....sprawled out in an illustriously flattened heap. The-vampire-known-as-Astarion even more of a mess than he'd already been at the start of their conversation thanks to one notably excited wolf— a handful of mangled (tangled) curls sprouting up from the ruins of his sleepshirt's rucked-up silhouette and awkwardly angled legs, complimented by limp claws, twitching fingers. If he can see Leto from the wreck of himself at half-past noon (he can't), he's certainly not any more inclined to move to take stock of the situation, no matter how utterly lambent it might be.
It's too bloody early for this shit, thank you very much.
(Or too late??)
Look. Whichever it is, all he knows is that he was barely awake having deep conversations about animal cantrips, childish parties, bruised reputations, love and longing and the red-hot flare of hope itself— and then their mongrel wolf (affectionate; thinly) came home, loved on him for less than forty seconds total, and then trampled him alive.]
No.
[No, as in absolutely not.]
No, that's it— I'm done! [No, as in absolutely-very-much-over-this not.] No more slobber, no more paws, no more dirt and teeth and mangy, smelly claws; no more interplanar ramifications, in fact! No more gods or magic or nonsense or Fade-bound-rotheshite or ANYTHING that isn't my damned bed, and my damned sleep and a little peace and quiet in your naked, filthy, undistracted arms [he's going to turn into a bloody bat and hide in the rafters and—
no subject
....sprawled out in an illustriously flattened heap. The-vampire-known-as-Astarion even more of a mess than he'd already been at the start of their conversation thanks to one notably excited wolf— a handful of mangled (tangled) curls sprouting up from the ruins of his sleepshirt's rucked-up silhouette and awkwardly angled legs, complimented by limp claws, twitching fingers. If he can see Leto from the wreck of himself at half-past noon (he can't), he's certainly not any more inclined to move to take stock of the situation, no matter how utterly lambent it might be.
It's too bloody early for this shit, thank you very much.
(Or too late??)
Look. Whichever it is, all he knows is that he was barely awake having deep conversations about animal cantrips, childish parties, bruised reputations, love and longing and the red-hot flare of hope itself— and then their mongrel wolf (affectionate; thinly) came home, loved on him for less than forty seconds total, and then trampled him alive.]
No.
[No, as in absolutely not.]
No, that's it— I'm done! [No, as in absolutely-very-much-over-this not.] No more slobber, no more paws, no more dirt and teeth and mangy, smelly claws; no more interplanar ramifications, in fact! No more gods or magic or nonsense or Fade-bound-rotheshite or ANYTHING that isn't my damned bed, and my damned sleep and a little peace and quiet in your naked, filthy, undistracted arms [he's going to turn into a bloody bat and hide in the rafters and—
....]