[Understand: he does know this is an act. He is familiar enough with Astarion alone to know when the other man is truly fighting and when he's merely struggling just to put up a playful show of force. Maker, he knows every inch of Astarion by now: an entire essay written in the twitch of his mouth or a sharp intake of breath; how to discern true rage from petty irritant when his tone gets a certain note, or how bright his eyes will get when he's truly happy about something. An entire year's worth of intimate study that makes moments like these so much easier, for yes, he knows that this is a gift.
And yet Leto still does not realize quite how much of one it truly is.
It isn't that he means to underestimate Astarion so much as he's so used to them being equals in every way. There are little advantages here and there, points in which one assuredly conquers the other, but never has Leto felt outmatched. And though he has listened intently to Astarion's talk of superior strength, that vampiric curse a blessing in more ways than one; though he felt tonight just how strong those spawn were, and watched how easily Astarion ripped through one— still, still, it's hard to unlearn a year's worth of familiarity.
So though this submissive mewling is assuredly a gift, he does not yet realize just how much of one it is. Nor how audacious he is as he smirks down at his captive vampire, thrilling over impotent snaps of his teeth and huffing growls. And trust he has plenty to say to that, but first—]
Little moonstone . . .
[Oh, and it's not a bad thing, not at all. It's just new, that's all, and he blinks down at Astarion for a few seconds, thrown out of their game for a moment. Moonstone, gods, but that's apt now, isn't he? Now that he glows faintly not from lyrium, but from innate elvishness; now that he is the most unremarkable creature to walk these streets . . . oh, and he wants to talk to Astarion about that. Now that the dust has settled and his mind has stopped racing around in panicked desperation, there is time enough to consider other things: like what a miracle it is that he does not feel pain as he straddles his lover. Like what a shock it is to wake each morning and realize that he does not have to account for the fluctuations in weather or how badly he'll hurt by mid-afternoon. What a giddying thrill it is to climb into bed each night and not hurt, oh, and that's to say nothing of his own identity (Blue Wraith no longer, and he doesn't understand why some part of him aches over it, this involuntary loss that he ought to be purely giddy about).
Later.
Later, though. Later, for now, he exhales softly, a slight smile flicking over his face as he leans down.]
A month's separation and you think yourself nothing but a dominant conqueror . . . yes, I intend to tell you not yet.
[Their foreheads bumping together, his breath hot against Astarion's parted lips as he leans his weight against the vampire's bound wrists and rolls his hips back. A slow draw forward and a hard press down as he inches himself back, grinding against the thickened swell beneath him. He swears he can feel him throbbing within the confines of his trousers, thin leather doing absolutely nothing to conceal just how eager the other man is for him. And be fair: it isn't a one-way street. His prick aches with every pass, swelling and thickening as he grinds against him. Can you feel that, his back arching, his thighs gripping his hips so tightly, can you feel how desperately I missed you as he grinds like a whore, methodical and mean.]
Not yet.
[A stolen kiss, a daringly brief swipe with his tongue against bloody fangs before he jerks his head back out of range.]
Not yet, and I will tell you that as long as it pleases me.
[His hair hangs in his face. His cheeks and ears are pleasingly flushed. He looks so excited right now, smouldering seductiveness undercut by giddying eagerness, I missed you I love you hello hello hello, betrayed in the way his thumbs stroke lovingly at the inside of Astarion's wrists.]
For you, my starved beast, are inclined to give me my way no matter what I ask. And if what I want is to make you wait . . .
Not yet.
[But Astarion won't stay still forever. Swiftly he draws himself up, releasing the vampire in favor of stripping off his shirt. Those blue-black tattoos span everywhere his lyrium had once touched, it seems, for he's covered in the same familiar swirls and dots. Leto darts back down, hands bracing on his shoulders this time as his hips resume their indulgent pattern— and then, quietly:]
Tell me how much you missed me, and I'll give you what you want. Tell me how much you thought of me, and I will speak devotion against your lips as I ride you for hours, til the sun sets once more. Tell me how many times you wished I was there, and I will tell you the same, for I have done nothing but think of you these past three weeks, missing you like a limb for badly I needed you.
iliad: birth by sleep
And yet Leto still does not realize quite how much of one it truly is.
It isn't that he means to underestimate Astarion so much as he's so used to them being equals in every way. There are little advantages here and there, points in which one assuredly conquers the other, but never has Leto felt outmatched. And though he has listened intently to Astarion's talk of superior strength, that vampiric curse a blessing in more ways than one; though he felt tonight just how strong those spawn were, and watched how easily Astarion ripped through one— still, still, it's hard to unlearn a year's worth of familiarity.
So though this submissive mewling is assuredly a gift, he does not yet realize just how much of one it is. Nor how audacious he is as he smirks down at his captive vampire, thrilling over impotent snaps of his teeth and huffing growls. And trust he has plenty to say to that, but first—]
Little moonstone . . .
[Oh, and it's not a bad thing, not at all. It's just new, that's all, and he blinks down at Astarion for a few seconds, thrown out of their game for a moment. Moonstone, gods, but that's apt now, isn't he? Now that he glows faintly not from lyrium, but from innate elvishness; now that he is the most unremarkable creature to walk these streets . . . oh, and he wants to talk to Astarion about that. Now that the dust has settled and his mind has stopped racing around in panicked desperation, there is time enough to consider other things: like what a miracle it is that he does not feel pain as he straddles his lover. Like what a shock it is to wake each morning and realize that he does not have to account for the fluctuations in weather or how badly he'll hurt by mid-afternoon. What a giddying thrill it is to climb into bed each night and not hurt, oh, and that's to say nothing of his own identity (Blue Wraith no longer, and he doesn't understand why some part of him aches over it, this involuntary loss that he ought to be purely giddy about).
Later.
Later, though. Later, for now, he exhales softly, a slight smile flicking over his face as he leans down.]
A month's separation and you think yourself nothing but a dominant conqueror . . . yes, I intend to tell you not yet.
[Their foreheads bumping together, his breath hot against Astarion's parted lips as he leans his weight against the vampire's bound wrists and rolls his hips back. A slow draw forward and a hard press down as he inches himself back, grinding against the thickened swell beneath him. He swears he can feel him throbbing within the confines of his trousers, thin leather doing absolutely nothing to conceal just how eager the other man is for him. And be fair: it isn't a one-way street. His prick aches with every pass, swelling and thickening as he grinds against him. Can you feel that, his back arching, his thighs gripping his hips so tightly, can you feel how desperately I missed you as he grinds like a whore, methodical and mean.]
Not yet.
[A stolen kiss, a daringly brief swipe with his tongue against bloody fangs before he jerks his head back out of range.]
Not yet, and I will tell you that as long as it pleases me.
[His hair hangs in his face. His cheeks and ears are pleasingly flushed. He looks so excited right now, smouldering seductiveness undercut by giddying eagerness, I missed you I love you hello hello hello, betrayed in the way his thumbs stroke lovingly at the inside of Astarion's wrists.]
For you, my starved beast, are inclined to give me my way no matter what I ask. And if what I want is to make you wait . . .
Not yet.
[But Astarion won't stay still forever. Swiftly he draws himself up, releasing the vampire in favor of stripping off his shirt. Those blue-black tattoos span everywhere his lyrium had once touched, it seems, for he's covered in the same familiar swirls and dots. Leto darts back down, hands bracing on his shoulders this time as his hips resume their indulgent pattern— and then, quietly:]
Tell me how much you missed me, and I'll give you what you want. Tell me how much you thought of me, and I will speak devotion against your lips as I ride you for hours, til the sun sets once more. Tell me how many times you wished I was there, and I will tell you the same, for I have done nothing but think of you these past three weeks, missing you like a limb for badly I needed you.