A little beat across the line that could easily contain entire oceans full of thought: relief, hope, reluctance, comfort, warmth— more reciprocally bound gratitude, even. The only briefer sound within its bounds that of Astarion's restless fingers twisting nominally as they shift around the stone, and the rest of him following soon enough, judging by the soft rustling of cloth-against-cloth within his coffin. Possibly upright. Possibly rolling onto his side. Audio cues sparse in a space that both feels claustrophobic and too large without Leto there to warm it— and simultaneously too full of his own mind to keep it to himself. Whatever comes next, it'll have weight. Meaning. The whole of his heart on display behind barbed defenses that almost never quit, offered up to the fleeting thing that owns him.
And always will.]
Good.
[ —or it's that.
(Good, he chirps out as if measuring weather patterns, and though there's a bubble of molten adoration wreathing it in his mouth, he's an exceptional master of veering footwork. They could talk about his feelings. How glad he is, too, to be part of their ouroborosian thread of trust. How there isn't anything he'd hoard or anything beyond the concept of sharing. How he longs to see that splash of bloody red drawn tight across Leto's wrist even when the man is naked and sleeping in a heap of what should be shared pillows: his neck craned awkwardly at an angle, his arm dangling loosely from the corner of the bed— having already shoved Astarion with his bare feet once or twice already, not including the efforts of one overgrown wolf. He could tell him that he hates Thedas and longs for it with all his heart— and loves it, in his own embittered way.
He could tell him again, for the thousandth time, that he'll never leave his side come death or age or desolation.
But unless he wants to see Leto's work extended by another day, ensuring that he's kept away from him for longer, there'll be time to talk about all that later, as it comes.)]
Because I'd hate to have to be the one to track you down instead. My legs are tired enough already as it is, trying to keep up with you on all that noble, heroic— irritating mercenary work of yours.
[Says the literal vampire, who could rut him from sunrise to sunset and back again, provided he's well fed.]
no subject
A little beat across the line that could easily contain entire oceans full of thought: relief, hope, reluctance, comfort, warmth— more reciprocally bound gratitude, even. The only briefer sound within its bounds that of Astarion's restless fingers twisting nominally as they shift around the stone, and the rest of him following soon enough, judging by the soft rustling of cloth-against-cloth within his coffin. Possibly upright. Possibly rolling onto his side. Audio cues sparse in a space that both feels claustrophobic and too large without Leto there to warm it— and simultaneously too full of his own mind to keep it to himself. Whatever comes next, it'll have weight. Meaning. The whole of his heart on display behind barbed defenses that almost never quit, offered up to the fleeting thing that owns him.
And always will.]
Good.
[ —or it's that.
(Good, he chirps out as if measuring weather patterns, and though there's a bubble of molten adoration wreathing it in his mouth, he's an exceptional master of veering footwork. They could talk about his feelings. How glad he is, too, to be part of their ouroborosian thread of trust. How there isn't anything he'd hoard or anything beyond the concept of sharing. How he longs to see that splash of bloody red drawn tight across Leto's wrist even when the man is naked and sleeping in a heap of what should be shared pillows: his neck craned awkwardly at an angle, his arm dangling loosely from the corner of the bed— having already shoved Astarion with his bare feet once or twice already, not including the efforts of one overgrown wolf. He could tell him that he hates Thedas and longs for it with all his heart— and loves it, in his own embittered way.
He could tell him again, for the thousandth time, that he'll never leave his side come death or age or desolation.
But unless he wants to see Leto's work extended by another day, ensuring that he's kept away from him for longer, there'll be time to talk about all that later, as it comes.)]
Because I'd hate to have to be the one to track you down instead. My legs are tired enough already as it is, trying to keep up with you on all that noble, heroic— irritating mercenary work of yours.
[Says the literal vampire, who could rut him from sunrise to sunset and back again, provided he's well fed.]