INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

VOICE | ACTION | TEXT

[previous inbox]

Comments

[illithidnapped]

[Diligent little heart, beating with more years than he looks from the outside in. Moments like this, they'd have to seem absurd to any uninformed observers (scarcely any wonder the buckish herd his amatus runs with can't seem to figure it out in any sense): watching a lanky moon elf barely grown into his ears and limbs comforting a full-fledged vampire with a worldly show of care— the streaks of silver in that hair companion to the laugh lines dappling his cheeks. Track marks for exhaustion beyond exhaustion.

(Laugh lines. Gods. What an ironic name, considering how Astarion earned his doing anything but that.)

But it wasn't long ago that the tables were reversed in their arrangement, and it was Leto who stood unshackled and prodigious in his ultimacy against a tapestry of horror that would swear it was a front. A lie. A game. No one could be that kind. No one would be that gentle, that fierce, that knowing, not without another motive— and yet he was: Astarion could barely keep up in his shadow, and Hells if he didn't know whether he wanted to be like him back then in those first few strides of buckling freedom, or with him.

Laid out like this, purring like an overgrown cat for all the attention that he's getting against soft skin and softer curls, he still isn't quite sure the answer isn't both.]

Oh—

Well that's more than I expected, at the very least. [Playful, the canting of his voice. The tipping of his chin, his lips— angling to kiss (to nip) the underside of Leto's jaw.] You could barely stand by the end of the night....

Though that gorgeous cock of yours certainly didn't have the same problem in my hands. [Hand, accurately: after a certain point all Astarion remembers is pinning Leto to a wall with his wrist aching for the angle of his buried strokes beneath rucked trousers. Breathing hot across pale markings that tasted like glass to his tongue, and almost seemed to buzz each time he tasted them.


He has to change the subject to keep from losing himself to homesickness, a sudden dead drop in his gut.]

Best parts of our adventures aside, it was....well, no. It wasn't like that, but— [His eyes dart upwards towards the ceiling, exhaling once. Twice. (Each puff of air cold as the corners of their sheets.)] My recollection is.

The patriar I danced with were young. In dreams, their faces blur, and I have no idea whether it's masks they don or my own failing recollection, but I know that I was happy. Thrilled. Eager to prove myself, and everything smelled like it did in Thedas, still: no copper tang polluting everything around me, no pricking myself when I laughed.

There was still ambition in me, whatever that was worth.