[He kisses her, and it is . . . it's okay! It's solidly decent. A pleasing exchange spurred on by rich wine and decent conversation, and the predicted conclusion to the unsubtle way they've been flirting these past few minutes. And give her credit: she kisses well. She takes the initiative, her head tipping just so as she presses a reddened mouth to his own slick lips, bold fingers drifting up the line of his arm and caressing the curve of his waist as they join together.
But that's all it is. Mundane pleasantness, impersonal and a little bland, and it's no one's fault. Perhaps he is simply too old for this sort of thing. Perhaps, when one hits a certain age, one loses the taste for quick sex or cheap thrills. Or, he considers as he draws back and she stares up at him curiously, perhaps he himself was never very good at impersonal hook-ups like this. Sex without romance, yes, he could manage that; Maker knows he and Isabela had spent a fair few years happily (and enthusiastically) indulging in such a thing. But there was such an intimacy with Isabela, romance or not. He trusted her with nearly all of him, and that brought its own passion.
Besides, he thinks, and tucks a strand of white-blond hair behind her ear, he cannot deny his thoughts stray elsewhere. And it would be . . . mm, dishonest of him to allow this to continue.
Fortunately, she does not seem offended by his sudden disinterest. Instead: she draws back just a little, their bodies still close but a clear line drawn between them, and busies herself with her wine glass. He does not try to explain, and she does not ask, for which he is grateful.
They talk a little more. She hears his accent and speaks of Tevinter, and he gives it a go, he really does, but his heart isn't in it. He does not mind speaking of the evils in that empire, nor indeed all the very good reasons Antiva oughtn't trade a damn thing with them, but he is no spymaster. This is not his game. And while she seems convinced enough, who knows if that will translate into anything meaningful?
But all at once Leto is tired. And perhaps she senses that, for it isn't much longer before she makes a polite excuse and slips out, pressing her lips together all the while. He lingers, scowling at the wall. Not annoyed at her so much as at himself, his own misery and uncertainty as to how to even begin to rectify it. And ah, that could be the start of a very melancholic line of thought indeed, especially after two glasses of red wine, but a noise distracts him.
The sound of footsteps. Faint, but noticeable. A bitten-back exhale; a creak of floorboards. He frowns, his fingers curling (ah, he does not have his talons anymore, and he really ought to start wearing them again), cursing the fact he had not brought a weapon. But no matter. He can tear the heart out of any assassin or saboteur, he thinks, approaching the doorway silently. His fingers knot in the curtain, and all at once he yanks it back—]
Astarion?
[And so baffled is he (so overwhelmed, his stomach dropping like a stone in water, his eyes wide and that woman's lipstick still coloring his lips, guilt screaming across his nerves though he barely knows why), that he does not sense the ripple of air behind him. He does not see the disguised figure slipping out the shadows, darting forward with deadly speed, a knife raised—]
no subject
But that's all it is. Mundane pleasantness, impersonal and a little bland, and it's no one's fault. Perhaps he is simply too old for this sort of thing. Perhaps, when one hits a certain age, one loses the taste for quick sex or cheap thrills. Or, he considers as he draws back and she stares up at him curiously, perhaps he himself was never very good at impersonal hook-ups like this. Sex without romance, yes, he could manage that; Maker knows he and Isabela had spent a fair few years happily (and enthusiastically) indulging in such a thing. But there was such an intimacy with Isabela, romance or not. He trusted her with nearly all of him, and that brought its own passion.
Besides, he thinks, and tucks a strand of white-blond hair behind her ear, he cannot deny his thoughts stray elsewhere. And it would be . . . mm, dishonest of him to allow this to continue.
Fortunately, she does not seem offended by his sudden disinterest. Instead: she draws back just a little, their bodies still close but a clear line drawn between them, and busies herself with her wine glass. He does not try to explain, and she does not ask, for which he is grateful.
They talk a little more. She hears his accent and speaks of Tevinter, and he gives it a go, he really does, but his heart isn't in it. He does not mind speaking of the evils in that empire, nor indeed all the very good reasons Antiva oughtn't trade a damn thing with them, but he is no spymaster. This is not his game. And while she seems convinced enough, who knows if that will translate into anything meaningful?
But all at once Leto is tired. And perhaps she senses that, for it isn't much longer before she makes a polite excuse and slips out, pressing her lips together all the while. He lingers, scowling at the wall. Not annoyed at her so much as at himself, his own misery and uncertainty as to how to even begin to rectify it. And ah, that could be the start of a very melancholic line of thought indeed, especially after two glasses of red wine, but a noise distracts him.
The sound of footsteps. Faint, but noticeable. A bitten-back exhale; a creak of floorboards. He frowns, his fingers curling (ah, he does not have his talons anymore, and he really ought to start wearing them again), cursing the fact he had not brought a weapon. But no matter. He can tear the heart out of any assassin or saboteur, he thinks, approaching the doorway silently. His fingers knot in the curtain, and all at once he yanks it back—]
Astarion?
[And so baffled is he (so overwhelmed, his stomach dropping like a stone in water, his eyes wide and that woman's lipstick still coloring his lips, guilt screaming across his nerves though he barely knows why), that he does not sense the ripple of air behind him. He does not see the disguised figure slipping out the shadows, darting forward with deadly speed, a knife raised—]