[Oh . . . and as his thumb brushes over his lips and he speaks to him so tenderly, Leto thinks that he can understand why all of Astarion's marks fell for him. Alluring thing, talented thing, so very deft at weaving sensuality and intimacy all in one seductive sentence.
And he knows without a shred of doubt that none of those marks ever heard anything close to this.]
Astarion . . .
[It's you. It's always you, and his heart aches for the sudden fierce surge of love that swells up within him. In an instant his fluster has melted away, though all the searing heat in his gaze lingers.]
I have never doubted it. Not when you look at me as you look at no other . . . not when I see how you light up for the sound of my voice, or melt beneath the press of my fingers.
[Astarion's thumb is cool against his bottom lip, subtle pressure encouraging him to part his lips (and he can't) and unfurl his tongue (and he won't), panting like a whore for his mate's approval. He's drunk enough that he actually considers it (the half-formed fantasy so clearly written in the way his lips part, desire growing in his gaze—)
But no. Leto tips his head forward, his lips curling up into more of a smirk.]
Not when even the sight of me asleep is enough to rile you some nights, so that I wake up sore and overfull and satisfied without a single memory as to why.
[Oh, now he's getting into it, for this is him, not some attempt at a line. His eyes flick towards the bartender, but no one is listening to them right now.]
And certainly not when it's been a long day and we're fighting, and suddenly you give me that look. The one that says you want nothing more than to shove a gag smeared with aphrodisiacs into my mouth and strap me to some machine, watching as I'm fucked for hours on end until the only thing I remember how to do is moan out your name and try and beg you for a single finger . . .
Shall I go on? How was that, Astarion? If it isn't up to par . . . keep me captive. Tell me what to say.
no subject
And he knows without a shred of doubt that none of those marks ever heard anything close to this.]
Astarion . . .
[It's you. It's always you, and his heart aches for the sudden fierce surge of love that swells up within him. In an instant his fluster has melted away, though all the searing heat in his gaze lingers.]
I have never doubted it. Not when you look at me as you look at no other . . . not when I see how you light up for the sound of my voice, or melt beneath the press of my fingers.
[Astarion's thumb is cool against his bottom lip, subtle pressure encouraging him to part his lips (and he can't) and unfurl his tongue (and he won't), panting like a whore for his mate's approval. He's drunk enough that he actually considers it (the half-formed fantasy so clearly written in the way his lips part, desire growing in his gaze—)
But no. Leto tips his head forward, his lips curling up into more of a smirk.]
Not when even the sight of me asleep is enough to rile you some nights, so that I wake up sore and overfull and satisfied without a single memory as to why.
[Oh, now he's getting into it, for this is him, not some attempt at a line. His eyes flick towards the bartender, but no one is listening to them right now.]
And certainly not when it's been a long day and we're fighting, and suddenly you give me that look. The one that says you want nothing more than to shove a gag smeared with aphrodisiacs into my mouth and strap me to some machine, watching as I'm fucked for hours on end until the only thing I remember how to do is moan out your name and try and beg you for a single finger . . .
Shall I go on? How was that, Astarion? If it isn't up to par . . . keep me captive. Tell me what to say.