The memory lingers in his mind in bits and pieces, snapshot photographs inundated with sensation. His heart thundering and something like joy filling his body; his cheeks aching from how hard he was grinning and the grit of dust and pebbles digging into his bare feet as he'd stood on that rooftop. The scent of lyrium thick in the air; Astarion a merciless blur darting to and fro, his blades flashing in the setting sun. The giddying feeling of throwing his all into a scrap (cheater cried out with equal parts indignance and amusement), and then the sharp searing slice of pain reverberating as twin blades sank into his skin and emerged bloody—
It was a fight.
And Astarion hadn't realized he'd kept those scars until far later. Until Rialto. Until he'd felt them blindly, raised markings upon slick skin, and Leto had told him with total honesty: I wanted proof of you. Proof that Astarion had existed; proof that would linger past his own faulty memory, and any vengeful force that might try to separate them. It wasn't a mutual choice; it wasn't even shrouded in kindness, not really. Adoration, yes, and fierce love, but there was nothing particularly soft about Leto's decision. He will not call it selfish, but it was as much for him as it was Astarion. Not you're mine, brutal and mean carved into his lover's back; not even I'm yours, soft and submissive. Rather: you are important to me. You matter enough I will not risk forgetting you.
You've earned this.
One hand shoots up, gripping Astarion's bicep mercilessly tight. Their arms snap into parallel with one another, stiff and straight; he yanks them to the side (that blade scratching over his heart, skin red and raised in telltale little marks). At the same time he surges up, his other hand wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck, yanking him forward so that he can crush their lips together in a searing kiss. It's a messy thing, hard and hot and mean, teeth clicking as their mouths move, Leto's head ducking as he takes and takes, one pulse, two, three—
And then pulls back with a soft gasp. His lips ache from the pressure, his emerald eyes harsh.]
Then earn it.
[All at once he's throwing Astarion off him, bucking up and striking out; the bed creaks and jostles as he fights to pin him to the bed. But sheer strength isn't enough, not anymore, and for a moment Leto teeters—
But no. No, he will not (cannot) use his magic. No matter that he feels it surging within him, singing out for him to tap into power as instinctive as breathing; no matter that he can feel power thrumming in his palm, fire at his fingertips or a burst of mana at his beck and call, he won't, he can't—
Which means he needs to get that knife. One hand darts out, grabbing for it; the other struggles to keep Astarion pinned down, fingers gripping one narrow shoulder painfully tightly. And all the while he feels the magic build in his chest, rising up in his throat; why won't you use this, as bewildered as if he'd suddenly decided to only use his left hand to fight. Use it, use it, . . . and he has always approached every fight with the basic thought that there were no rules save survive. That you used any and every tool available to win, for it was never a game.
Fight (and he is no match for a vampire, not when it comes to strength alone). Fight (and he has used magic before, dark energy bursting out of him in a stunning show of warding, back, get back, his lyrium as defensive as it was aggressive). Fight (and the scent of magic is in the air, his sword not three feet away reverberating in sympathetic attunement).
Fight, Bladesinger—
As mana bursts forward from his palm, blazing brilliant bright, a sharp shock of it that shoves Astarion down against the mattress: not a spell but rather manifestation of intent, struggling to keep his mate pinned as he gropes for that dagger.]
no subject
The memory lingers in his mind in bits and pieces, snapshot photographs inundated with sensation. His heart thundering and something like joy filling his body; his cheeks aching from how hard he was grinning and the grit of dust and pebbles digging into his bare feet as he'd stood on that rooftop. The scent of lyrium thick in the air; Astarion a merciless blur darting to and fro, his blades flashing in the setting sun. The giddying feeling of throwing his all into a scrap (cheater cried out with equal parts indignance and amusement), and then the sharp searing slice of pain reverberating as twin blades sank into his skin and emerged bloody—
It was a fight.
And Astarion hadn't realized he'd kept those scars until far later. Until Rialto. Until he'd felt them blindly, raised markings upon slick skin, and Leto had told him with total honesty: I wanted proof of you. Proof that Astarion had existed; proof that would linger past his own faulty memory, and any vengeful force that might try to separate them. It wasn't a mutual choice; it wasn't even shrouded in kindness, not really. Adoration, yes, and fierce love, but there was nothing particularly soft about Leto's decision. He will not call it selfish, but it was as much for him as it was Astarion. Not you're mine, brutal and mean carved into his lover's back; not even I'm yours, soft and submissive. Rather: you are important to me. You matter enough I will not risk forgetting you.
You've earned this.
One hand shoots up, gripping Astarion's bicep mercilessly tight. Their arms snap into parallel with one another, stiff and straight; he yanks them to the side (that blade scratching over his heart, skin red and raised in telltale little marks). At the same time he surges up, his other hand wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck, yanking him forward so that he can crush their lips together in a searing kiss. It's a messy thing, hard and hot and mean, teeth clicking as their mouths move, Leto's head ducking as he takes and takes, one pulse, two, three—
And then pulls back with a soft gasp. His lips ache from the pressure, his emerald eyes harsh.]
Then earn it.
[All at once he's throwing Astarion off him, bucking up and striking out; the bed creaks and jostles as he fights to pin him to the bed. But sheer strength isn't enough, not anymore, and for a moment Leto teeters—
But no. No, he will not (cannot) use his magic. No matter that he feels it surging within him, singing out for him to tap into power as instinctive as breathing; no matter that he can feel power thrumming in his palm, fire at his fingertips or a burst of mana at his beck and call, he won't, he can't—
Which means he needs to get that knife. One hand darts out, grabbing for it; the other struggles to keep Astarion pinned down, fingers gripping one narrow shoulder painfully tightly. And all the while he feels the magic build in his chest, rising up in his throat; why won't you use this, as bewildered as if he'd suddenly decided to only use his left hand to fight. Use it, use it, . . . and he has always approached every fight with the basic thought that there were no rules save survive. That you used any and every tool available to win, for it was never a game.
Fight (and he is no match for a vampire, not when it comes to strength alone). Fight (and he has used magic before, dark energy bursting out of him in a stunning show of warding, back, get back, his lyrium as defensive as it was aggressive). Fight (and the scent of magic is in the air, his sword not three feet away reverberating in sympathetic attunement).
Fight, Bladesinger—
As mana bursts forward from his palm, blazing brilliant bright, a sharp shock of it that shoves Astarion down against the mattress: not a spell but rather manifestation of intent, struggling to keep his mate pinned as he gropes for that dagger.]