[He smells blood first; his senses don't even let him register the pressure that'd caused it, deliberately attuned as they ever are— his arms whipped to the side, their mouths crushed into a kiss that catches spark in the space beneath his lungs— blood blood blood the copper sweet echo as all of him runs low, sinking forwards, sinking deeper: elongated spine arched into an exaggerated bow just to gift Leto (just to taste, for oh, what isn't linked to scent), a little more, a little more— the click of their teeth humming in his bones like his own lifeless exhales.
And then the fight.
(The fight, the fight) The shove. The wildly electric surge of something more than just mortal willpower swallowing up dead air and bringing Astarion down with it, nearby lyrium faintly whining like a tuning fork somehow— oh, fight, bladesinger— their bodies stamped by the primitive urge to war and win, disturbing and displacing the whole room and its sense of maintained order.
Welcome. So bloody welcome. So damned perfect.
It takes everything to break that enhanced strength; they grab the knife together, and for a moment it's only momentum that drives it— one swinging slash pulled back into the space between them, messily aimed— more red, gouged deep into a line from Leto's inner shoulder down to that first mark, and if order by way of collars and shackling magic was the whole of their wretched pasts, let chaos be the ritual that breaks it in their name: another struggle catching Astarion through his shirt this time, another kiss taking its cost from Leto in fair trade through a bitten, bleeding lip, ambrosial on his tongue.]
They're going to throw us out—
[He manages to whisper(? Mutter? Pant? Mouth?) somewhere along the way when they're close enough to grazing teeth across each other's skin, grinning like a godsdamned fool.]
no subject
And then the fight.
(The fight, the fight) The shove. The wildly electric surge of something more than just mortal willpower swallowing up dead air and bringing Astarion down with it, nearby lyrium faintly whining like a tuning fork somehow— oh, fight, bladesinger— their bodies stamped by the primitive urge to war and win, disturbing and displacing the whole room and its sense of maintained order.
Welcome. So bloody welcome. So damned perfect.
It takes everything to break that enhanced strength; they grab the knife together, and for a moment it's only momentum that drives it— one swinging slash pulled back into the space between them, messily aimed— more red, gouged deep into a line from Leto's inner shoulder down to that first mark, and if order by way of collars and shackling magic was the whole of their wretched pasts, let chaos be the ritual that breaks it in their name: another struggle catching Astarion through his shirt this time, another kiss taking its cost from Leto in fair trade through a bitten, bleeding lip, ambrosial on his tongue.]
They're going to throw us out—
[He manages to whisper(? Mutter? Pant? Mouth?) somewhere along the way when they're close enough to grazing teeth across each other's skin, grinning like a godsdamned fool.]