[No dragon gods, no blood orgies, no snakes— except for in the leanest places, just like everywhere else. Boiled down to its bare bones, it should be the most soft-mouthed tug when dealing with the sun elf perched across Fenris' lap: no, we're not that monstrous, no, we're not that wicked, no, we're not that profane— comparatively, anyway.
But instead of taking that gentle correction, Astarion launches even deeper into its grip instead: wondering if there's a Tevene version of Petras out there, for some reason. (Mostly because it was Petras who went on about the snakes, actually, and the lesson stuck.) A Dalyira. A Violet. An Astarion. All of them a little keener— more ruthless. Some mixture of Fenris' sharp wits combined with rumors about mercenary wickedness, despite what he's just been told.
Nothing moderate; everything incensed. Amusement glittering as it sparks and sparks and sparks. Bright as the ear that twitches for Fenris' patient gust of an exhale. If he could wrangle his own imagination, maybe he'd be a little closer to that avidly conceptualized self.
And from there, that scolding grip along his thigh, his ass—
And from there, laughing— ]
You liar!
[Disgust mingled with fascination, inseparable as he shoves Fenris back against the covers just as playfully— both palms flat— braid forgotten.
Gods, he can't remembered the last time anyone's talked with him like this. Joked with him like this.]
no subject
But instead of taking that gentle correction, Astarion launches even deeper into its grip instead: wondering if there's a Tevene version of Petras out there, for some reason. (Mostly because it was Petras who went on about the snakes, actually, and the lesson stuck.) A Dalyira. A Violet. An Astarion. All of them a little keener— more ruthless. Some mixture of Fenris' sharp wits combined with rumors about mercenary wickedness, despite what he's just been told.
Nothing moderate; everything incensed. Amusement glittering as it sparks and sparks and sparks. Bright as the ear that twitches for Fenris' patient gust of an exhale. If he could wrangle his own imagination, maybe he'd be a little closer to that avidly conceptualized self.
And from there, that scolding grip along his thigh, his ass—
And from there, laughing— ]
You liar!
[Disgust mingled with fascination, inseparable as he shoves Fenris back against the covers just as playfully— both palms flat— braid forgotten.
Gods, he can't remembered the last time anyone's talked with him like this. Joked with him like this.]