Astarion doesn’t judge. Fenris, after all, has spent days seeing him flinch, seeing him cower at nothing, fretting and sinking deeper into the apprehensive certainty of despair. They wear their scars differently, true, but he knows what it is he spots lurking in that tightened grimace.
He won’t force it away.
“They say when you can’t see, all your other senses heighten to compensate.” He reaches out for Fenris’ hands, his own soft, uncalloused, pressing them slowly across the span of his own chest— his ribs, the vulnerability of guarding bone beneath corded muscle.
“I want you to feel me.”
Slow press, easy contact. The rise and fall of his chest as he breaths, the hum of when he speaks.
“I want you to commit it all to memory. Tell me everything you sense.”
"I'm-" Fenris' eyes blink open, studying Astarion's face, trying to find something there that doesn't exist. Perfect clarity would be a difficult thing to force into his scrambled mind; he still wants it. "You may be very... disappointed by my efforts. I already have you memorized."
“You’re cheating.” He counters smoothly, wearing the edge of a smile as he peers down at that studious gaze.
It might be easier to work through this if Fenris were drunk, or at the very least pleasantly buzzed, but Astarion wants this to be uninhibited. Clear.
Something for Fenris to remember on the long nights ahead— or something to keep him alight if he’s turned, and the both of them are forced to lovingly carve the skin from one another’s bones for the rest of eternity.
“Try again.” He moves Fenris’ hands lower, down to the narrow span of his waist. That long-cast throat suffused with kisses around silvery leylines, curls brushing at his skin, weight resting easily across his hips as he rolls them faintly, clothing a mild barrier between bare skin and wanting— the scent of perfumed oil clinging. “You’ve seen me well enough. I want to hear about the rest.”
His smile twists a little more acutely, charmed.
“And if you know everything already, well, that ought to make this quite easy.”
If it's a challenge, that is something Fenris can contend with far more easily. He closes his eyes again, but this time with more determination than wariness. His hands lose their gauntlets easily, and bare hands begin to trace Astarion's features.
"A mole," he says, thumb drifting over Astarion's side. The other hand roams up Astarion's arm. "A little scratch here, long-healed. Something hit you in Thedas."
“Myself, actually,” correcting that claim with a throaty chuckle— his fingertips coasting across Fenris’ where they’re settled. “Completely hammered wagering a bet in Lowtown, first time I’d felt alcohol in my blood in ages. Went to stand up at such an odd angle that I reeled right back into some nobody and their poorly sheathed dagger. Utterly embarrassing.”
Fenris leans forward, his face pressed into Astarion's chest. A rich, deep peal of laughter falls from him, fond and tired. "Endearing," he corrects. "Utterly unique."
Hands wrapped around Astarion, Fenris knows from pure muscle memory how to avoid the scarring on his back.
There, a laugh. A real spark of it, and not some half-formed breath tumbling from Fenris’ teeth, rare as a caught star. He matches it with his own, more subdued for its adoration, arms folding around the steady slope of Fenris’ neck, keeping him near.
“Well. I’m glad my folly has you so charmed.”
He reaches beside them then, into the assembly of bedding and brought trinkets, and uncorks something that smells overly sweet. Fragrant. Alluring, even. To Astarion’s cursed tongue when he drinks, it tastes only of bitter ash, cloyingly disagreeable—
The back of his hand tilts Fenris’ face higher, jaw that lone point of contact for a single, heady beat.
“Now, back to our game. Tell me what you taste.” All smooth seduction, the promise of prowling delectation, between the smell that clings and the look in his eyes it all suggests lurid satisfaction.
Instead, when he kisses Fenris, tongue slipping easily between teeth— it’s overwhelmingly acidic. Bitter. Like pure lime juice, or something else equally laden with citrus, tart enough to shock even the most well-guarded of senses.
Fenris doesn't balk when he is kissed, when that strong citrus invades his senses. He does look a bit displeased when he pulls back, brows creased over eyes still closed. "Your taste in wine has depreciated, or you are trying to drug me."
Scoffing, he drops his head in faint defeat, though he is laughing mildly for his trouble.
“Neither.” Though all things considered, he supposes he could’ve bought himself a little more time with Fenris if he were wicked enough to be venomous here. Maybe it’s a shame he’s lost all his former, dastardly bite and replaced it with softer, more vulnerable shapes. “I was hoping to have you reeling. A little joke, of sorts.”
He moves a few fingers higher, smoothing out the front of Fenris’ bangs.
“Apparently you’re much too resilient for me to toy with.”
Fenris looks up, finally opening his eyes to squint. It's not true anger-- that familiar sight can be easily discerned-- but definitely annoyance. It certainly changes his mood, a fickle thing to begin with, for the night.
"You wear the blindfold." Fenris pushes Astarion back, roughness just on the edge of playful.
What remains of his laughter is smooth-cut, sweet-voiced, even as he’s overruled without much of an opportunity for protest— already well sunken into the bedding when he finally counters:
Fenris rolls on top of him, as casual as it is immediate. He's affixing the blindfold when he snaps back, "you had more plans to tease me for petty amusement?"
It could be an accusation, and there is some of that in there, but mostly his voice is fond.
“One can hardly blame even a tamed snake for wanting to nibble every now and then...”
His eyes are shut beneath the blindfold, lips curled high in a smile that’s only worn when he’s been caught red-handed, though it’s all overwritten by the steady prickle of rushing thrill at being so sightless— fingertips raised and searching for purchase, aimless beyond the sound of Fenris’ voice.
“Besides, I thought tonight was supposed to be about my fantasies. Maybe all I wanted was to hear you laugh a little longer.”
He’s always loved watching that brow line crease with vivid tension— only to break like a wave against the shore.
Fenris catches both Astarion's hands, thumb pressed into each wrist, and plants them firmly on the bed, bracketing Astarion's jubilant expression. He leans forward to grumble in Astarion's ear, "then you ought to consider telling better jokes," before turning his head to bite into the meat of Astarion's inner shoulder.
It's not hard enough to break the skin, and in truth Fenris isn't entirely sure why he's doing it... except, perhaps it's that biting and necks have entered the vocabulary of their congress so thoroughly. He may as well give it a try.
It is lurid, the moan that elicits: some half-gasping thing, arching him fully from the pressure at his wrists all the way down along every inch of his spine, brought on by the fever-hot sinking of teeth against his skin— and perhaps, just as importantly, the cleverness of that comeback.
Touché, darling.
“If this is how you intend to counter my own failings,” he muses, breathless when he turns to try and scuff his cheek against Fenris’ ear— impatient in the way he cants his hips ever higher— more starved for contact in this moment than any he’s known before. “Then I’m afraid you're only going to have yourself to blame for a lifetime of disappointment.”
Fenris repositions himself so his hips slot entirely between Astarion's legs. All his weight now rests on Astarion's wrists, and he thinks Astarion will like that. And if he doesn't, Fenris will surely hear about it.
"I look forward to it," Fenris says, moving his head to worry the other side of Astarion's neck. He's excited by the reaction that bite elicited, and wants to try again, slower, with more buildup.
Astarion is impatient at the best of times. Making him squirm has consistently been a joy of Fenris'.
Somewhere in the past he’d be irritated by the thought of being known by anyone so well. Now it excites as surely as the steady, intoxicating feeling of that secondary bite— blind to everything but the weight of Fenris where he’s pinned, the scent of him, the heat of him held so near and yet entirely out of reach. Maddening, in short.
Another dizzied sound escapes him, his head swimming. He’d had such plans.
And he doesn’t regret their loss at all.
“Fiend,” he mouths, all affection, all wanting— taken to trying to reach with his teeth, his hips, his legs, for even the barest brush of contact. Every second without might well be a full minute to his mind. “Starving me so, when I’ve been nothing but good to you.”
"I'm cruel, now?" Fenris moves back, bending his knees so he is no longer stretched across Astarion. He's leaning on him, pressure still on those wrists, but they're no longer caught and tangled. Yes, he really does like to see Astarion squirm. To be fair, Fenris suspects Astarion very much likes squirming. "Should I stop?"
Arching, that protest, a promise even more than the sound of his sighs, or the rise and fall and roll of his chest as he aches to chase after that subtracted closeness. He can’t know whether or not Fenris is watching him— he can’t know if he appreciates it, the way Astarion’s drawn taut—
but he can imagine it. And he wants it.
“I can’t see you,” he murmurs, reiterating the obvious: that strip of crimson drawn high across sharp features, erasing the constellations of his world. “I can’t tell— are you enjoying yourself?”
Fenris considers his answers. Yes, obviously, he's enjoying himself. Is it worth reiterating that he wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't? It probably is, but Fenris' blood is up with pure stupid want; the prospect of another serious discussion seems excruciating.
So, instead, Fenris leans forward to, again without warning, bite Astarion's neck once more. He worries over the side already bitten, lavishing it in attention. Surely that's enough of an answer?
Reiteration is the name of the game. Of course, physical works just as well as verbal— he doesn’t much care as long as something is giving him guidance.
And fickle creature that Fenris is, Astarion knows this attention isn’t forced: he pants aloud, moans to repay the favor of feedback, craning his neck to one side in an offer for more, always more— and then, knowing he’s won a smaller victory by drawing Fenris back down to him, springs his own trap of sorts. Legs hooking around Fenris’ middle, or near his hips, whichever is within enough reach to be fully snared. It doesn’t matter that he’s pinned and blinded, he has a habit of staking his claim through friction.
And he’ll beg if he needs to, but he suspects it won’t come to that.
Astarion pins him, and it's such an odd little surprise that Fenris lets a few huffs of laughter escape him. He forgets the pin for a moment, so he can wrap his hands around Astarion, an embrace for the pure stupid joy of it.
It's not that he's keen to be distracted. Fenris knows he may soon never see this man again. He wants to take his time.
"I'm not very creative," he says into Astarion's skin, words forming through the smile still on his face. "The blindfold was my last moment of inspiration. Tell me what you would like, and you will have it."
Edited (oh my god im tired) 2021-06-16 22:07 (UTC)
here's my also tired secret: I didn't even notice lmao
“Then I’ll leave it on. In your honor.” Proud, keen. He preens the only way he knows how to in success: thoroughly. And anyone that ever said you can’t have fun with a guillotine perched directly overhead likely never knew how to have fun to begin with, Astarion would argue.
Meaning this is good.
Prone to brooding and melancholy as he can be, he never wanted this to be mournful; it was all truth, when he said he'd intended to hear Fenris laugh.
“But what I want in trade, I’m not certain you can take.”
Fenris stops what had admittedly just become thoughtless nuzzling into Astarion's shoulder. He pauses, but doesn't tense. He trusts Astarion, now more than ever, not to press the issue if he refuses.
"Tell me, and I will decide."
He settles his chin on Astarion's collarbone, waiting.
It’s not so much a sensitive topic to broach so much as it is a unique one. Thedas had its share of marvels, but at times could prove a touch...archaic in practice than what Astarion, a creature purely of Baldur’s Gate, was used to for the entirety of his long life.
He taps his fingers lightly across marked skin, drumming a soft beat against Fenris’ shoulder blade.
“Shall we say, the benefits of vibration in terms of sexual gratification. There are a number of enchanted stones and devices that carry such properties, to say nothing of their application.”
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He won’t force it away.
“They say when you can’t see, all your other senses heighten to compensate.” He reaches out for Fenris’ hands, his own soft, uncalloused, pressing them slowly across the span of his own chest— his ribs, the vulnerability of guarding bone beneath corded muscle.
“I want you to feel me.”
Slow press, easy contact. The rise and fall of his chest as he breaths, the hum of when he speaks.
“I want you to commit it all to memory. Tell me everything you sense.”
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It might be easier to work through this if Fenris were drunk, or at the very least pleasantly buzzed, but Astarion wants this to be uninhibited. Clear.
Something for Fenris to remember on the long nights ahead— or something to keep him alight if he’s turned, and the both of them are forced to lovingly carve the skin from one another’s bones for the rest of eternity.
“Try again.” He moves Fenris’ hands lower, down to the narrow span of his waist. That long-cast throat suffused with kisses around silvery leylines, curls brushing at his skin, weight resting easily across his hips as he rolls them faintly, clothing a mild barrier between bare skin and wanting— the scent of perfumed oil clinging. “You’ve seen me well enough. I want to hear about the rest.”
His smile twists a little more acutely, charmed.
“And if you know everything already, well, that ought to make this quite easy.”
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"A mole," he says, thumb drifting over Astarion's side. The other hand roams up Astarion's arm. "A little scratch here, long-healed. Something hit you in Thedas."
If he's off, it's by quarter inches.
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Hands wrapped around Astarion, Fenris knows from pure muscle memory how to avoid the scarring on his back.
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“Well. I’m glad my folly has you so charmed.”
He reaches beside them then, into the assembly of bedding and brought trinkets, and uncorks something that smells overly sweet. Fragrant. Alluring, even. To Astarion’s cursed tongue when he drinks, it tastes only of bitter ash, cloyingly disagreeable—
The back of his hand tilts Fenris’ face higher, jaw that lone point of contact for a single, heady beat.
“Now, back to our game. Tell me what you taste.” All smooth seduction, the promise of prowling delectation, between the smell that clings and the look in his eyes it all suggests lurid satisfaction.
Instead, when he kisses Fenris, tongue slipping easily between teeth— it’s overwhelmingly acidic. Bitter. Like pure lime juice, or something else equally laden with citrus, tart enough to shock even the most well-guarded of senses.
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“Neither.” Though all things considered, he supposes he could’ve bought himself a little more time with Fenris if he were wicked enough to be venomous here. Maybe it’s a shame he’s lost all his former, dastardly bite and replaced it with softer, more vulnerable shapes. “I was hoping to have you reeling. A little joke, of sorts.”
He moves a few fingers higher, smoothing out the front of Fenris’ bangs.
“Apparently you’re much too resilient for me to toy with.”
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"You wear the blindfold." Fenris pushes Astarion back, roughness just on the edge of playful.
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“I haven’t finished yet—“
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It could be an accusation, and there is some of that in there, but mostly his voice is fond.
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His eyes are shut beneath the blindfold, lips curled high in a smile that’s only worn when he’s been caught red-handed, though it’s all overwritten by the steady prickle of rushing thrill at being so sightless— fingertips raised and searching for purchase, aimless beyond the sound of Fenris’ voice.
“Besides, I thought tonight was supposed to be about my fantasies. Maybe all I wanted was to hear you laugh a little longer.”
He’s always loved watching that brow line crease with vivid tension— only to break like a wave against the shore.
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It's not hard enough to break the skin, and in truth Fenris isn't entirely sure why he's doing it... except, perhaps it's that biting and necks have entered the vocabulary of their congress so thoroughly. He may as well give it a try.
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Touché, darling.
“If this is how you intend to counter my own failings,” he muses, breathless when he turns to try and scuff his cheek against Fenris’ ear— impatient in the way he cants his hips ever higher— more starved for contact in this moment than any he’s known before. “Then I’m afraid you're only going to have yourself to blame for a lifetime of disappointment.”
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"I look forward to it," Fenris says, moving his head to worry the other side of Astarion's neck. He's excited by the reaction that bite elicited, and wants to try again, slower, with more buildup.
Astarion is impatient at the best of times. Making him squirm has consistently been a joy of Fenris'.
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Somewhere in the past he’d be irritated by the thought of being known by anyone so well. Now it excites as surely as the steady, intoxicating feeling of that secondary bite— blind to everything but the weight of Fenris where he’s pinned, the scent of him, the heat of him held so near and yet entirely out of reach. Maddening, in short.
Another dizzied sound escapes him, his head swimming. He’d had such plans.
And he doesn’t regret their loss at all.
“Fiend,” he mouths, all affection, all wanting— taken to trying to reach with his teeth, his hips, his legs, for even the barest brush of contact. Every second without might well be a full minute to his mind. “Starving me so, when I’ve been nothing but good to you.”
Says Astarion, of all people.
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Arching, that protest, a promise even more than the sound of his sighs, or the rise and fall and roll of his chest as he aches to chase after that subtracted closeness. He can’t know whether or not Fenris is watching him— he can’t know if he appreciates it, the way Astarion’s drawn taut—
but he can imagine it. And he wants it.
“I can’t see you,” he murmurs, reiterating the obvious: that strip of crimson drawn high across sharp features, erasing the constellations of his world. “I can’t tell— are you enjoying yourself?”
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So, instead, Fenris leans forward to, again without warning, bite Astarion's neck once more. He worries over the side already bitten, lavishing it in attention. Surely that's enough of an answer?
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And fickle creature that Fenris is, Astarion knows this attention isn’t forced: he pants aloud, moans to repay the favor of feedback, craning his neck to one side in an offer for more, always more— and then, knowing he’s won a smaller victory by drawing Fenris back down to him, springs his own trap of sorts. Legs hooking around Fenris’ middle, or near his hips, whichever is within enough reach to be fully snared. It doesn’t matter that he’s pinned and blinded, he has a habit of staking his claim through friction.
And he’ll beg if he needs to, but he suspects it won’t come to that.
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It's not that he's keen to be distracted. Fenris knows he may soon never see this man again. He wants to take his time.
"I'm not very creative," he says into Astarion's skin, words forming through the smile still on his face. "The blindfold was my last moment of inspiration. Tell me what you would like, and you will have it."
here's my also tired secret: I didn't even notice lmao
Meaning this is good.
Prone to brooding and melancholy as he can be, he never wanted this to be mournful; it was all truth, when he said he'd intended to hear Fenris laugh.
“But what I want in trade, I’m not certain you can take.”
lmao good jOB us
"Tell me, and I will decide."
He settles his chin on Astarion's collarbone, waiting.
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It’s not so much a sensitive topic to broach so much as it is a unique one. Thedas had its share of marvels, but at times could prove a touch...archaic in practice than what Astarion, a creature purely of Baldur’s Gate, was used to for the entirety of his long life.
He taps his fingers lightly across marked skin, drumming a soft beat against Fenris’ shoulder blade.
“Shall we say, the benefits of vibration in terms of sexual gratification. There are a number of enchanted stones and devices that carry such properties, to say nothing of their application.”
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puts on my dm hat and wizard robe
avali oh my god.
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1/2
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ur perfect this is perfect sh shh
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