When you're ill and on death's door and your nose turns redder than beetroot and your eyes won't open and I tell you that you're the most alluring thing I've ever seen in all my years, and how I'd take you right then and there if I didn't think it'd finish doing the work your sickness started?
Not that part.
Just the part that comes after, when I say no sweetheart I love you sleeping in my clothes no matter how unwell you are. It's so cute of you to wipe your nose with my sleeve whilst snoring.
[He does bark out a laugh, if only because it's a good retort.]
I was going to offer to suck you off as apology. No longer.
And if your expensive clothes are indistinguishable from your inexpensive ones, the fault does not lie with me. Perhaps you should invest in high fashion that isn't indistinguishable from your undershirts.
My love, the heart wants what it wants, and what it wants is to look good at the side of a striking elf who just so happens to possess an interest in all things wild, untamed, and inordinately messy.
I take my losses. That doesn't mean I can't still grieve the noble sacrifice my wardrobe makes to that noble cause from time to time.
Putting two "nobles" in that sentence does not take away from the fact all the mucus came out in the wash. It was perfectly fine in the end. And you would look good regardless of what you wore, whether it was wildly overpriced or scraps and rags.
That is an example of praise. Not "no, your cock-drawing skills are good, truly".
And I still am not awarding you as winner. At best, it's a tie.
And what about the pups you've brought into our home? What about the gnawed sleeves and mangled slacks? the buttons I've watched vanish only to reappear later in the most haunting means imaginable— up from the void?
I am not a sore loser. I only make the wholly valid argument that perhaps, little pup, that if I am to suffer I would at least like a single reason left to me to whine.
Do you remember the last time you gave the girls treats?
And how when Ataashi buried hers, montressor dig them up hours later and nearly choked trying to fit wolf-sized biscuits down her tiny little gullet, which thus necessitated a cycle of taking away anything uneaten— to which all three of them bayed their outraged protest?
[It actually takes him a moment to understand where the thrice came from. And it's not that he isn't competitive; it's not that he doesn't understand what it is to get too invested in petty competitions. But still, Leto frowns faintly down at his book.]
Fair enough, and I grant you your point. Though of all things we have competed on, I suspect this matters the least by a significant percentage.
[Hm.]
Everything aside, Astarion, tell me truly: are you actually bothered— or simply enjoying the metaphoric baying?
[Because tone is hard over text— and while some part of him regrets potentially ruining a silly little spat with a serious inquiry, now he wants to know. This isn't the first time this kind of fuss has come up.]
[All the times he devolved into hissy fits, yet it's the moments when he's asked without fuss or fanfare when he feels most wracked with anxiousness he hasn't felt in years.
Funny thing, that. ]
Both [Is the question he posits to himself with a little ink lot tucked across its end in lieu of the question mark loitering around inside his skull.]
[And it blots as he hesitates. He hates doing this over the notebooks, in no small part because it's so damned hard to read Astarion's emotions right now. His lover might be scoffing playfully, offering him that sweetly puzzled look he gets whenever Leto is in a contrary mood. It's certainly possible; this isn't exactly a traumatic issue. But Leto cannot shake the feeling there's more to it than that.
Not like there's some deep, dark secret related to drawing cocks, but . . . mmph. It's something there, he thinks. Something about competition, no matter what. Something about sulking like a child whenever he loses, when Leto knows damned well that any slave quickly learns there's no room in life for things like fairness. And something to do, maybe, with being the favorite . . . or being one of seven.
Maybe. Maybe not. And he hates not knowing if he's reading too much into it or catching a thread.]
Yes. And no.
The passion and the bitterness I understand. But less so when the challenge could not matter less.
And, [hmm,] I do not mind you fussing, so long as you know I will tolerate it only to a point, and certainly not curb my own competitiveness. Make Gods know I sulk and fuss over things too.
But I simply wish to be sure it isn't something more that I'm missing.
Oh for Maker's sake— [Is sign enough that Astarion is, very much, rankled at the present. Bristling like the very wolf he cited, albeit not enraged if he's willing to speak at all.]
Of course the challenge matters. The challenge always matters. Your slander matters.
Don't tell me you'd be so bloody generous were I the one sitting here gnawing on all your foolish little— [audible, the restless catch in his interruptive sigh] flaws.
I have plenty. You still haven't seen me at my worst.
[It's the first thing he can think to say. It's a little distant, if only because he's too busy thinking. He isn't always built for emotions, and loving someone dearly isn't always enough to know how best to proceed.
In the end, he goes for what he knows best: blunt honesty, albeit spoken a bit more gently than he'd use for anyone else.]
[Is Astarion's response to the former, assertive and crisp across his tongue. Whatever sins or slights lie in Leto's past, they're too far in now for it to tip the scales— nothing will tilt a thing in Astarion's eyes.]
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What portion of it is unwarranted? Choose your next answer carefully.
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RUDE!!]
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When you're ill and on death's door and your nose turns redder than beetroot and your eyes won't open and I tell you that you're the most alluring thing I've ever seen in all my years, and how I'd take you right then and there if I didn't think it'd finish doing the work your sickness started?
Not that part.
Just the part that comes after, when I say no sweetheart I love you sleeping in my clothes no matter how unwell you are. It's so cute of you to wipe your nose with my sleeve whilst snoring.
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I was going to offer to suck you off as apology. No longer.
And if your expensive clothes are indistinguishable from your inexpensive ones, the fault does not lie with me. Perhaps you should invest in high fashion that isn't indistinguishable from your undershirts.
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[:)]
My love, the heart wants what it wants, and what it wants is to look good at the side of a striking elf who just so happens to possess an interest in all things wild, untamed, and inordinately messy.
I take my losses. That doesn't mean I can't still grieve the noble sacrifice my wardrobe makes to that noble cause from time to time.
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That is an example of praise. Not "no, your cock-drawing skills are good, truly".
And I still am not awarding you as winner. At best, it's a tie.
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[And, thank the gods, they're growing out of the teething stage. Fortunato has the idea down, but Montressor . . . well, she tries.]
And I replaced those buttons.
If it truly distresses you, I'll bring them to a tailor. It cannot be that hard to mend.
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I am NOT
[Ahem.]
I am not a sore loser. I only make the wholly valid argument that perhaps, little pup, that if I am to suffer I would at least like a single reason left to me to whine.
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Very well. Whine away.
[A pause, and then:]
Is it losing that bothers you, or the fact I teased you over it? You must know I meant nothing by it.
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And how when Ataashi buried hers, montressor dig them up hours later and nearly choked trying to fit wolf-sized biscuits down her tiny little gullet, which thus necessitated a cycle of taking away anything uneaten— to which all three of them bayed their outraged protest?
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[Ataashi's furious lectures had lasted for days, and Leto got an earful whenever she realized he could properly understand.]
But I fail to see the relevancy.
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Intent, solutions. All well and good, but we're competitive beasts at heart, and you've just trounced me thrice.
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Fair enough, and I grant you your point. Though of all things we have competed on, I suspect this matters the least by a significant percentage.
[Hm.]
Everything aside, Astarion, tell me truly: are you actually bothered— or simply enjoying the metaphoric baying?
[Because tone is hard over text— and while some part of him regrets potentially ruining a silly little spat with a serious inquiry, now he wants to know. This isn't the first time this kind of fuss has come up.]
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Funny thing, that. ]
Both [Is the question he posits to himself with a little ink lot tucked across its end in lieu of the question mark loitering around inside his skull.]
Both. [Is the answer that he sticks with.]
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Because you lost? Or because I teased you about it?
The baying I understand.
I would understand the other half of it too.
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Ugh. Lost. Enough with that word. Really, Leto, must you keep rubbing it in?Of course you would, we're aligned creatures with good reason. Part of that being fierce and fiercely passionate, no less.
Fiercely bitter, too.
Come now, you had to know how this would end when you posed your challenge.
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[And it blots as he hesitates. He hates doing this over the notebooks, in no small part because it's so damned hard to read Astarion's emotions right now. His lover might be scoffing playfully, offering him that sweetly puzzled look he gets whenever Leto is in a contrary mood. It's certainly possible; this isn't exactly a traumatic issue. But Leto cannot shake the feeling there's more to it than that.
Not like there's some deep, dark secret related to drawing cocks, but . . . mmph. It's something there, he thinks. Something about competition, no matter what. Something about sulking like a child whenever he loses, when Leto knows damned well that any slave quickly learns there's no room in life for things like fairness. And something to do, maybe, with being the favorite . . . or being one of seven.
Maybe. Maybe not. And he hates not knowing if he's reading too much into it or catching a thread.]
Yes. And no.
The passion and the bitterness I understand. But less so when the challenge could not matter less.
And, [hmm,] I do not mind you fussing, so long as you know I will tolerate it only to a point, and certainly not curb my own competitiveness.
MakeGods know I sulk and fuss over things too.But I simply wish to be sure it isn't something more that I'm missing.
voice;
Of course the challenge matters. The challenge always matters. Your slander matters.
Everything fucking matters!
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....If you had any.
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I have plenty. You still haven't seen me at my worst.
[It's the first thing he can think to say. It's a little distant, if only because he's too busy thinking. He isn't always built for emotions, and loving someone dearly isn't always enough to know how best to proceed.
In the end, he goes for what he knows best: blunt honesty, albeit spoken a bit more gently than he'd use for anyone else.]
Tell me why it matters.
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[Is Astarion's response to the former, assertive and crisp across his tongue. Whatever sins or slights lie in Leto's past, they're too far in now for it to tip the scales— nothing will tilt a thing in Astarion's eyes.]
I don't damned well know why it does— it just—
It just does, all right? I—
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