In a way, it is spontaneous. Rough-cut. That Astarion’s kept pocketed a checklist of things he wants to do to Fenris is more a matter of long-held desire rather than a rehearsed performance; he slithers like a snake to straddle Fenris when he returns, still sporting nothing but his trousers and a look of proud, wanton intent— vivid red silk clutched just in one hand.

Nervousness on Fenris’ part is fine. Fair, even. But he takes care to measure the look of it before he lowers himself in perching over him, just to be sure it isn’t fear. Satisfied, he presses Fenris to the mattress, marking the edge of his jaw with mild, doting kisses— speaking between every scuffing catch.

“Now, no matter what happens, I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not going to bite.” Cazador and all his gifts aren’t welcome here tonight. This, the moment they’re going to share, the fantasy of it, is for them. Nothing more.

Well, mostly Astarion. But he’s a generous lover, even at his most selfish. So there’s that.

“If you want me to stop— need me to stop— all you have to do is ask.”

To that end, he takes that strip of crimson silk and lowers it— steadily— across the span of Fenris’ eyes.

“Do you trust me, darling?”