[You, and he doesn't know which is better: the thought that it was a complete sentence, genuine and hungry, and that Astarion bites at him in fretful need to lessen the emotional impact (you, it's you, I liked you, I liked having you near, I liked being with you, his face bright red and all of him afluster from the mere act of being picked up, oh, Fenris will assuredly do that again)— or that it wasn't. That it was a cut off little thing, you— with the ending of that sentence being something too great for him to utter just yet, altered and averted into something more playful. Both are thrilling to contemplate; both are terrifying to contemplate— and so though it isn't his style, still, Fenris doesn't chase after it just yet.

Instead, Fenris pulls Astarion in closer, grunting softly as teeth clamp down around his markings. Electricity sparks off the lyrium, more sensation than pain; soon enough he'll have to teach him how to mind his teeth. His fingers card through unruly curls from back to front, rucking them up affectionately as he settles into a sedate rhythm.]

There were easier ways, little noble. [Though far less pleasurable ones.] For my part, I liked the way you mewled for me when I spanked you . . . I could feel your cock leaking on my tongue each time my palm connected. You kept pushing back into it even as you begged me to stop . . .

[And though he knows one of them has to be the responsible one . . . still, he is not above playfulness. His head tips lower, his grin audible as he worries gently at the tip of one pale ear.]

Though I think I might like how you blush for me even more. Is that going to happen each time I pick you up?