On Tav's side, perhaps his intentions weren't exactly pure the first time he was propositioned by Astarion at camp. In his defense, what had led to it- running the Gur hunter off for instance- was well and truly a decision made with good intentions in mind. As was that night when Astarion had tried to feed off him- of not immediately reaching for a stake, of hearing him out, and of doing his best to understand... and then of offering himself. Solely altruistic, better sense be damned- he hardly had good sense in abundance, anyway.
But yes. Taking Astarion up on his offer of a little fun, at the time, was certainly not anything close.
Even so, what had come after that proposition- the sight of Astarion's scars, a real, tangible display of Cazador's brutality, of identifying their language, of drawing them out so the other man could ponder them, rage over them, of just simply listening while he did all of this- brought about feeling within him. Something altogether more solid than the need to blow off as much steam as possible before ceremorphosis took them all.
He can't help but think, perhaps against what better sense he did have, that Astarion had changed somewhat, as well. Here, in the dim light of his tent, it certainly seemed that way. He's less hardened. Less brittle. Less likely to cut- with his words or... well, literally. If just for this moment.
So.]
...Sorry about your ear.
[He can't help but have a little mirth in his tone as he recalls Astarion's whole... take at being chewed upon while he was feeding- because. Well. the look on his face was priceless.]
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On Tav's side, perhaps his intentions weren't exactly pure the first time he was propositioned by Astarion at camp. In his defense, what had led to it- running the Gur hunter off for instance- was well and truly a decision made with good intentions in mind. As was that night when Astarion had tried to feed off him- of not immediately reaching for a stake, of hearing him out, and of doing his best to understand... and then of offering himself. Solely altruistic, better sense be damned- he hardly had good sense in abundance, anyway.
But yes. Taking Astarion up on his offer of a little fun, at the time, was certainly not anything close.
Even so, what had come after that proposition- the sight of Astarion's scars, a real, tangible display of Cazador's brutality, of identifying their language, of drawing them out so the other man could ponder them, rage over them, of just simply listening while he did all of this- brought about feeling within him. Something altogether more solid than the need to blow off as much steam as possible before ceremorphosis took them all.
He can't help but think, perhaps against what better sense he did have, that Astarion had changed somewhat, as well. Here, in the dim light of his tent, it certainly seemed that way. He's less hardened. Less brittle. Less likely to cut- with his words or... well, literally. If just for this moment.
So.]
...Sorry about your ear.
[He can't help but have a little mirth in his tone as he recalls Astarion's whole... take at being chewed upon while he was feeding- because. Well. the look on his face was priceless.]