[Sitting up is an ordeal that buys them a handful of seconds, at least. Segue pulling decency back into his (mostly) upright lap alongside the hemlines of his shirt, leaving Astarion fighting for a few more beats by way of fiddling with his curls: the heels of his palms haphazardly shoving silver strands out of his own face to— you know, offer up a little less of a reminder in the here and now that they were just tangled up in one another, open-mouthed and nearly cock-to-naked-cock (especially when the look stuck on Fenris' face is something along the lines of oh gods, oh gods, what have I done).

So....not off to a great start there, as it so happens.]

Not much at all, I swear!

[And by elven standards? Technically true.

It's just that those standards are usually applied under a drastically different set of circumstances than facefucking your own bodyguard-et-teacher-et-sort-of-but-not-really-your-slave, at the very least.]

Just....a couple of decades here and there.

[A beat.]

Like, say: three of them?


....going in a direction closer to zero than a hundred.