[It's the ink blot that stands out, you know. So dark. So stark in comparison to the rest of what's been etched down onto the page, severing only one sentiment cleanly in half:
I miss you.
His fingers are pressed to parchment long before he realizes it. His expression drawn heavily into shadow for how he leaves his red eyes trained on a book that's never felt so indispensable before this moment (he'll safeguard it with his life now, already he can feel that certainty take root in the pit of his chest— down to his last drop of breath or waking second, precious beyond reason for what it holds).
Somewhere Ataashi's heavy paws knock something over in the mansion, and its clattering echo snaps Astarion out of his minute long reverie.
....which is probably for the best; he was nearly a half-breath away from packing his blades and leaving for Sundermount without a word.]
If you think I can even begin to summarize all the dreams I've had of you, my darling [kadan, Astarion thinks again in cyclical amusement, his eyes flitting up the page to spot Leto's usage of it] even just the vulgar ones, you'd need an entire fleet of books for me to fill.
And I suspect my fingers would very quickly fall off from writing. Which is a shame. They're far better served tending to you.
I suppose I could also pare it down to the simple things: you on your back with that incorrigible grin yet again, only this time fresh off the heels of a bloody fight, demanding I do better. Or how it might feel to tangle myself beneath you, bodies lax and intertwined in the most intimate ways, until I slip away into depthless sleep.
More still the ones where I rush to your rescue as an ancient thing, able to rip your master to shreds before he convinces you to so much as draw your first blade. Or you, there the night of my downfall.
I dream of you sleeping beside me when you're not. I dream of wading barefoot through Fadefire to find you. I dream of us outliving the world itself.
I dreamt of turning you into a vampire, too.
Just once.
But if what you truly desire is to know the thing I want most, with every drop of living blood within my body
It's you.
It's just you, walking through the front door again.
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I miss you.
His fingers are pressed to parchment long before he realizes it. His expression drawn heavily into shadow for how he leaves his red eyes trained on a book that's never felt so indispensable before this moment (he'll safeguard it with his life now, already he can feel that certainty take root in the pit of his chest— down to his last drop of breath or waking second, precious beyond reason for what it holds).
Somewhere Ataashi's heavy paws knock something over in the mansion, and its clattering echo snaps Astarion out of his minute long reverie.
....which is probably for the best; he was nearly a half-breath away from packing his blades and leaving for Sundermount without a word.]
If you think I can even begin to summarize all the dreams I've had of you, my darling [kadan, Astarion thinks again in cyclical amusement, his eyes flitting up the page to spot Leto's usage of it] even just the vulgar ones, you'd need an entire fleet of books for me to fill.
And I suspect my fingers would very quickly fall off from writing. Which is a shame. They're far better served tending to you.
I suppose I could also pare it down to the simple things: you on your back with that incorrigible grin yet again, only this time fresh off the heels of a bloody fight, demanding I do better. Or how it might feel to tangle myself beneath you, bodies lax and intertwined in the most intimate ways, until I slip away into depthless sleep.
More still the ones where I rush to your rescue as an ancient thing, able to rip your master to shreds before he convinces you to so much as draw your first blade. Or you, there the night of my downfall.
I dream of you sleeping beside me when you're not. I dream of wading barefoot through Fadefire to find you. I dream of us outliving the world itself.
I dreamt of turning you into a vampire, too.
Just once.
But if what you truly desire is to know the thing I want most, with every drop of living blood within my body
It's you.
It's just you, walking through the front door again.