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Summary
“I think there’s been some miscommunication here,” Halsin says. “Not that I’m not flattered, you understand. Quite the opposite.”
Astarion hums and ignores him, letting centuries of practice take over his body, his mind already adrift. He curls fingers under the waistband of Halsin’s trousers. Someone else's fingers, now, long, pale and elegant; pretty as a picture against the healthy tan of Halsin’s stomach.When misunderstanding strikes, Astarion cuts and runs.