[Oh, he does. He does, wholeheartedly and blissfully uninhibited, his cheeks flushed with eagerness and a youthful sort of recklessness. And though there's some small part of him crying out in alarm, oh, who cares? Perhaps they'll be noticed, but no matter what Leto tells himself, there's no one at any inn they ever stay at who doesn't know what they get up to on a nightly basis, and what's a few people more? It's a bar in a city full of millions of souls— and anyway, don't they deserve to live a little?
There's no harm. This isn't Thedas, where two elves caught rutting might bring salacious ruin upon their heads. This isn't Kirkwall, where everyone knows who he is and what he stands for, the Blue Wraith a symbol of terrified justice. He's just an adolescent moon elf here, drunk and in love, and though he has responsibilities here, duties here, things that he aims for and works towards— hells, why not act his age?
His hand strains at Astarion's grip, emerald eyes locking on darkened crimson. And drunk though he is, uninhibited though he is, there's no mistaking the consent in his gaze.
Nor the heat curling in his voice as he slyly adds:]
no subject
[Oh, he does. He does, wholeheartedly and blissfully uninhibited, his cheeks flushed with eagerness and a youthful sort of recklessness. And though there's some small part of him crying out in alarm, oh, who cares? Perhaps they'll be noticed, but no matter what Leto tells himself, there's no one at any inn they ever stay at who doesn't know what they get up to on a nightly basis, and what's a few people more? It's a bar in a city full of millions of souls— and anyway, don't they deserve to live a little?
There's no harm. This isn't Thedas, where two elves caught rutting might bring salacious ruin upon their heads. This isn't Kirkwall, where everyone knows who he is and what he stands for, the Blue Wraith a symbol of terrified justice. He's just an adolescent moon elf here, drunk and in love, and though he has responsibilities here, duties here, things that he aims for and works towards— hells, why not act his age?
His hand strains at Astarion's grip, emerald eyes locking on darkened crimson. And drunk though he is, uninhibited though he is, there's no mistaking the consent in his gaze.
Nor the heat curling in his voice as he slyly adds:]
Are you going to make me beg for it?