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illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
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2/2
—ah—!!
[The scraggliest grunt thanks to someone (Ataashi) smacking her gigantic muzzle directly into his face so that she can give him yet another kiss, quickly winding herself up into a wiggle.]
Enough— ENOUGH. Ataashi, iam mitesce.
no subject
She missed you.
[She did. Jealous ploys or not, she does so love her father. Ataashi happily sighs as she turns her attention back to Astarion, cold nose intent on shoving against his stomach in joyful nuzzling.]
Obedient thing . . . learn from her, [he adds to the wriggling pups in his lap, who take absolutely no heed of that command. Sedere is obeyed a solid eight out of ten times, but it's a journey. Besides, Leto thinks fondly, their wolf is so much smarter than the two little sausages currently intent on getting as many scritches as possible.]
We did, though. And we will do it again if it pleases us— or sell it if it does not. I cannot imagine some wealthy patriar wouldn't want to buy such property just to say he had it— and we could afford something more manageable with the money we get from it.
[Real Estate Simulator 1494 . . . and of course, that's ignoring the fact that the master of that palace is still very much alive (in a sense, anyway). But today is a good day. A bright day, a miraculous day, and Leto will not spoil it with dour talk of all the things they've yet to face. Better to find bitter mirth in the thought of flipping their masters' property and benefiting from their death.
But ah . . . he cannot keep his mind from wandering utterly. And yet he does not want to ruin this day— so, a compromise. A gentle question, and one they might answer without getting into the larger implications.]
. . . would you go back, if you could?
[To that dank old mansion. To Thedas. To a thousand struggles and fears and joys and hopes; to a way of life that seems as appealing as it does repulsive.]
no subject
And....[oh, give him just a moment to readjust after being shoved at with Ataashi's muzzle yet again (though she's being such a good girl this time, gentle as a monumental lamb with the largest tail you've ever seen, sweet girl)]....not just because Cazador can't reach it.
[Grin a sideways flicker just to add:]
Although it certainly doesn't hurt.
[And though he could elaborate— will elaborate, even— it's a change in subject he doesn't want to skip over on either end, clawed fingers sinking deep until they disappear in Ataashi's fur once he finally glances upwards towards the bed, making his corner of the room a sort of glowing-eyes-in-the-relative-dark-convention 1494.]
....what about you, kadan?
Would you go back, if you had an open doorway here right now?
[He asks it innocuously; there's no depth to it, no flaring coyness or sly curl across his tongue.
(He doesn't know about the devil's offer.
He wouldn't think it mattered if he did.)]
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No.
[Simple, but just as swift and certain as Astarion's answer. And perhaps there is a slight edge to it, perhaps he says it more intently than he might have otherwise done— but then again, perhaps not, for his expression is still light. He wiggles his fingers, amused as both pups leap upon them, gnawing with idiotic, overwhelming joy.]
I would if you wished to. If it was a question of Cazador, or whether or not you wished to live as a vampire . . . it would not be the worst thing to return. I miss Kirkwall. Our home— though not our wolf, not any longer, [he adds with a small smile.] And I miss the things I was accustomed to: foods they do not sell here, or spices whose names I have no hope of translating. And my friends, too . . . little matter that in all likelihood I was never destined to meet them again, there was still ever a chance. That, yes, I miss.
[A breath, and then he continues:]
But this world is a paradise to me. It is far from perfect, and its dangers are numerous, but to be able to walk freely down the street or find a home without fear of discrimination or mindless retribution . . . that alone is worth more than I can say. To live without pain, and to know that I have centuries to get to spend with you . . . that, too, is worth so much.
[He hesitates for a moment, his ears lowering as he internally debates, but then:]
Even the magic here . . . I will never love it. And I will never love the fact that it has been forced upon me. But it is less . . . horrifying than it was in Thedas. It is kept more in check. And its powers less volatile— and, truthfully, more wondrous.
[Gods, to be able to talk to the pups— and now Ataashi, too, he realizes with a pleased jolt. It's a wondrous gift, no matter that this world thinks it little more than child's play; he will never stop being delighted that he will someday be able to do such a thing.]
So: no. Not unless you wished it.
no subject
Bittersweet as it all might be in its full measure he warms to it like sunlight, that confession. Everything in him— from his expression to the angles of his shoulders— rounded out with a sort of indescribable bliss that he can't hide. Talk of the future or tomorrow feels far away compared to the all-encompassing eternity of this moment, and he before he knows it, he's already opened his mouth. Sucked in air around his fangs. Ready to ask for the one thing that wounded him most in its disappearance aside from Leto himself.
(And his fingers curl a little more along the outline of knotted tissue gone glossy with time. Tangible. Unmistakable. 'I will not forget you.' Here. Just here. This is where— if the worst comes to pass and he returns to Cazador, or the world does its damndest all over again to rip their chapter apart at its seams— this is the place he'll remain.)
A thickened pair of knitted scars; lie down about to be the next thing said— ]
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Leto said `I miss Kirkwall. Our home— though not our wolf, not any longer.`
Leto said he missed her.
And if she understands those spoken concepts or doesn't, the glance he gives her with a smile does register, and before Astarion can soulfully request to carve up his own mate in a return to older spaces, she's already outright trampling her first keeper just to hop up onto all fours (Astarion yelps as he's bowled backwards, the noise strangled to its root), vanishing in a puff of vibrant green—
And then returning a moment later.
Leto's long-abandoned sword and its enchanted lyrium contours tucked between her fangs, glowing the brightest shade of silver-blue.
Tail wagging hard enough for takeoff.]
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[It's a bright burst of an exclamation, a shocked cry as he reaches to take Ataashi's present from her jaws with hands that can't quite believe what they're holding. For a moment his bewildered mind struggles to reassign it: a sword she'd stolen from someone in the tavern, maybe, or in the marketplace, only to realize that such a thing would be impossible. Lyrium does not exist in this world, not even within him— and even if it did, there's no mistaking that uniquely familiar pattern. The inlay blazes blue as he pulls the sword from her sheathe slowly, delighted to discover the edge is just as sharp as it was in Thedas.]
How did you—
[But she must have brought it with her. Or perhaps . . . oh, but he cannot think about if she has just gone back to Thedas, for the implications there are staggering. On a whim, he leans forward, sniffing at her fur as one hand scrubs insistently against her neck, but no, she only smells of herself, not the damp wood of their mansion in Thedas. Later, he promises himself. Later he and Astarion will talk about this, but for now:]
Good girl, [he rumbles in Tevene over and over, the sword falling in his lap as he devotes both hands to scrubbing her at her cheeks and neck and body. With a pleased wuff she careens forward, paws bracing on his thighs as she leaps up and licks at him joyfully, chuffing all the while.
And as for the little sausages in his lap— oh, they don't like this sudden intrusion at all. With a fearful little yip they race to the other side of his body, cowering behind his back with distressed little whines. He'll pay them mind soon, soothing them softly, but gods, he can't not right now.
It's his sword.
Never tested. Never used, for Astarion had wanted that gift to special— and oh, it is, it is. His hands keep up their frantic praise, scrubbing and scritching, even as Leto dodges that lapping tongue so he can peer around Ataashi's bulk and catch his darling's eye.]
Come here.
Come here so that I can offer you all the gratitude I was never able to before. I have mourned—
[He hesitates. Mourned the loss of this gift sounds silly and childish, but he truly had. It wasn't just about the blade, but the loss of such a magnificently thoughtful gift, and all the time and effort and coin Astarion had spent on his behalf.]
I have mourned its loss. The loss of something you gave me, and so therefore the loss of something I treasured.
[Oh, it's so hard to say, especially when so many other emotions are ricocheting through him. Joy and elation and shock and adoration, and none of it helped by the overly affectionate wolf determined to try and fit his face in her mouth. With a little aht he dodges her mouth and adds, a little more exasperatedly:]
Come here and save me from one of these beasts, at least— and so that I might tell you how grateful I am for this. For you.
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....sprawled out in an illustriously flattened heap. The-vampire-known-as-Astarion even more of a mess than he'd already been at the start of their conversation thanks to one notably excited wolf— a handful of mangled (tangled) curls sprouting up from the ruins of his sleepshirt's rucked-up silhouette and awkwardly angled legs, complimented by limp claws, twitching fingers. If he can see Leto from the wreck of himself at half-past noon (he can't), he's certainly not any more inclined to move to take stock of the situation, no matter how utterly lambent it might be.
It's too bloody early for this shit, thank you very much.
(Or too late??)
Look. Whichever it is, all he knows is that he was barely awake having deep conversations about animal cantrips, childish parties, bruised reputations, love and longing and the red-hot flare of hope itself— and then their mongrel wolf (affectionate; thinly) came home, loved on him for less than forty seconds total, and then trampled him alive.]
No.
[No, as in absolutely not.]
No, that's it— I'm done! [No, as in absolutely-very-much-over-this not.] No more slobber, no more paws, no more dirt and teeth and mangy, smelly claws; no more interplanar ramifications, in fact! No more gods or magic or nonsense or Fade-bound-rotheshite or ANYTHING that isn't my damned bed, and my damned sleep and a little peace and quiet in your naked, filthy, undistracted arms [he's going to turn into a bloody bat and hide in the rafters and—
....]
2/2
Is that....
[The sword?
His sword?
Hold on. Hold on.
Hair still in his face. Entire mien still rife with dishevelment. Crawling up onto his knees and palms before he's upright, moving over. Pushing the worst of the morning out of his line of view in a secondary reprise just as soft-mouthed as the first.
Particularly when he exhales.
(Oh, there it is: that otherwordly scent. That same, unnatural glow....)]
Fuck, I never thought I'd see it again.
[In a mind where survival and practicality are an unchallenged, total monarchy:] I'd all but forgotten about it.
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[And he doesn't mean it as a rude counter to Astarion's statement, nor indeed an argument of superiority. It isn't I hadn't in the sense of I remembered something you didn't, but meant only as a statement of awe: I longed for this gift that you spent so long having made for me. And yet it's hard not to interpret it as the former, Leto realizes in the next moment, and his poor disheveled lover has been through enough already. Hastily, he adds:]
I simply— it meant a great deal to me. It was difficult to forget.
[But ah, ah . . . his poor Astarion, and though Leto is internally grinning, he knows better than to say so. Even if the mental image of him sprawled out in an ungainly, utterly undignified heap of pale limbs and errant claws will amuse him for months to come. Even if he looks utterly precious like this, his hair rucked up and his sleepshirt with more than a few nicks in it, scrambling forward on his hands and knees so he might crawl up and join Leto, oh, it's such a far cry from the picture of superior dignity he tries to emit at all times.
And maybe some of that amusement is visible in his gaze, but still, Leto tries to bite it back. He reaches up, gently smoothing back a stray curl in a vague attempt to soothe his belabored darling. There, there, poor neglected thing.]
Are you all right?
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Better than all right.
[He sits down on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder once slow pressure settles in, Ataashi and the little runts having been ushered off into space that better suits them, making it a sort of ebbing-fade compared to the calm inside their shared bubble right now. Pale fingers skirting over pale blue light.] ....scratches and mud included.
[Wistfulness borders on absence; he's not less of himself, just....
Less here.
Less aware of himself, rare a treat as it is.]
Funny, it's been so long since I smelled you again. [Leto— and lyrium. Thedas and Toril, now. Less the imprint of Danarius rather than an anchor, at least to the creature that hadn't been born into screaming over the scent of molten magic. Privileged like that, yes, but he supposes it's no different than his eyes. His fangs.
Whatever he looked like before Cazador laid hands on him, Leto wouldn't recognize.]
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I have never smelled it like this— without my own as a buffer, I mean. I did not realize how sharp a scent it was . . .
[But scent isn't quite the right word. It's the lightning-static-shock of it, a feeling that makes his teeth buzz as he skims his fingers against the handle.]
And it is strange not to feel my own react.
[Strange not to feel the familiar bumpy texture he'd long since gotten used to: divots in his skin filled by lyrium making it so every touch was a lesson in sensory patterns. There's a thought in his mind, quiet but insistent, that wonders what it would be like to apply his own magic to the blade— and yet he knows even as he thinks it that he isn't ready for such a thing yet. Not yet. Not here and now, when he's so happy and things are so peaceful.
So ask a different question. One he'd been meaning to ask for a while now:]
Have you missed it?
I do not mean it as a trick question, and I will not take offense if the answer is yes. But . . . in the same way I would miss the bite of your fangs or the glow of your gaze in the darkness . . . have you missed my lyrium?
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He's not ashamed to say it.
Any of it.
What he felt before. What he feels— or thinks— now. And over the scuffling of little pup claws on wood and the agitated growling of the wolf already ambling away from her successors at an irritable rate, he oddly finds he's not really afraid of anything. Not numb, exactly, but....maybe free is the better word. Free of all that static dread. The pettiness of opinion or secondhand discovery all wrapped up in what he lost. Kept. Fights to have a hold on still. The little gaps in all his broken thoughts that usually remind him he's not whole.
But honestly, being whole is overrated.
What he lacks in himself, he gets to find in Leto.]
You made the most stunning nightlight, you know.
[A little pause, index claw picking at his thumb in thought, before:]
Took me a long time to get used to just how dark the backs of my eyelids felt without it around to sleep to.
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I know the feeling.
[They're pressed too closely together for Leto to catch Astarion's eye; instead, he reaches up with one hand, fingers blindly combing through silver curls once or twice in affectionate greeting. Hello, as they stare down at the vibrant blade in his lap. Hello, my darling, and it's important right now to feel Astarion beneath his fingertips.]
The first few days after I came here are a blur. I was so focused on finding you I did not think about my lack of lyrium, save cursing the fact I was hindered in fighting. But there were . . . moments, I suppose, of strangeness. The darkness of the night. The lack of pain. Even how I felt things . . . I have never known what it was to touch something without my lyrium cutting through the sensation.
[It's more interesting than anything worth mourning. Wryly, then, he adds:]
And I miss, too, the ability to rip hearts out of people's chests. As pleasing a gift as it was in Thedas, I cannot imagine how much more you might enjoy it here.
[He lifts the blade up, holding it out before him with one steady hand. The lyrium fades and glows in rhythmic patterns steady as breathing (and that's another interesting thing, for Leto had always thought it was him who set that pace). Power radiates from it, faint but unmistakable— and to his surprise, Leto realizes that he can feel it call to him. Not as it used to (lyrium ore vibrating in time with his own embedded scars, a sweet song that set his teeth on edge; its scarlet counterpart a jarring dissonant note that called all the stronger). Not as if he still carries it in him, but rather . . .
As a mage. A sorcerer. It sings to his magic, eager to taste it and empower it; the sword thrums against his palm.]
Perhaps it is time I relearned how to fight here. Not just as a warrior, but . . .
[Mmph.]
Talindra told me . . .
Do you know the term bladesinger?
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[Hello, and it's a turn— a tilt— a press that returns fire by way of rising pressure: first drifting into the pull of Leto's crawling fingers (neck craning, back arching high as it'll go), then outright pushing his lover down across the mattress via extension of said selfsame lean— two pallid palms placed flat on either shoulder around the roughage of that moon elf's clothes, his nearest leg hitching slightly as it slips beneath Leto's thigh in trade, working him onto his back first. Hello, my darling.
Sword left part of this coaxingly slow equation so long as Leto deigns to hold it. It doesn't bother him. In fact, just the opposite is true.
Like nothing else, it flatters.]
Now....[Small hiss of suction close to skin. Small intake of breath, hot as hearthstone in his chest despite the coldness that it wears once it finally leaves his lips. He's thinking about gifted hearts; he's thinking what a gift it is to be so loved that they spit on docile habits hand-in-hand, exchanging gore like loving vows, its brief distraction only pleasantly short-lived.] why in the Realms are you asking about an old myth like that?
[(Oh, he knows why. Or at the very least he suspects he does, fascinating development that it might very well be. The lead-in was so purposefully telling he'd have to be struck dead not to have caught on.
Well—
Dead-er, anyway.
But foreplay's half the fun in everything, and there's something not to be overlooked in the novelty of hearing it straight from the achingly pretty source.)]
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Novel, too, to have a partner that combines intimacy and adoration and sensuality all at once. One arm stays stretched out, the sword kept in his open palm as he keeps it firmly away from their bodies; his other hand cups Astarion's cheek fondly, his thumb brushing over the curve. Hello, sweetheart, and he will gift him a heart soon, even if it must be carved out instead of torn.]
They combine magic and swordplay, she said. And I remembered . . .
[Mph, and let him pretend his own hesitation is due solely to the rumble of Astarion's voice so close to his ear and the way his legs are kept parted. It's not a lie, not completely, and he can live with that. His head turns, his nose bumping up against a cold cheek as he nuzzles at him.]
You mentioned something similar. Long, long ago, when we first met . . . when you told me stories of this world, and the wonders therein.
[Eladrin was the word that stuck out most in Leto's mind, his own subsequent fluster and confusion making the memory linger.]
If I am a, a sorcerer, [and he uses the term deliberately, replacing mage just as Gods had replaced Maker,] then it would be foolish not to learn how to combine it with my fighting. I no longer have my lyrium, but with this sword . . . I might amplify my own magic, and become all the more deadly in the process.
[And I will need every advantage when it comes to Cazador, he does not add. Trust he wants to pursue it for other reasons (he will never forget those first few weeks, hounded by feral spawn and running up against creatures he had no name for nor defenses against). But it's Cazador that's the eternal threat lurking in the back of his mind. If he can hone his magic to the point where this blade can ripple with fire or sunlight . . .
But one thing at a time. His fingers drift, caressing the long line of Astarion's ear. More teasing, then:]
But she did not elaborate much, merely mentioned it in passing. And I thought: who better to learn it from than my favorite teacher?
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And then raking down its middle, rending clothing into peeled-up sheaves of linen fabric; careful not to do much as leave a reddened mark on adolescent skin. Legs spread, back arched, shoulders drawn tight enough to snap for all their tension— that shirt a pallid wrapper quickly parted with no effort, revealing richly tanned contours laced with dark, dark tattoos.]
Oho....[he whispers, leaning close around the pantherine humming in his throat: thumbs pushed into thick muscle on either side of Leto's spine for balance. All pressure pinned on both those shoulders, hunkered over him in sync.
Teasing begets teasing, after all.
And his love is both the altar and athame when it's been stoked.]
Does that make me your favorite teacher?
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[Will he ever get used to the way Astarion manhandles him? Not likely, Leto thinks as he finds himself blinking at the headboard. After forty-odd years of thinking himself as a bulky thing (for an elf, anyway), it's such a bewildering thing— and yet all the more thrilling for it. Leto shivers as cold air hits bare skin, his back instinctively arching as he half-glances behind him. Emerald eyes peek out from behind silver strands and slender braids, his mouth curved up something quietly amused.
And it's so much easier this way. To treat it not as a joke nor an inconsequential matter, but rather like this: with little touches. With the steady weight of Astarion atop him and his voice a toe-curling purr, oh, it's so much easier to resist sinking into that age-old anxiety. Sorcerer, and just because he has made some progress in his acceptance of his magic does not mean the concept doesn't frighten him still. So better, then, talk about it like this: tangled together, acting as if this is nothing more dramatic than a bit of foreplay.
So despite the flutter of nerves in his stomach, Leto allows himself to sink into the myriad of sensations his lover offers. The sturdy weight of his hands against his back; the brush of cool air against an ear that involuntarily flicks in response. The way Astarion's words sear themselves in Leto's mind, leaving him biting back a shiver even as he melts beneath him.]
Oh, yes . . .
[His voice is rougher than before.]
Though do note I said favorite, not best. I cannot award you both titles, not when I find myself distracted more often than not by your lessons . . .
[A moment, and then, wryly:]
Though I will admit: you manage to drill them home memorably. Learning how to be your consort has been, mmph, educational, to say the least.
[And then, because he's a nosy thing sometimes:]
What are you up to . . .?
no subject
Up to?
Me?
[The smallest little half-puff of a chuckle that even the gods themselves couldn't sell to save Elysium.]
What, just because I stripped you down, drove your legs open with barely any effort, climbed on top of you and pinned you down like a handsome beast waiting to be ridden, suddenly I have to be up to something?
[Oh, shamelessness lives in how Astarion straddles his counterpart even as he describes it all in spared detail, step by step and smug as ever throughout, which translates to a kind of give-and-take momentum: movements featherlight before the whole of his weight deliberately sinks into bracketing conformity below the small of Leto's back. Inclined to preen like the bird he is— whether bird of prey or songbird, either suits (both suit).
And there he meets those gold-green eyes with a grin of his own, electric. Curling forwards till they're well within the outline of each other even in silhouetted space, loose nightshirt wafting over moonstone shoulders. Stretching out an arm and letting it passively paw within their bedside table: planting a kiss— ah, make that two— on one tamely downturned ear whilst rummaging around for just a beat, something brassy and glinting drawn back along with him.
(The flick of an enchanted lighter click— click—
The subtle smell of smoke, the weight of perfumed drug slow to seep in.
If Leto hasn't figured it out by now....well, that just means they're making a game out of it).]
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[He retorts it just as teasingly, an irresistible smile still tugging at his lips. He can't help it. It's rare he smiles for a prolonged time, even now (and that isn't a marker of happiness, just personal preference). But Astarion inspires it in him. The slow intimacy they've cultivated here; the sweet scent of smoke drifting through the air (and in the distance, one wolfish sneeze of protest before Ataashi settles again). The weight of Astarion atop him and all the world kept at bay . . . moments like these come rare enough, he has learned, and it is no bad thing to enjoy them while they last.
So: he tips his head up, lips parted in expectant demand for the push of a metal pipe. So: he inhales slowly and deeply, letting smoke fill his lungs and leave him pleasantly buzzed, drifting gently through dazed relief. So: he tips his head up, one arm reaching blindly behind him, a little clumsy in his desire to nuzzle or stroke whatever bits of Astarion he can reach. Hello, hello, silly and simple, until at last he settles down on the pillow, his cheek sinking against soft feathers.]
And you missed drugged me to lull me into a false sense of security when listing your misdeeds, amatus. Though you may have a hard time riding me if you're keeping me pinned on my stomach . . .
[He knows, or at least suspects, what Astarion is up to. It's not hard to guess, not when they've spoken of it before; not when his back feels so bare without twin fangmarks gleaming white just outside of his spine. But with anticipation brings tension, and though they play with pain so often, well. It's hard not to instinctively flinch if you know you're going to be hurt.
So better to play it like this: with soft-mouthed flirtations and a slow easing into it.]
Mph. Take that off. If I am to be shirtless, so should you. It's only fair.
[And maybe he's very fond of the way Astarion looks clad in pants and little else. Little matter he can only half-see him like this, it still counts.]
no subject
[The first time they fought, it was raw. Stupid. Wild. Gods help them that they didn't know what they were chasing in the moment— cutting their teeth on the madness of affection by way of competitive instinct: where it was always easier for two hunter-killers supped on copper to plunge their daggers into one another, than to admit they were both snared by the headiness of contact; the adrenal beat of both their hearts (oh, how alive his body was back then, gods)— and the vibrant realization that two long-caged things still remembered how to thrill at all.
A few years older (younger, he corrects in sly amusement to himself watching bared tattoos ripple over flexing muscle while Leto turns his head to sip from the mouthpiece of that pipe), and recreation swears it isn't lightning in a bottle. That they don't have to snap and snarl and challenge one another to draw up that first sip of ozone any more than they'd need lightning itself to drum up scorch marks over stone.
They're different now.
Changed and unchanged and changing and all the more glorious for it, considering the static nothingness of use that molded them first for so damned long. And so with that still in mind— armed to the teeth with contentment and the comfortable shifting underneath him (all met, all scuffed back at in sips as languid as that pipesmoke and the sweet kiss it plants deep within his senses)— reprisal means ritual, this go around. Deliberate, meandering, wholly present ritual, and the irony's not lost on him; he wonders at the notion of elven tales he's never heard of, picturing Eladrin and Dalish creatures both pulling steady inhales from carved pipes and tapping branded ink to skin through slender needles.
(Fanciful, maybe. But isn't there divinity in that? Imagining a connection for once, rather than a dividing wall between themselves and the culture that they bleed, but never got to know.
Well. That, he thinks— amused as his own sleep shirt hits the floor— or he's just high as bloody hell and feeling far too much to be coherent.
The latter's probably it.)]
I'm the one marking you so you won't forget me, [he snorts with a slanting of his lip around one canine— punctuated by yet another craning nip against soft skin] that hardly makes it fair, when at this point I'm just effectively removing clothes to satisfy your demands.
[And maybe he's a little fond of being admired by those tsavorite eyes, clad in pants and little else.]
no subject
[He purrs it out as he squirms, trying to glance behind him more fully. Astarion is a sight worth savoring, after all. It doesn't matter how many times he's seen it, for each new glance delights him all the same. It doesn't even matter how many times they've rut, for though that unto itself is a form of appreciation, still: there's something to be said for taking a moment to simply admire him.
A lithe form. Pale skin that all but gleams in the soft light of their room. A tapering waistline that ends in a subtle swell of well-defined hips; strong thighs that straddle him with ease, and between them, the telltale bulge that Leto has long since grow addicted to mouthing at. Strong arms that end in long, tapering fingers; white curls that tumble softly around a face as familiar to him as his own. Scarlet eyes that can go puppyishly soft or sharply predatory depending on Astarion's mood; arched cheekbones and a narrow nose that Leto still can't help but think of as exotic, and that's to say nothing of those sweetly upturned ears . . .
Pretty, Leto thinks, and then amends to: beautiful.
And the truth is, it doesn't matter what Astarion looks like. He could have missing teeth or shave his head bald; he could be as ugly as a bootheel, his facial features all out of proportion and his body nowhere near what some might call ideal. Leto is not so dishonest as to say he would not notice such things; he cannot even say they would not affect him, not at first.
But he loves him. He loves him no matter what he looks like; he loves him as a vampire or an elf or a damned devil. And he does not love him for his looks nor his prowess in bed; those are pleasant bonuses, but they do not form the basis of his love.
He doesn't know how to articulate it. I would love you even if you didn't attract me is a clumsy statement, and it's not what he means anyway. I would love you no matter what you looked like, for it is you I love— and I would learn to love your looks, too, and that's closer, but it still isn't right. Someday, Leto thinks, he'll be able to say it. To assure Astarion that their love is not conditional; that he never needs to look a certain way to keep his Leto near.
And Astarion knows. Surely he knows. But it never hurts to repeat.
But not, Leto thinks drowsily, while they're high. And not when he's meant to be objectifying his lover. Who is very attractive, thank you very much, and deserves to know that too.]
You're beautiful.
[He says it directly, honest in the way he always is.]
I do not think I will ever tire of the sight of you, no matter what you wear . . . though I do admit a certain fondness to you sans shirt and nothing else. You cut a fine figure when you're still half-dressed.
[And then, as he settles back down:]
I ought to demand you dress up for me more.
[It's flirtatious, but he means it.]
For a party, perhaps, or simply bedsport . . . but if we're speaking of fairness, it seems only fair I get to savor the sight of you in stockings. Or a harem outfit. Or the other outfit, [they have a lot of harem outfits, he's realizing. Gods bless a sex shop with variety.]
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And so really, he expects raw coyness. Same as it ever is when they're like this.
Something involving more grins. More teady hands and bracing fingers and a joke here or there about petty things like payback. Possibly the addition of sly conversation, or jokes about what's to come, or even quips about the crassness of initials hacked into muscle rather than tree bark, like the childish things they are.
He doesn't expect that turn towards him.
He doesn't expect beautiful.
The rest is deflecting, resigned. Playful and sweet and entirely on point— charming through chatter over costumes— as if all of what was said before it was just as commonly conversational as simple fact: the sky is blue— you're beautiful; water is wet— I'll never tire of the sight of you. And while vanity undoubtedly has a home in Astarion, it's still an empty shelf inside him: picked over well before he laid eyes on Fenris, robbed again and again and again over two centuries. Worn woodgrain scraped away into featureless gouges.
All he can do is stare. And then recover— smiling. Scoffing. Doeishness cut off when he shuts his eyes and shakes his head with all the fondness of listening to some young, precocious thing tell him something he hadn't been expecting, this fearsome monster with sharp teeth made for eating. This spurred-on creature who loves wickedness for its ability to soothe, lifting a knife between its claws in lieu of a wedding band. And how many times have they kissed with copper on their tongues? How often has he torn into this bared back— this beautiful bared back beneath him— with talons or teeth for the sake of wild-eyed rutting?
Again. Again. Just one more time, then. Don't be distracted. Pressing the hilt more securely in the gap between his thumb and palm, using his spare hand to press Leto down into the mattress, pinning him at the junction between neck and shoulder. Firm, but only protectively so. He's practiced enough to know how to ride that razor thin line.]
Stay still enough for me to get any of this done and I'll wear anything you like, you ceaseless little menace.
[He remembers those scars. His only undeniable balm in the depths of paranoia, his namesake— the comfort of knowing that if he was nothing more than a lie, a dream, like everyone in Riftwatch swore— that they would at least outlive him. That if Leto ever forgot again, they'd be there. I made those the next introduction shared as strangers on a street in Orlais or Antiva, you have two notch marks on your spine, and I can tell you how they happened. And it wouldn't be so nightmarish that next time around, having to sit down and share a bottle and murmur his consolations over a mind that had forgotten where it was or who it was beside.
They're important.
They mattered.
They were what Leto chose to keep, and it isn't just the selfish need to exist somewhere beyond himself that has his own blade hovering above softly breathing contours: the elf beneath him comfortably resigned— silver hair tussled against thick pillows, lithe body laid out at smooth angles, musculature visible from the potency of age, not flexing. Not afraid.
It's a simple thing, to lift his dagger over them again. It's a simple thing, to bear down and feel that tissue give way without resistance— only the sudden well of blood bubbling bright around sharp silver; his blades are kept pristine, he spares nothing for their fineness, honed like wicked razors. His second set of teeth. His secondary set of claws. It's easy to cut. to draw two lines. To etch his name by way of that parallel pair of cuts, pushing deep through tissue towards bone— it's easy. It's so easy.
It's always been easy for him.
Everything is finally in place.]
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Why is it that when he blinks, the paging processes of his mind stay exactly where they are, just like his wrist and fingers. His arm is still hovering uselessly over Leto's unmarred spine. His dagger's blade still clean, left exactly where it was without so much as twitching closer by a centimeter.
All this ceremony, all this necessity, all this violent inclination— ]
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[In reality, only a few seconds have passed. Astarion's hand still lingers against the back of his neck, a familiar weight cool against overheated skin. The memory of that doeish stare and startled smile lingers in his mind's eye, but so does Astarion's teasing scold. Leto expects the bite of cold steel; he expects to hear a shuddering inhale behind him as the scent of blood fills the air—
But there's nothing.
And they have been together for too long for Leto not to understand.
After all: there's such a difference between a scrappish fight and deliberate slices. There's such a difference between fighting and flirting all in one breath, skidding about on a rooftop at dusk as you feel something like joy for the first time in forever— giving as good as you get, blood pumping and hearts racing, until at last there's a burst of pain that lasts only a moment . . . and this. Lying on a bed, waiting blindly for the first slow slice that parts skin and muscle. Barely daring to breathe, knowing that even the slightest movement will ruin things; that it will hurt, and it will hurt again and again, over and over for gods only know how long, for it takes a deep wound for scars to form . . .
And it's not the same. The associations are so different in Leto's mind, for one was an act of selfish cruelty and petty spite, and the other a show of adoration and love. And likely, Leto thinks, they're different in Astarion's mind too— but sometimes it's so hard not to see the similarities. Sometimes it's so hard to not think of the past, no matter that you want only to see the future.
He arches his back, rising up against that steadying hand so he can brace on his forearms and glance behind him. The urge is there to roll over entirely (to tug that knife out of Astarion's pale hands and set it next to his sword; to gather up his vampire in his arms and run his hands over his scarred back in soothing strokes), but he doesn't want to overreact.]
. . . we need not do this tonight.
[No. That's not right. Gentler, then:]
We need not do this at all.
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