illithidnapped | INBOX II

It was just the one owlbear. We chase far more fascinating prey nowadays.

[Which is really just something to fill the pause as Leto, absurdly and stupidly, smiles at nothing.

It's such a strange topic. Such a loaded one, too, for he knows too well how much his lover misses life. And it's not that Leto is so eager to be a vampire, and indeed, he'll be happy if that day doesn't come for centuries (for he has no intention of ever dying, you see; he has no intention of ever losing his Astarion, not to old age or death or a stake).

But there's something uniquely wonderful about thinking about this. The pressure of docile fangs at his wrist; the utter devotion in his lover's eyes as he drank and drank and drank, offering his lover the peaceful transition he never had.]

I can think of few more peaceful deaths than to be at your side . . . at your hands and your teeth. Owlbear or no . . . you would make it something worth dying for. And I would not mind waking as your spawn. I would not fear such a thing, knowing you as I do. Knowing that if you delayed my evolution, it would only ever be so I could get my bearings first.

[A moment, and then:]

You have something planned?

Tell me that, too.

From the moment I came to care for you.

[Calling it an offer would be a lie. Selfishness pervades in theory, when he can't divorce himself from the thought of his sole mate (or perhaps soulmate)'s life slipping away— what difference is it really from using a healing spell or a scroll? (A great deal's worth of difference, oh, denial can't overlook that in full no matter how he glosses over it right now.) If it came down to it— he tells himself— if it comes down to it, he'll find a way to undo it, should Leto grow resentful of the changes. Or—

Well.

First things first. And first above all else: ensuring the only thing that's ever mattered survives.

Everything.]

But

it is no evolution, amatus. You won't

[Ah. No. A dull pause threads him back into the present train of thought; no crossing the lines.]

You will be yourself, still. That much I swear, it won't be some grand shedding of your mien or memories— but once your life has spent itself down to the last flickering grain, regardless of what we are by then, though I will always desire it unchanged, I will be there.

And we will watch the sun sink into the horizon at one another's sides. And we will talk of all the plans you've yet to make, and the places you wish to see while your limbs grow heavy, and your vision tires like it never has before.

You'll want sleep, my darling. And I will, of course, grant you that. But only for a little while.

When you wake, it'll be in a bed— not a coffin. To the sound of music, or the rustling of paper, or the slow sound of whatever myriad animals you've collected by then padding around in idle laxness. You'll feel strong again. Bright. Beautiful. Whole. [He'll cough up no dirt with his own blood. He'll claw through nothing. Scream and wail, perhaps, yes, but it'll be short lived:] I'll be there beside you.

Waiting to greet you in that first new night when your senses race and your mind runs wilder than Montressor in her fiercest little frenzy.

You won't leave this world or any other on any terms but your own, if you ever leave at all.

[Oh . . . and for what feels a very long while, he doesn't know what to write.

He has to say something, he knows, for Astarion is likely waiting on tenterhooks after such an intimate confession. And yet all that he can think to say sounds clumsy and childish in the wake of such a beautiful gift— and anyway, it's so hard to understand what he's even feeling, so full is his heart. Emotions nearly overwhelm him, staggering him, and it's joy and grief and adoration and an aching sort of bittersweetness whose origin he doesn't understand— but perhaps what it all boils down to is love.

Love, so fierce and so overwhelming that he can barely articulate it. Love for a vampire who has planned out his lover's death in such doting, meticulous detail, and it does not escape Leto's notice that such a fantasy only comes at the end of a long life. That his Astarion wants him to experience all the centuries as he himself has never had the chance to, his heart thundering in his chest and air in his lungs, soaking up the sun until the last possible moment.

And we will watch the sun sink into the horizon at one another's sides. And we will talk of all the plans you've yet to make, and the places you wish to see while your limbs grow heavy, and your vision tires like it never has before . . . He actually has to look away for a few moments. It's because he's sick that his vision blurs, he tells himself, and knows it to be a lie.

And what can he say? The seconds tick past, and all of it too much to jot down into words.]

come home to me

[And he doesn't take it back, though he knows Astarion won't obey just yet.]

I would like that more than I can say, amatus. To die in your arms after centuries together would be bliss . . . and to be granted the chance of centuries more with you, thanks to you, sounds more wonderful than anything.

[A pause, and then:]

I have never feared death. I once even welcomed the thought of it, but never since I met you. And yet now it sounds the sweetest thing, whenever it may come. And though I do not wish it to be anytime soon . . . I am eager for that to happen. For you, and only you, to change me.

[And then:]

I have always despised my body being altered. You know this. But what I have loathed is how it has never once been with my consent nor my permission. And I am no fool, I know that it will be different than the life I am used to now . . . but this time, I welcome the change. I welcome being at your side, undead that we will both be. So long as we are together . . . I do not just grant my consent, but give it to you wholeheartedly.

Change me, when the time comes. And we will live out all our years together.

[There's no answer.

And unlike Leto's own pause, it truly is a matching gap of fuller minutes. Some sprawling span where the silence in the wake of those tender written words implies— ah, but it could be anything, could it not? Perhaps the clinic opened after all, and Astarion, rapt with a swell of care and concern for his bedsick mate after a full night of drawn out bickering (and love, and both are one and the same when the line between snapping and sweetness is— the thinnest band of threadbound intensity beyond intensity itself)— fled inside before the poor healer could so much as hang her weathered sign; perhaps it's simply still more proof they're both fumbling things for longing, unable to string together words while drowning deep beneath the tide of sensation overblown.

Perhaps it's rougher round the edges.

Perhaps he's overwhelmed, and wasn't ready. Bleeding as the scars that they both bear.

Either way, it's silence.

Before every last damn pup and wolf within those walls startles out of sleep and leaps up, barking, yapping, struggling in a fit to pull free of the covers.

Their front door opens, and Astarion— breathless as death itself— stands with his hand wound tight over its frame. Disheveled curls and mussed-up coat a promise of just how far he'd traveled in less than a handful of minutes.]

[It takes less than a breath for him to cross the room and kiss his consort with more devotion than all the Chantry ever knew— savage fanaticisms and sacrifice included, all.]

[They kiss—

And it's a kiss Leto will remember for the rest of his life.

(For the rest of every life, living and undead both).

He forgets how to breathe. He forgets that he's sick. He forgets everything right now, all his worried thoughts knocked to pieces and sweetly washed away by the wave of love that overtakes him. I love you, and he echoes it silently in the way his trembling fingers knot in Astarion's wrinkled coat, desperate for him to stay close; in the way he surges up, returning that kiss with every ounce of devotion and adoration he can pour into it. Yes, yes, I love you, yes, a thousand words whispered between them with every push and pull of their lips. It's you, it's you, it's always been you, there is no world in which I would not follow you, there is no state of existence I would not share with you, let me only be at your side, let me only be near you, my love, my friend, my heart—]

Marry me.

[Rasped out against Astarion's lips the moment they part for air, for if he doesn't say it now he never will. And it's the worst time to propose (his skin is clammy and he reeks of sweat and sickness; Ataashi and the pups won't shut up, barking wildly in their glee at seeing their father). And it's the best time to propose, when his heart feels so full that it might well burst from his chest, singing out so happily that it's a wonder the whole world doesn't hear it. And only later will Leto chuckle at his own joy— for it says something about them (about Astarion, and how much he has grown to trust him, seven-year mark or no) that there is no doubt in his mind. There is no whispering shadow in his heart, hissing that he needs to be careful, no.

He'd known it in Rialto. And here, now, a world and a lifetime away, he affirms it to himself once more.

It's you. It's always been you.

Kadan.

Amatus.]

[Kadan.

Amatus.

Beating heart.

His everything.

In Thedas, there's a joke somewhere in this moment. Some Orlesian penning something trite about an off-screen pair of elves mostly existing as comedy relief between acts of his loftier work criticizing the empire's central war. Two ex-slaves offering marriage to one another in a boarded room with nothing at all to wear along their fingers. The joke being: it isn't even real marriage, given what they are. The punchline being: they wrap some old scraps of cleaning cloth around their wrists like a gritty little promise of devotion before cutting back to the actual romantic leads.

In Toril, there's another joke somewhere in this moment. A vampire and his mortal mate, some pretty young thing that doesn't know better than to whisper sweet nothings like marry me or change me, for he desires his own pointless demise and everyone knows fanged things are hearts of wicked stone: they don't beat, they don't love, they hunt and feed and sick themselves on blood and play the sweetheart just for a monstrous bout of fun— and when the poor thing bleeds to death with a smile in the third act, well— cautionary tales never lack their endless charms in the eyes of a broader populace.

Here, though, it's only them.

Them, and the sort of low-mouthed sweetness like a stake set through his heart, slid right between the ribs.

He's not complaining. There are worse ways to go— every other way to go, in fact: worse. Wan. Sour. Stale. If he had to die to anything, it'd be to this. Gladly. Breathless against his lover's aching (and chapped) lips, a thin patina of sweat salt and herbal salve clinging in the gaps between their profile, stark and stinging at inhuman senses (and sweet, sweet, sweet).

How he loves him, this strange, wondrous little creature in his arms. The only thing he's found that he— cynical, hateful, wounded and wicked to a fault in his bleak, brittle mind— would die for. Live for.

It's you. It's always been you.]

That isn't the fever talking, is it?

[Astarion puffs out in response against one sniffling, sick-as-a-dog profile with a smile wrapped around his teeth and soft heat behind his eyes. A nuzzle. A push. His arms wound tight around slight shoulders, pulling everything of his mate close.]

Because if you're joking or delirious, you'd better tell me now before I get my hopes up.

[The response (not answer, not yet, and the difference matters) startles a laugh out of him, breathless and fond. In the next moment he tips his head up, returning that warm nuzzle with a little push, their noses bumping together as their foreheads butt in familiar greeting. He can hear the warmth layered beneath that toothless tease, the adoration and love and wonderment— and he can hear, too, the fear. The tiny tendril of awe and shock that indicate no disbelief nor disagreement— but gods, what a thing for them. For either of them, but perhaps especially Astarion.

His fingers slide gently against the line of his jaw, a faint smile playing on Leto's lips as his gaze softens further.]

If I was delirious, Astarion, I would be in no fit state to tell you.

Now come here.

[Leto moves where he's bidden, gladly offering himself up for Astarion to pick up and rearrange as his vampire sees fit— so long as he follows Leto's quiet urging to climb into bed with him. Stay close to me, and he settles in his lap or tucked beneath his arm, it barely matters, just so long as they're close.

And when they're together— truly and properly, limbs tangled and breath warm against one another's lips— Leto cups his cheek more fully, turning his vampire to face him. His thumb smooths down over cold skin, and he says more sincerely:]

Will you marry me?

[He wants to hear it.]

Edited (ah html) 2024-05-28 05:00 (UTC)

[He has that.

A thousand times over, overlapping in a flooding affirmation pressed across tanned skin by frigid lips: he has that. And it bears no repeating all the ways Leto— Fenris has had that from the very beginning to start with, given the way his steps were always shadowed by shadow itself, so when Astarion tucks his nose against his lover's sweat-steeped cheek to inhale, it's only the culmination of it. The punctuation, of it. Third act. No— encore. Inevitable, and waiting in the wings for its demanded rise.]

I will.

[I will— no quips. No deflection. No games or trembling shows of shirking from the light; the thing he wants is the thing he's always wanted. An alembic stretch of time boiling raw affection down into its distillate marrow, yes, more concentrated, but not greater. Definition swearing as a rule that even compressed across worlds like a binding anchor, Astarion could never love him more.

Because he never loved him less.]

As many times as you want, my Leto.

[The broad splay of his fingers wrapped from the outer edge of Leto's jaw (damp and clammy and hotter than a forge underneath a set of unliving prints) all the way back around the nape of his neck and the tangle of pale hair laid there.] In this world, and every other— any other— there's no taking it back, now.

I will.

[I will . . . and for a precious few seconds, Leto does nothing but beam up at him. Joy (and it is joy, so rarely felt and so all the brighter for it) suffuses through him, the strangest (and sweetest) tempered excitement thundering in time with his pounding heart— for of course he'd expected no other answer, but it's one thing to know and another to hear it articulated. I will, in this world and every other, and he doesn't have to urge himself to remember, for he knows he always will. Every word. Every cadence. The way Astarion's eyes look, softened crimson eyes framed by dark lashes; the way his hand feels cupping his cheek, cold and delicate and perfect.

You're mine and I'm yours, and they have denoted it a thousand different ways. Through tokens (oh, he misses that bloody cloth so much) and possessive monikers, vows of devotion and promises of adoration. They have sworn it through actions and words both, intimacy and adoration growing stronger by the day— stretching back even before Rialto, all the way to when Astarion had first fallen into Thedas, for their intimacy is marked by so much more than mere sex.

But there's something so satisfyingly inevitable about a ring. It's you. It's always been you, of course they were destined to be bound together in every way that they can, through blood and vows both. The weight of a ring on his finger was as inevitable as his chasing Astarion through the Fade: it could not have gone any other way.

And when he speaks, he can't help but still smile: his lips irrepressibly curled up in the most foolish grin, his gaze full of stars as he stares up at his vampire. His beloved. His everything, and soon all the world will know it.]

Good.

[Murmured as he tips his head up, butting their foreheads together in a fond nuzzle once more. Good, a laugh in his voice and so much adoration in his heart that it aches, his nuzzling fierce and insistent.

And somewhere in there, he murmurs:]

I have never had a last name before. But Leto Ancunín has a nice ring to it.

[And afterwards . . . oh, but one thing at a time, for he has not forgotten Astarion's own proposal.]

It suits you. [Is a promise that isn't embellished for the sake of sentiment. Or— if it is, it's only that way because it happens to also be the truth, with no other facets whatsoever at stake.

And sometime in the future he'll scoff critically (in all usual, acidic fashion) before asking about elves having no other names at all— Dalish or city elf or otherwise, all. No excuse enough to stop Astarion from subsequently crooning about how that sets Leto himself apart in yet one more gloriously defiant way. Another notch against his origin, save for what parts of it he loved. Master of two worlds as a thing astride in both, worth envy beyond envy by everyone that'd ever laid eyes on him.

And everyone that hasn't let.

Astarion, as things are, can't tear his own away. Thief that he is, warmth always calls to him before he has the chance to resist its waiting lure; joy brighter than moonlight too beautiful to keep from setting his fingertips to. The little creases— the narrow divots— where Leto's contentment wrinkles in fine lines across his skin regardless of his age.

He doesn't realize that he's smiling, too.

Fooled into thinking it's only Leto that's bumping their foreheads together in that moment, time and time again.]

....but what of mine doesn't?

[He puffs out a laugh, the noise far more about pure joy than anything approach mirth. What indeed, and he nips at his bottom lip, nuzzling insistently against his mate, each motion and movement only leaving him giddier still. Their lips brush together in something that isn't quite a kiss and it leaves him soaring all the higher, thrilled beyond thrill and yet so sedate in Astarion's arms. This is where he belongs. This is where he feels safe. Forget the mansion. Forget the apartment in Baldur's Gate; forget anywhere and everywhere, for the only thing that has ever truly felt like home is right here in front of him.

Astarion. My Astarion, and foolishly, Leto hopes that his mate never lets him go.]

You suit me, [he says gently: not a correction, but an addition. His fingers slide against marble skin, tracing down the line of his neck and carding through his hair, content to relearn every inch of him in this new light.]

Your name. Your home. Your life, shared and tangled eternally with mine.

[Leto Ancunín, he thinks again. The name does not quite sound real, not yet, but it will. Just as he slowly went from Fenris to Leto, so too will this new addition become part of himself, until one day he'll no longer have to think about it before it slides naturally off his tongue.

A few moments pass . . . and then, so softly, he murmurs:]

And one day: my death. And my resurrection at your hands.

[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, he has not forgotten what led them here. He says the words so carefully, his eyes soft and upturned as he whispers that vow against cold lips. I am yours, and they will prove it with every show of devotion they can come up with. Life and death and back again, their love destined to last for centuries beyond comprehension.]

You will teach me all there is to know about being a vampire, husband of mine. And we will stalk the nights together, and know contentment for centuries to come. This I promise you.

It does sound rather romantic when you put it like that, doesn't it? [Oh, it shakes loose like a purr under the steady bid of those fingerprints. Trackmarks slid along his spine until he slides upwards along with them, twisting in what little room he has just to lend them further purchase wherever they might roam. Knees against thighs; lips against lips; ankles under shins or snared tightly within sheets and dampened silk; hot breath intermingling with cool air in the sloping narrow of their contours, a ravaging intoxicant.] Your death.

[Leto Ancunín's death.

Nothing but satisfaction wreathes around the thought of it, even in the lightless cavern of his skull. If he's been drunk before, it's never been like this. If he's been besotted before, it was a weaker thing. Finding himself possessive now in a way that only a fanged thing ever could be: where the cruelest endpoint life has to offer is the most mouth-wateringly ambrosial treat dangling just within his promised reach. Mine, all mine. The soft skin sprawled underneath his fingers— mine. The whimper of young life still beating hot in untapped veins— mine. Greedy and devoted by an ouroborosian mile, and aching to hoard everything like the addict that he is before he's swallowed up by love's greater, darker designs. Addiction, after all, would only kill Leto. It's love that brings him back and brands him as its own.

The perfect labyrinth for vampiric urges in a loveworn chest.]

But first....

[Ah, there he is. Astarion Ancunín, not Astarion the vampire. Heralding his own interjection with the catch of clawed fingers over branded knuckles just before they're brought up towards his lips.

A formality for marriage.]

You've a great deal more life to learn about as the kept bride of a vampire, you know. And if you don't perish before morning from that sniffling wreck you call a body, a sprawling number of centuries left before I go teaching you all the intricacies of the night.

[Don't dream too eagerly of your fangs just yet, my darling.]

Starting with a set of rings is a challenge more your tempo.

[His expression melts by soften degrees as Astarion kisses the back of his hand. It's such a charmingly doting action, chaste and sweet in a way they normally never are. A way of kissing more suited to courting than two elves that rut so eagerly day and night . . . it leaves him pleasantly flustered, just a touch, his lips curling up into a sweet smile as his ears twitch once or twice.

Though that vanishes swiftly enough as his vampire speaks, replaced with a sardonically amused little stare.]

More your tempo, he says to a god-killer . . . you speak patronizingly for someone in imminent danger of being sneezed upon.

[He sniffs it out as he curls in closer, content to snuggle in now that some of the emotions of the moment are starting to settle. He's no less happy, understand, but it's a more suffused sort of feeling now: warm and bundled and content as he tucks his head beneath Astarion's chin, overwarm cheek pressed to cold skin. There is so much snot going on right now, and the pile of tissues scattered around their sheets only proves it.]

Tell me what kind of ring you desire. And if what you desire is to see me dress in white lace for our, mm, third? wedding night, amatus, ask instead of assuming.

And I happen to get off on having a godkiller in my bed— but that doesn't make him any less adorable when he's barely grown into those twitching, oversized ears of his, [Astarion purrs, letting consonants carry the weight of his wolfishly sly affections. A sort of lilting through his overlong teeth] or his precious little canines.

[Oh, he's stopping now, he promises.

Cross his heart, he knows when to behave....somewhat. At least enough to toe the line between crowing playfulness and true annoyance, the latter of which he'd rather not invoke at the moment when they've just bound their hearts together.

It's slow, and obediently tame, the smoothing path his fingers trace as they comb back fever-saturated locks.]

Mm. Is it our third already? [Asks the creature that's kept track just as avidly all this time.] I suppose something simple will do, given our funding and the three— correction: four ever-hungry mouths we have to feed.

A couple dozen or so diamonds, a mithril band.

Small things.

[It's a testament to just how sick he is that those (utterly adorably oversized) ears twitch once or twice in muzzy confusion after that corrective statement. Four, and it takes him too long to understand what his mate means, some part of him bewildered as he wonders if there's somehow a third pup waddling about.

By the time those blissfully cool fingers work through his hair, he understands— and oh, it's such a sweet action he can't be roused into nipping for that bit of teasing. Nor for the (quietly and not-as-secretly-as-he'd-like adored) bit of patronizing playfulness his lover had crooned down at him. With a pleased little sigh, Leto's eyes flutter closed, his fingers sliding aimlessly against Astarion's frame as his lips turn up in a smile for that extravagant request.]

And you complain I'm expensive to keep . . . what of a silver band? With three diamond lookalikes, since no one will ever be able to spot the difference. You can't, [he adds preemptively.] Not really. I have seen the glass ones wizards conjure up, they look just the same as any natural-mined diamond. Perhaps we can inscribe it with something particularly sentimental . . . the year of when we met? Though that might grow confusing . . .

How about that?

Edited 2024-06-03 01:15 (UTC)

I was talking about your wedding night ensemble. [Astarion crows out with a devilish flash of white fangs— chin tucked down against his chest to exaggerate their daggered sharpness. Not to mention the even more knifing slant of his own lips.

He knows he's being clever.]

But— conjured glass? Really? [Tsk.] I'm all for the idea of an inscription, it'd be our own eternal secret— damning only to those who could possibly understand and also somehow know about your home world, but glass?

Couldn't we rob someone disgustingly wealthy instead and call it a honeymoon gift to ourselves?

I— mmm.

[It's a grumbling groan, wry and distracted both. A noise that starts with oh, very clever, wry and delighted both, and tangles midway with a flirtatious grumbling (because oh, his vampire chose his words well, and now Leto can all too well imagine what kind of ensemble he means), all combined with I can't, not now, not when I'm so sick, demonstrated in the way he glances away from that grin with a wry smirk of his own.]

We could, [he eventually says, his voice growing more thoughtful.] So long as there are no ways to track a diamond . . . are there? Some kind of magic tracer, perhaps? I would not spend our third honeymoon in prison.

And you cannot be picky if we rob them, fussing over the size or shape.

[It's the glance away that has two cool fingertips tucked under his striped chin, drawing him back to that look of docile affection, utterly besotted—

And at odds with the playfully smooth catch of Astarion's voice.] Sensible spending habits? Aversion to serial larceny? No fussing about what we dig up? What sort of teenager are you?

The middle-aged kind.

[His retort is tart, though his eyes are as besotted as Astarion's own. They must look a pair of fools, Leto thinks, mooning over one another like idiots in love— but gods, if ever there was a moment for it, now would be the time. And anyway, he likes feeling like this. He'd spent so many decades sunken within his own loneliness; it does them both good to remember those days are at an end.

So: he relishes the two fingers that have him caught, tipping his head forward to press against them fondly. So: he smiles even as he speaks, his wry smile turned sweeter. So: he ignores the feverish chills that are beginning to wrack his body, preferring to cling close to his mate as long as he can.]

The kind that remember what forty-five really means— and that have spent too many hours dodging the Hightown guards to ever want to repeat that here.

Though if it helps your sense of decorum, amatus, you can set a curfew so I might ignore it and and break it.

[They started out like this, as far as Rialto is concerned. Benchmarks and old, reflected memories by way of bloodstained sills, dropped bodies, and the overharsh pop of cracking fireworks outside.

He'd looked at him then the way he looks at him now: soft across knifishly-angled features, hazy in his blood-colored eyes with the avid gloss of something more than love alone, and yet made that much brighter by it.

Indescribable, the way it finds him. What he feels. What he's always felt, solidified in this very second by the pressure against his hold that's about as fragile as a pup shivering in cold rain. That Astarion takes a moment of time out to wrap those sheets a little tighter round them both, well, it's just a sign of his priorities.

The reoccurring theme tonight.]

Scandalous.

[His right canine a quick flare of blinding white, lengthening the angle of his smirk.]

I'll pick something appropriate for an elf of the very respectable forty-fifth birthday range, then, shall I?

A quaint nine o'clock, perhaps.

[Gods, but he loves him for the way he wraps the sheets around him, tucking them in so carefully so that no part of Leto is exposed. It's such a minor thing in the face of everything else tonight, but as his shivers grow worse (oh, he hates this, his body trembling and his jaw clenching as he fights off the urge to chatter his teeth), it's that which stands out the most.]

Hah.

[It takes him a few more moments before he can say anything more. It's not a lack of ability so much as he doesn't want to shudder and shiver his way through a sentence; bad enough he's already shaking against Astarion's frame.]

You would pick something around then, old man.

[His own teeth flash in echo of Astarion's gleaming smirk, fledgling fangs peeking out as he adds in a drawl:]

Though is that my nine o'clock or yours?

Old—

[Oh, play (or sick) or not, Astarion almost nips him for that one. Longer fangs eager to challenge the measure of their lesser counterparts just to remind them of their place in the pecking order, brought on by a competitive streak that won't be quelled even in the circle of those arms.

He finds a way to silence it regardless.

(Love. Stupid, entirely obstinate love, that's how.)] Old man??

You're far too unwell to be testing me like this, you know.

[When his resolve finally breaks, it's with a kiss that only scrapes across the bow of Leto's lips— canines (lightly) asserting their part in this arrangement.]

[Gods, Astarion's sensitivity to that never fails to amuse him. Call it the inverse of his own toothless bristling whenever Astarion teases him about his youth, perhaps— though Leto plays that card far less than his mate.]

Old man, [he affirms with a dazed grin, his lip throbbing from that teasing scrape. Or perhaps he's aching from that kiss, his body aching no matter how light a touch is bestowed upon it— or maybe he's just sore, so much so that anything and everything sets him off, aches in his joints as he has not felt since Thedas thundering with every pulse of his heart.

It doesn't matter. He'll get over it. He always has before.]

Centuries older than me, is that not correct . . .? O-or is that only true when you want to score a cheap point?

[And then, as he gives up on dignity and burrows in close, snuggling as pitifully as Ataashi on a lonely day:]

Save your punishments for later, and cash in on them when I'm well.

It's not a cheap point if it works. You should know that from our dockside escapades and nights of wicked grace well enough.

[But he's already curling in closer, sinking in along the edge of Leto's side and slipping an arm underneath the sickly thing (whose tacky, vibrantly sweatsoaked back drags a clammy little line down the length of Astarion's forearm in the process) before he's folded into the crook of it properly. Able to drape across the whole of Astarion's cool body, or fold the covers up higher as he needs.

The pups take their cue soon after, crawling up across the sheets while Ataashi minds her distance at their feet, already knowing sickbed routines after so many years of it by now (not too close, never far).]

How bad is it now, my bride to be?

[Asked as he wraps two fingers around the breadth of Leto's ring finger, pinching playfully.]

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doggish - 2024-06-08 02:34 (UTC) - Expand

INBOX II

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2/2

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sneaks this into your arms

IT'S PERFECT

YOURE. ONE. TO. TALK. POINTS TO THIS!!!!!!!!!!11111

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(no subject)