There's a balance here, a careful reading between two souls who have been in this position through no true choice of their own far too often to ever really forget. There is negotiation, finding lines that Fenris didn't even known existed until someone else stumbled across them. Biting at every wound, even accidental, meant learning to keep distance. Meant becoming numb to the ache of wanting to be known and touched. Like slipping into warm water after being too cold, the first sensation is pain. But then it soothes, and even if Astarion is fucking him with his fingers, taking care not to be delicate with him, that's precisely what this is.

Fenris arches his back at the flicker of Astarion's tongue inside him, working alongside clever and insistent fingers. Tension ripples through him and he drags at the grass beneath his palm. It's gone before he can think to seek more, and just as soon replaced. The blunt brush of Astarion's cock makes his breath stutter as his body yields to this, too.

Head down, the marked elf tries to keep his breathing deep as Astarion grips his hip, pulling, guiding. Fenris realizes he is sinking back, encouraging, taking what is being given with a similar (though in this, more hesitant) hunger. Slow. Even if it is unasked for, he is grateful for Astarion's awareness of what he might need. A far, far cry from the last moment he was face-down like this. Even the praise, good boy, lands differently. His forearms slide forward, stretching his back even as he follows the guiding hands. He did not think he could ever welcome this fullness again.

When his voice slips out again it is in a soft slur of Tevene with none of the harder edges of his cursing. Perhaps praise. Whatever it is, Fenris apparently cannot be bothered to translate himself.