Spoken as if we aren't in a constant state of pining, my little love.
[Hells and Maker both have mercy, he wracks his brain to scour in search of anything— anything at all— that might prove useful in capacity enough to ferry either himself to Leto, or Leto to him in reverse with the sort of urgency reserved for dire circumstance alone. It isn't that he can't regulate his own overspooled intensity (or, at the very least, this particular instance of it), but that eyes on the outside looking in could never understand what it feels like to be so thoroughly inflamed over memory alone. And it hardly matters whether he'd meant the vulgarity of entanglement in a Rialtan brothel's sheets or the way shore water (terryfing at first blush for a creature prone to hadal dread) reflected its bright touch over a set of handsome, sharp-edged features— bisected by gleaming stripes of silvered lyrium— because both are entangled past the point of borders holding weight. All he wants is to be close. To brook conversation in person rather than across the penned-in distance until nightfall overtakes.
Wolves? No— there's only one in Baldur's Gate aside from himself. Bats? He could better avoid sunlight in smaller guise, but that hardly minimizes said journey. And as for magic? Teleportation is out, thieving byways are more likely to invoke trouble rather than ward it, and as for the sewers?
Gods, no.
Still, he tries. Again and again, for far longer than he should, and the stretch where nothing else lies written is sole witness to it.]
Alas.
Scant little comes to mind at present, but sit tight, sober your pretty little self up— or better yet, don't— and I'll continue seeing what I can do.
Yet in the meanwhile, as I think fondly on how you looked with the blood of a would-be assassin still flecked across your throat and shoulders, panting at the thought of sinking underneath my jaws and oil slickened prick at both ends....
You still have a story to tell regarding what your earlier job entailed.
no subject
Spoken as if we aren't in a constant state of pining, my little love.
[Hells and Maker both have mercy, he wracks his brain to scour in search of anything— anything at all— that might prove useful in capacity enough to ferry either himself to Leto, or Leto to him in reverse with the sort of urgency reserved for dire circumstance alone. It isn't that he can't regulate his own overspooled intensity (or, at the very least, this particular instance of it), but that eyes on the outside looking in could never understand what it feels like to be so thoroughly inflamed over memory alone. And it hardly matters whether he'd meant the vulgarity of entanglement in a Rialtan brothel's sheets or the way shore water (terryfing at first blush for a creature prone to hadal dread) reflected its bright touch over a set of handsome, sharp-edged features— bisected by gleaming stripes of silvered lyrium— because both are entangled past the point of borders holding weight. All he wants is to be close. To brook conversation in person rather than across the penned-in distance until nightfall overtakes.
Wolves? No— there's only one in Baldur's Gate aside from himself. Bats? He could better avoid sunlight in smaller guise, but that hardly minimizes said journey. And as for magic? Teleportation is out, thieving byways are more likely to invoke trouble rather than ward it, and as for the sewers?
Gods, no.
Still, he tries. Again and again, for far longer than he should, and the stretch where nothing else lies written is sole witness to it.]
Alas.
Scant little comes to mind at present, but sit tight, sober your pretty little self up— or better yet, don't— and I'll continue seeing what I can do.
Yet in the meanwhile, as I think fondly on how you looked with the blood of a would-be assassin still flecked across your throat and shoulders, panting at the thought of sinking underneath my jaws and oil slickened prick at both ends....
You still have a story to tell regarding what your earlier job entailed.