[It's just a flicker of a beat, but it's all the time Leto needs.
In a breathless moment his hand darts out, metal claws catching Astarion by one barely-clothed hip and spinning him around, pushing him flat against the wall as Leto crowds forward. It's a swift reversal, no lyrium tricks or ghostly coyness: just fast reflexes and a ravenous desire to show off.]
Oh, yes.
[He takes a small step forward and ducks his head down, peering up at Astarion through dark lashes. They're already half-hidden in the shadows like this, but if anyone happens to glance them by, all they'll see are two conferring elves whispering to one another.
This is for them, this little flirtation, and Leto refuses to share.]
Yes, [he says again, his voice darker this time. His right hand— the one facing away from the party— slips between them, the tips of his claws pressing against bare skin. With slow deliberation they glide their way down, pressing just hard enough to be felt, as Leto keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, searching for a hint of a flush.]
And you know it. False modesty doesn't suit you, kadan . . . though I cannot say the same for this outfit.
[His head tips, his breath hot as it ghosts against his jaw. This close, he can hear the catch of Astarion's breath, see the way his pupils dilate . . . he even imagines he can hear the thundering of his heart (or is that his own?).]
Am I meant to let you out of my sight tonight? Only the thought of you mingling among those drunken fools is intolerable. Covered in blood, on the other hand . . . that I will thrill to see soon.
[Gods, he looks so good like this: lit up not just by candles and lanterns, but by Leto's own lyrium, too. Azure light gives pale skin an almost ethereal glow, adding softness to the sharp lines of his face. Around them, the party ebbs and flows, voices rising and falling and the faint sound of music in the distance, and none of it matters. Even the other members of Rift Watch (who have surely noted their absence by now) don't matter, not at all. There's a faint thought for the mission, but ah . . . later. Later.]
You should have told me you were going to dress like this. We could have skipped the party entirely.
no subject
In a breathless moment his hand darts out, metal claws catching Astarion by one barely-clothed hip and spinning him around, pushing him flat against the wall as Leto crowds forward. It's a swift reversal, no lyrium tricks or ghostly coyness: just fast reflexes and a ravenous desire to show off.]
Oh, yes.
[He takes a small step forward and ducks his head down, peering up at Astarion through dark lashes. They're already half-hidden in the shadows like this, but if anyone happens to glance them by, all they'll see are two conferring elves whispering to one another.
This is for them, this little flirtation, and Leto refuses to share.]
Yes, [he says again, his voice darker this time. His right hand— the one facing away from the party— slips between them, the tips of his claws pressing against bare skin. With slow deliberation they glide their way down, pressing just hard enough to be felt, as Leto keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, searching for a hint of a flush.]
And you know it. False modesty doesn't suit you, kadan . . . though I cannot say the same for this outfit.
[His head tips, his breath hot as it ghosts against his jaw. This close, he can hear the catch of Astarion's breath, see the way his pupils dilate . . . he even imagines he can hear the thundering of his heart (or is that his own?).]
Am I meant to let you out of my sight tonight? Only the thought of you mingling among those drunken fools is intolerable. Covered in blood, on the other hand . . . that I will thrill to see soon.
[Gods, he looks so good like this: lit up not just by candles and lanterns, but by Leto's own lyrium, too. Azure light gives pale skin an almost ethereal glow, adding softness to the sharp lines of his face. Around them, the party ebbs and flows, voices rising and falling and the faint sound of music in the distance, and none of it matters. Even the other members of Rift Watch (who have surely noted their absence by now) don't matter, not at all. There's a faint thought for the mission, but ah . . . later. Later.]
You should have told me you were going to dress like this. We could have skipped the party entirely.