Oh, to feel Fenris lower himself. To feel him tighten, body shuddering with the keen reverberation of being driven down into the earth itself, wet and wanting in all the best ways. Astarion hardly needs to look (though he does, oh he does) to know Fenris has already strained to work at his own prick between buckling thrusts that run high and heady across the map of his senses each time they catch, buried so deeply he couldn't possibly take more.

But Astarion's avaricious at heart. Greed stitched into his bones, his blood. And when Fenris' moans grow to their own fever pitch, Astarion pulls him back, dragging the marked elf to his chest by a distinctly impatient measure: leaving his legs splayed wide around Astarion's own, the whole of his body bared as he's fucked up into— obscene and vulgar and so distinctly beautiful to Astarion's mind.

His teeth find their way to an overlong ear, sharp fangs nipping through the edges of ragged, panting breaths, voice gone rough and dark with the blooming rush of pure, unfiltered lust.

"You're nearly there, aren't you darling." Breath warm as it snakes along the shell of Fenris' ear, slithering down his neck. A single hand wraps its way around Fenris' cock, fingers intertwining with lyrium-marked counterparts, squeezing against the drawing shuttle of every stroke.

"...let me help you."