Chapter Text
Astarion has not yet decided how he feels about the ridiculous openness of Tavlyn’s face. He may as well not even have one and just replace it with a scroll detailing whatever it is he’s feeling. He can muster up something like a mask if he’s prepared for it, but that’s about it. Lately though, it’s been useful. Astarion particularly enjoys it in times like now, when they’re alone. He refastens the tent flap, very aware of the man watching him like a child at their first festival, despite the slow blinks of the freshly roused.
“You are meant to be in reverie.” Astarion stalks over like the predator he is. “Eyes closed and resting. Thinking about whatever silly things like you think about.”
Tavlyn lifts his blanket, invitingly, and Astarion slips in. It is a nice blanket, thick and woolen, and thoroughly warmed. Tavlyn shivers as he’s gently rolled to his back—the man trances in the weirdest positions—and Astarion takes his place above him. It’s exceptionally comfortable, adding to the anticipation curling in Astarion’s stomach. Typically the blanket is between them, protective to one, and Astarion has been tempted more than once to wiggle his way in. The blood warms him, but not as much as a certain cuddly sorcerer. He’s finding that the nonsexual physical contact is oddly enjoyable, in small enough doses. Much smaller than Tavlyn wants (his hand lingering after a quick grab-and-squeeze, his body trying to follow when Astarion briefly leans into him), but that is the trick to seduction. Give only a taste, keep them hungry for more.
“Was n’trance.” Tavlyn is all sleepy mumbles as he wraps his arms around Astarion’s waist. “Heard your foo’seps n’got too ‘cited.”
“I think you left half that sentence in dreamland.” Teasing as he braces on an elbow, trailing a finger down the curve of his cheek. “Are you even really awake right now?”
Most elves rise from trance swiftly, alert in a matter of moments, if it takes that long. But Tavlyn tilts into his touch, eyes drifting shut with a thoughtful hum. Loose and languid and Astarion enjoys it. He likes Tavlyn flushed and shy too, but it’s nice having the man totally liquid.
“Yeah…” Tavlyn says, like he’s deciding after careful consideration. “Feels t’nice t’be trance.”
He’s bold enough to stroke down Astarion’s back, fingers splayed out to touch as much as possible. This isn’t the first time Astarion’s fed on him awake, but it is the first time he’s done more than keep his hands locked to his waist. The only touch Tavlyn’s allowed himself, other than maybe rubbing little circles with his thumbs. It’s hardly unpleasant so Astarion’s felt no need to stop him.
He still doesn’t feel the need. He leans in, letting his eyes lid, and Tavlyn obligingly tilts. Astarion nuzzles his neck, trailing his lips along, and gets a soft moan for his efforts. No attempt to muffle or swallow it. Tavlyn really is only just awake, then. What an unexpected treat.
“Does this feel nice, darling?”
A lick, sampling the taste of his skin—hints of lavender and an edge of salt—and then kisses. Tavlyn curls around him in answer, a hand sliding up to the nape of his neck. Not holding him in place, only a simple touch.
“Mmmmhm.” Tavlyn sighs, all content, sleepy pleasure. His fingers tease Astarion’s curls, winding in his hair to scratch his scalp. “S’real nice.”
Astarion can tell. His heartbeat is thinking about picking up, torn between the comfort and enjoyment, and the first blush of arousal colors his scent. Sweet, as is everything about Tavlyn, but complex, an intriguing layer that Astarion has yet to tire of. Ideally he won’t, given that this little misadventure is starting to look like a true quest, but he puts that out of mind to focus on the here and now.
The here: a tent, lit by a dimly glowing crystal, because Tavlyn hates the dark. It provides a deep amber light, easy on the eyes and intimate. His body is warm and soft and yielding and his blanket is an enjoyable weight cocooning them both from the night’s chill. Astarion is hungry, but not ravenous. What Tavlyn can give will be enough.
The now: Tavlyn strokes his back, lazy and leisurely. His pulse thrums against Astarion’s lips, steady but rising with every gentle kiss, and he occasionally lets out a soft, pleased noise. Too drowsy to be nervous, too trusting to be alarmed, too enamored to do anything but whatever Astarion asks.
Being bitten hurts. Astarion remembers it, remembers it even above his other wounds, and yet Tavlyn gasps like it was a lover’s nibble. As if it was entirely pleasure and maybe to him it is. Astarion is only partly aware of him, far more important is the rush of his blood. The first few pulses are quick swallows, catching up to his heartbeat, and then he can savor it. Licking in between sucking, making sure he doesn’t miss a precious drop, and Tavlyn sighs. He moves, not away, but to lift himself more firmly into Astarion’s mouth. Who pushes him back down onto the roll. If he wants more pressure, then Astarion will give it—all he needs to do is stay still.
It’s tempting to lose himself to the urge, to bite down harder, to pull until he’s drained every last drop, but he paces himself. He can now, keeping himself in check, and truly enjoy the meal. Tavlyn is enjoying it too, going off the happy mumbles of his name. He thinks. It’s probably his name. It’s definitely not a request to stop, he knows that for sure. Tavlyn is still absently petting, seemingly as he remembers his hands exist. The one in his hair has fallen down, so two hands map out his back on the laziest exploration. It’s kind of nice, especially with how warm he’s getting, inside and out.
Astarion finishes with a kiss. He’s getting quite good at that, sealing the wound with his tongue so nothing is wasted. Tavlyn murmurs something unintelligible, squeezing Astarion. A bit like a hug.
“Aren’t you affectionate tonight?”
Tavlyn hums, eyes opening. Then closing. Then opening again. He’s drifting, in and out of consciousness, and Astarion breathes a laugh. Tavlyn smiles, lopsided, even as his eyes close once more.
“S’funny?”
“You, my sweet. Such a sleepy little thing, trying so hard.” He leans in, which normally would make go Tavlyn wide-eyed and stammering but causes no reaction here. “Just let go… back to reverie.”
Another hum, another stroke. Tavlyn manages to pull his eyes open again, partway.
“Do’wanna.” He pulls Astarion closer or, rather, attempts to do so. Given that he’s already lying on top of him, there’s no closer to come. “F’ls good.”
He slips again. Astarion rests their foreheads together, watching. It takes him a bit to resurface, eyelids fluttering with the effort.
“You like this, don’t you? Our bodies pressed together, my fangs in your neck.”
Tavlyn’s sigh tickles across his face.
“Bitin’s’m’favrite.” He slurs, hands roaming. “Feelin’ you. Wan’kisses n’touch you… pets.”
“You want kisses, darling?”
This is dangerously fun. He’s not learning anything unexpected—the man’s infatuation is rather painfully obvious—but still.
“N’yeah… dr’minin’ ‘bout it…”
He shifts and Astarion lets him, lifting up so as to not interfere. Tavlyn rolls to his side, tugging Astarion as close as possible while curling into a bean.
“Bitesss n’kisses…” He’s fading fast and Astarion watches his eyelids move, clearly trying to open but unable to muster the energy. “Ast’ron… mm… smells g’d…”
He has to cover his mouth, lest he laugh out loud. Not exactly a conventional compliment, but he can be assured it is entirely genuine. Tavlyn’s definitely out now, lost to reverie for at least the next four hours. Probably five, with the bleeding—Astarion’s noticed he’s been a bit more tired of late. It’s still far less than the non-elves of the party.
“Rest well, pet.”
He does get a kiss—to the temple. A chaste gesture of affection that Astarion will deny to any who ask. Some elves are quasi-aware of their body while in trance; if Tavlyn is one of them, then this little extra affection will be quite the boost to their budding “relationship”. If not, then no harm done.
(He suspects not, if Tavlyn trances so deeply he struggles to wake, but still. It’s rare for an opportunity to have no risk.)
The real question: will Tavlyn remember this in the morning and if yes, how very, very red will he turn?
The answer: not in the slightest. A bit disappointing, the man is so fun to tease, but good because it means he isn’t distracted during all the various fighting and marching and whatnot. A blur of a hundred little things, too many to remember and enough that Astarion wants to curl up in his bedroll while someone draws a hot bath and fetches a masseuse. Since that’s not an option, he settles for the next best alternative: complaining at Tavlyn.
He finds him in a tree again, playing his mini-harp. Astarion hasn’t seen the instrument since that first rainy night; he’d half thought that Tavlyn tossed it. But apparently he’d been keeping it squirreled away, instead. Until now, while the others are busy unwinding or preparing dinner, when he’s safe to slip away to a nearby clearing. Enough distance to not be overheard as he plucks out a cheerful tune.
“You know, I don’t think anyone would mind a bit of music to relax by.”
Tavlyn smiles, the melody uninterrupted. Astarion looks him over. He’s at ease, completely, his back against the trunk with one leg keeping his balance and the other stretched out on the limb. No armor, just leggings and a too-large shirt, and his boots sit neatly at the base of the tree while his toes wiggle in freedom. A stereotype of a wood elf, all he needs is some sort of forest creature and a flower crown.
“Given that Lae’zal threatened to throw daggers at me for talking to Gale, I’m not risking making any extra noise.”
“That’s because you two are insufferable, darling. The only thing more annoying than you during a ‘magical debate’ is your opponent.”
Tavlyn laughs, unoffended. The two really are awful together. When they agree, it’s dull and increasingly hyper-technical. When they disagree, it’s cutting and bitchy and funny but in a way that makes everyone worried that a physical (magical) fight may break out at any moment. They’ll involve bystanders, demanding their opinion as though anyone understood what the hell they were talking about, and it nearly always degrades into the oldest standby of the world: sorcerers vs wizards.
Astarion likes taking the side of whoever seems more upset. It never fails to make the calmer one escalate. In a similar vein, Shadowheart will reignite them if it seems like they might be close to resolving the argument. Wyll and Karlach just like to watch, though they’ll intervene if things get too nasty. Spoilsports.
“I definitely agree with that. For being such an open-minded man, he’s so… unimaginative.”
Astarion hums, watching Tavlyn’s hands. Absolutely sure of themselves, precise and practiced. Tavlyn rests his head back on the tree, music continuing on, bright and happy.
“Did you need something from me?” Tavlyn asks, not opening his eyes.
“Mm, not really. I just thought I’d bother you for a bit, punishment for making me walk all over the coast for a bunch of ungrateful refugees and rude druids.”
Tavlyn smiles.
“You couldn’t bother me.” A bold statement from someone so defenseless. “But they were rude. I hope Kagha steps on a sharp rock.”
“I hope she falls down a ditch.” A quick retort. “Now, let’s see. How shall I annoy you? I could steal your boots. Ooh, and fill them with spiders.”
“I like spiders.” A nonchalant reply, toes wiggling again.
“You would.” Astarion sighs. “You know, I think you owe me.”
A questioning hum.
“I didn’t complain once all day even though you made me pick eight locks and disarm at least a half dozen traps. And you only said ‘thank you’ and then invited a weird zombie man to stay with us.”
“Did you want a sonnet?” A teasing smile. “I’m afraid I’m not a composer, but I am very thankful for your skills. It’s amazing watching you work.”
That does feel better.
“No, though if we do acquire a bard I will be demanding one. The rogue never gets anything good, always the paladins and knights taking the glory.”
“Truly the unsung heroes of our time.” The tune picks up pace, becoming about as jaunty as a harp can manage. “Whenever I hear one of the great classics, I always wonder if there was a beautiful, shifty fellow skulking about.”
“And I’ll bet you there was and that the only reason the ironclad dolt managed to get to the big bad is because their rogue kept them from dying from a poison vent or the like.”
Tavlyn laughs, opening his eyes to shine at Astarion. He supposes he is indeed currently failing to bother the man. He is simply too delightful.
“If I meet any bards looking for inspiration, I’ll be sure to send them your way.” He assures, eyes dancing.
“I’ll hold you to that, darling.”
It’s a fun thought, especially if he could make Tavlyn play it for him. Then again, his voice seemed best suited to those slow, sad songs—Astarion does not want a funeral dirge, thank you. Classy and elegant yes, but tears should only shed should due its beauty.
“What do you want, then? Or was it just the bard thing?”
Tavlyn is open and curious and entirely unbothered by anything. Astarion considers the options.
“Hm… you know, I don’t know. But an unspecified favor is good, I will take that.”
Tavlyn rolls his eyes.
“You hardly need one, I do basically anything you ask.”
“True. You are so very accommodating. Even in trance.”
He raises his eyebrows and the song comes to a close. It’s quiet only for a heartbeat before he starts another one, a little quieter but no less happy.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, just how cuddly you are.” His ears flick, pink working its way up. “Practically used me as a teddy-bear last night.”
Aha, Astarion has located the ideal way to bother Tavlyn. He coughs.
“I… did not know that. I’m… sorry?”
Uncertain, embarrassed, and Astarion soaks it in.
“It was very cute.” Then, off-hand. “Especially when you started whispering little secrets.”
Tavlyn turns quickly. Too quickly. He falls out of the tree with a shout and Astarion laughs. An undignified lump on the ground makes unhappy noises.
“If you’re trying to kill me, just stab me.” Tavlyn groans.
He remains face-down in the dirt.
“Why would I want to kill my favorite traveling companion?”
Astarion walks over, grinning down at him even if he can’t see.
“I don’t know but this is clearly a murder attempt.” He shuffles, dragging the mini-harp out from underneath him. “Owww.”
Astarion plucks the instrument out of his hand, examining it.
“Don’t worry, it’s undamaged.”
He would have felt a little bad if it had been broken.
“That’s good. You can leave me here to die now.”
“So melodramatic.” Astarion crouches down. “You don’t even know what secrets you told me.”
“No, I do.” A heavy sigh. “I thought that was a dream. I get them, sometimes, in trance.”
“Really? That’s… unusual.”
Tavlyn waves a hand, dismissing it.
“Magic thing, spell went wrong. Complicated and boring but basically I can’t sleep anymore and trance is weird.”
Well, that explains why he’s so wiggly. And talkative. Also, this is why he prefers Tavlyn’s magic explanations—he just shares the relevant bits. Gale would talk until they had tentacles coming out their ears.
“And how often do you dream of me?”
His ears go red.
“Okay, I was wrong. You are definitely able to bother me.”
Astarion laughs, dropping down to sit next to him. He considers the mini-harp, absently brushing his fingers against it to get a brief humming noise. That’s about the extent of his musical ability.
“Where did you learn to play?”
“Grandmother.” Tavlyn shifts, shifting to rest his face on his arms instead of the ground. “She said I was too fidgety, so it’d give my hands something useful to do.” There’s an odd note in his voice that Astarion can’t quite place. Tavlyn’s not lying, he’s sure of that, but it sounds as though there’s another sentence or two missing. “I used to play for her dinner parties, on a proper harp. Took a bit to adjust.”
Yes, that is definitely it. Tavlyn is cutting out patchwork answers again. Curious.
“I would never have guessed that there was any struggle. I’ve heard far worse from allegedly trained musicians.”
A pleased ear-twitch. Astarion sets the mini-harp aside to brush bits of bark and leaves off his back. He shivers at the contact.
“Why are you hiding that you play?”
Tavlyn doesn’t respond for a while. Astarion is about to start poking when he rolls onto his side, curling up to face him.
“I wasn’t sure… if I liked it or not.” He says, slowly, watching Astarion’s reaction. “I don’t want the others to know in case I realize I don’t.”
He says ‘the others’, not ‘anyone’. Astarion is not included. Also curious.
“Have you made a decision?”
Tavlyn hums, eyes sliding away.
“I think I like playing, but I don’t think I want to be on stage again.” He considers the harp. “And… I liked singing for you.”
Astarion has unintentionally revisited that memory a few times. Tavlyn’s voice is truly haunting, forcing its way to the forefront of his mind, and each time he wakes from trance with the strangest ache in his chest. It’s not exactly pleasant but he can’t claim it as bad, either.
“You are surprisingly good, given how little thought you give to your words.”
Tavlyn gasps, mock-offended, and follows it with his usual silly smile.
“No, that’s fair. I like getting to just say what I’m thinking.”
“And now if only you thought.” Astarion sighs and gets a laugh. “Hm. Indulge me in another question?”
“Have I ever stopped you?”
Playful and true. Tavlyn just runs from questions he doesn’t want to answer. But currently he is lying prone and is thus so very vulnerable.
“How long have you been wanting to kiss me?”
Tavlyn freezes, like if he stays still enough, Astarion can’t see him. And Astarion chuckles, setting a hand in the center of his chest to feel his heartbeat.
(He remembers, belatedly, the compression band Tavlyn wears. It’s too late to stop the motion. He is very careful to stay straight on the sternum. Tavlyn’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t object.)
“I can hear this racing, darling.” He strokes down to his belly, enjoying his warmth and getting away from the potential danger zone. “You already told me, albeit in trance, so there’s no harm in making it a proper confession.”
“I dunno, I could maybe keep some dignity?”
“You fell out of a tree because I called you cute.” Astarion reminds, leaning in. “Dignity is a mountain that you will never conquer.”
Astarion’s not all that close, just leaning on his elbow so their faces are a foot or so apart. Tavlyn shivers anyways.
“Stop being mean to me.”
He’s gone all red again, ears twitching madly, and Astarion laughs at him.
“You don’t want that. You like that I’m mean to you, sweet thing.” He twirls a finger through Tavlyn’s hair. “Tugging on your pigtails, metaphorically speaking.”
“You didn’t even call me cute.” Tavlyn sulks, unable to hold his eyes. “You’re just mean to me all the time forever.”
“True on both accounts. I said that your behavior was cute, not you.” He’ll concede that point and also pull his hair again. “Now answer the question. I’m guessing… after the first time I bit you. Your heart was going almost as fast as it is now.”
Tavlyn wraps his arms around his head to hide. Astarion can still see the blush peeking through.
“No. Also I’m not answering.”
“Hm, earlier or later?” Astarion shifts to lay his head on his chest, listening to the ever-increasing beat. “You should answer before this poor thing explodes.”
“You could stop stressing it out.”
Astarion scoots so they are face to face. Or would be, if Tavlyn’s arms weren’t in the way.
“Go on. You’ll feel better if you tell me. Secrets are bad for you, I hear.”
Tavlyn makes an unhappy noise. Astarion strokes down his side, earning another shiver.
“Let’s see… if it wasn’t the first bite, then perhaps after dealing with that monster hunter? When you fell to trance in my arms?”
“No. Stop asking.”
“I’ll stop asking if you answer.” He trails a finger across his arm. “All this resistance tells me the answer is worth any effort to get.”
A purr, encouragement, and Tavlyn groans.
“It’s really not interesting.” He tries and Astarion laughs.
“Darling, what could be uninteresting about it? I don’t think there’s many subjects as exciting as knowing someone wants you.”
Another groan.
“Maybe I’ll just ask you later tonight…” Astarion considers. “You are so cooperative in trance.”
“That’s rude.” The arms split just enough for Tavlyn to glare at him. “Don’t do that.”
“Mm, I won’t have to if you tell me.” He smiles, leaning in again, close enough that his lips brush Tavlyn’s wrist. “I might even be willing to reward your honesty.”
Tavlyn’s eyes go wide and the tadpoles strike.
But there are too many memories, too many thoughts—fractured, cold images rush by like a burst dam. He grabs at random, trying to glean some information from the onslaught. There’s a lord with an oily smile, stroking Tavlyn’s thigh, and then a well-dressed woman backs him into a table, eyes sharp, and now a lecherous old knight wraps around him from behind, breath stinking of sour grapes with hands reaching where they should not. Tavlyn is strangely absent in each—unhappy with the circumstances but detached. He wasn’t distraught or afraid, the unwanted touches simply annoyingly tedious, like discovering another shard of glass after putting the broom away. It’s sickeningly familiar and Astarion freezes as though he can hide from the psionics.
“Ta—” The tadpoles yank again.
Free! Freedom, in the air, in the grass, and in the beautiful eyes flashing scarlet. He still feels the kiss—a kiss!—of steel on his neck even though it’s over and the man is speaking but his ears are still ringing with the purr of frightened threats and the touch of his curiously cold body and the damp ground and everything, so much everything. The eyes the dagger the touch he wants more, he wants it again, he wants and he understands want now, the rush the hunger and oh he’s supposed to speak—
“Please kill me.” Tavlyn groans, arms once again fully shielding his face. “Or let me borrow your dagger so I can kill me.”
Astarion pats his arms soothingly, blinking like it will help him process faster. The last vision, the memory of their first meeting, could not have been more different to the earlier ones. It was dripping with emotion. Excitement to the point of insanity, his mind whirling in looping circles, sensory memory burning while it replayed each part on its way to an eardrum-shattering crescendo.
“Da—”
“Before you say anything, I want to remind you that I was very concussed.”
Tavlyn shifts, his body trying to curl up. Poor embarrassed thing, betrayed by the tadpole. Somehow both reassuring and worrying that the memory he’s most embarrassed about is the last one. Astarion leans on him, preventing his escape, and pats his arms again.
“Darling. There are so many questions I want to ask, but if you answer just this one, then I’ll drop them all until you want to discuss it.” An offer Tavlyn cannot refuse. Which he knows. His arms move apart so he can stare, suspiciously. “I’ll even ask the question first, so you can decide. Fair?”
The suspicion increases dramatically.
“Ask, then.”
“Have you ever been kissed?”
Arms slam shut. Tavlyn's heart explodes, killing him instantly. He wishes. It does dramatically spike.
This question gets straight to the crux of the matter. It shifts Astarion’s plans, just a bit, if Tavlyn is that inexperienced. Mostly he’ll just dial things back a touch.
But those old memories—especially the one of the knight—are concerning. If Tavlyn has endured that kind of violence, then Astarion needs to rework all future interactions. But he also doesn’t want to come right out and ask because ah, no.
“…No.” Tavlyn mumbles, so softly Astarion almost misses it. “I’ve never… anything. Wasn’t allowed.”
Another oddity to add to the list. But Astarion won’t break his word this quickly. Probably.
“Very brave answer. Good job.” He strokes his arm, aiming for soothing, and gets a huff.
“You’re so mean all the time I can’t tell if that’s actually genuine or sarcastic.”
“Well, I did promise a reward for honesty. I could tell you, if that’s what you really want.” Astarion takes advantage of his surprise to tug an arm away, freeing the top of his face. “There’s my sweet. See, sharing wasn’t so bad.”
“I think the stress burnt off a whole decade of my life.” Tavlyn says, flatly, and Astarion moves his other arm so he can pat his cheek. His burning hot, practically glowing cheek. “I’m gonna smash Spike with a hammer.”
“You do that. I’m going to thank it for letting me in that mess you call a mind.”
Tavlyn starts to open his mouth, confusion obvious, but freezes when Astarion cups his cheek. He presses a kiss to Tavlyn’s temple and tries not to visibly smirk at the squeak. Aw, he actually managed to go just a bit darker at that.
Astarion slides back down and Tavlyn stops breathing. They’re close enough that he should feel it.
“Have you really been wanting to kiss me since we met?”
“Y-you said you would drop it!”
Oh, right. Oops.
“I’m a rogue, darling. I lie.” He shifts one hand down to his neck, feeling his pulse. Beating too fast to count. “You don’t look like you mind too much.”
Actually, he looks like he might pass out. Which is hilarious.
“I… I don’t.” Tavlyn manages despite the not-breathing thing. “I like it when you’re close.”
“You’re trembling.”
“This is a lot closer than I’m used to.” He admits, swallowing thickly.
Not entirely true, according to his memories, but… it is different, when voluntary. Plus, the knight was old and gross. Most of them were visibly aged, actually, even the ones Astarion only got a glimpse of, even some of the elves. Was Tavlyn raised in a retirement village for handsy creeps? Something to ponder later.
“Do you want me closer?”
A mute nod. Astarion teases the nape of his neck, playing with the edge of hair, and he shudders. Very easily worked up. Astarion moves slowly, giving plenty of time for him to flee, to bring their foreheads together. Tavlyn exhales shakily, a hand lighting so barely on Astarion’s waist that he almost doesn’t notice.
“I’m not going to come any closer, pet.” He tugs his hair, playful. “If you want to kiss me, then yo—mph.”
Alright, that’s on him. Obviously one shake too much of smokepowder for this particular grenade. Astarion holds him still, even with the brief pain of being headbutted via mouth. A soft, careful kiss. No tongue, no teeth. Gentle, stroking his hair, and Tavlyn melts. Entirely his, for the taking, and Astarion prides himself on a trap well-sprung.
Astarion hums, pressing him down, and Tavlyn makes a muffled, excited noise. He goes willingly, letting Astarion slip on top. Deepen the kiss, just a flick of tongue to his bottom lip, and internally roll his eyes when an over-eager tentacle comes charging.
“Easy, darling. Follow my lead.”
A murmur, mostly an excuse to get away from the thrashing thing, and Tavlyn nods, eyes bright. Astarion kisses him again, keeping the tongue minimal, and Tavlyn thankfully works out that he should too. Just a flash, then retreat. Twine together, then retreat. The retreating is important because otherwise it’s a declaration of war and Astarion will bite it off. No “tongues battling for dominance” here. Behave or be removed.
Tavlyn’s arms loop around his neck, followed immediately by a leg around his. Latching on, the greedy, clingy thing, and Astarion breaks the kiss to trail his lips down his cheek to his neck. Tavlyn makes a soft noise at the graze of teeth.
“You can.” He whispers, turning his head to make the offer more clear.
“I’m going to.” Astarion licks a stripe up to his ear, then nips the lobe. “But first, kisses. If you’ve been wanting this since the very beginning, then I’ve got quite the backlog to catch up on.”
“Oh…” Tavlyn seems to be having breathing problems again. He should really get that checked out. “If you want to.”
Astarion smiles, enjoying his wide-eyed submission. He hopes, for a minute, that the tadpoles will do him another favor and tattle on his current state. It’s fine that they don’t—Tavlyn’s want is written all over his face.
Actually, that decides it. Astarion likes how Tavlyn’s thoughts are visible from twenty paces. Makes him nice and easy to deal with. Now, to kiss the man until he’s whiny and flushed and then enjoy his blood.
The plan continues on unchanged.