"I'm not exactly known for my discretion." Astarion counters smoothly (sweetly), slipping in behind Fenris and winding his fingers just around the front of his chest. Serpentine movements, graceful in the way they're wholly without pressure, flitting light across the thin front of Fenris' shirt— fiddling with the clasps.

His lips finding their way to the slope of a brilliantly tattooed neck in the very next second, hips pressed close.

He smells of wine already.

"I did this for you, you know..." And for himself too, but that's less important. "Something to celebrate upgrading from a rotting shack in the woods to a rotting shack in the city."

His tongue lathes over dusky skin, dodging pale blue filigree with ease. A prelude to a bite that (miraculously) doesn't break skin.

Yet.

"You should be happy for me."