“Then I’ll find my own way to convince you,” Astarion concludes at last, voice nearly hitching for the way Fenris pushes back against him. A momentary flicker of sensation, turned instead into momentum: the dagger falls away from Fenris’ jaw, trailing down along his throat, his chest— nestling against the looser clasps of his shirt, slipping seamlessly through as it cuts right into the attaching threads with only the faintest tug of resistance each time.

Another inch of bared skin, another subtle pop as more fabric’s torn away, the blade stopping just short of the space above Fenris’ waistband.

He’s sitting upright now, mostly. Or at least that’s where the whole of his weight rests, deliberate and almost obscene, levered against the space between pinned thighs— fingers still splayed wide across Fenris’ wrist.

Maybe he’s wrong, but he swears he can almost feel the elf beneath him stiffening through fabric.

The first lace of those trousers loops tight around the tip of Astarion’s dagger. Twisting.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you darling.”