He glows. Radiant and warm in the midday sun, yes, but more than that, he glows— those lyrium brands cast so brightly even in their fainter thrumming that Astarion (slender fingers still clutching at those hips to keep him fit tight around him even as he relaxes— as the steady drip drip drip of wet heat trickles sweetly from that single point of connection between them) can’t help but watch in breathless awe. Bone-deep admiration.

This, this beautiful creature, strange and elusive and utterly wild in its make, lies so content beneath him.

And then, with a subtle pull, tension between them slipping away all at once, Astarion lets himself slide free, one cinching little grunt of acclimation squeezed between his fangs. The air is so much colder, the loss of touch less satisfying, but as he half tucks himself away it’s for the best, he decides, given that it means he can lie down beside Fenris instead. A few fingers lifting to brush aside the sweat-soaked span of a few locks of hair.

“Listen to me, darling.”

If he can. If he’s present enough, or if his ears aren’t still ringing from climax.

“That was wonderful— you were wonderful— but there’s something you should know.” Soft-spoken, slow and patient. A little dizzied still from that ebbing high, but there’s a gravity that lives just beneath the surface, let loose in the very next beat.

“About me. What I am. Or...I should say, what my master made me into.”