[An answering hum as the tail of that spin brings them closer than they were before. The soft lay of his fingers where they rejoin the smooth dimples along Fenris' lower spine, stronger once they've found their marks. Everything where it belongs— save them, if the swirl of restless whispers flocking them holds any meaning. Any merit whatsoever.

To Astarion, it doesn't.

The noise might wax and wane, and the words themselves might register well enough, but the buzzing in his skull rings louder; the mantra circling its tail that swears in awe as often as it can that this is real.]

Then I'll hold you that much tighter, and dare them all to try. [Is a murmur inlaid near the borders of a lunar mask, blowing back with his own exhale— warmer on its second pass. He can still smell that bottled wine, still taste it in recounted memory. Where there hands fit together— smooth faultlines over rough (and the pulse of his anchor, aching like his own raised pulse)— he palms that grip like he did the bottle: stealing everything he can without crossing into crassness. A subtle, conscious effort for a hungry thing like him.]

....You know, I didn't take you for much of a dancer.

[I was wrong, insists his tone.]