[His tone doesn't quite manage to hit playful the way he wants it to, but it's genuine all the same. There's a difference, Leto has learned in the past three years, between moving on from a topic naturally and shoving past it in a fit of fear. And while some part of him whines nervously, fretful of Astarion losing any minute detail of this memory, he ignores it. This isn't for him to dictate, nor is it his memory to covet. I was sixty, I danced, I was happy, and those details alone are enough.
So he gives himself over to that roughened affection: bucking up into every touch, nuzzling back with such intense adoration that they nearly end up knocking foreheads. Lips brushing against one another, Astarion's weight pleasantly heavy against his thigh, and it takes him a few extra seconds to find the willpower to tear away. One more kiss (his hands settling atop lithe hips, fingertips digging into firm muscle), and another (their teeth clicking as he nips roughly at his vampire's bottom lip once, twice), until with a little groan he pulls away.
At least he doesn't have to go far. The book is just on the edge of his nightstand; with a soft grunt and a little lunge he manages to reach for it without actually having to move. And give Talindra credit: when she gives gifts, she gives them well. The book is a beautifully bound thing, a red cover with gold thread gently stitching featherlight pages together. Each spell is carefully typed out, but it's the little handwritten notes that Leto loves most: Talindra's spidery scrawl appearing the margins of most spells, offering tips and notes for her reluctant student.]
If you wish for magic, Astarion, ask first.
[He says it as he goes and gets the book anyway, but, like, still. And yet he still runs one hand affectionately up the line of Astarion's thigh, so what is the truth, Leto.]
OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO listen i am damned sure this rewrite is *even better*
[His tone doesn't quite manage to hit playful the way he wants it to, but it's genuine all the same. There's a difference, Leto has learned in the past three years, between moving on from a topic naturally and shoving past it in a fit of fear. And while some part of him whines nervously, fretful of Astarion losing any minute detail of this memory, he ignores it. This isn't for him to dictate, nor is it his memory to covet. I was sixty, I danced, I was happy, and those details alone are enough.
So he gives himself over to that roughened affection: bucking up into every touch, nuzzling back with such intense adoration that they nearly end up knocking foreheads. Lips brushing against one another, Astarion's weight pleasantly heavy against his thigh, and it takes him a few extra seconds to find the willpower to tear away. One more kiss (his hands settling atop lithe hips, fingertips digging into firm muscle), and another (their teeth clicking as he nips roughly at his vampire's bottom lip once, twice), until with a little groan he pulls away.
At least he doesn't have to go far. The book is just on the edge of his nightstand; with a soft grunt and a little lunge he manages to reach for it without actually having to move. And give Talindra credit: when she gives gifts, she gives them well. The book is a beautifully bound thing, a red cover with gold thread gently stitching featherlight pages together. Each spell is carefully typed out, but it's the little handwritten notes that Leto loves most: Talindra's spidery scrawl appearing the margins of most spells, offering tips and notes for her reluctant student.]
If you wish for magic, Astarion, ask first.
[He says it as he goes and gets the book anyway, but, like, still. And yet he still runs one hand affectionately up the line of Astarion's thigh, so what is the truth, Leto.]