[He has to test it first. He trusts in Gale's magic, no doubts there, but it's one thing to feel the silence around them, and hear the resulting (relieving) quiet. It's another to trust in it entirely. But . . . no, there's no response to Astarion's barbed grumbling. No response, either, when Leto calls out to them each in turn. They're self-contained, it seems, at least for a little while.
Which means he can groan so wretchedly without fear of being overheard. Petulant and sulky and embarrassed, and he rubs a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the belated flush that's set in.]
We were quiet.
[How sharp can githyanki ears possibly be? But it's fine. It's fine, it really is, and it's not as if half the city hasn't heard them rut at this point, never mind just talking about it, but even so . . . gods, and Leto sighs as he settles back and gathers Astarion to him, trying to put the issue of his mind. If his ears and cheeks are flushed for a few minutes longer, well. Only Astarion need know about it.]
The feeling might well be mutual . . .
[But it's more a wry grumble than any real fuss. He can remember his own aggravation during those long nights in Sundermount, when Marian and Merrill would dissolve into hushed giggles and unsubtle moans . . . and how he would, despite his increasing exasperation, still feel more or less the same about them come morning. Odd, now, to be on the other side of it— but then again, there's that same odd feeling. Not quite of comfortable camaraderie, but . . . something close to it, maybe.
His head tips down, nuzzling faintly at silver curls as they resettle.]
The odds are in our favor, Astarion.
[Quiet. Gentle. He will shift gears if need be, for he is happy to distract with filthy talk and spread legs . . . but it's in his nature to want to address the tension that fills the air.]
I will not try and sell you that it is not dangerous, nor that we have such a large chance that you need not worry. But . . . I would not say that if I did not believe it.
He will fall.
[And soon you'll be free, but such a thought is too painful to articulate just yet.]
no subject
Which means he can groan so wretchedly without fear of being overheard. Petulant and sulky and embarrassed, and he rubs a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the belated flush that's set in.]
We were quiet.
[How sharp can githyanki ears possibly be? But it's fine. It's fine, it really is, and it's not as if half the city hasn't heard them rut at this point, never mind just talking about it, but even so . . . gods, and Leto sighs as he settles back and gathers Astarion to him, trying to put the issue of his mind. If his ears and cheeks are flushed for a few minutes longer, well. Only Astarion need know about it.]
The feeling might well be mutual . . .
[But it's more a wry grumble than any real fuss. He can remember his own aggravation during those long nights in Sundermount, when Marian and Merrill would dissolve into hushed giggles and unsubtle moans . . . and how he would, despite his increasing exasperation, still feel more or less the same about them come morning. Odd, now, to be on the other side of it— but then again, there's that same odd feeling. Not quite of comfortable camaraderie, but . . . something close to it, maybe.
His head tips down, nuzzling faintly at silver curls as they resettle.]
The odds are in our favor, Astarion.
[Quiet. Gentle. He will shift gears if need be, for he is happy to distract with filthy talk and spread legs . . . but it's in his nature to want to address the tension that fills the air.]
I will not try and sell you that it is not dangerous, nor that we have such a large chance that you need not worry. But . . . I would not say that if I did not believe it.
He will fall.
[And soon you'll be free, but such a thought is too painful to articulate just yet.]