap, more playing than helping, then at her side. Their aravel had had seventeen clothespins - eighteen to start, but he’d broken one trying to hang up a thick woolen cloak - and he still remembered their shape in his missing hand all the many years later. Turning in the sleeves of the linen blouses, he tried to remember the feeling of warm halla fur beneath it instead. Unfairly, it only made the absent palm tingle unsettlingly. No matter. He could do it one-handed. Trapping a stray sock under his stump, he rooted through the pile for its mate.
It was only when he heard an appreciative hum from behind that he realized the noises of dishwashing had stopped a few minutes before. Looking up into the cloudy mirror atop the dresser, half-blocked by laundry, he caught sight of Felassan’s smug face.
He had to hide a little smile in a huff. “What? Finished with the dishes?”
“No,” Felassan answered sweetly. “I have abandoned my task to bother you in yours.”
Elessar’s eyes narrowed as he watched the other elf in the reflection. The remnants of suds lingered on Felassan’s pushed-up sleeves. Liar. “Then you can help me fold.”
A truly aghast expression twisted Felassan’s vallaslin. “And deprive myself of the chance to watch you do it?”
The only response Elessar gave was a disgusted grunt. Turning back to his task, he ignored Felassan’s wiggling, mirrored in his peripheral vision, and fumbled his way through pairing up socks. For all that they shared only three pairs, it was pestilent enough trying to bunch them up with a single hand. When he’d finally managed it, he looked back up into the mirror only to find Felassan had taken to entertaining himself. Savagely, Elessar considered lighting his hair on fire, but knew better than to provoke the recently-Tranquil mage’s mana unexpectedly. Still, it was tempting.
Because the rotten elf had shimmied his trousers down and was languidly reclined on the pillows, stroking his hard cock and ogling Elessar shamelessly.
If he hadn’t spent the better part of five minutes trying to force them together, Elessar would have thrown a pair of the socks at him. As it was, he gritted his teeth and carried on.
To Felassan’s credit, he was keeping quiet. Rather than flailing about, moaning like a whore, he lounged like an emperor and ran a hand over his shaft with a nearly contemplative energy. A waterfall of dark, unbound hair rolled over their pillows. His smirk was less smug and more musing. Almost, if the slightly warped mirror could be trusted, fond. Elessar’s nose crinkled. He would suffer desire more gladly than yearning.
Their eyes met again in the mirror and Felassan’s smirk turned sharper. “Leave the chores,” he ordered breezily. “Come here.”
Elessar shook himself free of a gauzy scarf - he had to cover his face when they went out, for even in Kirkwall, he was far too well-known - and plunged his hand back into the pile of washing before he could use it for a rude gesture. “You’re doing just fine on your own,” he growled.
A quiet tsk that he ignored. “Come now, samahlin. Can you not see that I ache for the touch of your stump?”
“Mythal’enaste,” he swore, again. Forget that the only blessing the old witch had ever extended him was a stagnant pool, he would take her up on it gladly enough now. He could have used it to drown the irritating Elvhen man in his bed.
Felassan stretched out more provocatively across the pillows. With a low moan, he gripped the headboard with his free hand, letting the hem of his shirt ride up and expose more of his tanned belly. His trousers gaped open as he stroked himself, mouth open and eyes half-lidded. “Void take you,” he drawled. “Feels- feels so much better when you do it. When you lower yourself to touch me, holy Herald that you are.”
This time, Elessar really did flip him off. Felassan only laughed and kept going.
“Not the Herald, then. Dalish - my Dalish lover. How do the Dalish seduce one another?”
“Well, how did they in your clan?” Elessar grumbled sarcastically. He fussed with the single remaining set of trousers. The folding was quite finished, but his alternative was joining in the nonsense happening in his bed.
Humming faux-thoughtfully, Felassan arched his back and fucked lazily into his hand. “I cannot quite recall.” With a snicker, he lilted, “Oh, Keeper - will you tell me the tale of how June put his tools in Sylaise’s hearth? Will you show me?” Elessar felt like throttling him. Setting all irreverence aside - there wasn’t much point to defending the ghosts of liars - the room was quiet enough that he could begin to hear the soft rasp of skin on skin as Felassan stroked himself off. Even, when his own silence drew on, the point at which leaking precum made the sound grow slick.
It was one of his life’s many great tragedies that Felassan had such a lovely cock. Elessar followed its gentle curve in the mirror. Whenever the flushed tip peeked from his fist, a little gasp parted the other elf’s lips. For the ‘Slow’ Arrow, he could be worked to near-completion in a matter of moments. It wasn’t worth teasing him about; it only led to either whining or goading. The library of irritating fucking sounds that Felassan could make was truly staggering. At present, his breathless panting was starting to grate.
If Elessar was being entirely honest, half of the irritation came from the warmth pooling between his own legs.
He finally shoved the laundry away and turned towards the bed, trying to ignore the immediate brightening of Felassan’s expression. Rather than joining him atop the covers, Elessar just leaned back against the dresser, folding what was left of his arms. Felassan’s smile lapsed into a pout.
“You,” grumbled Elessar. “Are a pest.”
Felassan smiled easily. “I cannot hear you from all the way over there.”
Fenedhis. Stepping forward until his knees just met the foot of the bed, Elessar reiterated, “You piss me off.”
“Ah,” Felassan lamented with a simper. “From across a chasm, you cry out to me, but the wind whips your adoring words away…”
Against his best judgment - although, look where that had previously gotten him - Elessar leaned forward and put his right hand on the covers. Trying his best to crawl up into the bed gracefully, he ignored Felassan’s widening grin and bent until his mouth was just level with the other elf’s ear. Without lowering his volume, he deadpanned, “I truly cannot stand you.”
Beneath him, Felassan only laughed. “Lie down, then!” He made a grab for Elessar’s hair.
There was no way he had forgotten. Ever since Elessar could hold a knife, he’d worn one at his waist. Being so slight and flighty had led many to take liberties with his personal space. He’d gotten quite good at dissuading it with the point of his little blade. His stump of elbow dug into Felassan’s gut as he shifted his weight, flicking the knife up into his grip and burying it to the hilt in the headboard. The wayward hand was pinned (by the sleeve, mercifully) with ease. Felassan, the bastard, looked up at him with entirely indecent hunger. Aroused by violence. One of his lesser faults, all told.
He easily could have slipped out and reached up for another grab. Magic, yanking his shirt free, or just taking his other hand off his fucking cock for a moment would have been simple enough. Instead, Felassan stroked himself faster, panting as he looked up into Elessar’s murderous face. “Touch me,” he dared, voice ragged. “Undress. Something. Come on, Dalish.”
Elessar sneered down at him, digging the end of his forearm into Felassan’s belly before rocking back to sit on his heels. The Elvhen’s eyes followed his movements hungrily as he wrestled open just enough of the buttons to tear the shirt off over his head. It got Felassan’s attention, certainly - those violet eyes fixated on the small swells of Elessar’s chest with feral lust. Each time they did this, Felassan seemed almost possessed by a ravenous, possessive hunger. It spoke to both his millennia of isolation and the shivering, bone-deep memory of how easily all feeling could be wrenched from him. When feeling found him, he gripped it with both hands.
Knocking one of those hands out of the way, Elessar wrapped his slender fingers around Felassan’s thick cock and took up pumping. Felassan fairly melted into the duvet, growling out a moan of disjointed Elvhen syllables.
Part of Elessar (a part that he didn’t remember existing before Felassan, a corner of his self that could look at the world through a sharp, laughing lens) vaguely wished that he still had the Anchor. He’d gotten rather good at channelling magic through that hand, towards the end. He would have hummed the crackling Fade through Felassan’s cock until he was cumming dry, thrashing powerlessly beneath Elessar’s touch. Felassan would have let him, he knew. Any touch Elessar gave him, the Elvhen sucked back like his first gasp of air.
He gave his shaft a harsh squeeze on the upstroke and Felassan yelped. His other hand, still slick with his own precum, came to rest on Elessar’s left bicep. Elessar shook it off.
“Let me touch you?”
“No.”
The whine that Felassan let out was of an entirely different character than his earlier whinging. It was desperate. Elessar didn’t let up.
“F- Please, samahlin, I need- I need to touch you-”
“Bear it.”
Nearly sobbing, Felassan’s messy hand buried itself in the sheets at his side. Elessar didn’t reward it. He could hear the fibres of Felassan’s shirtsleeve as the knife started to shear through. Ineffective as a true restraint. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of restraining him some other way - the oak of the bedframe had been pliable enough with Felassan’s command of magic to wind carven branches around Elessar’s ankles, once. There were ropes somewhere. Were either of them patient enough for it?
A thick bead of precum drooled from Felassan’s cock and gathered on the tip. Pausing just long enough to scoop it onto his fingertip and smear it beneath Felassan’s belly button, Elessar watched him swear in a dead tongue and beat his fist uselessly on the mattress. No. Patience was for those with time and tolerance, both of which he lacked.
Evidently, Felassan’s boundless tolerance was being similarly tested. As Elessar paused to slap the underside of his blush-dark shaft, Felassan arched clear off the mattress, nearly shouting. “El- Elessar, please-”
Elessar braced his blunt forearm on Felassan’s pelvis and bore down, trying to pin the bucking, desperate Elvhen. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck me, please-!” He seemed to seize on it, twisting against the knife pinning his wrist. “Elessar, fuck me, fuck me- Please fuck me-”
Thank the spirits that he’d shut the window. For all of his earlier cockiness, Felassan yowled like an alleycat when properly pressed. The room felt steamy, smelling of sweat and sex and the ever-present Kirkwall mildew. Elessar watched his second worst lover fuck into his hand and tried to keep his face still. In truth, annoyance was rising alongside arousal in his belly. Not only would Felassan be getting what he wanted, but they’d have to do fucking laundry again. The soft briefs he’d overpaid for in some Hightown shop were soaking through and sticking to his skin. If nothing else, he could get some more gloating in.
The bed creaked as Elessar bent low over Felassan, mouthing roughly at his throat. Pulling his hand free to wrestle with his own drawstring, he muttered, “Noisy idiot. How were you ever a spy? Never- Never shut up-” He could barely push his trousers down - as soon as he’d let go of Felassan’s cock, the other elf had started clumsily groping at him. When he finally managed to force the fabric down around his thighs, Felassan managed to wrench free of the little knife in the headboard and used both hands to seize Elessar’s waistband.
“T-terrible spy,” he agreed breathlessly, raking greedy eyes over the slickness on Elessar’s thighs. “Obviously. F-Fen-”
He should have killed you correctly, a wretched little voice in Elessar’s head said poisonously. He wasn’t certain which of them it referred to. It barely mattered. Kicking inelegantly, he managed to struggle out of his pants and throw one leg over Felassan’s hips.
For a moment, he thought the Elvhen man might cry.
He sank down onto Felassan’s cock slowly, revelling in the initial ache. A few times, he’d allowed proper preparation - all lights off, ghosts beneath the covers, hands more tender than their words ever were - but in most circumstances, Elessar wanted it to hurt. His cunt stretched around Felassan’s girth as he took him to the hilt. Felassan’s shaking fingertips sent lightning pinpricks zinging through his hips while he struggled to maintain control of himself.
Normally Elessar had the fouler mouth when swearing in earnest, but Felassan gasped out whispered oaths with every breath as they began to move together. Elessar said nothing, bracing his left forearm on Felassan’s chest and gripping the splintered headboard with his right hand. The idea of putting his weight on the Elvhen’s throat flickered across his mind, but was chased away. He had Felassan where he wanted him. Desperate, wretched, and looking up at Elessar as if either of them could save the other. Elessar gritted his teeth and bore down, forcing his knees further apart. ‘Whole’ had never been in the cards - he’d certainly take ‘full’ as a stopgap.
“Perfect f-fucking body on you-” Felassan breathed, just barely rocking his hips. “Don’t stop, pretty boy…”
With a dismissive grunt, Elessar started to truly move. Either Felassan had exhausted himself or he simply wanted to watch Elessar’s small chest bounce as he humped down against him. His full lips worked soundlessly. Now that they were fucking properly, the room was almost silent. Elessar panted roughly, Felassan whined with every inhale, and the much-abused bedframe creaked in rhythm.
In the whisper-thin quiet, he could hear the strokes become wetter. Spirits help him, it felt good to ride the irritating elf currently circling gentle thumbs over his hipbones. Even if his face was all too tender. Damn him.
Damn himself, as well. “Don’t stop now.” Grimacing down at Felassan’s immediate grin, Elessar huffed, “Can’t shut you up a-and- now you’re-?” When did he start to crave his voice? Around the same time he started to crave his presence? Was it before or after they first collided, teeth digging into lips and throats, fingers digging into broken minds and shattered hearts, forcing them back into shape between hands clasped so frantically that they wound up clawing into each others’ skin?
Felassan’s pelvis tilted just-so and Elessar’s grim musing went fuzzy. The next upward pulse boiled it away to nothing.
“Feels so good when you fuck me like this,” Felassan gritted unsteadily. Elessar could feel him shuddering, holding back his climax. “Deep- Fenedhis, Elessar, please, I need- Love how you fucking feel- Need you- Please, I-!”
Too close. Elessar avoided the word at all costs.
He brought Felassan’s babbling to a mess of snarling by squeezing his internal muscles as hard as he could manage. The hands at his hips turned to an iron grip, nails digging in as Felassan threw his head back and groaned like he’d been punched. Elessar moved his hand from the headboard to Felassan’s shoulder and braced to bear down. The new stability evidently made Felassan brave enough to clutch Elessar’s hips hard and use them as handles to fuck into him with renewed force. Not fast, but deep and hard, slamming up into him ruthlessly. It was exactly what they both needed. They were exactly what they both needed.
“Hard- Harder-”
“Please-!”
“Take it, take it all-” Elessar’s bitten-down nails pressed ragged crescents into Felassan’s tanned skin. Turning his head, but keeping his eyes locked on Elessar’s, Felassan mouthed at his pale wrist.
Violet eyes almost midnight with arousal, Felassan choked out, “Let me cum?”
“Inside-!”
The instant he had permission, Felassan’s mouth fell open around a drawn-out groan, the rhythm of his thrusts faltering as he jerked upwards into Elessar’s aching, soaked cunt. Before Elessar could taunt anything about the ‘slow arrow’, the thin veneer of his control snapped, Felassan setting his palm against his lower back and flipping him with unfair ease. After a few more sloppy, useless thrusts of his spent cock, he pulled out and almost hoisted Elessar up against the pillows. He ducked down and slung both of Elessar’s pale legs over his shoulders, folding him in half before he had a chance to take a full breath.
Elessar’s snarl turned to a thin cry, pressed from him as his lungs were compressed. It lengthened and intensified as Felassan’s tongue - that fucking tongue of his, never still - licked him from the tight ring of his ass to his sensitive, untouched clitoris. All of the breath left him as Felassan’s lips sealed around his hole and sucked. As Felassan sucked his own cum out of Elessar’s raw, still-fluttering cunt, all Elessar could do was bury his hand in those thick brunette locks and pull hard.
“Fel- Fuck- fuck you, ah-!” Raking at his scalp, Elessar pounded his left elbow against the bed in frustration. All Felassan did was rumble out a laugh that he felt more than heard.
Rearing back, Felassan loomed over him and roughly grabbed at his jaw. Elessar obediently parted his lips. From mere inches away - the furthest thing from a kiss - Felassan spit the mix of his own seed and Elessar’s creamy cum into his mouth. Savagely, Felassan grinned, his mouth smeared with their mess, his curtain of wild hair making him look utterly feral.
“Show me.”
He wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Instead, Elessar let his tongue sloppily loll out, cum dribbling down his chin. The filthy sight sent a shiver through his Elvhen menace.
Hoarsely, Felassan whispered, “Now swallow.”
Elessar did. Salty, thick. It was a humiliating communion.
Scooting back down, Felassan mouthed at his cunt with more technique and less hunger. Elessar felt filthy mewls bubbling from between his cum-smeared lips. Somehow, with Felassan’s hot tongue pressing into his raw hole and slurping hard around his pulsing clit, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The fucking ceiling could have caved in and he wouldn’t have cared as long as those quicksilver throbs of pleasure kept flashing up his spine.
Vaguely, he registered himself choking out half-words that could have been pleas. Felassan answered in guttural elven, pulling the lips of Elessar’s cunt apart with his thumbs to attack his clit directly. It was far, far too much. He always was.
“Don’t stop don’t stop d-!”
Felassan skipped over whatever smart remark he may have made. With Elessar’s thighs clamping down around his ears, he hollowed his cheeks and nursed him into a shatteringly intense orgasm. Elessar let out a near-scream as his five remaining fingers dug hard into Felassan’s scalp, trying uselessly to both tug him closer and push him away. That clever tongue didn’t let up until tears streamed down his flushed cheeks.
When Felassan finally gave him the mercy he was sobbing for, he slowly unfolded Elessar down to lay him flat on his back. Soothing his squirming - the rough wool of their bedding was scratchy torment on his sensitive skin - Felassan laid his cheek on Elessar’s quivering belly and pillowed himself there. Elessar was too weak to push him off, both physically and… well. Blanking out his mind had evidently done away with his senses as well.
The aftershocks thrummed through him long after the pleasure levelled out. Vaguely tousling Felassan’s hair, Elessar finally took a deep breath, his eyelids drifting closed. Spirits.
Felassan was generous enough to give him three long inhales before his fingertips crept over Elessar’s sweaty midsection. They traced a slow pattern, making him tense and squirm uselessly.
“Quit.”
“Hush,” Felassan murmured, pressing a kiss just below Elessar’s bellybutton. “Allow me this.”
Though Elessar’s own grip tightened in that ruffled mess of dark hair, his protests lapsed without a fight. He rather thought he’d allowed Felassan far too much so far. It was hardly his fault, really. He’d simply had no idea how much he had left to give another. Feeling those careful fingers draw a gentle design over his cooling skin - an arrow with feathered fletching, if the delicate flicks of paired nails were any indication - Elessar tried to make himself relax. It was awful. It had to be awful.
Damn it all to the Void, he would not trade it. Whether Felassan would return the sentiment was irrelevant. Many things became irrelevant in his sunrise presence. As he felt the long arc of a bow nock to the arrow, he gave the elegant tip of Felassan’s ear a soft pinch. There was nothing between them. No sharp-edged history or haunting words could part the warm cheek from his sweaty middle. Elessar took one more breath and sank in, hilting in the moment.