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Keeping Astarion ensconced in a hidden den somewhere for slaking their urges was an attractive idea, but not the most practical one given their mutual immediate interests. It didn't have much time to settle in beyond being a fleeting thought before Dante found himself in possession of a bottle small, fragile, filled with a liquid, and fragrant. He glanced at the vial, having a few moments to process the contents before finding himself pressed up against the wall. It struck him only seconds after he felt the press of plaster against his own back, his body repositioned for convenience, this bottle of oil was Astarion's scent.

There was a moment of musing, wondering if this was intentional, to associate this scent with Astarion and sex, to evoke desire whenever he was in the other man's presence. It was clever, but Dante didn't let his mind slip too deeply into the notion of conditioning and wanting by scent alone and he was hardly resistant to the notion. Dante already wanted him, resisting him was and entirely different and abstract concept.

One that became all the more impressionistic When Astarion dropped to his knees and not in prayer, well not so much in a religious way, it was certainly reverent. Part of Dante, who hadn't been long in this world knew enough to know there were social mores and certain people had certain innate advantages.

"Astarion, you don't have to..." the beginnings of a protest that died just as quickly as he was inched carefully into Astarion's waiting mouth. This was a different kind of torture, one that pulled at his breath in a measured and shaky way. The capacity for thought went straight to his hips and the control it took not jerk forward and interfere with the careful placement of lips, teeth, and tongue took effort on his part. more effort than eviscerating demons, "...okay, okay 'Star, you're the boss..."

Probably a given considering he was in such a vulnerable position and dick piercings wasn't a conversation he was prepared to have right this moment.

Star.

If he weren’t already fitting the whole of his entirely necessary focus on drawing himself flush against the exquisitely defined muscle of Dante’s hips, there’s no describing just how keenly that sobriquet would find its mark. As it stands, for the first time in months, the tips of his ears flush the faintest shade of red. Exhale through his nose dithering, fingertips cinching far tighter in their framing hold of Dante’s waist.

Maybe, just maybe, spurred on by that, his attention turns so much more lavish. Doting, even.

And while there’s no denying a gesture like this might be expected amongst certain circles in Thedas, Astarion does this because he wants to. Because he enjoys it, the exhilarating thrill of watching someone slowly unravel beneath his touch— even at its most mild. What they are, who they are, whatever they’re expected to be matters less here than just the satisfaction of being able to fit themselves to one another. Matters less than slipping beneath the thoughtless current of carnal pleasure.

Although—

A few moments of that intimate attention, and Astarion withdraws: mouth replaced with his hand, still drawing it slow across his length, still alternating pressure to keep complacency at bay.

“I never asked.” Low-spoken. Weighty for the realization that he should know now, before they’ve both fully committed to this. Before it’s too late to turn back. “Your...change. Do you need to control it?”

Much like vampirism had to be tamed, much like the urge still lives in Astarion despite everything.

“If I press you, you won’t— well.”

Transform, he means.

If anyone did try to weaponize whatever box they imagined the two of them should fit into against them, he's have to disagree. With all of the scathing sarcasm and bird flipping that came along with his capacity for blowing off conventionality unless such things ultimately hurt Astarion or anyone else along the way. He really couldn't be bothered even less so in his current lust-addled daze. The hand not actively trying to hold the phial of lilac oil without crushing it was busy caressing the the smooth lines of Astarion's face, combing through his hair, fingering the flushed tips of his ears.

Part of him wondered why he avoided these kind of entanglements, eve though he knew the reason why and how obvious it was. Still it felt good these gentle touches, the attentive mouth, the selfish bit of indulgence for a time. Lower the walls a bit and simply enjoy the contact while allowing his mind to drift to all the places Astarion might want to go, his hands coasting over bare skin, tugging him flush, letting the desire spill into unfiltered carnality. It seemed like a good idea he could be sweet, slow, sensual, worshipping, all hands and carefulness. Then there was instinct, the desire to always temper such softness with blood and radiance, pain and enduring beyond patience, just to see the depths of limitless depravity. That bit of darkness was a secret hiding in the shadows between two conflicting identities.

Fortunately he wasn't so lost that he couldn't hear it when Astarion spoke to him and he tried to school his face into an expression that wasn't dumfounded, though he really had no idea what he looked like right now. He was just blinking owlishly down at the other man while trying to collect his thoughts and find the ability to make words somehow.

"Change..." his voice was rough and a little strained as they attempted to give shape to his thoughts, "...oh, oh the devil trigger..."

Dante took a sobering breath, coaxing Astarion to his feet for the moment and pull his companion's body flush against him, his face a hairsbreadth away from his companion's own, there was the brilliant flash of red in Dante's eyes, but only within the range of Astarion's own vision.

"I have control over it...but sometimes if my life is threatened I might it acts like a defense mechanism," his eyes descended down the line of their body and his hips flexed up against Astarion's own making a point that was hardly subtle, "I'm feeling a lot of things right now, but not threatened."

Bowing his head he allowed his teeth to graze the column of Astarion's neck, his tongue soothing after, an inquiring hum in the back of his throat, "but if you...feel up to experimenting away from prying eyes some time, Star..."

Well, he would let Astarion work that one out.

“Places where inhuman creatures can be themselves away from prying eyes are few and far between in Thedas.” Said while nosing against Dante’s throat, the words fitting themselves to the underside of that perfectly defined jaw.

How fascinating it’d be. How utterly remarkable, he thinks, letting a silken exhale flutter through his fangs at the press of Dante’s hips against his own, meeting it in return with far more enthusiasm than its inspiring spark— blunted nails drifting across Dante’s back beneath the lining of his coat. He’s spent ages keeping company with high society in Baldur’s Gate under careful lock and key, cut his teeth in Thedas like an animal let free of its leash for the first time, but they’d all been so distinctly humanoid, his encounters. Nothing nearing the memory of molten skin, curled wings— teeth more jagged than his own.

That flash of red in Dante’s eyes, it’s beautiful.

Though admittedly, even without his cambionic nature, he’s striking all the same.

His free hand finds its way to the phial once more, wending around it in a silent request.

“...you’re making me regret the fact that one isn’t here.”

"The walk of regret...not really the walk I look forward to seeing," the red of his eyes were barely visible now through hooded lashes, but they were bright enough to still provide a sliver of interest as he inched his own way down Astarion's lean and still fully clothed body. He needed to remedy that in the near future, immediately to now.

"Might have to carve out a place for a pair of ethereal beings to be themselves if they're that hard to come by," and Dante could very likely get to places prying eyes wouldn't be able to get to with much ease. He'd have to consider what a place like that might look like. Where could someone hide that wasn't too far away from everything else, but just insulated enough to be as self-indulgent as they pleased?

"Has to be a place where you can tell me all of your naughty little secrets and fantasies," Dante muttered in a stfled way while tugging at the laces and clasps of Astarion's shirt with his teeth. He felt the fingers of Astarion's hand close around the bottle, twisting with his own, he managed to loosen the fabric enough to get his face under Astarion's shirt kissing, nipping, and tasting his way along the planes and plateaus of his stomach, the curve of his hips, the ridge of his ribs. His free had snuck its way up the back of Astarion's shirt, palm coasting reverently along his spine as much to feel him out as to support him while he pressed his little invasion.

The scars on Astarion's back didn't slow him down, in fact Dante was self-aware enough to caress along the canvas of cool skin and muscle as if the scars did not exist. He was very pointed in not fixating on them or making them a factor unless Astarion saw fit to trust him with their origin, there was plenty for him to fixate on, like how Astarion's fingers seemed to have a silent want about them. His lips continued their way up his companion's chest, peppering him with sultry, hot kisses, bristly cheek rubbing against a smooth chest and delicate nipples.

At this point Astarion's shirt was stretch across half of Dante's face in a way that way playful and almost humorous, only his eyes were visible. Eyes that were once again blue and turned up to look at his companion inquisitively while his fingers flexed around Astarion's prodding at the implications.

"Mm? Got an itch you need me to scratch...a wish I could grant?" He teased before worrying a pale nipple between his teeth carefully.

It’s when Dante reaches those scars that Astarion’s breath hitches for a moment. Held, while the rest of him stays relaxed— the only sign of tension, quickly lost in the very next second as Dante presses on. He’s used to questions. Curiosity. Fascination and fixation— and none of it truly bothers him, save for the occasional nuisance with a clumsy, pampered bias or irritating compulsion to match Cazador’s own. It’s just the questions that tire when it bubbles up in the moment. The point where sex has to stop so an interrogation can begin.

In other words, he’s relieved to know what he’s feverishly chasing this very second isn’t going to be pulled out of reach by a host of old, far less enticing memories.

“You’d need an eternity to hear all my secrets. Another for fantasies— or maybe two more.” He teases, working against the headiness of Dante’s meandering attentions to keep conversation on his lips. And to keep laughter not.

The attention it would draw...

“Incorrigible,” Astarion breathes, flashing fangs in a grin even as he shivers, fingers fisting themselves in the long hair just above the nape of Dante’s neck. Grip harsh but affectionate in make, dragging him nearer as his hips burn with unrelenting ache. “I want to hear you gasping in barely suppressed ecstasy. I want to pollute the memory of these streets so severely that the next time you visit, you won’t have anything left in your mind but the ghost of my touch.”

His weight presses tight against Dante’s, clothed hips shifting for the feel of friction, still working that phial free. If Dante intends to make it into a game, he’ll happily play along.

“I don’t just want to have you, my darling. Anyone can beg for a good railing or a little— as you put it once before— fingering: I want everything you could possibly give me, including your alternate reflection.”

Handsome. So very handsome, he thinks to himself, meeting the whole of that desire-drunk stare with his own.

“Though...I suspect it might take more than one night.”

The scars can always wait along with any traumatic story attached to their existence, when and if Astarion wants to talk about it. They're not as important as the whole and they are not what defines Astarion, just another piece of the puzzle, another aspect of the mystery to puzzle together over time. It certainly doesn't stop him from current indulgences not that much could at this point, he still had his own creature instincts, part of it driven by the alternate reflection that required outlets, and part of it driven by his human nature to want for that kind of physical connection, the rare enticement from someone else's lips.

While those sensuous words caressed him with the same intensity of restless, groping hands Dante tilted his head slightly, lips still idly flirting with a nipple before slowly, distractedly making his way to the other giving it a fair share of his attentions. Between the entreaties spoken into the night, the aggressive tangle of fingers in his hair, the snug weight of Astarion's body pressing into him bringing him to a fevered pitch. The notion that he'd want to engage the demon half of him, that he was equally attracted to the aspect of his being that few would be sent a dark ripple of pleasure lancing its way through him.

Once Astarion had thoroughly entranced him with his wants Dante eased his way back up pressing a final, reverent kiss to the center of Astarion's chest before leveling with him. His free hand carefully tucked wayward curls behind his companion's ear, smoothed errant strands out of his eyes so he could look at his face clearly, those reflective red gems deeper and more subtle than his own burning gaze. It wasn't very often that a man could capture his attention, those his affair were often few and far between with most, that didn't mean there weren't other things that attracted him and Astarion's beauty was part of it, his charm, his acceptance, his ability to make Dante feel less alone where he'd probably spend his days drinking and sleeping if it weren't for the excitement and familiarity that had dragged him out of himself day one.

"Okay, babe..." Dante whispered in return, dropping a kiss to one lovely maculated cheek, the endearment not mocking or insincere, "...you have a lot of wishes, but..."

His fingers loosened on the phial, so that he could turn Astarion's wrist to his lips so he could kiss his way down the length of his forearm into the crook of his elbow.

"...I kinda like it..." now that both of his own hands were free he could set deft fingers to work, freeing Astarion from his own confining pants pushing the fabric as far down as he could reach before coasting his gloved hands up the back of shapely, muscular thighs. With very little ceremony involved his hands gripped the curve of Astarion's ass, providing him with a bit of dignity by obscuring visibility from the night air which also crushing their hips together.

"...and I might have a few eternities to work towards granting each," meaning that Dante's life wasn't exactly a mortal one, though it could be if he wanted, it was certainly a choice.

He leaves Dante to manage the work of pressure. Of fitting them together so tightly that friction feels febrile, rather than pure pleasantness alone. His own hands turned to that phial, uncorking it in short order, leaving the fuller spread of its scent to slither its way through the air surrounding them like a serpents winding coils.

When Astarion tips the vial over to spill oil across the pinned span of their own cocks, it’s not lacking in generosity. Every little shift gone slick. Each buck a maddeningly effortless affair, now, constricting and blissfully catching, hitching his own breath somewhere high in his throat.

The phial's thrown aside.

He braces his freed hands (blunted nails biting into skin as he runs them beneath Dante's shirt, tangling it in his fingers) against Dante's chest, fingertips splayed wide. Fierce as his grip is, there's a visible pattern left behind each point he touches.

He trusts the man not to balk at it.

Still, Dante’s so damned tall that even while lifting his chin— arching his spine— Astarion can only make it so far: lips parted in emptied air, the whole of his weight bearing itself against Dante’s body, he finally concedes to ask for what he’s wanted all along.

“Give me your neck, darling.”

As soon as Astarion uncorks the bottle Dante inhales deeply, the scent of the other man soaking into the air, creeping into the architecture, absorbing into his skin. It was dizzying, not only for it's potency, but for the association, the oil facilitating the pleasure already radiating between them. No matter how tightly he squared their bodies together the glide of his hips against Astarion's was velvety smooth.

With every roll of his hips and every brush of Astarion's cock against his own Dante couldn't smother the soft sighs of pleasure, the liquid moans of satisfaction. The restrained sounds breathing past his lips gave way to fiercer growls and gritty groans when fingers dug into his skin, He was too dazed and enthralled by the touch to think harder than he had to about any patterns, Astarion could do what he wanted if he was enjoying himself and Dante would be the last person to put a damper on any satisfaction the other man got for himself.

He was enjoying the glide of their hips and the bite of Astarion's fingers against his chest so much that he hadn't notice when Astarion wanted to seek out a different sort of bite for himself. Dante's eyes were closed, lost in feeling his companion against him for the moment that it took the words to redirect him, his eyes opening slowly to see Astarion straining for his neck.

It was endearing and Dante found himself easily acquiescing to such an earnest command, slumping down against the wall a little, leveling himself with Astarion, reeling him in just enough to brush their lips together briefly. After a quick taste he bared his throat, perfectly at ease as if nothing could be more relaxing than Astarion drinking from him.

"All yours," he managed making himself comfortable ready to offer more than just a taste.

It isn’t the same anymore. There’s no driving nerd behind it, no sense of perpetual starvation owing to imposed restrictions; Astarion simply takes comfort in blood now, as much a vice and luxury as a sip of wine to otherwise abstinent lips— his mouth fitted to the warmth of bared skin, pulse jumping beneath his touch as he fights to ensure not so much as a drop of momentum is lost while rutting. Ripples of pleasure crawling through him from somewhere low, low in his stomach, paved by the slide of Dante against him.

He kisses that corded span of offered musculature first.

Gentle. Affectionate. Tongue initially. Lips next.

Fangs last.

Sharp as a shard of ice, no doubt painful without the accompanying magic that a true vampire— or even a vampire spawn— would rely on in subduing prey. But jagged as his teeth are, he’s mindful of how he bites down. Not with the cruel jaws of something latching for a meal, only knowingly precise. Only as digging as it ought to be, and quick out of necessity alone.

And when he drinks at last, it’s greedy.

Dante's breathings is steady, his body as relaxed as it could possibly be given his state of arousal and the clear excitement humming through him currently in his anticipation. He was aware that his heart was racing from the excitement as it always did given his thrill-seeking mentality, invested in every little sensation. Cool, smooth lips against too warm skin felt electric and his fingers flexed involuntarily, tightening, pulling Astarion closer if it was at all possible.

As lips shifted from reverent kisses to tasting there was an audible hike in Dante's breathing that turned into a sharp intake as teeth broke through skin to create a fount sufficient enough for savoring. Given his regenerative interference it required a bit of severity for extended occupation and would no doubt require more attention to keep the wound open.

Disengaging the hold of one hand he wound his way along the sinuous curves of Astarion's body, burying his fingers in soft curls, holding him in place though not by force. It was a quiet sanction, that Astarion could do what he needed to drink his fill and as he might discover in the process that while flesh was regenerative so was blood. Blood that was as hot and sharp as a livewire, fragrant in the way that the air that circulates after a stoke of lightening was.

Dante wasn't prone to getting weak in the knees, but his body reflexively wanted nothing more than to find a way to pull Astarion closer, to hold him fast. He slowly sank to the ground, coat strategically between him and the cobbled earth allowing him to pull Astarion into his lap, flush as he could have him while continuing the insistent grinding of hips not giving an inch where pleasure could be found and where every inch of bare skin met bare skin there was pleasure that was electric and intense.

More than a taste of what he’d been gifted earlier, it floods his senses: drunken mixture of heat and overwhelming intensity washing its way down his throat. So much more potent than what he’d been permitted to steal before— different compared to everything he’s come to know— it nearly dizzies him as he bucks his hips with renewed vigor, knees fitted to the lined leather of Dante’s coat on either side, straddling him so that the whole of his weight’s committed to the task of grinding them along one another.

But eventually, somewhere around the second bite placed along vulnerable skin (every exhale palpable, every shiver maddeningly sweet)— knowing more insistence is needed to keep Dante’s healing from hindering— he leans farther forward over his shadowed companion, aligning himself with his spare hand (the other finding its way to grasping the half-demon’s jaw, turning it upwards at a sharper angle) fingers gathered just around the base of Dante’s cock, guiding him to the tipping point between foreplay and intertwining intimacy. To the slow, careful start of entry, marked by how Astarion lets gravity guide the settling of his hips as he sinks down around Dante inch by feverishly slickened inch.

Now he has to remind himself to be quiet in this. Fucking in the street is one thing; being caught with a mouthful of blood in a city only recently freed from Tevinter would be damning, no doubt.

It leaves him all the more fierce in the leonine grip his jaw maintains across Dante’s throat. Wild and untamed, at odds with the accommodating fluidity of his movements.

The abrupt sensation of being enveloped by Astarion's body--tight and unforgiven, luxurious and intoxicating--was an unanticipated pleasure that took Dante completely off guard. He was more than content with the smooth undulation of hips against his own, the ease of lubrication that made rubbing one off against Astarion's cock a pleasant experience. A gift of this magnitude had been the furthest thing from his own expectations that it was difficult to suppress a noise that was both mingled with surprise and an unintelligible animal triumph. He managed to clip it off with a hoarse gasp, choking on the soft noise that desperately wanted to be something more.

The irony in publicly having sex while not attempting to draw attention to himself or his partner wasn't lost on Dante, but he was also aware that this was just as much about the thrill and spontaneity. Of course there was also curiosity and attraction intermingling to fan those particular flames. If neither of them were interested then they wouldn't have teased and tempted to the ends of it and Dante was beyond the point of invested.

Instead of vocally expressing himself to avoid the attention it would draw, Dante rolled his head back giving Astarion all of the access he could possibly need before biting down on his own lip. Nothing to gag him with out here unfortunately, but he would manage it, his outlet turning more to the physical. His hands, now keyed up, couldn't seem to find enough purchase as they moved frenziedly over every bit flesh within reach. Hiking Astarion's shirt up as high as he could manage it to grope and knead into his back, chest, stomach. One hand finally settled on the vampire spawn's hips as Dante began guiding him in a tempo that was growing more furious and untamed with every upward plunge he took.

It didn't bother him that ever aggressive gesture on his part to ride Astarion to completion forced the vice like grip on his neck to latch all the more. In fact it only earned an appreciative noise and Dante rewarding Astarion with his unoccupied hand palming over his partner's own neglected arousal with a gloved hand. Fortunately Astarion spared no expense with the lubricant and those fingerless gloves were yielding and less abrasive than the might have been.

Wrapping his fist around Astation he tried to emulate the pleasure he was feeling in the other man's own grip, stroking him base to tip, deviating every so often to stroke his finger along the crest, probing gently at the tip. There was a part of him driven entirely on instinct that wanted nothing more than to find a way to subsume Astarion's body with his own. A demonic inclination to absorb making him grateful for the humanity that desired bonding.

It’s divine.

The rush and flow between them. The give and take, where Astarion’s greed is met like a call— beckoned response so immediately met: gloved grip overriding the whole of his thoughts, every tangled thrust rising higher like a wave hammering hard against a shoreline.

He thrives in it. Chases it.

And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit— even to himself in this blank stretch of mindless, instinctively driven movement— that this is more freeing than anything else he’s been able to sink his teeth into since stumbling into Thedas. Anything he’s wrapped his hands around before.

He doesn’t know why.

That doesn’t mean he’ll question it, either.

That glove. That cinching hold. That hand on his hip. That pitching high at the constricted catch that lives where each and every roll of their hips ends. His breath hitches sharp, his lashes flutter, whining high against the span of Dante’s throat, and it smells like lilac and iron and the fading scent of smoke, and—

Gods, when he comes undone, it’s only muffled by how he bears himself into Dante alone, the whole of his body pressed so fiercely to the man beneath him that it nears the point of blissful pain— anchored by teeth and whitened knuckles, by locked hips and the overwhelming need to fit perfectly against the source of that drowning heat.

Dante could feel Astarion convulsing against him, his body tensing and tightening, the mouth on his throat iron in its grip a desperate little noise. It was all the warning Dante got, which was arguably plenty, before he felt Astarion spill over his hand. It was different, a man was different, even one with beauty as bountiful and mystifying as Astarion's own, but it was captivating all the same.

There was no impulse to withdraw or abstain from contact whether it was familiar or intimate he liked Astarion from the beginning, specifically for his boldness and fortitude. Maybe he didn't know all of his secrets and this was mutual, but that did nothing to dismiss the curious attraction and his desire to befriend and form a connection with someone who made him feel less isolated.

This was too deep to contemplate at any length and Dante was not always comfortable with his own depths, his own issues, things that didn't require a space at the moment where he was currently captured by the attentions of another.

If he wanted to Dante could prolong this little suffering, he could continue to exploit and edge Astarion, have him squirm and moan both for more and for an end. It was tempting, but maybe for another time once they've pillow talked their way through whatever boundaries necessary for having a good time. This was certainly fell under the category of good time, so instead of pushing the limits Dante relaxed his hold, stroking Astarion through with reverence, slicking him up with oil and the residuum of his own release as he continued to hold him flush.

His own desires could hardly be ignored, especially in the thralls of his partner's pleasure. Holding back was impossible as soon as Astarion's grip on him became vice like and he followed him easily into sweet abandon not long after. The brutal pistoning of his hips, driving himself home several times, swiftly, with little mercy and less reservation when he finally emptied himself into Astarion's body. Nothing could pacify the howl of pleasure erupting from him in the moment, or the way his body arched lifting them both off of the ground for the few, brief moments needed to fill Astarion.

He feels Dante unravel more than he hears it, despite the fact that no part of it (not the harsh impact of their shared thrusts or the howling groan Dante manages to let loose) is either stifled or softened: fingers scrabbling for purchase in pale hair, dark leather— biting forgotten as he simply gasps in feathering patterns, cheek to Dante’s bloody throat. Thrusts giving way to violent stillness. To the beauty of spilled heat, hot as embers, while his toes curl against his boots.

Greed seethes within him.

When he kisses Dante, it’s as though he means to steal the very breath from his lungs. Lips still stained with the man’s own blood, tongue still tasting of it, shoulders drawn tight and high.

How he wants more.

Impractical as it is. Impossible as it is, too, given the fact that they’ve now made subtlety an absent party to their late night engagement. But that feeling of Dante caught warm within him, hand still settled around him, mouth flush against his own—

What a wretched thing, knowing he can’t keep it.

"Well," he breathes, that lone word more air than anything else as he finds his own voice once more through the haze of contentment.

"You certainly don't disappoint."

Dante's hand stills against Astarion's waning arousal just as soon as as his partner bears down on his mouth with a kiss that threatens to consume him. How could he not surge up into it, part his lips and invite Astarion's tongue in for a taste and to be tasted. Blood was thick and warm, coppery in his own mouth and there was something intriguing and tempting about those lips that were soaked with his flavor, his blood now flowing though the vampire spawn. His jaw worked restlessly, mouth plying at Astarion's own trying to hold this connection for as long as they could tolerate it, until breathing wasn't an option, but a necessity.

He pressed his forehead against Astarion's, his arctic blue eyes (still blown with a desire that head yet to be tamed, only quelled for the time being) fixed on the deep red of his partner's own. He took the time to gather some of his composure, difficult to do while their breathing was so intermingled. Several moments passed before shuddering breaths evened out, but even then Dante didn't let him god, still saddled inside of him even though his cock was no longer engorged it was less about getting off and more about keeping Astarion connected to him in this way.

Dante wasn't the first to break the silence, but he does snort a laugh in amusement, pressing a few brief kisses to the corners of Astarion's mouth before leaning back a bit.

"Yeah?" Dante said raising his hand, curiously observing the coated residue threaded between his fingers, "you're not so bad yourself, you know?"

he punctuated his teasing by licking his fingers, both curious and playful, adding the mixture of oil and Astarion to the other flavors he'd be certain to commit to his memory.

His eyes dilate at the sight of it. His heart skipping in his chest.

For that alone, he steals yet another kiss. It trails in time to those fingers, every curl of his tongue drawn out, lashes fitted low over his eyes.

They’re still a mess, the both of them. Will no doubt stay that way until they find someplace to properly wash off which— Astarion hadn’t really considered before now, given the state of a city with both limited space and resources. His face is streaked with dark crimson, from cheek to opposite jawline, made all the more pervasive by how he’d taken to burying his profile against Dante’s neck in those last few moments. He doesn’t want to pull away. To lose that lingering feeling of connectivity and heat.

He does it all the same after a few beats longer, ruddy kiss set to the rise of Dante’s cheek.

Still, he does his partner the decency of smoothing down his shirt, refitting his trousers, just before rising to tend to himself.

“Oh believe me, I do know.” He confesses with a vivid little smirk for good measure.

“I’ll admit, when I agreed to come here and fight, I didn’t expect it all to end in an exceptionally good time.

Might have to keep turning up for more secret assignments, if this starts becoming a trend.”

Dante rolled back onto his free hand when Astarion began plying him with more kisses, a deep, rich chuckle rumbling from somewhere in his chest. He did his best to return it, but he didn't want to interfere with Astarion's onslaught so he let him go until he was satisfied. That's when he knew it was over for the time being, his companion redressing Date and himself, tidying them up as best as he could considering and Dante considered. He considered his sticky hand, his body that smelled of sweat, sex, and blood. He considered how his neck and must also be smeared with crimson kisses.

Nevermind Astarion who also had the additional bonus of having to deal with Dante spilling inside of him, maybe he should have had the presence of mind to ask or at least warn him. There was very little running water to be found and Thedas wasn't exactly up on modern plumbing. However what Thedas and Orlais specifically lacked in modern conveniences it did make up for with more natural means so he didn't seem all too fussed.

Exactly where Dante took off too when the presence of people became too overwhelming for him (something he was still trying to get used to since he naturally avoided the throngs most of the time)? He went out and explored the surrounding areas further from the city and while it had the potential for danger, there were other things to be found when you weren't looking and Dante had take up camp in a few of these places for the quiet ad to get some respite from the noxious environment of a war riddled city.

Climbing to his feet he wasn't overly concerned about the way his clothing fell so much as he was in stroking Astarion's bloodied cheek with the backs of his fingers. He missed him already, but he wouldn't say as much.

"Guess you don't need me to tell you how drop-dead gorgeous you are," Dante returned, smirking back, but knowing Astarion that's exactly what he wants to be told.

"I'll be sure to follow you around on these secret assignments if it helps expedite the trend," stretching his arms above his head languidly he voiced what was a concern for both of them, "should probably take a bath though before the well meaning come to their own conclusions."

Gorgeous. He does know Astarion too well. It earns a moment longer where Astarion's cheek rests heavier against those roaming fingertips.

Just a touch.

“Mm. Before sunlight circles around, too.” He chuckles blithely, gesturing with a gloved hand towards Dante’s neck. “Come on, there’s a basin inside the office. It isn’t much, but it’ll at least work for now.”

No one save for Astarion lingers at the requisitioned building this late, anyway. They’ve all found other places to rest properly, even in the aftermath of war. Somewhere with beds instead of desks. Rooms instead of holding areas.

“I’ll even scrub you off for good measure.”

Why does that sound like an innuendo.

Not that Dante cared that he had bite marks on his neck that were still glistening with blood and might require the entirety of the night to heal were seen by anyone in particular, he didn't want to piss off the whole village. Whatever weird ideas someone might get into their head at the sight of them with no other context to go on wasn't something he'd want Astarion to deal with.

"As long as there's water involved, I'm not picky," granted he'd probably have to find something else to change into at some point, but that could also wait, the bare minimum was more than sufficient for now as was the privacy to take care of business. They might even be able to get a few hours of undisturbed downtime in before the sun came up and work beckoned.

Well, maybe, Astarion's offer was coming very close to putting those plans on hold.

"Oh, well getting scrubbed off is too generous an offer to turn down," he offered a lopsided grin to his partner, knowing well what he meant, but even if it was more than that he would lean into it anyway, "and what kind of gentleman would I be if i didn't return the favor. I'll be through, get all the places you can't reach."

Did he mean Astarion's back?

There's nothing planned about the way Astarion slips himself into the crook of Dante's arm without asking, pulling him close around his shoulders, fingertips perched light atop his forearm. He's decided— somewhere long before now— this is what they do, the both of them.

Equilibrium.

"Ever the dashing hero I've always dreamed of," He croons smoothly as they slink into the alleyway shadows in full, still smelling of lilac and sex, and the alluring tang of copper.

"I'll look forward to seeing you try."

And falling into step, Dante tugs Astarion in so that he's snug at his side, it's enough to be intimate, companionable, but not enough to interfere with walking leisurely. It just so happened neither one of them had any particular qualms about personal space, invading it, and getting comfortable in it. Clearly there were a few benefits, aside from piggy back rides.

"Can't imagine that dream had a white stallion and blinding armor in it?" Dante couldn't imagine himself being any kind of white knight and picturing himself in a suit of armor gave him a child dressing up in dad's DnD cosplay vibe. He banished the thought before it could send a chill down his spine and instead focused on Astarion's challenge.

"And succeed" Dante said nosing Astarion's hair playfully, "you forgot to add that part."

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