He knows that look. It's the one he wears whenever someone tries to offer him pity for all of Cazador's mistreatments. There's no assuaging it without patronization, and Astarion doesn't dare wade into those pitifully murky waters.

So instead he lifts his chin a little higher, inviting that kiss to be a deeper affair, hand reaching down and then— stopping. Hovering. He can't see where it's going to land with their mouths so occupied, and so instead chances a bid at snaring Fenris' fingers in his own, knotting them together once caught so that they can't be pulled away.

Setting them just at the base of his own cock, utterly shameless in the breathy little sound pinned against Fenris' lips for it.

"Gain I can give you. However you like."

A nip, a catch, the slide of his tongue over Fenris' in turn, careful to watch the edges of his own fangs with practiced precision. Every bit of it is slow and dragging and soaked deep in wanting, a performance he's done a thousand times— though never so sincerely as this. This time, he paints for an audience of his own choosing. And that makes it all the sweeter than spilled blood across his lips. He's played incubus, he's played the vampire noble stealing into bedrooms at night, but for Fenris—

His voice sinks low, barely a whisper shared between them.

"What is it that you dream of?"