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“Humor me, Sol, but may I have a quick peek at that lovely neck of yours. Just for old times’ sake,” he whispers. A hand caresses up and stops at their shoulder, thumb massaging their skin. He ignores the flash of hesitancy, since they acquiesce anyways, straightening their posture and tilting their head. Astarion’s hand moves from resting at their shoulder to holding Sol’s head, adjusting their head further back, to get a better look.   Sol gasps under their breath, “Gods, Astarion. Don’t mess up my hair.”  The marks are faded now, if he wasn’t this close he probably wouldn’t even be able to see them. He masks with one of his smirks that deep ache and rage filling him when he sees Sol’s hesitancy through the fantasy. There’s a moment where he just wants to take them there, digging his teeth deep into their neck, tearing muscle, tendons, and arteries. He wants to keep them sequestered in the labyrinthine halls of his palace, protected and defiled.  “Astarion? People are starting to stare.”

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