[Ah, and he nearly echoes Astarion's little half-note, head tipping back as he feels steel slide against skin. It's equal parts startling and alluring, one last show of prowess that Fenris absolutely makes note of. How can he not? His blade falters, dropping from Astarion's stomach, but it isn't until the other man removes his dagger that Fenris dares swallow.

He's still panting in exertion, his pulse thrumming— oh, they'll have to hunt soon, for now all of Fenris feels alight.]

I'll stay the night, [an agreement, and he can still feel the echoes of cool steel against bare skin, Maker's breath.]

Though I note your compromise only extends to my prize, Astarion . . .

[To be strictly fair, he really ought to be obligated to stay only half the night— and yet he doesn't argue further, for it's not as if he actually wants that, he's just saying. Absently he tongues at his teeth, lingering against one canine, and adds:]

You are good at daggers.

[It's a real compliment, but also, let's put that bragging ban to the test.]

Where did you learn how to wield them?