[You've won, little pup, and Leto's expression softens in an instant. The fierce excitement still vibrates through him, adrenaline thundering through his veins and his fingers still knotted tight in Astarion's hair— but oh, he can't help how he warms for that line.
That was the first time, wasn't it? The very first time Astarion called him that. He'd protested back then, flustered and pleased but uncertain as to the other elf's intentions. Only later, when Astarion's tongue slipped so sweetly into Tevene, did he learn to accept it. Catulus, little pup, and now Leto knows how to read the adoration and love layered beneath each syllable.
But ah, ah— his opponent will take advantage any way he can get, and Leto is too comfortable right now to give up the lead so easily. Sweat drips down his temple, his magical stamina all but nonexistent, but he need only hold him a few moments longer.]
We are not near even.
[This is how it goes, his own heart singing in time with Astarion's own. This is how it's meant to be, and he didn't realize how much he missed this until now. The thrill of being in power; the fierce delight that comes of truly and honestly fighting. It's been months of retraining this body, building up muscle and stamina all over again, practicing endlessly for hours on end, honing his skills and testing his reflexes, and all of it has led to here and now.
He isn't the same elf who was nearly eaten by spawn all those months ago. He isn't tripping over his own feet as he tries to get used to boots nor staring in awe at the rights elves are granted here. He knows who he is. He knows this body; he knows it as well as he ever knew his old one.
You're mine.]
Hold still.
[I'm yours.
It's twice he stabs him: each wound no more than an inch across, each laid lovingly just beneath the long lines of Astarion's collarbone. The blade sinks in just deep enough to be felt, no more than an inch or two, sliding effortlessly through skin and blood and muscle, before he draws it back. Blood drips down the blade; blood wells up from those cuts, scarlet and hot as it soaks into Astarion's shirt.
(And he'll do it again if he has to. Over and over until it scars, and perhaps they'll be more methodical about it next time around— but right now it's about the symbol. The echo of his own long-gone scars and the mirror opposite of them all at once, both tangled endlessly with notions of love and adoration and possessiveness. Even if we forget each other, we have a connection. A way to prove it.
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That was the first time, wasn't it? The very first time Astarion called him that. He'd protested back then, flustered and pleased but uncertain as to the other elf's intentions. Only later, when Astarion's tongue slipped so sweetly into Tevene, did he learn to accept it. Catulus, little pup, and now Leto knows how to read the adoration and love layered beneath each syllable.
But ah, ah— his opponent will take advantage any way he can get, and Leto is too comfortable right now to give up the lead so easily. Sweat drips down his temple, his magical stamina all but nonexistent, but he need only hold him a few moments longer.]
We are not near even.
[This is how it goes, his own heart singing in time with Astarion's own. This is how it's meant to be, and he didn't realize how much he missed this until now. The thrill of being in power; the fierce delight that comes of truly and honestly fighting. It's been months of retraining this body, building up muscle and stamina all over again, practicing endlessly for hours on end, honing his skills and testing his reflexes, and all of it has led to here and now.
He isn't the same elf who was nearly eaten by spawn all those months ago. He isn't tripping over his own feet as he tries to get used to boots nor staring in awe at the rights elves are granted here. He knows who he is. He knows this body; he knows it as well as he ever knew his old one.
You're mine.]
Hold still.
[I'm yours.
It's twice he stabs him: each wound no more than an inch across, each laid lovingly just beneath the long lines of Astarion's collarbone. The blade sinks in just deep enough to be felt, no more than an inch or two, sliding effortlessly through skin and blood and muscle, before he draws it back. Blood drips down the blade; blood wells up from those cuts, scarlet and hot as it soaks into Astarion's shirt.
(And he'll do it again if he has to. Over and over until it scars, and perhaps they'll be more methodical about it next time around— but right now it's about the symbol. The echo of his own long-gone scars and the mirror opposite of them all at once, both tangled endlessly with notions of love and adoration and possessiveness. Even if we forget each other, we have a connection. A way to prove it.
I won't lose you.]