[He can imagine it, you know. Underneath the placid surface of his own unflinching expression coils the thought of Leto heaving in the dark, his chest sore from sucking on oxygen and spittle, red in all the telltale places. Places that— at a glance— betray their nascent bloom as exactly what it is: an obscene road map drenched in sweat.
And the setting doesn't matter. It could be this floor (any floor), this bar (any bar)— fully clothed or wrapped in biting air— Astarion licks his hungry teeth for it all in the absolute present, craning closer like a serpent at Leto's ears to whisper:]
You should.
[A hiss. An unslaked rumble, melting into lightless contours.]
Because tonight I plan on bending you backwards until you find your god.
no subject
And the setting doesn't matter. It could be this floor (any floor), this bar (any bar)— fully clothed or wrapped in biting air— Astarion licks his hungry teeth for it all in the absolute present, craning closer like a serpent at Leto's ears to whisper:]
You should.
[A hiss. An unslaked rumble, melting into lightless contours.]
Because tonight I plan on bending you backwards until you find your god.