There, a laugh. A real spark of it, and not some half-formed breath tumbling from Fenris’ teeth, rare as a caught star. He matches it with his own, more subdued for its adoration, arms folding around the steady slope of Fenris’ neck, keeping him near.
“Well. I’m glad my folly has you so charmed.”
He reaches beside them then, into the assembly of bedding and brought trinkets, and uncorks something that smells overly sweet. Fragrant. Alluring, even. To Astarion’s cursed tongue when he drinks, it tastes only of bitter ash, cloyingly disagreeable—
The back of his hand tilts Fenris’ face higher, jaw that lone point of contact for a single, heady beat.
“Now, back to our game. Tell me what you taste.” All smooth seduction, the promise of prowling delectation, between the smell that clings and the look in his eyes it all suggests lurid satisfaction.
Instead, when he kisses Fenris, tongue slipping easily between teeth— it’s overwhelmingly acidic. Bitter. Like pure lime juice, or something else equally laden with citrus, tart enough to shock even the most well-guarded of senses.
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“Well. I’m glad my folly has you so charmed.”
He reaches beside them then, into the assembly of bedding and brought trinkets, and uncorks something that smells overly sweet. Fragrant. Alluring, even. To Astarion’s cursed tongue when he drinks, it tastes only of bitter ash, cloyingly disagreeable—
The back of his hand tilts Fenris’ face higher, jaw that lone point of contact for a single, heady beat.
“Now, back to our game. Tell me what you taste.” All smooth seduction, the promise of prowling delectation, between the smell that clings and the look in his eyes it all suggests lurid satisfaction.
Instead, when he kisses Fenris, tongue slipping easily between teeth— it’s overwhelmingly acidic. Bitter. Like pure lime juice, or something else equally laden with citrus, tart enough to shock even the most well-guarded of senses.