It’s charming, how earnest Fenris is, even submerged beneath the throes of overwhelming sensation. Voice laced with ardor in that single exhale: yes. Yes, he says, as though Astarion might’ve wavered otherwise. As though he isn’t teetering on the edge of his own relentless hunger, a sanguine monster not meant to be trusted in the slightest.

And there’s such strange mercy in that. Such humanity spared for a thing like him.

If he hadn’t fallen for Fenris before this moment, he might’ve now.

His hold on the base of Fenris’ prick is fierce; his hold on his throat equally as demanding, and the two work in tangent to overwhelm. Deft fingers shuttling down, squeezing tight just before they drag upwards against the ridge line. A coaxing rhythm, warming him to the idea of relaxing into him completely.

When Astarion breaks away, lips still painted with dripping crimson, it’s only to kiss and suck with lazy attention at Fenris’ neck, mouthing praise down into vulnerable skin.

You’re delicious in so many ways, I could spend an eternity marking them all.

His movements stir faintly, that shuttling pace quickens.

How beautiful you look like this.

Because he is. He truly is, resting there entirely undone within Astarion's grasp.

How much I’d steal from you if I could—