Master of carnal finesse humbled by shock to the point that Leto's mouth breaks across his stone-still lips while he's busy gawking for another handful of beats inside the bounds of those overwarm hands (that smell of Veilfire and dirt, musk and mending scrapes clinging to rough skin); his mind whirring while it fights to follow what he's hearing, feeling, seeing—
Overwhelmed in the best way, undoubtedly yes, but overwhelmed all the same.
And he was never a fast thinker outside of matters of reflex or pure survival, it's just that he's practically senseless putty in Leto's hands for all he's turned and scuffed and scrubbed at and kissed and adoringly reassured while his awareness lags dumbly behind: tripping again and again over sentences he can't start until his blades are slackened at his side (and until the wolf somewhere behind him growls, sending one fat little orb of a pup darting right into the back of his heel before clambering for Leto's own, squalling up a storm in her alarm).]
I—
[Yes, you worried him, but that's not half as important at the moment as the thing he cranes his head to get a look at— scrunching his cheek against the edge of Leto's palm, muttering:] Did you do this?
[The moon elf doesn't have his lyrium anymore, which in a way makes it a bit of a stupid question, but gods, he can't connect the dots to save his life. Just a half an hour prior they were talking about inevitable loss, inevitable change, inevitable surrender without surrendering as they mourned what they couldn't keep in favor of pressing forwards side-by-dauntless-side.
And yet here said thing-that-couldn't-be-kept is, proudly swishing her tail and returning to prowling and lifting her leg and p— ]
no subject
Astarion, that is, not Leto.
Master of carnal finesse humbled by shock to the point that Leto's mouth breaks across his stone-still lips while he's busy gawking for another handful of beats inside the bounds of those overwarm hands (that smell of Veilfire and dirt, musk and mending scrapes clinging to rough skin); his mind whirring while it fights to follow what he's hearing, feeling, seeing—
Overwhelmed in the best way, undoubtedly yes, but overwhelmed all the same.
And he was never a fast thinker outside of matters of reflex or pure survival, it's just that he's practically senseless putty in Leto's hands for all he's turned and scuffed and scrubbed at and kissed and adoringly reassured while his awareness lags dumbly behind: tripping again and again over sentences he can't start until his blades are slackened at his side (and until the wolf somewhere behind him growls, sending one fat little orb of a pup darting right into the back of his heel before clambering for Leto's own, squalling up a storm in her alarm).]
I—
[Yes, you worried him, but that's not half as important at the moment as the thing he cranes his head to get a look at— scrunching his cheek against the edge of Leto's palm, muttering:] Did you do this?
[The moon elf doesn't have his lyrium anymore, which in a way makes it a bit of a stupid question, but gods, he can't connect the dots to save his life. Just a half an hour prior they were talking about inevitable loss, inevitable change, inevitable surrender without surrendering as they mourned what they couldn't keep in favor of pressing forwards side-by-dauntless-side.
And yet here said thing-that-couldn't-be-kept is, proudly swishing her tail and returning to prowling and lifting her leg and p— ]