[Until now, he was ready to spring like a steel trap.
Until now, he'd been drawing lines in the dirt with a playful smirk (cross this one and you'll be in danger, I swear it, little moon elf— ) biding his time while seconds whittle themselves down to the very bone. Rapidly vanishing wick woven together from the strands of Astarion's doting longanimity, promising that once it burns down to the fat— well. Then, he'll do what any vampire does best:
He'll strike.
Mm. But that was a thought that came before he felt the gentle brush of devoted fingers drifting over the fine bones of his wrists. Before he caught the deeply missed brunt of Leto's wickedly esurient expression— a look never once worn for a past stuffed to the agonizing brim with houndish obedience (worn for Astarion, though. Coaxed to the surface of him like a splinter sucked from skin, and trust that it doesn't matter whether the assumption's right or wrong: Astarion always credits himself for its existence just the same). His blinks coming on a little too slowly under its sway. His stagnant heart shivering in the prelude to a single beat— thudding out a stop-start stagger each time he's told, for all intents and purposes, no.
Not yet.
Crimson stare settling over tattooed muscle like the click click click of a failing mechanism. There's a foot on the pressure plate. There's a trespasser at his doorstep, encroaching on his vile reputation as a nightmare. A threat to be culled so that mortal things might thrive. The next grinding touch drags a fluttering groan from the back of his throat, and if he means to subdue the needle-fanged pup tugging at his hide, he needs to do it now.
'....For you, my starved beast, are inclined to give me my way no matter what I ask.'
Oh, and isn't that the right of it? (Sunlight. Wooden stakes. Water.) That the strongest things have the smallest weaknesses. (Leto) Damning hypothesis proven when Astarion slackens in his companion's hold, arousal crawling through him in ways that stretch his spine, false breath quickened when it washes over open lips. Unfixed stare the hooded sightline that anchors him to Leto's mouth once more: lapping at what little indulgence he's given outside the bounds of those inciting, outright merciless bucks.
When it ends he stares at undulating musculature (stomach dark and rolling in deep shadow). When it ends, his tongue is wet enough that there's a vulgar pop for the way it pulls away from the roof of his mouth. The backs of his fangs.
If he has to earn his keep, so be it.
Everything, then:]
There wasn't a second that passed without you in it.
[(Spoken like a filthy litany, but the words themselves....)]
Two hundred years of no one but myself leveled against one year at your side, and still, returned to what I was, I chose you.
Alive. Dead. The only thing that mattered was that I could still remember. Without a single thought of the damage it might do if that was where our story ended, I burned you into my bones like a brand; keeping your habits until I swore I could hear your voice in the seconds before sleep took me. You: the first thing I reached for each morning in an empty little hovel shoved into a darkened alleyway. You: the silence I spoke to each night, promising I'd return just fine.
[Eyes like emerald. Eyes like jade. Eyes he bathes in while dark lashes close around the abyssal core that sits in place of his hollowed pupils, only to find Leto's afterimage burned into his retinas. Another stiff buck of his hips meets gripping thighs, leaving his jagged inhale flush in ways he can't be anymore.]
I missed you once before.
I've gotten good at finding you again. Even before you've noticed it, yourself. Just like tonight.
[Claws patiently worked free, one hand rises to fall across the slope of Leto's cheek. There. There.]
I missed you, amatus. [Like a hole in my heart. Like ribs snapped into splinters around fragile contentment. Like air. Like sunsets. Like warmth free-flowing through pale fingertips. Like meals that don't speak. Like Rialto— ] And even my silver tongue lacks the necessary gilt to tell you just how much.
So instead I'll tell you that you never left.
That you never have.
[Sultry. Incensed. Murmured like the oath it's always been. A liar and his truths.]
1/2
Until now, he'd been drawing lines in the dirt with a playful smirk (cross this one and you'll be in danger, I swear it, little moon elf— ) biding his time while seconds whittle themselves down to the very bone. Rapidly vanishing wick woven together from the strands of Astarion's doting longanimity, promising that once it burns down to the fat— well. Then, he'll do what any vampire does best:
He'll strike.
Mm. But that was a thought that came before he felt the gentle brush of devoted fingers drifting over the fine bones of his wrists. Before he caught the deeply missed brunt of Leto's wickedly esurient expression— a look never once worn for a past stuffed to the agonizing brim with houndish obedience (worn for Astarion, though. Coaxed to the surface of him like a splinter sucked from skin, and trust that it doesn't matter whether the assumption's right or wrong: Astarion always credits himself for its existence just the same). His blinks coming on a little too slowly under its sway. His stagnant heart shivering in the prelude to a single beat— thudding out a stop-start stagger each time he's told, for all intents and purposes, no.
Not yet.
Crimson stare settling over tattooed muscle like the click click click of a failing mechanism. There's a foot on the pressure plate. There's a trespasser at his doorstep, encroaching on his vile reputation as a nightmare. A threat to be culled so that mortal things might thrive. The next grinding touch drags a fluttering groan from the back of his throat, and if he means to subdue the needle-fanged pup tugging at his hide, he needs to do it now.
'....For you, my starved beast, are inclined to give me my way no matter what I ask.'
Oh, and isn't that the right of it? (Sunlight. Wooden stakes. Water.) That the strongest things have the smallest weaknesses. (Leto) Damning hypothesis proven when Astarion slackens in his companion's hold, arousal crawling through him in ways that stretch his spine, false breath quickened when it washes over open lips. Unfixed stare the hooded sightline that anchors him to Leto's mouth once more: lapping at what little indulgence he's given outside the bounds of those inciting, outright merciless bucks.
When it ends he stares at undulating musculature (stomach dark and rolling in deep shadow). When it ends, his tongue is wet enough that there's a vulgar pop for the way it pulls away from the roof of his mouth. The backs of his fangs.
If he has to earn his keep, so be it.
Everything, then:]
There wasn't a second that passed without you in it.
[(Spoken like a filthy litany, but the words themselves....)]
Two hundred years of no one but myself leveled against one year at your side, and still, returned to what I was, I chose you.
Alive. Dead. The only thing that mattered was that I could still remember. Without a single thought of the damage it might do if that was where our story ended, I burned you into my bones like a brand; keeping your habits until I swore I could hear your voice in the seconds before sleep took me. You: the first thing I reached for each morning in an empty little hovel shoved into a darkened alleyway. You: the silence I spoke to each night, promising I'd return just fine.
[Eyes like emerald. Eyes like jade. Eyes he bathes in while dark lashes close around the abyssal core that sits in place of his hollowed pupils, only to find Leto's afterimage burned into his retinas. Another stiff buck of his hips meets gripping thighs, leaving his jagged inhale flush in ways he can't be anymore.]
I missed you once before.
I've gotten good at finding you again. Even before you've noticed it, yourself. Just like tonight.
[Claws patiently worked free, one hand rises to fall across the slope of Leto's cheek. There. There.]
I missed you, amatus. [Like a hole in my heart. Like ribs snapped into splinters around fragile contentment. Like air. Like sunsets. Like warmth free-flowing through pale fingertips. Like meals that don't speak. Like Rialto— ] And even my silver tongue lacks the necessary gilt to tell you just how much.
So instead I'll tell you that you never left.
That you never have.
[Sultry. Incensed. Murmured like the oath it's always been. A liar and his truths.]