[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by that insistent pulling, and with a little huff, Leto acquiesces. Not such an easy task when they're positioned like this, mind you, but still: he arches his back and spread his thighs, letting Astarion guide him into holding him however he pleases— so long as he carries his weight.
It gives him room to slide his hands up his bare chest. His palms smooth against cold skin as his thumbs glide against the twin scars he'd gifted his vampire, stroking them again and again in gentle reminder. I gave you these, every pass whispers. I bestowed them upon you for the same reason you marked me, and his own have long since stopped hurting, but still sometimes he thinks he can feel them. Twin aches around his spine, reminding him that no matter what happens, some part of him will always have a way back to Astarion.]
Someday, [he murmurs, and nudges their foreheads together again in buckish insistence,] a century or so from now, I will ask you that question again. And when I do— when Cazador is dead and rotting and his palace become something you and I have made our own . . .
[He draws back, though whether he can catch Astarion's eye isn't fully up to him.]
When you have whispered to me all the deeds you have ever done, and confessed what blood still lingers on your hands and hurts your heart . . . I hope you will be able to tell me that such worries occupy your mind only infrequently.
I love you. And there is no revelation from your past nor event in the future that will make me leave you. Not willingly. Not by choice.
no subject
[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by that insistent pulling, and with a little huff, Leto acquiesces. Not such an easy task when they're positioned like this, mind you, but still: he arches his back and spread his thighs, letting Astarion guide him into holding him however he pleases— so long as he carries his weight.
It gives him room to slide his hands up his bare chest. His palms smooth against cold skin as his thumbs glide against the twin scars he'd gifted his vampire, stroking them again and again in gentle reminder. I gave you these, every pass whispers. I bestowed them upon you for the same reason you marked me, and his own have long since stopped hurting, but still sometimes he thinks he can feel them. Twin aches around his spine, reminding him that no matter what happens, some part of him will always have a way back to Astarion.]
Someday, [he murmurs, and nudges their foreheads together again in buckish insistence,] a century or so from now, I will ask you that question again. And when I do— when Cazador is dead and rotting and his palace become something you and I have made our own . . .
[He draws back, though whether he can catch Astarion's eye isn't fully up to him.]
When you have whispered to me all the deeds you have ever done, and confessed what blood still lingers on your hands and hurts your heart . . . I hope you will be able to tell me that such worries occupy your mind only infrequently.
I love you. And there is no revelation from your past nor event in the future that will make me leave you. Not willingly. Not by choice.