It always started the same way. A tender brush of fingertips under the guise of casual affection—a kiss good morning, a stroke across his hair, a hand cupping his jaw. And then, inevitably, your goddamn fingers would find their way to his ears.

Astarion had learned to anticipate it. Like sunrise. Like taxes. Like Lae’zel snarling through breakfast. And yet—yet—no amount of preparation could spare him from the ritual humiliation.

He was reading, sprawled on his pile of stolen furs like a decadent corpse bride, shirt unbuttoned halfway (purely for ventilation, of course), when your shadow fell across him.

“Oh no,” he said flatly, without looking up. “I know that look. That’s your ‘I’m going to be a menace now’ face. Don’t even think about—”

Your fingers grazed the tip of one long, pointed ear.

“—gods dammit,” he hissed, twitching violently and nearly upending his wine. “Must we? Again?”

You didn’t answer. You just smirked and leaned in closer, eyes locked on your prey like a cat about to knock an antique vase off a shelf. He braced himself.

“You’re obsessed,” he grumbled, voice trembling slightly as your nails dragged along the delicate edge. “You are a menace. An absolute terror with no regard for personal safety or sanctity of elfkind—”

Another stroke. He gasped.

“Stop it,” he breathed. “Keep going.”

And there it was—that cursed reaction. The way his spine arched just-so, hips shifting like he wasn’t desperately trying to keep from making some unspeakably embarrassing noise. His ears were sensitive. That was all. Perfectly natural. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“I should punish you for this,” he muttered darkly, though it lacked venom. “Tie your hands. Gag that smug little mouth. See how you like being teased senseless.”

You tweaked the tip.

“AH!—Y-you wicked little beast—!”

Somewhere in the distance, Gale sighed dramatically and muttered something about “carnal corruption at camp again.” Astarion flipped him off without breaking eye contact.