No, that'd be— Gods, no. [No, he's at least certain he could never want that enough to vie for that mistake. Outside of the occasional hellish dream involving old nightmares and temptations made sweet until he wakes, even Astarion's own subconscious mind rejects the idea right at the bitter root.
This time it isn't raw dread. That quickness in his voice exudes a sense of knifing revulsion felt right to the bone, pressure on his spine spurring him to hiss rather than simper— though trust it's broadly aimed in all its focus: there's nothing at all akin to a needlepoint pinned to Leto's throat for suggesting it. He isn't angry or spitting in disgust, only jolting back the way a horse startles when it notices something secondhand. Peripheral blur inciting a rapid collapse in well-paced hoofbeats—
And then just like that, it's done. Darkened blur just a twig or a rock or a garden hose left out, existing innocuously in its own function.
Leto asked because he needed to. Because— strewth, they're up to their necks already, aren't they? Unable to make out branches, let alone forests for trees. Too far from one another to make this easy; too close to one another to let a single subject lie once it starts to freely bleed. He asks because he doesn't know what to think, not because he does think it (and even then, there's no sign of frantic fear for that possibility. Hesitation isn't cold, leveled horror. 'I am not angry. I am not upset.'
And after his head's back on as straight as it could ever possibly get at a time like this, he trusts in that assurance).
He trusts Leto.]
The sensation of it only.
[Nothing deeper. Nothing so tethered to the past that it cuts right through the meridian of what they have.]
It's you that I want. [Oh, right from the reckless start, that's all.] Your touch, your presence. Just you.
[And if he stops, he'll falter. Choke on his own words or swallow down his tongue, being immortal won't save you from the depths of shame or the need to tuck your tail against your belly and never lift your stare again. He has to keep going, which means he has to ramble, now— dragging Leto down into whatever mire it leads to.]
....but that includes your cruelty, too. The way your gemstone eyes shine with contempt when you aren't getting your way. The sharpness of your teeth when you tire of my harrassments. The look you sometimes get as if you can't tell whether or not you want to stop— [Keep going. Keep going. Think specifics. That's what he'd asked for.] Moments of ordered obedience, like when we fought back in Kirkwall. My chin to your knee, my legs wrapped tight around your shin—
[They've gone over this before a hundred times: played out in assurances from Astarion via his lips or voice or roaming fingers that it's not him in exchanges like that. Oh, darling, it's not Danarius' touch still levered against you. It's not his reach or his hold; you're not his still, even when he's gone— there's no disgrace to be had in lust so long as we're both happy.
But that's just it.
All those times, he'd aimed his sights on Leto and deliberately forgotten his own fear. His own worry. His own neophyte newness in freedom, stuck without permanence in any direction he looked.
He can let his guard drop, now.]
Perhaps it is that. Longing for the way it felt [and he emphasizes that word because] beyond the mindlessness of purpose on its own. Something I can't seem to dig out, no matter how vividly I try.
Taking his curse and relieving it with your fingers
no subject
No, that'd be— Gods, no. [No, he's at least certain he could never want that enough to vie for that mistake. Outside of the occasional hellish dream involving old nightmares and temptations made sweet until he wakes, even Astarion's own subconscious mind rejects the idea right at the bitter root.
This time it isn't raw dread. That quickness in his voice exudes a sense of knifing revulsion felt right to the bone, pressure on his spine spurring him to hiss rather than simper— though trust it's broadly aimed in all its focus: there's nothing at all akin to a needlepoint pinned to Leto's throat for suggesting it. He isn't angry or spitting in disgust, only jolting back the way a horse startles when it notices something secondhand. Peripheral blur inciting a rapid collapse in well-paced hoofbeats—
And then just like that, it's done. Darkened blur just a twig or a rock or a garden hose left out, existing innocuously in its own function.
Leto asked because he needed to. Because— strewth, they're up to their necks already, aren't they? Unable to make out branches, let alone forests for trees. Too far from one another to make this easy; too close to one another to let a single subject lie once it starts to freely bleed. He asks because he doesn't know what to think, not because he does think it (and even then, there's no sign of frantic fear for that possibility. Hesitation isn't cold, leveled horror. 'I am not angry. I am not upset.'
And after his head's back on as straight as it could ever possibly get at a time like this, he trusts in that assurance).
He trusts Leto.]
The sensation of it only.
[Nothing deeper. Nothing so tethered to the past that it cuts right through the meridian of what they have.]
It's you that I want. [Oh, right from the reckless start, that's all.] Your touch, your presence. Just you.
[And if he stops, he'll falter. Choke on his own words or swallow down his tongue, being immortal won't save you from the depths of shame or the need to tuck your tail against your belly and never lift your stare again. He has to keep going, which means he has to ramble, now— dragging Leto down into whatever mire it leads to.]
....but that includes your cruelty, too. The way your gemstone eyes shine with contempt when you aren't getting your way. The sharpness of your teeth when you tire of my harrassments. The look you sometimes get as if you can't tell whether or not you want to stop— [Keep going. Keep going. Think specifics. That's what he'd asked for.] Moments of ordered obedience, like when we fought back in Kirkwall. My chin to your knee, my legs wrapped tight around your shin—
[They've gone over this before a hundred times: played out in assurances from Astarion via his lips or voice or roaming fingers that it's not him in exchanges like that. Oh, darling, it's not Danarius' touch still levered against you. It's not his reach or his hold; you're not his still, even when he's gone— there's no disgrace to be had in lust so long as we're both happy.
But that's just it.
All those times, he'd aimed his sights on Leto and deliberately forgotten his own fear. His own worry. His own neophyte newness in freedom, stuck without permanence in any direction he looked.
He can let his guard drop, now.]
Perhaps it is that. Longing for the way it felt [and he emphasizes that word because] beyond the mindlessness of purpose on its own. Something I can't seem to dig out, no matter how vividly I try.
Taking his curse and relieving it with your fingers