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.”
Fenris relaxes immediately, when Astarion agrees to take charge. He doesn't always prefer to be a passive partner, but when it comes to trying new things? Someone knowledgeable should be in charge.
Fenris worms his way out of his remaining clothing, leaning forward when he's finally done. He lays one kiss on Astarion's chest, handing him the stone and the oil both.
"Yet all I can think of is the favor you do me now," he says, lying back.
He drizzles oil as he pleases, undeniably content to make a mess of things; sex is, after all, never a tidy prospect (nor should it be), and what doesn’t find the stone itself will likely come in handy later— it’s really quite hard to go wrong.
“Oh,” Astarion breathes, all featherlight surprise, and not unpleasant at that. Those words are pretty, as picturesque as Fenris himself for all the uniqueness he carries in both feature and form. They might hold deeper meaning, deeper sentiment, given the context that surrounds all of this. The looming threat of sunrise.
Astarion opts to twist them playfully instead.
“Well if I’d known you considered all this a favor, I’d have done it a lot sooner.”
And, before Fenris could possibly think to clarify or argue or say yet another word, he teases that wicked little trinket— mercifully inactive— right into place.
Fenris begins a retort, and then he's completely distracted by a new sensation. It's neither pleasurable not unpleasurable, simply very new. Once more he wishes he were closer to Astarion, that this did not feel like some barrier between them. He fights his own instincts to seize up, trying to relax. He's never been much good at that, really.
So if he looks momentarily confused, he's trying to mitigate it. He takes a deep breath, then another. "I'm glad you're here with me," he says, and means it on more than one level. I'll miss you is simply too weighty a thing to say. Ultimately, he thinks the clarification worth it.
And, perhaps selfishly, his words are a deterrent; his face is heated to an obvious blush, and he dearly hopes Astarion won't make a point of it.
Tangled sentiment. A soft touch. He’s always been capable of twisting away from it as needed in the past— and in this moment, or perhaps like so many others before in regards to Fenris, he finds himself woefully incapable. It strikes him right through his heart, how he can almost sense that unspoken addition.
No. Best not to give in to that.
He exhales low, patient and utterly tame for a rare, rare moment. Tucking his mouth against the edge of Fenris’ jaw, tracing it higher, one leg slipping across Fenris’ own so that he’s nearly perched over him— some half-step between being tangled up entirely and keeping close, constant contact. One hand sliding low to curl around the base of Fenris’ cock, fingers running slow along the curve of its underside, a draw for slickened attention while the other manipulates the press of that toy. A promise this isn’t so terrible a new venture.
Astarion is, after all, the one behind every bit of it.
Fenris shivers. The sensation is new, the press of the object cold and unresponsive, but Astarion is familiar. The feel of his skin, the smell of him, the sight of his smile-
The sight. That was the point of this, wasn't it? No, Fenris doesn't think he'll be ready for a blindfold for some time yet, if ever. He needs to see his partner far too much, the comfort of Astarion nearby.
He groans under Astarion's attentions, hips stuttering forward. "Do what- you would." He hates the anticipation. "I don't remember the- the word-"
Ever in a rush. Not that Astarion can blame him; lives lived on uncertain terms tend to breed a sort of fondness for surety, wherever it has a mind to live.
In this case, however, Astarion is utterly rapacious— if Fenris wants to press on, they’ll press on. His fingertips withdraw, his posture shifting as he slips away to rise and straddle Fenris fully instead, facing away from him rather than towards, catching hold of Fenris and lowering himself down with the barest sliver of pretense. Performance only living in the lines his silhouette casts: long and lean and arching in the shadow of notched scars, relying more on practiced relaxation than preparation to sink down into place over slickened tension.
Only once he’s settled, stilled, in resting across Fenris’ hips does he cast a single glance over the muscle of his shoulder— and recites that incantation.
"Ah-" Fenris' spine takes the shape of a strung bow, arched off the bed at the sudden sensation. He has to push himself not to make fists of his hands and ruin the bedsheets, forgetting, in the moment, that he isn't wearing gauntlets.
Thumping back down again, he feels Astarion riding him, and the sensation only mounts. He finds himself scrabbling to touch Astarion; surely, that will be some sort of anchor? His hands-- no gauntlets, no, none-- find Astarion's hips, and he holds on tight as he rocks his hips in snapping, irregular jerks.
This isn't his best performance, he's sure, or would be. The feeling is too intense, too visceral, for him to concentrate much on coherent thought. All that gets through the barrier of intention is Astarion's name, and various Tevene expletives.
The best ones are impulsive, comprised entirely by the pitching angles of desire and need and an utter lack of self control. He can’t bring himself to put the blindfold back in place over his eyes; he’s too invested in watching the faint shape of Fenris over his own shoulder, reactive to everything— and nothing— and everything, everything all over again.
And he can feel it, too, that thrumming pulse, spurring him onward as he ruts at a quickened pace, working over himself as much as he is Fenris beneath him. He doesn’t want those hands to leave his hips. He doesn’t want that grip to waver, that voice to wane.
"Astarion." It's all blind confusion. Fenris still wants more-- closeness, that is; any more sensation and he'd have done himself in with three thrusts. He still feels that distinct possibility, and it causes him to shift under Astarion.
He wants closeness, and he finds it, sitting up crookedly. Arms snake around Astarion, clawing at his chest, while Fenris presses his face into Astarion's back. He tries to avoid the scarring, but doesn't have the presence of mind to make sure he entirely succeeds. Everything is instinct now, gnashing his teeth and calling Astarion's name.
He doesn’t expect that— taken by surprise (as always, apparently) by what Fenris favors. Astarion likes to think that eventually he’ll learn to map out those preferences and tendencies, how Fenris runs against the usual allure of performance rather than touch—
But they might not have time for that, anymore.
So instead he leans into it, working harder to roll his hips in tamer rhythms rather than bucking or canting, or anything that might disrupt the closeness of their current positioning, his head leaned back to drape listlessly across Fenris’ shoulder, breathing hot across the underside of his ear.
Hot. Actual heat, for once. Warmed from the inside out, and tingling for it.
“Ah— ” he purrs, a stuttering realization. “You picked the musk, didn’t you.”
Fenris will answer later, and feel abashed or enthused or maybe too tired to care. He's certainly going to be sore, damn this thing. But at that moment, the only things that matter are the feel of Astarion's skin, the taste of it, the sound of his voice. Who knows what he's saying, but the sound is a wonderful comfort.
Sitting up has provided to be a miscalculation, though; it's shifted his weight on that vibrating stone, and Fenris can't see for the pleasure of it. Still too intense for him to bear, he comes to his finish with his eyes squeezed shut, panting nonsense into Astarion's ear.
It isn’t the end of it, of course. Where Astarion’s usually content to fit his pace and timing to whatever Fenris seems to need at any given moment, he certainly wasn’t lying about making this entanglement a swan song for his own satisfaction: every hour before sunrise is used, alternating between intensity and indolent touch, as often and as affectionately as can be managed— until daylight sinks through the cracks in shuttered windows, and Astarion lies contented in a gloriously unraveled tangle of limbs and rumpled bedding, smiling to himself despite everything.
“Well.” He starts, drumming a few slender fingers against the center of his chest. All that can be managed, at the moment.
As soon as he's finished, the intensity becomes unpleasant enough to warrant fixing. Fenris doesn't kick Astarion off him, but he does nudge him away with a strong, tattooed leg. He has the thing out, and then it sits on the bed, slowly moving by the power of its own vibration. It's utterly bizarre and Fenris still doesn't know how he feels about it.
He flops backward, head hitting the pillow, and heaves a sigh. "Give me a moment," Fenris says, voice a little hoarse. "A moment, and I'll... whatever you like."
It's for Astarion. It's all for Astarion, and Fenris won't forget him. He feels embarrassed enough for getting caught up in the moment, losing his control so utterly; his face is still just bright enough to see its redness.
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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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Fenris worms his way out of his remaining clothing, leaning forward when he's finally done. He lays one kiss on Astarion's chest, handing him the stone and the oil both.
"Yet all I can think of is the favor you do me now," he says, lying back.
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“Oh,” Astarion breathes, all featherlight surprise, and not unpleasant at that. Those words are pretty, as picturesque as Fenris himself for all the uniqueness he carries in both feature and form. They might hold deeper meaning, deeper sentiment, given the context that surrounds all of this. The looming threat of sunrise.
Astarion opts to twist them playfully instead.
“Well if I’d known you considered all this a favor, I’d have done it a lot sooner.”
And, before Fenris could possibly think to clarify or argue or say yet another word, he teases that wicked little trinket— mercifully inactive— right into place.
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So if he looks momentarily confused, he's trying to mitigate it. He takes a deep breath, then another. "I'm glad you're here with me," he says, and means it on more than one level. I'll miss you is simply too weighty a thing to say. Ultimately, he thinks the clarification worth it.
And, perhaps selfishly, his words are a deterrent; his face is heated to an obvious blush, and he dearly hopes Astarion won't make a point of it.
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No. Best not to give in to that.
He exhales low, patient and utterly tame for a rare, rare moment. Tucking his mouth against the edge of Fenris’ jaw, tracing it higher, one leg slipping across Fenris’ own so that he’s nearly perched over him— some half-step between being tangled up entirely and keeping close, constant contact. One hand sliding low to curl around the base of Fenris’ cock, fingers running slow along the curve of its underside, a draw for slickened attention while the other manipulates the press of that toy. A promise this isn’t so terrible a new venture.
Astarion is, after all, the one behind every bit of it.
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The sight. That was the point of this, wasn't it? No, Fenris doesn't think he'll be ready for a blindfold for some time yet, if ever. He needs to see his partner far too much, the comfort of Astarion nearby.
He groans under Astarion's attentions, hips stuttering forward. "Do what- you would." He hates the anticipation. "I don't remember the- the word-"
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In this case, however, Astarion is utterly rapacious— if Fenris wants to press on, they’ll press on. His fingertips withdraw, his posture shifting as he slips away to rise and straddle Fenris fully instead, facing away from him rather than towards, catching hold of Fenris and lowering himself down with the barest sliver of pretense. Performance only living in the lines his silhouette casts: long and lean and arching in the shadow of notched scars, relying more on practiced relaxation than preparation to sink down into place over slickened tension.
Only once he’s settled, stilled, in resting across Fenris’ hips does he cast a single glance over the muscle of his shoulder— and recites that incantation.
You're welcome, Fenris.
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Thumping back down again, he feels Astarion riding him, and the sensation only mounts. He finds himself scrabbling to touch Astarion; surely, that will be some sort of anchor? His hands-- no gauntlets, no, none-- find Astarion's hips, and he holds on tight as he rocks his hips in snapping, irregular jerks.
This isn't his best performance, he's sure, or would be. The feeling is too intense, too visceral, for him to concentrate much on coherent thought. All that gets through the barrier of intention is Astarion's name, and various Tevene expletives.
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The best ones are impulsive, comprised entirely by the pitching angles of desire and need and an utter lack of self control. He can’t bring himself to put the blindfold back in place over his eyes; he’s too invested in watching the faint shape of Fenris over his own shoulder, reactive to everything— and nothing— and everything, everything all over again.
And he can feel it, too, that thrumming pulse, spurring him onward as he ruts at a quickened pace, working over himself as much as he is Fenris beneath him. He doesn’t want those hands to leave his hips. He doesn’t want that grip to waver, that voice to wane.
Selfish and selfless all at once.
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He wants closeness, and he finds it, sitting up crookedly. Arms snake around Astarion, clawing at his chest, while Fenris presses his face into Astarion's back. He tries to avoid the scarring, but doesn't have the presence of mind to make sure he entirely succeeds. Everything is instinct now, gnashing his teeth and calling Astarion's name.
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But they might not have time for that, anymore.
So instead he leans into it, working harder to roll his hips in tamer rhythms rather than bucking or canting, or anything that might disrupt the closeness of their current positioning, his head leaned back to drape listlessly across Fenris’ shoulder, breathing hot across the underside of his ear.
Hot. Actual heat, for once. Warmed from the inside out, and tingling for it.
“Ah— ” he purrs, a stuttering realization. “You picked the musk, didn’t you.”
Well done, love.
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Sitting up has provided to be a miscalculation, though; it's shifted his weight on that vibrating stone, and Fenris can't see for the pleasure of it. Still too intense for him to bear, he comes to his finish with his eyes squeezed shut, panting nonsense into Astarion's ear.
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“Well.” He starts, drumming a few slender fingers against the center of his chest. All that can be managed, at the moment.
“That was fun.”
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He flops backward, head hitting the pillow, and heaves a sigh. "Give me a moment," Fenris says, voice a little hoarse. "A moment, and I'll... whatever you like."
It's for Astarion. It's all for Astarion, and Fenris won't forget him. He feels embarrassed enough for getting caught up in the moment, losing his control so utterly; his face is still just bright enough to see its redness.
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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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