This is how it's meant to go; an overarching sense of rightness asserted in their scuffle long before the fall when he lies flat across his back with his arms pinned, and— oh for just a second he sees stars. Nothing like split vision or ringing ears or besotted worship, but real stars. Fenrir. Equinor. Draconis. The ones cast overhead the first time he'd dropped to dusty stone thanks to a pair of taloned hands, impact rattling up to his ears. Wishful thinking, maybe. Coming home. Memory or longing or whatever one might call it— it doesn't change the fact that he's up to his neck in something more than just nostalgia for the second time in all his malformed years, watching rivulets of vivid red trail down the front of Leto's chest.
Astarion doesn’t realize he’s smiling in the gaps between breaths. All teeth. All lopsided flashes of jagged white.
He never forgot his lines.]
You've won, little pup.
We're even.
[That's how it goes.
Fingers flexing in small twitches of minuscule impatience, mostly wound up in the fine bones of his wrists as a telltale marker as he tests the limits of those arcane bonds, feeling out the thread of just how exhausted Leto might be by now. A flicker in his gaze catching brightly in the light, refractive. Thrilled in the shadow of the grip that holds him by his scalp first....and his claws second.
Waiting like he'd never once stopped looking for an opening. Practically licking his chops even while he tips his own throat back by degrees, the gesture docile like nothing in him truly is at this moment: tensed beneath that scruffing grasp.
no subject
This is how it goes.
He's breathing like he needs to.
This is how it's meant to go; an overarching sense of rightness asserted in their scuffle long before the fall when he lies flat across his back with his arms pinned, and— oh for just a second he sees stars. Nothing like split vision or ringing ears or besotted worship, but real stars. Fenrir. Equinor. Draconis. The ones cast overhead the first time he'd dropped to dusty stone thanks to a pair of taloned hands, impact rattling up to his ears. Wishful thinking, maybe. Coming home. Memory or longing or whatever one might call it— it doesn't change the fact that he's up to his neck in something more than just nostalgia for the second time in all his malformed years, watching rivulets of vivid red trail down the front of Leto's chest.
Astarion doesn’t realize he’s smiling in the gaps between breaths. All teeth. All lopsided flashes of jagged white.
He never forgot his lines.]
You've won, little pup.
We're even.
[That's how it goes.
Fingers flexing in small twitches of minuscule impatience, mostly wound up in the fine bones of his wrists as a telltale marker as he tests the limits of those arcane bonds, feeling out the thread of just how exhausted Leto might be by now. A flicker in his gaze catching brightly in the light, refractive. Thrilled in the shadow of the grip that holds him by his scalp first....and his claws second.
Waiting like he'd never once stopped looking for an opening. Practically licking his chops even while he tips his own throat back by degrees, the gesture docile like nothing in him truly is at this moment: tensed beneath that scruffing grasp.
Mark me. Mark me first.
(This is how it goes.)
Make me yours.]