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Summary
“You try that sort of shite ever again, Astarion,” Lledryl hisses, “and I’ll rip those fangs out and wear them for a necklace.”
For the tiniest of moments he has the decency to look contrite, but it doesn’t last. Of course, it doesn’t last. He wipes the guilt off his face in favor of a saucy little head shake and that habitual come-hither smirk of his: eyes hooded, lips hitched just so, head ever so slightly inclined to the side. The Works.
“So violent,” he trails. “Is it your Drow heritage, I wonder?” Then, he adds, with just a hint of a purr, “if you want my fangs on your neck once more, my dear, you have but to ask.”