[Oh, oh, those little squeaks. That overexcited, overeager wriggling and writhing and squeaking that can't stop, won't stop, that Leto never, ever wants to stop— they're precious. So sweet and earnest and excitable, and his tail wags all the faster in response, his puppish heart thundering giddily as he endures every bite and lick that his overstimulated darling needs to offer.]

Shh, shh— all your things are as you left them, and I am not ill. Nothing is wrong.

[There's an irrepressible grin woven into his voice, his rough tongue darting out to steal a quick, fond little lick.]

I despise all of those things, it's true. Just as you despise dive bars and fighting rings and pups that drool all over you in their sleep and refuse to share me when they've a mind to snuggle. And yet you give me those things anyway . . . it is far past time I indulged you in the same manner.

Besides, [he adds, lowering his head just far enough that Astarion might drape those pearls over his head whenever he sees fit, emerald eyes still locked on his chirping mate,] it makes me happy to make you happy. Not just in a day-to-day sense, but giving you the things you desire. Watching your face light up or listening to you chirp in your excitement— it is a gift unto itself to watch you melt. Darling thing, you are not the only one who likes making your mate happy.

You deserve this. My only mistake was not proposing this months ago.