[That he could is a heat-provoking thought (a provocative thought to put it bluntly), blanketing the room around them; drawing their immediate arrangement to the fore.
The way their knuckles catch against each other for how tight they've intertwined. And though the term white-knuckled loses its bite as a descriptor when one's pallor needs only a minimal adjustment of a few letters to attest to possessed lightlessness itself, he can feel the duller ache of lacework tension flaring on and off beneath his skin. The way Leto's coiled muscle longs to work— and the way Astarion's longs to let him.
There is no harm, after all. Not really. Not truly. Just the nuisance of being asked to take it outside if the barkeep prefers decency, and from there, the substantially more aggravating bother of any patrons mistaking two intimately besotted elves for an invitation to join. Problems Astarion has versed experience in handling.
But he knows Leto's pride.
Tonight he'd gladly revel in debauchery. Tomorrow, he'd bemoan it eternally, and there'd be no end to that dismay. In other words: a modicum of privacy's required for their game of chase to continue onwards.
Which is how they wind up in the dark of a storeroom closet wedged in tight in every sense but the most lurid, as luck would have it: his back to flaccid shelving whose slatting bows when he leans back against its edge (how cheap does wood have to be to actually bend under pressure?) rickety door swaying back and forth in a position that only qualifies as shut owing to a section of thin twine wrapped around its knob. There are buckets on the floor and casks stacked behind broomsticks, which leaves so little room that it's a bloody miracle Leto has room to kneel— let alone tug open Astarion's finely tailored slacks.]
Easy— shh— [Is a coaxing murmur quickly bordering on a throaty chuckle, fingers coursing back across Leto's scalp once— twice— attempting to sooth some of that overly eager exolution.] If you're not quiet little wolf cub, someone will hear us.
[And gods, drunk as they are, it's a wonder they made it in here at all sight unseen.]
no subject
The way their knuckles catch against each other for how tight they've intertwined. And though the term white-knuckled loses its bite as a descriptor when one's pallor needs only a minimal adjustment of a few letters to attest to possessed lightlessness itself, he can feel the duller ache of lacework tension flaring on and off beneath his skin. The way Leto's coiled muscle longs to work— and the way Astarion's longs to let him.
There is no harm, after all. Not really. Not truly. Just the nuisance of being asked to take it outside if the barkeep prefers decency, and from there, the substantially more aggravating bother of any patrons mistaking two intimately besotted elves for an invitation to join. Problems Astarion has versed experience in handling.
But he knows Leto's pride.
Tonight he'd gladly revel in debauchery. Tomorrow, he'd bemoan it eternally, and there'd be no end to that dismay. In other words: a modicum of privacy's required for their game of chase to continue onwards.
Which is how they wind up in the dark of a storeroom closet wedged in tight in every sense but the most lurid, as luck would have it: his back to flaccid shelving whose slatting bows when he leans back against its edge (how cheap does wood have to be to actually bend under pressure?) rickety door swaying back and forth in a position that only qualifies as shut owing to a section of thin twine wrapped around its knob. There are buckets on the floor and casks stacked behind broomsticks, which leaves so little room that it's a bloody miracle Leto has room to kneel— let alone tug open Astarion's finely tailored slacks.]
Easy— shh— [Is a coaxing murmur quickly bordering on a throaty chuckle, fingers coursing back across Leto's scalp once— twice— attempting to sooth some of that overly eager exolution.] If you're not quiet little wolf cub, someone will hear us.
[And gods, drunk as they are, it's a wonder they made it in here at all sight unseen.]