It's a low, rolling laugh that runs through him for being snapped at— and it vanishes in the very next beat as Fenris groans, every inch of him stunning in how he braces himself against the floor for everything Astarion has to give. Beautiful for more than just the rise of color in his cheeks or the tips of his ears, lips parted to pant and gasp in feathering rushes, his green eyes gone hazy with affection.

With need.

It takes so little after that.

He hadn't realized how close he was to the edge (or maybe the vampire wasn't close at all), until the second that a faint catch of wet heat runs high across his own stomach— until Fenris comes, tightening around the punishing thrust of Astarion's brutal cock, their hips sore and bruised from impact (and yet it's bliss, oh, it's bliss)— his own back suddenly arching as he nearly locks in place with a violent, snapping shudder: pouring himself down deep into that waiting hole, his face buried in the ruddy mess of Fenris' throat as stars fleck across his vision and everything, every last sense left in him, goes dark with climax.


He stays there, you know.

In the aftermath. In the seconds and minutes that follow, tacky with sweat and blood and panting softly where he lies in a tangled heap overtop his own beloved companion, limbs listless, curls a scattered, dampened mess. Every bit of him spoiled with comfort, the soft gift of enveloping heat.

And when he speaks at last, his voice sounds rougher than usual. Hoarse and low and raw, besides.

"...quite a celebration, I'd say." It comes with a kiss set lazily to Fenris' jaw, doting in the simplest sense. "But, just in fair warning, I think our neighbors might've heard us anyway."

Far more effort's employed in reaching high to coast his own pale fingers between wayward strands of fringed white hair.

"Especially you."