There's no moderation to the kiss Astarion eagerly returns, tongue catching warm lips, teasing past teeth and swept up by the craning of his own neck— oh, dangerous is the word for it, this comfort they've settled into. Dangerous and wonderful, everything Astarion doesn't rightly deserve, even setting aside his own monstrous curse.
But then again, bloodied hands being literally and figuratively what they are, Astarion isn't about to do anything other than cling with them to the only true kindness he's ever known. To the idea of reciprocation even, as he feels Fenris' lyrium-striped fingertips comb their way across his curls in turn— serene and sincere and without pretense in the slightest.
So.
Yes, in other words. He's more than happy to acquiesce and (as per Fenris' own exact words) move them to the bed. Meaning he slips back away from his own comfortable positioning, using that movement to lift Fenris high into his arms, and subsequently carrying him to the meager mattress tucked away in the corner of their (barely) one room flat. It isn't luxurious, no, but it's better than the wilderness for one, and on the other hand it's only a stepping stone while they plot out their forward course.
Plus, no one ever looks twice at a pair of elves in a place like this...for better or worse.
Once they're settled in, Astarion finds his way to curling in against Fenris' side, head half-resting on the closest pillow, half-resting along the other elf's arm.
"I told you about what I am. What I was, but I know so little about why you're being hounded— beyond the baseline attitude about sharp ears in this world of yours, I suppose." It's all musing chatter, still tangled up in skirting touch.
no subject
But then again, bloodied hands being literally and figuratively what they are, Astarion isn't about to do anything other than cling with them to the only true kindness he's ever known. To the idea of reciprocation even, as he feels Fenris' lyrium-striped fingertips comb their way across his curls in turn— serene and sincere and without pretense in the slightest.
So.
Yes, in other words. He's more than happy to acquiesce and (as per Fenris' own exact words) move them to the bed. Meaning he slips back away from his own comfortable positioning, using that movement to lift Fenris high into his arms, and subsequently carrying him to the meager mattress tucked away in the corner of their (barely) one room flat. It isn't luxurious, no, but it's better than the wilderness for one, and on the other hand it's only a stepping stone while they plot out their forward course.
Plus, no one ever looks twice at a pair of elves in a place like this...for better or worse.
Once they're settled in, Astarion finds his way to curling in against Fenris' side, head half-resting on the closest pillow, half-resting along the other elf's arm.
"I told you about what I am. What I was, but I know so little about why you're being hounded— beyond the baseline attitude about sharp ears in this world of yours, I suppose." It's all musing chatter, still tangled up in skirting touch.
"Is it the master you left behind? Or...."