[A laugh that isn't a laugh at all, sweet and sliding from his tongue like the hollow chuffing of a big cat who's far too long forgotten how to purr (though Astarion can manage both, in all fairness, speaking purely from experience).]
I'll do better than that, you troublesome little sliver of starlight. [It feathers once it slithers past his lips in what passes for both a promise and nod of acceptance all at once, something like reflex taking him over in a way he doesn't have strength left to fight despite the easy smile prying at his knife-edged cheeks: yes, they'll talk again; yes, the scales will tip— for as is so often the way of conversations centered around any breed of sanity, Leto is right. Vetted equilibrium proves there's little more worth trusting in than a bottom line still coiled underneath their knuckles. Sealed there by a reckless pair of former slaves clutching hands so fiercely their skin went purple for days after staving off the Crossroads' worst accumulating magics. And just like it had before, the moment Fenris speaks with a voice well past his fragile years, rote madness quickly slithers back into its narrow excuse for a den, barely able to serve as a distraction. Hardly a detour.
They're on a new path, now.
One that leaves Astarion winding into Leto's outline, weaving back together what his rabbiting mind tore open. Knees under hips— thighs pushed overtop their heavy brace— straddling one leg as he keeps his contact fixed across those cheeks in circling passes of ivory-pale talons.
This isn't a placating game.]
Go.
Fetch the book of arcane spells Talindra gave you. [A kiss that turns into a bite, a nuzzle, a push—
He needs a second to recover from being overcome by something more stunning than rampant acerbity. (And more than that:) they've talked enough:]
me going to reread my tag from yesterday to check its flow and realizing it never sent and is gone
I'll do better than that, you troublesome little sliver of starlight. [It feathers once it slithers past his lips in what passes for both a promise and nod of acceptance all at once, something like reflex taking him over in a way he doesn't have strength left to fight despite the easy smile prying at his knife-edged cheeks: yes, they'll talk again; yes, the scales will tip— for as is so often the way of conversations centered around any breed of sanity, Leto is right. Vetted equilibrium proves there's little more worth trusting in than a bottom line still coiled underneath their knuckles. Sealed there by a reckless pair of former slaves clutching hands so fiercely their skin went purple for days after staving off the Crossroads' worst accumulating magics. And just like it had before, the moment Fenris speaks with a voice well past his fragile years, rote madness quickly slithers back into its narrow excuse for a den, barely able to serve as a distraction. Hardly a detour.
They're on a new path, now.
One that leaves Astarion winding into Leto's outline, weaving back together what his rabbiting mind tore open. Knees under hips— thighs pushed overtop their heavy brace— straddling one leg as he keeps his contact fixed across those cheeks in circling passes of ivory-pale talons.
This isn't a placating game.]
Go.
Fetch the book of arcane spells Talindra gave you. [A kiss that turns into a bite, a nuzzle, a push—
He needs a second to recover from being overcome by something more stunning than rampant acerbity. (And more than that:) they've talked enough:]
It's time for something new.