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.”
Thedas is a place that fears magic-- the safe parts of it, anyway-- that's true. But anyone who can afford enchantments used them with impunity. Those were safe, free of magic's true dangers, demons and spirits. Even dwarves could craft such things.
"What, exactly, are you planning on doing with these... stones?"
Fenris finds himself more suspicious of Astarion's intentions, than the principle itself.
“What do most people have in mind when it comes to the matter of pleasure, generally speaking?”
He said he’d keep the blindfold on— and he does— but here he slips one side up with the edge of a thumb to get a grasp of exactly what sort of challenge he’s setting for himself in acclimating Fenris to the concept, smile lopsided, yet not sharp-edged. Only fond. Amused.
Deferential, even.
“They go inside you, darling. And then I get to enjoy the feel— and the sound— of you thrumming like a divine-touched celestial. And subsequently you could be inside me, or over me, or under me— or I could also be inside you, it’s not really important how the details shake out.”
They’ve time enough to sort it as they please, after all.
He'll see Fenris' skepticism, but not disgust. "You want me to stick a stone up my-" he breathes out a sigh, and his eyes refocus on Astarion, his charming smile on his deeply annoying, lovely, frustrating face.
Sitting up, he murmurs, "you caught me in a good mood." As though Astarion himself wasn't the cause of it, isn't always, lately. "Fine, go get it. I don't want to know how long you have been planning this."
In fact one of the biggest causes for lamentation in regards to their swapped schedules and subsequent anchor shard related downfall is that Astarion hadn’t yet had the chance to even break out his third purchase since settling into Yartar. Trailing behind comfortable bedding, an actual lock for the door, and then—
“I don’t need to.” His eyes narrow as they half lid with self-satisfied contentment (even if only one is visible beneath the blindfold), worming his way to the edge of the mattress while still laying down to reach beneath the bed, fishing around for a single, undignified beat.
A vampire in his element, ladies and gentlemen.
“It’s already here.” said while tugging out a beautifully gilded little box, made of dark, polished wood.
Tada.
And whatever Fenris might've imagined, inside is a somewhat translucent stone object, almost gemlike in color, carefully cut and polished into a relatively vaselike shape. It looks like art. It also looks, to anyone familiar with bedroom-related accoutrements, like a hollowed out plug of sorts. Just...classier. Rich-blooded.
One might hope he bought it with all those pilfered jewels, and didn't just take it on a whim.
The less Fenris knows about the origins of this oddity, the happier he'll be. He takes it carefully out of its case, studying it.
He can tell he isn't excited by the prospect, but he's not disgusted. He's willing to try it at least once, it just feels... distant. He wants to be near Astarion, heated by his cool touch. This seems like taking a step back.
Fenris begins undoing the laces of his trousers with one hand, the other fiddling with the stone. "How do you make it...?" Since it's supposed to vibrate, apparently.
He can tell where wariness lives in that expression. In the moment, turning the thing over in his fingers, Fenris looks more akin to a wolf inspecting a strange bug than he does anything else— which makes it all the more charming, that habit of his. To be so willing, always, to redefine the limits of himself. His world. His...creature comforts, even.
Not many people would. A great many less than that, if they had to shoulder all that anger and frustration too.
Lost entirely in appreciation, he almost misses the question.
“Mm? Oh— ” there’s a pause as he leans forward, pressing two fingers against its glassy surface, tapping gently. “It’s just an incantation. Easy.”
With one word that sounds like erendium or maybe eternium or some other equally made up thing beneath the weight of his accent, it thrums to life in Fenris’ grasp with a not-so-subtle ripple of movement.
Fenris flinches away from the thing as soon as it starts to shake, and then has to go through the effort of catching it, like a wriggling fish in the air. He looks back at Astarion with an expression not unlike a cat dumped in water. "You-" did that on purpose? Obviously he did, Fenris asked him to.
Fenris mutters the incantation, hoping it will make the thing stop moving.
"Would you get the... ah, the, uh, the oils?"
The reality that he's really going to do this settles in, and he feels more than a little foolish. Still, that's never stopped him before. Dignity is a problem for the secure, and Fenris has always had to negotiate. He doesn't truly even mind it, except for these rare moments, right before the plunge.
Gods but he’s charming. At the very height of his bloodied, lyrium-limned glory— and the chaos of his own fumbling frustrations, all glowering glances chased by unsteady looks. Astarion thinks he would drink it in if he could.
“But of course, love.”
Request granted with an easy half-bow done by way of nodding his head, as if acquiescing to the whims of a nobleman at court. He slithers free of his perch, padding across the room to rifle through the pack where he still keeps all of his more vital belongings: jewelry he won’t be able to fence without picking apart, a few poisons plucked along the way— all carefully bottled— that carved bit of antler, and—
“Ah. There we are.”
Lean lines, prowling nearer, phials in hand when he moves to straddle Fenris with decisive ease.
“Pick your poison: lavender, ambrosia— perhaps a little draconic musk, if we’re going all out. I hear it does wondrous things to the senses.”
Glowering despite himself-- Fenris really can't blame Astarion for anything, he's just embarrassed at his own ineptitude-- he grabs one at random. Of course it's the musk. Bad luck, well, he deserves it.
"Are you simply... going to sit and watch me fumble with..." Fenris thinks, then looks a little crookedly at Astarion. He nods, and sits straighter. "That's what you'd like, isn't it?"
Some sense of voyeurism, he suspects. Fenris doesn't think himself much the showman, but Astarion's feelings are the ones he wishes to cater to, utterly. And having a bit of direction doesn't hurt.
He laughs at that. A clear-cut, honest thing. It falls away just as easily as he does, laid out instead at Fenris’ side, one hand perched just against the center of Fenris’ chest, fingertips splayed in a practiced pattern that runs opposite to silver markings.
Fenris knows Astarion’s stripes; he knows his now, too.
“Lie down.” The other phials are tossed aside...somewhere, made unimportant by the selection (thank you, Tymora— or perhaps Beshaba? no matter), blindfold tugged low around his neck as a temporary measure, one arm propped beneath his head as he rests sidelong across the mattress. An assurance of sorts, that languid posture. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“You’re doing me quite the favor, after all, letting me do as I please.”
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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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Thedas is a place that fears magic-- the safe parts of it, anyway-- that's true. But anyone who can afford enchantments used them with impunity. Those were safe, free of magic's true dangers, demons and spirits. Even dwarves could craft such things.
"What, exactly, are you planning on doing with these... stones?"
Fenris finds himself more suspicious of Astarion's intentions, than the principle itself.
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He said he’d keep the blindfold on— and he does— but here he slips one side up with the edge of a thumb to get a grasp of exactly what sort of challenge he’s setting for himself in acclimating Fenris to the concept, smile lopsided, yet not sharp-edged. Only fond. Amused.
Deferential, even.
“They go inside you, darling. And then I get to enjoy the feel— and the sound— of you thrumming like a divine-touched celestial. And subsequently you could be inside me, or over me, or under me— or I could also be inside you, it’s not really important how the details shake out.”
They’ve time enough to sort it as they please, after all.
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Sitting up, he murmurs, "you caught me in a good mood." As though Astarion himself wasn't the cause of it, isn't always, lately. "Fine, go get it. I don't want to know how long you have been planning this."
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In fact one of the biggest causes for lamentation in regards to their swapped schedules and subsequent anchor shard related downfall is that Astarion hadn’t yet had the chance to even break out his third purchase since settling into Yartar. Trailing behind comfortable bedding, an actual lock for the door, and then—
“I don’t need to.” His eyes narrow as they half lid with self-satisfied contentment (even if only one is visible beneath the blindfold), worming his way to the edge of the mattress while still laying down to reach beneath the bed, fishing around for a single, undignified beat.
A vampire in his element, ladies and gentlemen.
“It’s already here.” said while tugging out a beautifully gilded little box, made of dark, polished wood.
Tada.
And whatever Fenris might've imagined, inside is a somewhat translucent stone object, almost gemlike in color, carefully cut and polished into a relatively vaselike shape. It looks like art. It also looks, to anyone familiar with bedroom-related accoutrements, like a hollowed out plug of sorts. Just...classier. Rich-blooded.
One might hope he bought it with all those pilfered jewels, and didn't just take it on a whim.
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He can tell he isn't excited by the prospect, but he's not disgusted. He's willing to try it at least once, it just feels... distant. He wants to be near Astarion, heated by his cool touch. This seems like taking a step back.
Fenris begins undoing the laces of his trousers with one hand, the other fiddling with the stone. "How do you make it...?" Since it's supposed to vibrate, apparently.
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Not many people would. A great many less than that, if they had to shoulder all that anger and frustration too.
Lost entirely in appreciation, he almost misses the question.
“Mm? Oh— ” there’s a pause as he leans forward, pressing two fingers against its glassy surface, tapping gently. “It’s just an incantation. Easy.”
With one word that sounds like erendium or maybe eternium or some other equally made up thing beneath the weight of his accent, it thrums to life in Fenris’ grasp with a not-so-subtle ripple of movement.
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Fenris mutters the incantation, hoping it will make the thing stop moving.
"Would you get the... ah, the, uh, the oils?"
The reality that he's really going to do this settles in, and he feels more than a little foolish. Still, that's never stopped him before. Dignity is a problem for the secure, and Fenris has always had to negotiate. He doesn't truly even mind it, except for these rare moments, right before the plunge.
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“But of course, love.”
Request granted with an easy half-bow done by way of nodding his head, as if acquiescing to the whims of a nobleman at court. He slithers free of his perch, padding across the room to rifle through the pack where he still keeps all of his more vital belongings: jewelry he won’t be able to fence without picking apart, a few poisons plucked along the way— all carefully bottled— that carved bit of antler, and—
“Ah. There we are.”
Lean lines, prowling nearer, phials in hand when he moves to straddle Fenris with decisive ease.
“Pick your poison: lavender, ambrosia— perhaps a little draconic musk, if we’re going all out. I hear it does wondrous things to the senses.”
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"Are you simply... going to sit and watch me fumble with..." Fenris thinks, then looks a little crookedly at Astarion. He nods, and sits straighter. "That's what you'd like, isn't it?"
Some sense of voyeurism, he suspects. Fenris doesn't think himself much the showman, but Astarion's feelings are the ones he wishes to cater to, utterly. And having a bit of direction doesn't hurt.
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Fenris knows Astarion’s stripes; he knows his now, too.
“Lie down.” The other phials are tossed aside...somewhere, made unimportant by the selection (thank you, Tymora— or perhaps Beshaba? no matter), blindfold tugged low around his neck as a temporary measure, one arm propped beneath his head as he rests sidelong across the mattress. An assurance of sorts, that languid posture. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“You’re doing me quite the favor, after all, letting me do as I please.”
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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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