May I is better than please, in terms of politesse. [Astarion puffs back, sly as the fox he mimics through a grin that's all fangs and pale, bone white— one finger hooked along the book's seam to yank it free of Fenris' hold.
Provided the moon elf actually lets go.]
But if I must....
[The book's already in his palm (Leto's hand still a pleasantly crawling weight across his thigh, warm and wanton both); he's already thumbing through in search of something in the midst of all that scrawl, tactile claws leading the way.
A flash of crimson as reddened eyes lift under dark lashes, before:]
no subject
Provided the moon elf actually lets go.]
But if I must....
[The book's already in his palm (Leto's hand still a pleasantly crawling weight across his thigh, warm and wanton both); he's already thumbing through in search of something in the midst of all that scrawl, tactile claws leading the way.
A flash of crimson as reddened eyes lift under dark lashes, before:]
Pretty please.