[The drawling innuendo sends a pang of nostalgia lancing through him, sharp in its unexpectedness and all the more bittersweet. Isabela is long gone, and that's as it should be, for she was never meant to be tethered to land. But oh, he does miss her.
It's why he doesn't immediately reach for the cigarette. Instead: he allows himself a few deliberate moments of silence (coughing fit mercifully subsided, Maker), his gaze knowing as he looks at Astarion. Yes, he sees what you're doing. He knows very well, and truthfully, it isn't displeasing. Not something he wants to go chasing after, not today, when all of him is still too emotionally wrung out, but . . .
Ah, Fenris thinks. It's been a long time since he's had that kind of easy back and forth. A friends-with-benefits sort of thing, potentially, although one does need to be friends first. But it's not out of the question.
So then, with an exaggerated sort of care, Fenris leans forward. He keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, not a hint of fluster to be found even as hot breath hits the curl of his fingers. A flash of white teeth; his tongue slipping forward, helping draw the tip past his lips, til he can bite down so terribly gently. Lips wrapping firmly around that little cylinder, aided after a moment by two fingers steadying what he can't fit in his mouth and three glasses of wine cheering him on. Sitting back, and there's one slow, short inhale, the smoke lingering on his tongue.
It takes all of ten seconds, if that. A sharp exhale, smoke slipping past his lips, as he offers it back.]
Do not mistake inexperience with incompetence.
[And don't call attention to whatever that was a moment ago. And hey, good news: the urge to cough has subsided, so thank the Maker for small mercies. And oh, he's sure the other man will say something, so smoothly, Fenris adds:]
You never explained, you know, why you were being chased. It wasn't being mistaken for me, clearly. Have slavers gotten so bold even with ordinary elves?
[Not that Astarion is ordinary, exactly, but whatever.]
no subject
It's why he doesn't immediately reach for the cigarette. Instead: he allows himself a few deliberate moments of silence (coughing fit mercifully subsided, Maker), his gaze knowing as he looks at Astarion. Yes, he sees what you're doing. He knows very well, and truthfully, it isn't displeasing. Not something he wants to go chasing after, not today, when all of him is still too emotionally wrung out, but . . .
Ah, Fenris thinks. It's been a long time since he's had that kind of easy back and forth. A friends-with-benefits sort of thing, potentially, although one does need to be friends first. But it's not out of the question.
So then, with an exaggerated sort of care, Fenris leans forward. He keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, not a hint of fluster to be found even as hot breath hits the curl of his fingers. A flash of white teeth; his tongue slipping forward, helping draw the tip past his lips, til he can bite down so terribly gently. Lips wrapping firmly around that little cylinder, aided after a moment by two fingers steadying what he can't fit in his mouth and three glasses of wine cheering him on. Sitting back, and there's one slow, short inhale, the smoke lingering on his tongue.
It takes all of ten seconds, if that. A sharp exhale, smoke slipping past his lips, as he offers it back.]
Do not mistake inexperience with incompetence.
[And don't call attention to whatever that was a moment ago. And hey, good news: the urge to cough has subsided, so thank the Maker for small mercies. And oh, he's sure the other man will say something, so smoothly, Fenris adds:]
You never explained, you know, why you were being chased. It wasn't being mistaken for me, clearly. Have slavers gotten so bold even with ordinary elves?
[Not that Astarion is ordinary, exactly, but whatever.]