Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
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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.
no subject
[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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
[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.)]
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
[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).]
no subject
[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.]
iliad the Return part II
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.]
2/2
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— ]
no subject
[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.
no subject
In a space void of sound when the pups and their tormented sibling-to-be have slipped into a different section of their rented tavern room, there's only the rustling of fabric when his arms slacken. The dull shuffle from their sheets as broad shoulders drop.
It doesn't matter that Leto doesn't move to uproot their arrangement; Astarion does it for him when his fingers slip across corded leather, the rest of his body following in slumped pursuit of that mattress just like the knife in his palm.
And then: the dagger isn't really in his hand.
And then: he's curled around him— the only other figure in that room— meeting whatever angles he can no matter how messily just to wrap his arms around his mate. The hows and logistical aches of it less important than the desperation driving all his joints into awkwardly patterend lines. Lashes pinched shut. Brows pulled tight.]
I can't—
[And then, gritted, not angrily, but— ]
Why the in hells can't I? What's wrong with me—
[It's no different. Or it shouldn't be. Or— he doesn't know. None of it makes sense. Not to fingers like his, so comfortably stained through habit.]
no subject
He buries his face against the top of his head, nuzzling against silver curls. It's a slow action, every bump of his nose timed to the slow, steady way he runs his palms against Astarion's back. Knotted scars meet his fingertips, every twist and bump hinting at a story only two people in this world fully know. When did Astarion writhe? When did he scream? When did the sobs burst out of him despite his best efforts? He can almost picture it: candlelight burning low, casting shadows that creep up the walls of an ancient study . . . Astarion sprawled out on a table, shirtless and unbound, kept still only by sheer force of will and a nominal hand planted just along his spawn's neck (Leto's neck is still so cold, his skin remembering the span of slender fingers). Black hair swept back from his face, his expression still and yet his eyes so wide with excitement as he sliced the creature beneath him to ribbons, thrilling in every whimper and sob.]
There's nothing wrong with you.
[It comes out a little gruffer than he means it to. His hands keep up their slow work, rubbing soothing circles as he holds him close. His voice softer, then:]
It's different this time. We have never tried this so deliberately before . . . we have never played with knives in this world before. We have never tried to deliberately scar one another . . . it makes a difference, amatus.
[He hesitates, and then:]
And it is hard, sometimes, to forget the past. Even if you wish to. Even if the situation is different . . . some part of you remembers.
no subject
I'm not being the words Astarion rushes to lean on before they give out underneath his heels in a silent, damning drop. Im not, I'm not, insisted on again like it'll somehow change something, that mantra. As if more of it might support the weight of what he's desperate to be true. But wishing— regardless of how fervently— never did anything for him, and Astarion can't wish his way out of buckling any more than he could vampirism.
In the end, he's still here. Still aching from the dig of sharp fangs against the inlines of his cheeks; from the bite of his claws against his skin.
Though true to his own nature, he doesn't go down without fighting.]
I know that I'm not him. [And which 'him' he means might well be anybody's guess, including his own.] I know—
There's a difference.
[Empty. Hollow. Not in tone, just in conviction. Its failure agitating his frustration with a sudden snap.]
Godsdamnit, I've mangled you a thousand times before, it shouldn't be so hard.
[And as his head drops into the ocean of his lover's kindness, it's the gruffness that resonates. The roughshod rumble in a throat that he's heard growl and snarl to be left alone on days when everything's gone brittle like old markings, incapable of tolerating touch. (Noise. Light. Closeness. Mercy.) And when even the gentlest of friction stirs up the worst of your own inevitable monstrosity and all attached, endless outrage, maybe that's the problem. There's no reclaiming something like that on its own, no tidying it up into something more beautiful, no matter how you swear you can. No matter how you want to, try to, ache to— and with an anger in his eyes Astarion shoves Leto back down atop the mattress, pushing him flat. Palm splayed across the dead center of his breastbone, dagger back in his hand and lividly catching in the light. Eyes redder than red. Redder than slag-hot coal.
Cold metal set just against the skin over Leto's heart.]
Help me, or don't.
[Help me, or I can't. Help me, or I won't do it.]
I won't mark you just to have my name haunting you like a ghost.
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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.]
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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.]
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[He's half-laughing as he whispers it against Astarion's mouth, his eyes gleaming in conspiratorial glee. There's blood smeared on his lips and his heart is pounding like a drum in his ears, percussive and steady; their hips knock together, grinding roughly as they struggle for control. Astarion's fingers overlap his own along the knife's handle, their arms trembling as Leto fights to keep it extended, knowing that sooner or later they'll buckle—
And when it does, they twist again: the knife flashing between them (a deep scratch along Astarion's chest, a glancing slash that tears through skin along Leto's arm) and the two of them scrambling for position once more. Tumbling over the bed, writhing over the mattress— a loud thump denotes the moment they find the bed isn't big enough and end up toppling over right onto the floor, and it's painful and stupid and funny, and Leto laughs even as they fight.
And just for this moment, he forgets that his lover is a vampire. He forgets that they're anything but two lovers playing with one another, roughhousing for no other reason than it's fun. Forget scars. Forget the past. Forget all that awaits them in this world and the next, Cazador and Mephistopheles, magic and the other spawn— forget even the hounds lurking next door, Ataashi tiredly herding two endlessly curious pups away from the door.
Right now, this is only for them.
They kiss and fight and kiss again, magic flaring between them again and again in static bursts of blue light. They twist and writhe, neither of them winning, until at last they end up like this: with Astarion flat on his back once more, bands of mana wrapping around his wrists and pinning them to the floor. The magic is a flickering thing, there and gone (the magic is terrifying and thrilling all at once, a natural extension of his own desires and a manifestation of all his nightmares, and if he just doesn't think about it, it almost works). Leto straddles his darling, panting in exertion as he tries to maintain the spell and keep his focus all at once. Sweat beads on his forehead and his cheeks are flushed with excitement and effort both; it's been a long time since they've fought properly, but his body still remembers how much he adores it.]
Perhaps I should have told you to beg me for permission.
[Taunting. Teasing. The knife held loosely in his right hand while the other rakes through mussed-up curls, gripping them tightly as he tips Astarion's head back. Blood is smeared between them, little cuts half-clotted scattered along both their torsos. Droplets of blood still eke out of the bite wound on his lip, though in truth Leto doesn't notice.]
Give in. Say I won, little bat, and I'll let you mark me as consolatory prize.
[He leans down, murmuring against Astarion's lips as he adds:]
Or are you going to claim I'm cheating again?
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This is how it goes.
He's breathing like he needs to.
This is how it's meant to go; an overarching sense of rightness asserted in their scuffle long before the fall when he lies flat across his back with his arms pinned, and— oh for just a second he sees stars. Nothing like split vision or ringing ears or besotted worship, but real stars. Fenrir. Equinor. Draconis. The ones cast overhead the first time he'd dropped to dusty stone thanks to a pair of taloned hands, impact rattling up to his ears. Wishful thinking, maybe. Coming home. Memory or longing or whatever one might call it— it doesn't change the fact that he's up to his neck in something more than just nostalgia for the second time in all his malformed years, watching rivulets of vivid red trail down the front of Leto's chest.
Astarion doesn’t realize he’s smiling in the gaps between breaths. All teeth. All lopsided flashes of jagged white.
He never forgot his lines.]
You've won, little pup.
We're even.
[That's how it goes.
Fingers flexing in small twitches of minuscule impatience, mostly wound up in the fine bones of his wrists as a telltale marker as he tests the limits of those arcane bonds, feeling out the thread of just how exhausted Leto might be by now. A flicker in his gaze catching brightly in the light, refractive. Thrilled in the shadow of the grip that holds him by his scalp first....and his claws second.
Waiting like he'd never once stopped looking for an opening. Practically licking his chops even while he tips his own throat back by degrees, the gesture docile like nothing in him truly is at this moment: tensed beneath that scruffing grasp.
Mark me. Mark me first.
(This is how it goes.)
Make me yours.]
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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.]
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