[He can't tell if that's Fenris teasing him, or jabbing back for the sake of his own dignity in the way that one harsh kick under the table ever used to elicit equal retaliation. In the end, it doesn't matter. He can feel heat marching up his spine, and this time, even without the sight of his own expression Astarion knows the face he's making. Knows he has to look like something of cross between a deer caught in the road and the strawberry jam they'd had for breakfast: red and startled, toes imperceptibly curling as he straightens himself into sitting upright— catching Fenris with an angled, sidelong stare.
But he's been taught expertly. Grown up around crude debauchery and knows it as the transactional exchange it is. He'd never blushed at the sight or suggestion of any of this, and he'd damn well never flustered.
It's like a poker game. Or perhaps more true to them, keenly recognizing the arch in Fenris' brow....a dare.]
Experienced in the way that washing your cock counts as a handjob. [Stubborn. Stubborn again, and his silver eyes squint slightly before resetting with a soft, thready inhale. Just as any actor on a stage. He can do this. He's not anxious. Not overly unsure. Not—
Not staring at the way dark hair frames a long, slender neck that's flanked by woven muscle. The way it clings with faint sweat to his cheeks, and the outline of his ears. The shine of wetness on his lips, barely visible except for when it's in the light.]
Shut up.
[He mutters mildly, pushing the flat of his palm against the center of Fenris' shirt. His chest. Twisting around where he sits onto his knees the way he's seen the other performers do in lounges and in private, straddling only the wealthiest partners Paris can afford. Pressure steady on the inside of his thighs, electricity suddenly coursing through every point of contact they maintain.
When he leans forward, his unkempt curls wash themselves across the bridge of Fenris' nose.]
I told you.... [This time he licks his lips. This time it turns hot exhales cold in close proximity.
no subject
But he's been taught expertly. Grown up around crude debauchery and knows it as the transactional exchange it is. He'd never blushed at the sight or suggestion of any of this, and he'd damn well never flustered.
It's like a poker game. Or perhaps more true to them, keenly recognizing the arch in Fenris' brow....a dare.]
Experienced in the way that washing your cock counts as a handjob. [Stubborn. Stubborn again, and his silver eyes squint slightly before resetting with a soft, thready inhale. Just as any actor on a stage. He can do this. He's not anxious. Not overly unsure. Not—
Not staring at the way dark hair frames a long, slender neck that's flanked by woven muscle. The way it clings with faint sweat to his cheeks, and the outline of his ears. The shine of wetness on his lips, barely visible except for when it's in the light.]
Shut up.
[He mutters mildly, pushing the flat of his palm against the center of Fenris' shirt. His chest. Twisting around where he sits onto his knees the way he's seen the other performers do in lounges and in private, straddling only the wealthiest partners Paris can afford. Pressure steady on the inside of his thighs, electricity suddenly coursing through every point of contact they maintain.
When he leans forward, his unkempt curls wash themselves across the bridge of Fenris' nose.]
I told you.... [This time he licks his lips. This time it turns hot exhales cold in close proximity.
A careful meeting of their mouths.]
....I need to focus.