[He can see the shift, he thinks. Lurking underneath Leto's strikingly unmarred surface— a sort of lengthening of the spine. A rounded positioning that leaves him leaning into the pressure on his thigh, ending with them both a little magnetized: angled in towards each other more than either of them had been. Astarion arched upwards through his shoulders, down across his relaxed hips.
It isn't wanton or alluring. Or at least— not intentionally so.
There's no helping being attracted to one another (something Astarion damned well hopes still holds true even on the worst of days between them), but for the moment, they're only talking. Only circling the idea of a shared past that's now a link, despite the fact that it might as well be oil slick across a dampened canvas. Mostly a blurry smear of color and sensation and whatever feeling it evokes.
But at least in that, they're on the same page there.]
I spent....a long time pretending that I wasn't capable of feeling. [His own fingers rise and flex, if only briefly— gesturing alongside expression before dropping back across his chest, laced.] Self-preservation, I suppose. It wasn't a conscious choice, though I know I don't need to tell you much about those.
[Pot, kettle. No accusations here.]
The point is, do anything long enough and the mind starts to follow suit. Hells, even when I was with Riftwatch, I still behaved for so bloody long like Cazador was right there, perched over my shoulder. Some days I could almost see him. Smell him. Waited for his voice to see me through one direction to the next.
You changed that.
[Old habits.]
But they die hard, don't they? And when I snap back out of dreams of a life and place I can't for the life of me recognize in a body that's no better, it feels....like I need to protect myself again. Something in me just gives in to it— I don't know. [Tsk.] Couldn't put a voice to it if I tried. It just....
no subject
It isn't wanton or alluring. Or at least— not intentionally so.
There's no helping being attracted to one another (something Astarion damned well hopes still holds true even on the worst of days between them), but for the moment, they're only talking. Only circling the idea of a shared past that's now a link, despite the fact that it might as well be oil slick across a dampened canvas. Mostly a blurry smear of color and sensation and whatever feeling it evokes.
But at least in that, they're on the same page there.]
I spent....a long time pretending that I wasn't capable of feeling. [His own fingers rise and flex, if only briefly— gesturing alongside expression before dropping back across his chest, laced.] Self-preservation, I suppose. It wasn't a conscious choice, though I know I don't need to tell you much about those.
[Pot, kettle. No accusations here.]
The point is, do anything long enough and the mind starts to follow suit. Hells, even when I was with Riftwatch, I still behaved for so bloody long like Cazador was right there, perched over my shoulder. Some days I could almost see him. Smell him. Waited for his voice to see me through one direction to the next.
You changed that.
[Old habits.]
But they die hard, don't they? And when I snap back out of dreams of a life and place I can't for the life of me recognize in a body that's no better, it feels....like I need to protect myself again. Something in me just gives in to it— I don't know. [Tsk.] Couldn't put a voice to it if I tried. It just....
It's like a trap, I think.