a manner of irresistible desperation
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Kairos bares his neck, displaying the expanse of his throat. “You don’t owe me,” he murmurs, as he beckons Astarion forward. “You told me it was a gift that first time, didn’t you? Gifts aren’t repaid.”
“Hm.” Astarion trails a light touch up Kairos’ throat, forcing him to angle his head back further. “In children’s books, perhaps. You’re rather naive, with fangs at your throat.”
“You’re not very scary,” Kairos responds, and Astarion bites him.
Astarion waits for it to get worse. Strangely, it never does.
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- Part 1 of a manner of irresistible desperation
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He’s warm, Astarion realizes, and curls a bit closer. Steady, soft heat, far better than the thin blanket Astarion usually covers himself in. They don’t usually sleep this close, but the relentless chill of the Shadow-Cursed Lands has Astarion chasing his warmth.
Kairos hums, and shifts so he can bury his face in Astarion’s hair. “You smell good.”
“Bergamot and rosemary,” Astarion mumbles. “Covers up the corpse smell.”
“I like the corpse smell,” Kairos replies, unabashed, like the freak he is.
Perhaps the Dark Urge is not the safest companion Astarion could have chosen to seduce. In his defense, he's not exactly a details person.
Series
- Part 2 of a manner of irresistible desperation