[His hands brace first. Not reflex: properly. A squaring of his shoulders, pressing the flat of his hands on either side of Leto (he has to repeat it in his mind for those few tepid beats; moor himself fully in the present first for just a moment— Leto Leto Leto), along the slope of his arms, bearing down. From the outside in, it might seem harsh. Unkind. And from the outside in, Astarion himself seems harsh. Unkind.
And from the outside in, they might be right.
But not here.
Not like this.
Here, in the circle of slight silence and lowing traces of spent magic, it's a different breed of pressure he's employing: only enough to feel the flutter of his lover's pulse.
Astarion lacks a metronome, you see. Even the trickle of stolen blood in his veins is too weak to work for calmness in any sense or iteration. So if he wants to— needs to ground himself before stepping off the nearest ledge into an ocean of unknowns, the only recourse is to borrow one from someone else. Someone very dear, and very safe.]
Pergentes itinere, then. [He breathes, feeling the sharp tips of his fangs kiss his lips around the half-remembered shape of Leto's own.]
no subject
And from the outside in, they might be right.
But not here.
Not like this.
Here, in the circle of slight silence and lowing traces of spent magic, it's a different breed of pressure he's employing: only enough to feel the flutter of his lover's pulse.
Astarion lacks a metronome, you see. Even the trickle of stolen blood in his veins is too weak to work for calmness in any sense or iteration. So if he wants to— needs to ground himself before stepping off the nearest ledge into an ocean of unknowns, the only recourse is to borrow one from someone else. Someone very dear, and very safe.]
Pergentes itinere, then. [He breathes, feeling the sharp tips of his fangs kiss his lips around the half-remembered shape of Leto's own.]