Every shoddy pickup line, every horrible nickname or filthy word, pushed to the absolute limits of Astarion's rich-throated charisma, and weighed equally therein.
He takes a sip of brandy in an overcrowded Lower City dive, heat sticking to his lips (drawing out a flash-quick lick to clean the slate) before— (every syllable goes pantherine. Rumbling— )]
Come laced cockbin practically screaming to be filled up and slammed shut.... [Say nothing that he snorts in rakish amusement only a sound half-second later, breaking character to add:] darling.
[Leto is drunk. Drunk in that very particular dive bar way which tastes disgusting and does the job wonderfully, his whiskey potent and eye-wateringly sharp. Drunk enough that he's picked up a fascination with playing with whatever bit of Astarion he can get his hands on: playing with his vampire's left hand, idly stroking his fingers or pressing his thumb against the hard muscle of his palm in a lazy attempt at a massage. Drunk enough that some of these lines are honestly kind of doing it for him, sort of . . . though he snorts at that last attempt.]
Five out of ten. You manage to deliver it well, but cockbin is, mm, a difficult combination of words. [And then, in the spirit of total honesty:] It might not completely wreck the mood if you whispered it in the heat of the moment— but don't. Of all the things I wish to be compared to, a bin is low on the list.
[Hm hm hm.]
At least you never named your cock. Or use euphemisms . . . Isabela told me a story once of a man who used to refer to his prick as his, ah, fleshy tower of manhood, [and god, the snort he lets out for that is so immature.]
[His laugh is a shrill, ungainly bark that knocks against his glass first and the back of his hand second.]
Oh gods damn it— [serves as surrogate explanation as he swipes his hand across his front, swatting away spat liquor (good job, Astarion), cackling all the while.] —I don't know what's more surprising: that apparently the fleshy tower sort exist in every world, or that I've heard that exact same phrasing once before.
[Oh, he laughs at that little mishap, his grin bright and his eyes gleaming— only to make a face in the next moment, his tongue sticking out as fleshy tower suddenly becomes awful reality.]
Oh, blech—
[He can think— well, he can think of several things worse than that when it comes to filthy dirty talk, but still, that's pretty bad.]
And your fleshy tower became more of a turret, I assume . . .
[Drawled before he takes a sip of his whiskey— and then, with a grin, adds:]
Your fuck stick is another, sadly less creative, one. But go on. Seduce me.
[Oh, terrible, and his mouth trembles, though he bites back his laugh in favor of trying to compete.]
Squeaking, hm? Don't promise me something you won't intend to give me, now.
[Purred out as seductively as he can as he plays the role of entranced barfly (and it's awful, isn't it, that some part of him isn't playing, but he can't help that he's so attracted to his husband). He drops the act a moment later, drawing Astarion's hand up just so he can nip chastisingly at one pale finger.]
Two out of ten. You were closer with cockbin. Though you might still lower your score if you try and work in how you'll make me meow next time.
[Mmmph, and there's a little moment of confusion as Astarion tries to scuff against his lips and Leto tries to nip at them again, resulting mostly in a bit of dampness and a light scratch instead of anything sensual, but whatever, moving on.]
For you, seductive thing, I challenge you to just the limitation. But if you want to take the easy way out, I'll accept the latter. For you.
[Isn't he such a lovely boyfriend? Isn't he doting? Isn't he trying to nip at those fingers again, oh, yes, he is, and to a bit of a mixed success, but it's fine. If anyone can handle a slightly-harder-than-meant bite, it's Astarion.]
[There's a moment— between bitten as fiercely as one of the pups in the midst of a full blown scuffle and then as gently as a newborn kitten— when Astarion has to tilt his fingers back towards his lover's avaricious mouth.
Helpfully, he does.]
Little barnyard kitten, let me take you home and see if I can make you yowl instead of meow with a collar round your pretty neck.
[Oh gods, he actually doesn't know how to respond to that. Leto blinks once, twice, torn halfway between a sharp bark of laughter (barnyard kitten) and something else (for they play with collars so often, it's not his fault he can't help the association— nor that he's drunk and hot for his darling, especially when his fingers feel so good against his mouth).]
Er—
[No, cover, cover, for the thought of being mercilessly teased for getting increasingly turned on by these lines is just enough to temper him.]
[Oh, he's so discreet. No one in the Realms themselves would ever suspect Leto's fluster as he suckles on his consort's fingers and goes red behind the ears.
All of which earns the most daggersharp flash of overlong white teeth from the creature that next hooks its grip under one beautifully striped chin, pulling.]
Once you understand that filth has a fondness for being fairly formulaic, you begin to realize could slot just about anything in and make it work— hah!— provided you say it in the gravitational midst of licking at your chops.
[He is a master class in subterfuge right now, especially drunk. Besotted creature prone to puppy eyes when conversation wanders— and who bites his lip as Astarion pulls him in closer, playing utterly unfairly with that grip.]
Er— no, I think not. I, I would not dare to try and step into your— your purview.
[Is that a sentence? Is that how words work? Hang on—]
This is your field— arena— thing, not mine. You do it far better. I'm content to merely listen.
[There we go, that's much more coherent, and also neatly not untrue. The fact that he's a little flustered and knows for a fact he'll sound like an idiot if he tries to say these things is secondary.
(Listen: he loves flirting with Astarion, murmuring filth in his ear or whispering romantic adoration against his moonlit skin— but it's one thing for him to say it in the heat of the moment. Another thing to try and perform.]
[Doeish eyes. Bitten lips. Cliches have merit for the way Astarion's drunken awareness leashes itself to both for more than a handful of sluggish seconds, effectively lost in them. Content to be.]
Repeat after me. [Tilts that chin a few degrees higher.]
I like [one coaxing little pause] watching you [and another, low and smouldering] do it more.
[Oh, gods, what is he meant to do when Astarion looks at him like that? When he sounds like that, his voice dripping in sin and his fangs gleaming as he coaxes anything he wants out of Leto . . . gods. He swallows thickly, absolutely aware he's being manipulated and utterly content with that state of affairs.
Less content, though, with what he's being told to do. But he'll try . . . and after all, he's flirted with him a thousand times. How much harder can this be?]
I like, [his voice an open imitation of Astarion's smouldering tone,] I like watching you do it more.
[And it's odd, because the words are right. The effort is there. Even the smouldering heat isn't false, but there's something off about it. He's tensed up despite himself, something in him instinctively curdling at the thought of performance. Couple that with a natural slurring of words, and it's . . . fine. Ish.]
[Astarion's thumb slides higher in search of softer borders, though observation brings on a quickset stop at the dead center of Leto's lower lip, and the breathtaking conclusion that he is handsome, this young, uneasy thing. More so in the sunken angle of his ears, and the widening of his eyes— tsavorite ceding into pitch.
Darling boy. Beloved boy. How could he ever judge you when you sound so enticing?
(When you're you.)]
Fret if you wish, I've no intention of holding you hostage any longer than I already have. [His inhale's gentle. Narrow. Sweet.] But you're more dashing than any of my long-toothed kin or marks combined, and there is no one whose seductions sway me more. The rest belongs with the Silverhands and Jannaths of the world for how irrelevant it is.
[Oh . . . and as his thumb brushes over his lips and he speaks to him so tenderly, Leto thinks that he can understand why all of Astarion's marks fell for him. Alluring thing, talented thing, so very deft at weaving sensuality and intimacy all in one seductive sentence.
And he knows without a shred of doubt that none of those marks ever heard anything close to this.]
Astarion . . .
[It's you. It's always you, and his heart aches for the sudden fierce surge of love that swells up within him. In an instant his fluster has melted away, though all the searing heat in his gaze lingers.]
I have never doubted it. Not when you look at me as you look at no other . . . not when I see how you light up for the sound of my voice, or melt beneath the press of my fingers.
[Astarion's thumb is cool against his bottom lip, subtle pressure encouraging him to part his lips (and he can't) and unfurl his tongue (and he won't), panting like a whore for his mate's approval. He's drunk enough that he actually considers it (the half-formed fantasy so clearly written in the way his lips part, desire growing in his gaze—)
But no. Leto tips his head forward, his lips curling up into more of a smirk.]
Not when even the sight of me asleep is enough to rile you some nights, so that I wake up sore and overfull and satisfied without a single memory as to why.
[Oh, now he's getting into it, for this is him, not some attempt at a line. His eyes flick towards the bartender, but no one is listening to them right now.]
And certainly not when it's been a long day and we're fighting, and suddenly you give me that look. The one that says you want nothing more than to shove a gag smeared with aphrodisiacs into my mouth and strap me to some machine, watching as I'm fucked for hours on end until the only thing I remember how to do is moan out your name and try and beg you for a single finger . . .
Shall I go on? How was that, Astarion? If it isn't up to par . . . keep me captive. Tell me what to say.
[One of them is captive in this moment, and if the short clip of humid air that cuts between long fangs is indicative of anything, it isn't Leto. Oh, not with a view like that. A filthy little mouth like that worth claiming and thus willing; stained by wine but it's lust that carries through.
The mild tension pushed against his inseam jerks. Threatens to stiffen in a setting that hasn't noticed yet the sort of mischief they're imbibing with their play, but would certainly begin to take offense if he shifted his partner to the floor and started mouthfucking him at ale-height in plain view.
This isn't the damned Flophouse, after all.]
....are you religious, my darling? [Smoothly slides the soft pad of a clawed thumb back around the edge of Leto's lips, dragging slick.]
That, [he begins, his voice pitched low and his eyes locked on Astarion,] depends very much on what you mean.
[It takes every ounce of willpower for him not to moan like a bitch in heat for the slow, slick slide of Astarion's thumb. Yes please yes, and it comes out in other ways: his mouth parting ever so slightly as his head tips down just far enough to suggest that he wants nothing so much as to take that sinful digit between his lips.]
You will not find me in any temple . . . but ask me to worship your cock and I'll become more devoted than any acolyte. [His head tips, his lips wrapping for the briefest moment around the swell of his thumb.] I'll drop to my knees and offer you as many prayers as it takes to earn your favor, until you deign to release me from your service . . .
[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.
[A moan slips from his lips into Astarion's waiting ear, the noise low and overheated and hungry. Drunk as he is, enthralled as he is, he forgets the game. He forgets that Astarion is meant to be feeding him lines so they can laugh over their absurdity; he forgets where they are and why they aren't doing more than just talking.]
Is that a promise?
[Purred out as he draws back, moving just far enough to tip his head and steal a swift kiss. At the same his hand slips beneath the table, fingers caressing slowly up Astarion's thigh. Clever fingertips trace their way up the lean line of muscle, his smirk only growing as he feels familiar stiff heat.]
Why wait until tonight? You could have me on my knees right now— and I'll show you just how devoted I truly am . . .
[This time— and only this time— Astarion's velveted minauderie hitches in its moors, bringing him back to the forefront of this moment against the taste of brandy on hot lips. Hotter senses.
Far hotter inclinations.
He fits strong fingers over Leto's own under the table.]
[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:]
[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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elf jail;
Every shoddy pickup line, every horrible nickname or filthy word, pushed to the absolute limits of Astarion's rich-throated charisma, and weighed equally therein.
He takes a sip of brandy in an overcrowded Lower City dive, heat sticking to his lips (drawing out a flash-quick lick to clean the slate) before— (every syllable goes pantherine. Rumbling— )]
Come laced cockbin practically screaming to be filled up and slammed shut.... [Say nothing that he snorts in rakish amusement only a sound half-second later, breaking character to add:] darling.
no subject
Five out of ten. You manage to deliver it well, but cockbin is, mm, a difficult combination of words. [And then, in the spirit of total honesty:] It might not completely wreck the mood if you whispered it in the heat of the moment— but don't. Of all the things I wish to be compared to, a bin is low on the list.
[Hm hm hm.]
At least you never named your cock. Or use euphemisms . . . Isabela told me a story once of a man who used to refer to his prick as his, ah, fleshy tower of manhood, [and god, the snort he lets out for that is so immature.]
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Oh gods damn it— [serves as surrogate explanation as he swipes his hand across his front, swatting away spat liquor (good job, Astarion), cackling all the while.] —I don't know what's more surprising: that apparently the fleshy tower sort exist in every world, or that I've heard that exact same phrasing once before.
no subject
Oh, blech—
[He can think— well, he can think of several things worse than that when it comes to filthy dirty talk, but still, that's pretty bad.]
And your fleshy tower became more of a turret, I assume . . .
[Drawled before he takes a sip of his whiskey— and then, with a grin, adds:]
Your fuck stick is another, sadly less creative, one. But go on. Seduce me.
no subject
[Hilarious little pup.
But fine, yes, they've still a game to play, and thus with a prompt clearing of his drunken throat:]
—oh but write that last one down with all the others— right. A line, then, rather than terminology this time. Another tried and true.
Come closer and call your cock a treat for how badly I want it in my mouth.
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The problem is, you deliver them too well. Your voice alone is a weapon, even when you say the worst kinds of lines.
[He says it like a complaint, but he also takes one of Astarion's hands between his so he can play with it, so what is the truth, hm?]
I can well imagine that one working— especially with your looks.
[That's a compliment. But hm . . . oh, wait, and he's actually a little proud of this one as he drawls:]
You must have been raised on a farm the way you raise cocks. That is a properly awful one. I dare you to take someone home with a line like that.
[But don't, actually, and his grip tightens. Stay, jealous little pup, even in jest.]
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Though it focuses solely on Leto (and it slurs. Just a little).]
Give me half an hour and I'll have you squeaking louder than my mattress.
[This is awful. He loves it.]
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Squeaking, hm? Don't promise me something you won't intend to give me, now.
[Purred out as seductively as he can as he plays the role of entranced barfly (and it's awful, isn't it, that some part of him isn't playing, but he can't help that he's so attracted to his husband). He drops the act a moment later, drawing Astarion's hand up just so he can nip chastisingly at one pale finger.]
Two out of ten. You were closer with cockbin. Though you might still lower your score if you try and work in how you'll make me meow next time.
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Need I strictly use the word meow, or am I permitted to allude to the beast itself and all-or-all its granted noises?
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[Mmmph, and there's a little moment of confusion as Astarion tries to scuff against his lips and Leto tries to nip at them again, resulting mostly in a bit of dampness and a light scratch instead of anything sensual, but whatever, moving on.]
For you, seductive thing, I challenge you to just the limitation. But if you want to take the easy way out, I'll accept the latter. For you.
[Isn't he such a lovely boyfriend? Isn't he doting? Isn't he trying to nip at those fingers again, oh, yes, he is, and to a bit of a mixed success, but it's fine. If anyone can handle a slightly-harder-than-meant bite, it's Astarion.]
no subject
Helpfully, he does.]
Little barnyard kitten, let me take you home and see if I can make you yowl instead of meow with a collar round your pretty neck.
no subject
[Oh gods, he actually doesn't know how to respond to that. Leto blinks once, twice, torn halfway between a sharp bark of laughter (barnyard kitten) and something else (for they play with collars so often, it's not his fault he can't help the association— nor that he's drunk and hot for his darling, especially when his fingers feel so good against his mouth).]
Er—
[No, cover, cover, for the thought of being mercilessly teased for getting increasingly turned on by these lines is just enough to temper him.]
How the hells do you come up with these?
[Nailed it.]
no subject
All of which earns the most daggersharp flash of overlong white teeth from the creature that next hooks its grip under one beautifully striped chin, pulling.]
Once you understand that filth has a fondness for being fairly formulaic, you begin to realize could slot just about anything in and make it work— hah!— provided you say it in the gravitational midst of licking at your chops.
[And to that end:]
Go on, give it a go.
no subject
Er— no, I think not. I, I would not dare to try and step into your— your purview.
[Is that a sentence? Is that how words work? Hang on—]
This is your field— arena— thing, not mine. You do it far better. I'm content to merely listen.
[There we go, that's much more coherent, and also neatly not untrue. The fact that he's a little flustered and knows for a fact he'll sound like an idiot if he tries to say these things is secondary.
(Listen: he loves flirting with Astarion, murmuring filth in his ear or whispering romantic adoration against his moonlit skin— but it's one thing for him to say it in the heat of the moment. Another thing to try and perform.]
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Repeat after me. [Tilts that chin a few degrees higher.]
I like [one coaxing little pause] watching you [and another, low and smouldering] do it more.
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Less content, though, with what he's being told to do. But he'll try . . . and after all, he's flirted with him a thousand times. How much harder can this be?]
I like, [his voice an open imitation of Astarion's smouldering tone,] I like watching you do it more.
[And it's odd, because the words are right. The effort is there. Even the smouldering heat isn't false, but there's something off about it. He's tensed up despite himself, something in him instinctively curdling at the thought of performance. Couple that with a natural slurring of words, and it's . . . fine. Ish.]
Mmm.
[And doesn't Leto know it.]
And you know I am not good at it like this . . .
[Don't judge me.]
no subject
Darling boy. Beloved boy. How could he ever judge you when you sound so enticing?
(When you're you.)]
Fret if you wish, I've no intention of holding you hostage any longer than I already have. [His inhale's gentle. Narrow. Sweet.] But you're more dashing than any of my long-toothed kin or marks combined, and there is no one whose seductions sway me more. The rest belongs with the Silverhands and Jannaths of the world for how irrelevant it is.
I only melt for one voice. One tune.
I can promise you that.
no subject
And he knows without a shred of doubt that none of those marks ever heard anything close to this.]
Astarion . . .
[It's you. It's always you, and his heart aches for the sudden fierce surge of love that swells up within him. In an instant his fluster has melted away, though all the searing heat in his gaze lingers.]
I have never doubted it. Not when you look at me as you look at no other . . . not when I see how you light up for the sound of my voice, or melt beneath the press of my fingers.
[Astarion's thumb is cool against his bottom lip, subtle pressure encouraging him to part his lips (and he can't) and unfurl his tongue (and he won't), panting like a whore for his mate's approval. He's drunk enough that he actually considers it (the half-formed fantasy so clearly written in the way his lips part, desire growing in his gaze—)
But no. Leto tips his head forward, his lips curling up into more of a smirk.]
Not when even the sight of me asleep is enough to rile you some nights, so that I wake up sore and overfull and satisfied without a single memory as to why.
[Oh, now he's getting into it, for this is him, not some attempt at a line. His eyes flick towards the bartender, but no one is listening to them right now.]
And certainly not when it's been a long day and we're fighting, and suddenly you give me that look. The one that says you want nothing more than to shove a gag smeared with aphrodisiacs into my mouth and strap me to some machine, watching as I'm fucked for hours on end until the only thing I remember how to do is moan out your name and try and beg you for a single finger . . .
Shall I go on? How was that, Astarion? If it isn't up to par . . . keep me captive. Tell me what to say.
no subject
The mild tension pushed against his inseam jerks. Threatens to stiffen in a setting that hasn't noticed yet the sort of mischief they're imbibing with their play, but would certainly begin to take offense if he shifted his partner to the floor and started mouthfucking him at ale-height in plain view.
This isn't the damned Flophouse, after all.]
....are you religious, my darling? [Smoothly slides the soft pad of a clawed thumb back around the edge of Leto's lips, dragging slick.]
no subject
[It takes every ounce of willpower for him not to moan like a bitch in heat for the slow, slick slide of Astarion's thumb. Yes please yes, and it comes out in other ways: his mouth parting ever so slightly as his head tips down just far enough to suggest that he wants nothing so much as to take that sinful digit between his lips.]
You will not find me in any temple . . . but ask me to worship your cock and I'll become more devoted than any acolyte. [His head tips, his lips wrapping for the briefest moment around the swell of his thumb.] I'll drop to my knees and offer you as many prayers as it takes to earn your favor, until you deign to release me from your service . . .
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.
no subject
[A moan slips from his lips into Astarion's waiting ear, the noise low and overheated and hungry. Drunk as he is, enthralled as he is, he forgets the game. He forgets that Astarion is meant to be feeding him lines so they can laugh over their absurdity; he forgets where they are and why they aren't doing more than just talking.]
Is that a promise?
[Purred out as he draws back, moving just far enough to tip his head and steal a swift kiss. At the same his hand slips beneath the table, fingers caressing slowly up Astarion's thigh. Clever fingertips trace their way up the lean line of muscle, his smirk only growing as he feels familiar stiff heat.]
Why wait until tonight? You could have me on my knees right now— and I'll show you just how devoted I truly am . . .
no subject
Far hotter inclinations.
He fits strong fingers over Leto's own under the table.]
....is that a line, or do you mean it?
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?
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.]
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