For the record? I'd much rather have you over my head.
The roof isn't much for conversation. Or seduction.
[He is a lazy thing, thank you very much. One with terrible priorities and possibly even worse opinions when it comes to ideal architecture, considering his preference for strong shelter when sunlight's still his bane.
And as it so happens, the most important rule of thumb for the foundation of his far-off world remains firmly locked in place:]
....but until I can actually hook my claws into those devourable little hips of yours once more, I suppose I could settle for a story instead.
[In other words, beloved heart of hearts: he still can't sleep.
Or more accurately, he can sleep— but he's still struck through with peripheral restlessness in a shirt that smells of life and warm amber, feeling it pinch against his side where it wrinkles between him and the covers with every prolonged shift. Coffin stuffed with a thicker blanket in pursuit of artificial comfort that might satisfy them both in different ways (something to combat the emptiness of the coffin when Leto needs to feel more swaddled than surrounded; an offering of meager warmth when there's no pulse for Astarion's overactive senses to follow— ) and yet somehow all he feels is stuck-in and weighed down in all the wrong places when he leaves himself even a second of silent thought, fussing around while he pacifies his instinct through that precious little stone and its low, incessant noises.
Noises he's not ready to let go of just yet.
It's one last childishly gripping bid at stay with me. And one that makes it easier not to sink into mulling over what-ifs while his amatus chases after prey.]
I want something long. And thrilling. And full of more than just your weekly misadventures in strip Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man.
Lazy and picky. By all rights, Astarion, you ought to tell me a story. One of us is out here working, and it is not you.
[He's smiling. Faintly, admittedly, but all the more irrepressible because of it. His heart still aches from all that they just spoke of; loneliness still gnaws at him, and he knows he'll miss Astarion when night falls and he has only his sleep roll to keep him company. But to have the ability to communicate with his beloved even when they're apart— oh, how can he not be pleased by that?]
I would tell you how I killed a god, but in truth, the actual tale was not so very interesting. Hm . . .
[A beat, and he chuckles.]
I will tell you a story of before I settled in Kirkwall. When I was still on the run . . . I was in the Free Marches at the time. And there was a particularly persistent bounty hunter who thought she was terribly clever, for she aimed to seduce me. Unfortunately, she assumed my memory for face was poor— or that I would be fooled by her tinting her hair. She became an annoyance after the fourth occurrence— but she was very good with knives, and weaponry and fighting were far more her forte than subtlety . . .
[And she had friends, as it turns out. The story goes on, and he does not mind telling it: how gleefully reckless he could get in those early years, paradoxically paranoid and yet giddy with freedom all at once. His glee at toying with his prey; his prey's easy reversal of the dynamic, and how she had tried to revel in his misfortune when her gang attacked en masse. It goes on, on and on and on, and they end up getting side-tracked over and over: one memory sparks another, and another . . .
Until day turns to dusk. Until Astarion's voice has gone sweetly drowsy as he insists he's still awake. Until Leto finally shoos him to sleep, laughing softly as he prepares his supper, knowing that his hunt is soon coming to a close— and that he will be able to head home, ready to settle in his vampire's arms once more.]
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The roof isn't much for conversation. Or seduction.
[He is a lazy thing, thank you very much. One with terrible priorities and possibly even worse opinions when it comes to ideal architecture, considering his preference for strong shelter when sunlight's still his bane.
And as it so happens, the most important rule of thumb for the foundation of his far-off world remains firmly locked in place:]
....but until I can actually hook my claws into those devourable little hips of yours once more, I suppose I could settle for a story instead.
[In other words, beloved heart of hearts: he still can't sleep.
Or more accurately, he can sleep— but he's still struck through with peripheral restlessness in a shirt that smells of life and warm amber, feeling it pinch against his side where it wrinkles between him and the covers with every prolonged shift. Coffin stuffed with a thicker blanket in pursuit of artificial comfort that might satisfy them both in different ways (something to combat the emptiness of the coffin when Leto needs to feel more swaddled than surrounded; an offering of meager warmth when there's no pulse for Astarion's overactive senses to follow— ) and yet somehow all he feels is stuck-in and weighed down in all the wrong places when he leaves himself even a second of silent thought, fussing around while he pacifies his instinct through that precious little stone and its low, incessant noises.
Noises he's not ready to let go of just yet.
It's one last childishly gripping bid at stay with me. And one that makes it easier not to sink into mulling over what-ifs while his amatus chases after prey.]
I want something long. And thrilling. And full of more than just your weekly misadventures in strip Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man.
no subject
[He's smiling. Faintly, admittedly, but all the more irrepressible because of it. His heart still aches from all that they just spoke of; loneliness still gnaws at him, and he knows he'll miss Astarion when night falls and he has only his sleep roll to keep him company. But to have the ability to communicate with his beloved even when they're apart— oh, how can he not be pleased by that?]
I would tell you how I killed a god, but in truth, the actual tale was not so very interesting. Hm . . .
[A beat, and he chuckles.]
I will tell you a story of before I settled in Kirkwall. When I was still on the run . . . I was in the Free Marches at the time. And there was a particularly persistent bounty hunter who thought she was terribly clever, for she aimed to seduce me. Unfortunately, she assumed my memory for face was poor— or that I would be fooled by her tinting her hair. She became an annoyance after the fourth occurrence— but she was very good with knives, and weaponry and fighting were far more her forte than subtlety . . .
[And she had friends, as it turns out. The story goes on, and he does not mind telling it: how gleefully reckless he could get in those early years, paradoxically paranoid and yet giddy with freedom all at once. His glee at toying with his prey; his prey's easy reversal of the dynamic, and how she had tried to revel in his misfortune when her gang attacked en masse. It goes on, on and on and on, and they end up getting side-tracked over and over: one memory sparks another, and another . . .
Until day turns to dusk. Until Astarion's voice has gone sweetly drowsy as he insists he's still awake. Until Leto finally shoos him to sleep, laughing softly as he prepares his supper, knowing that his hunt is soon coming to a close— and that he will be able to head home, ready to settle in his vampire's arms once more.]