It does sound rather romantic when you put it like that, doesn't it? [Oh, it shakes loose like a purr under the steady bid of those fingerprints. Trackmarks slid along his spine until he slides upwards along with them, twisting in what little room he has just to lend them further purchase wherever they might roam. Knees against thighs; lips against lips; ankles under shins or snared tightly within sheets and dampened silk; hot breath intermingling with cool air in the sloping narrow of their contours, a ravaging intoxicant.] Your death.
[Leto Ancunín's death.
Nothing but satisfaction wreathes around the thought of it, even in the lightless cavern of his skull. If he's been drunk before, it's never been like this. If he's been besotted before, it was a weaker thing. Finding himself possessive now in a way that only a fanged thing ever could be: where the cruelest endpoint life has to offer is the most mouth-wateringly ambrosial treat dangling just within his promised reach. Mine, all mine. The soft skin sprawled underneath his fingers— mine. The whimper of young life still beating hot in untapped veins— mine. Greedy and devoted by an ouroborosian mile, and aching to hoard everything like the addict that he is before he's swallowed up by love's greater, darker designs. Addiction, after all, would only kill Leto. It's love that brings him back and brands him as its own.
The perfect labyrinth for vampiric urges in a loveworn chest.]
But first....
[Ah, there he is. Astarion Ancunín, not Astarion the vampire. Heralding his own interjection with the catch of clawed fingers over branded knuckles just before they're brought up towards his lips.
A formality for marriage.]
You've a great deal more life to learn about as the kept bride of a vampire, you know. And if you don't perish before morning from that sniffling wreck you call a body, a sprawling number of centuries left before I go teaching you all the intricacies of the night.
[Don't dream too eagerly of your fangs just yet, my darling.]
Starting with a set of rings is a challenge more your tempo.
no subject
[Leto Ancunín's death.
Nothing but satisfaction wreathes around the thought of it, even in the lightless cavern of his skull. If he's been drunk before, it's never been like this. If he's been besotted before, it was a weaker thing. Finding himself possessive now in a way that only a fanged thing ever could be: where the cruelest endpoint life has to offer is the most mouth-wateringly ambrosial treat dangling just within his promised reach. Mine, all mine. The soft skin sprawled underneath his fingers— mine. The whimper of young life still beating hot in untapped veins— mine. Greedy and devoted by an ouroborosian mile, and aching to hoard everything like the addict that he is before he's swallowed up by love's greater, darker designs. Addiction, after all, would only kill Leto. It's love that brings him back and brands him as its own.
The perfect labyrinth for vampiric urges in a loveworn chest.]
But first....
[Ah, there he is. Astarion Ancunín, not Astarion the vampire. Heralding his own interjection with the catch of clawed fingers over branded knuckles just before they're brought up towards his lips.
A formality for marriage.]
You've a great deal more life to learn about as the kept bride of a vampire, you know. And if you don't perish before morning from that sniffling wreck you call a body, a sprawling number of centuries left before I go teaching you all the intricacies of the night.
[Don't dream too eagerly of your fangs just yet, my darling.]
Starting with a set of rings is a challenge more your tempo.