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
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
no subject
[Oh, yes. He'd long since memorized those words, for it was the key to understanding such a vital part of Astarion and how he operates in this world. Leto loosens his grip, returning to working his fingers through Astarion's hair, as he regards him.]
You told me how instinctive hunger is the forefront of your mind. How your instincts scream at you to devour me in every way and form you can, and that such screaming never ends no matter how full you grow or how sated I may leave you. How you work to override it each and every moment we are together, forcing yourself not to look at me as prey, a meal, a sacrament nor a pet, not a consort that needs to be taught better— but me. Just me, as I am, and as we are to one another.
And I remember, too, how much toll it takes on you. How much you fight your own instincts just to stay with me, never mind treat me as your equal . . .
[He leans forward, bumping their noses together just once in silent adoration. Admiration burns fiercely in his gaze, quiet but all the more intense for it.]
Yes, I remember, Astarion. I will never forget.
no subject
That admiration is mutual, now.]
It's not a voluntary thing. I know you know that, but I don't just mean about the matter of just starvation or mere prey drive— I mean it in regards to you, too.
[His smile quirks. He sounds like a professor when he inhales next, sucking in enough air to cover a no doubt weighty second act— or maybe just like Gale, going by Leto's common metric these past few months.]
When we're....intimate, as I've confessed before— and don't take this personally darling, I've seen your prowess against my siblings, you're no lightweight mortal thing— but you are still mortal. [Still a beating heart and finite blood. Still fresh and young with life enough to snuff like wind across a flame.] It takes everything in my power just to touch you as I do. Our give and take is measured the way you— [a beat, and then:] mm, the way a dedicated broker would handle fine crystal: conscious, and deliberate, and all too passively aware of how even the lightest of his careless touches might break.
[If it sounds belittling, it's because he knows it is. Perhaps no less aggravating than being a spawn compared thralls or waiting servants. Compared to even honored guests— for there's nothing quite so disquieting as standing shoulder-to-level-shoulder with someone that embodies your own thoroughly defined limits. The niggling thought hissed betwixt your ears of why not— why them and not you? A set of eyes and ears and limbs no different than you own. No different than you used to be— or are — so why not me. Why you. You're no better.
And indeed, Astarion would admit it easily: he's always been the lesser of them.
He's just the one with fangs.]
And yet the more you put me to heel, the more I ache to meet you in that challenge.
Not so much prey, but competition— something we vampires have, shall we say, a bit of a....
[Tsk.]
....a bit of a complex about.
[The tail end twists, his laughter closer to embarrassment than anything else, as if admitting to only the most minor of faux pas in public setting— like, say, dressing for a festival instead of a soirée, or confessing one's forgotten the Duke's thrice removed cousin's name right to his face, or. Well.
That your reckless animal mind sees your husband as competition. That sort of thing.]
no subject
How can he not? When even the wrong tone can set him off some days, of course every teenage instinct in him rears up in snarling defense over something that sounds like you're too delicate to handle me. It's like holding red in front of a minotaur, and his mind does all the work necessary to fill in whatever gaps remain: you're too childish, you're too weak, now bend over and take it like the pretty little consort you're meant to be . . . for a moment, his eyes flash as his lip curls back in preemptive snarl—
But of course, Astarion isn't saying that.
And of course, Leto is so much more than his teenage instincts.
So: reset. Reframe. Take a soft breath and let his adult thoughts flow forward, soothing his stinging ego and allowing himself to understand what Astarion is really trying to say.]
So each time I attempt to dominate over you, every vampiric instinct within you is demanding you put me in my place?
[That must be putting it politely, for it's rare Astarion feigns off his embarrassment nowadays. So put you in your place, yes, but brutally so. Viciously enough that the other person— vampire, mortal, or otherwise— won't dare to dream about trying again, at least not for a long while. And when your lover is mortal and possesses a body that has so many limitations . . .
For he has no doubt Astarion would take their sex farther if he could. How many times has he sweetly mouthed the darkest kind of threats against his consort's throat? I'll leash you to this bed and fit myself between your thighs, breeding you until you forget anything but how to mewl my name; I'll choke you on the span of my cock until you pass out drooling my come in satiation, only to wake and find yourself still locked there . . . oh, Astarion would have long since done such things if he thought his Leto could survive it hale and whole. It's a savage cruelty no mortal was ever made to withstand, and yet even so, they've edged closer to it. Their play in the sex shop, yes, and that night in the forest . . . it's about excess, yes, but safety, too. When the whole world regards you as an abomination that needs to be put down, of course every instinct will howl at you to assert yourself as the most dominant creature again and again.
Leto's eyes flick up. It's not ideal, but what is? And if it's the death knell for any hopes Leto might have entertained about topping again, well, so it goes. He hadn't been lying before: he really does enjoy submitting to his mate. But there's something about the way Astarion presents this that leaves space for just a glint of suggestion.]
It is not an unknown feeling to me— though I know you feel such things far more keenly than I, [he adds hastily, just in case Astarion took that as refusal to take this seriously.] But it makes sense.
[It makes sense, too, why Astarion so deftly avoided explaining all this before now. Far easier to simply redirect than actually admit there's an instinctive part of you that eternally wants to strip away your husband's dignity and sexual power for no other reason than that he might be competition.
Poor thing, he thinks without really thinking at all, and brushes his knuckles against the curve of Astarion's cheek. His poor vampire, who still frets there's some line of savagery that will send Leto running.]
Then is it something you no longer wish to try? Or . . . something we need take precautions during, but not forego entirely?
[He won't insist either way, for he has made too many demands without fully understanding Astarion's vampirism.]
no subject
[Unknown, that feeling. No— not feeling, urge. Dark and deep enough to come with its own gravity of sorts, and stronger than the sort of undercurrents that leave even the finest swimmers drowned, or so he hears. It's been ages since he last went swimming, and Rialto doesn't count.
His eyes shift towards the corners of Leto's expression. The borders of his face and the way it lays beneath fringed hair grown long (almost time for a trim, he thinks, despite knowing he'll forget again in half a second).
And then forgets.
His own emotions too quick to cling to the knee-jerk thought of no longer wishing to try at all, which— ]
—no.
[And he has to force the alarm, or urgency, or whatever it's called that's boiled up inside him to slide back out towards dissolution, shaking his head all the while.]
No, I— [The words are still too quick.] It's one of the things I miss dearly from our time in your world. [The bruises on his inner thighs in Thedas. The way it burned so sweetly to feel his body boil as he gazed up at his lover in low light, marked by pale tattoos and the burning in green eyes, gods.] I'd sooner give my claws to Godey than give that up completely.
[Had he told Leto of him? He can't remember— and besides, that's not the point, anyway. (Even the phantom traces of Leto's fingers at his scalp, he longs for it. Feels himself crane towards it through desire, knowing full well he'd prove incapable of ceding.) The bloody dichotomy.]
But precautions, though....
[Hm. Leto might be onto something, there. The line of his focus wavers for a moment; the bridge of his nose wrinkles from deep thought.] We could....
Yes, that might actually work. The reason why I lose control is because I'm overwhelmed, after all— by you, by my own monstrous proclivities— if we took it slow, or— [hm. Hmm. The gears are turning. The wheels spinning in their moors.] If we had some sort of way of alerting each other when it proves to be too much. When I prove to be too much. A word or a warning or something....
no subject
(Godey, and just like any other name Astarion mentions, it goes into a little vault in the back of his mind. Never once has the name passed his lips, and though Leto can suspect just why that might be, it's a conversation for another time. This is about them).]
You could tell me.
[Thoughtfully said. It's not, like, the greatest answer in the world, but he's working on it. Absently his fingers play with the edge of Astarion's shirt, not teasing so much as preoccupying himself with his favorite person.]
Or . . . taking it slow seems a good plan. Letting you grow more and more submissive by deliberate degrees, measuring out your own reactions each and every step . . . [Hot, honestly, in a particularly clinical way.] I could make a point to check in with you. Not at every turn, but . . . often enough. More often than we usually do, to see if you find your instincts rearing.
[That said:]
Vá nuitha has worked well for us in the past. [His own safeword, rarely called out save for one miserable, cramp-filled night.] You could adopt it yourself— you speaking Elven is an easy reminder for both of us that things are not as they should be.
We could also fit you with precautions beforehand. Slipping out of bindings or gags is easy for you if you truly wish to, I know, but it offers a few seconds of pause. The time it takes you to become a bat or mist is time enough for me to—
[Eugh. His face twists as conjure up a spell tries to line up on his tongue.]
— counter you, in my own way.
[They'll go back to the idea of shared instincts soon enough, but one thing at a time.]
no subject
And there again, he laughs. Only this time it's not apologetic. This time he's all here.]
I'd be telling you every five seconds.
[See? There's humor in wry truth. Double that when Leto's face wrinkles with distaste, nipped at and harried by sharp fangs that only feign their bites.
(He loves him.
Gods alive, he loves this one. This small, wondrously mortal thing.)]
Because bindings and magic— unless you're inclined to ask for lessons in hypnotism from dear Gale [teasing, yes, but there's a reason Astarion's suggesting it, and it isn't just for the houndish way they play,] I'd only be spurred on by those precautions. The restraints, the— well, anything along those lines.
They rile. In the best of ways of course with you, but still.
[His grin cuts sharp.]
No. I think we've little choice but to tame the monster the old fashioned Vá-nuitha-shaped way,slow as it might be.
Although I've— honestly I've never tried anything like this before. I've nothing in the way of guarantees this won't be vexing just for nothing.
I'd understand if you didn't want to.
no subject
[Just as swift a reply as Astarion's own had been, but this time it's assurance, not panic, that weaves within his low tones.]
There is nothing about any kind of sexual venture with you that I would find vexing. Even if we have to stop or reroute, still, it would not be time wasted. Besides: I wish to not only so we know your limitations, but . . . I've missed this too, Astarion. You on your knees or bent in front of me . . .
[Gods, it's a sweet thought. Astarion on his knees and his lips wrapped around the swell of Leto's prick, one hand jammed between his thighs as he mewls for how his mouth is getting fucked. Astarion splayed out on their bed, a collar around his throat and his back arched into a sleek curve for how Leto holds the leash taut, bouncing him forward atop his prick and watching as his body comes right back over and over and over . . .
Well, anyway. There's no sense in getting lost in fantasy— not just because Astarion had just said he couldn't yet do restraints, but because he doesn't want to inadvertently rile his husband. In lust or violence it barely matters, for there's no time to play and precious little room to do it right now. Still: he returns that sharp grin with a flashbang smile of his own, wry and unrepentant.]
It makes for a sweet sight.
[But ah . . . he tips his head, inadvertently bumping their noses together.]
Did you mean that? About hypnotism. Do you think it a good idea?
[Whether or not he's comfortable to learning it is secondary. There are many uncomfortable things he has endured in his life; he will bear one more if it means Astarion feels safer.]
1/2
Mmph. Haven't the slightest, sweetheart.
[No, really, he doesn't.]
But you've done rather beautifully with it since we started testing the waters, and if you can do it, I'd like to think I might follow in your footsteps somewhat undisastrously.
What....mm. [Hold on. Let him try again. He's only seen this from the other side of things, through a violent haze of satisfaction and utterly carnal lust, unbridled. And it's not as if he's mindless in those moments, true, but observant?
Hardly.]
2/2
....What is it like for you?
[If Leto's sharp, he might see it for what it is: fear.
Astarion's afraid to ask.]
no subject
It was . . . comforting.
[Start there: with words he wouldn't ever confess to another. Not unusual for them, but notable all the same.]
Comforting in a way that I have not felt in many, many years . . . perhaps not ever. Certainly with no one else but you. It was a release of all obligation and endurance. No longer was I tasked with remembering how to be silent, or even refraining from instinctive pleas for you to stop . . . I could simply be— and yet still have enough power to make it stop. It was not helplessness, but . . . something close enough to pass, and yet far enough to find comfort in it, rather than repulsion.
[He exhales slowly through his nose, hot air puffing faintly against Astarion's cheek, as he thinks. He scours through his memories, sinking into the sensation of being so utterly out of control . . . to drift so carelessly, knowing that there was nothing he could do or say beyond simply take it, knowing all the while that he was safe.
And that's the other half of it, isn't it? No less vital than the first.]
I would never do it with anyone but you, for you are what made the difference. My trust in you is absolute, and there has never been a doubt in my mind that no matter what turn the night took, it would be one we both thoroughly enjoyed. And I was right, was I not? In the sex shop, even in the forest . . . I thrilled in all of it.
Not to mention that I knew if I commanded you to cease, you would. [A pause, and then, gently:] I mean what I say. Do not take it as blind adoration, for I would not expect you to stop if you were in the midst of a frenzy, nor indeed even recognize who I am— and I have no qualms about dissuading you in other, blunter means.
But you are still you when you control me. You always have been, frantic with lust or not. I told you before, I think, and I mean it still today: you have never become someone I don't recognize when we are together, not even at your most sadistic.
[He pauses for a moment, underscoring that, before continuing.]
I do not know if it would be the same beneath my magic, but I suspect so. And if it is not and you dislike it, we will stop. And if it is the same and you dislike it, we will stop. And that will not necessarily mean that I will never dominate you again— simply not in that fashion.
[Is that enough? But ah . . . there's one more bit.]
And it was thrilling, Astarion. I would not have agreed to it time and again if I did not thoroughly enjoy it. To give over every bit of myself to someone I knew would safeguard it more preciously than his own life . . . I felt both powerless and powerful in that moment, knowing that it was at my own behest rather than forced out of me by my master.
I cannot tell you if you would enjoy it. You would have every reason to despise it, and I would not blame you for that. But . . . I can only tell you for my part, I remember those evenings often, and warmly so.
no subject
It sounds wonderful.
In ways he'd never let himself admit at first, like an old, bad habit with a slow-sweet burn; in ways that were transparent as cracked glass to anyone who'd known him past the walls that he'd built up— Cazador first amongst them, but there were others, too— not all of them in Faerûn. Some he'd never even bedded, much to his chagrin. And it was a weight in the pith of him there, so gnarled and knotted around the only seed of truth he never wanted brought up to the light (and yet ached for it still). The tension in the line, the cessation of himself—
And to listen to it now, so much more than that.
His tongue's pressed flat against the roof of his mouth, against the backs of all his fangs. He'd held it there at first to stave off apprehension, and now it's fascination that's the dose his tongue is keeping at bay; not senseless enough in wonderment to lose sight of the fact that it is— as leto says— about them. And why it sparks is too damned new to disentangle, for a year ago he'd have claimed it nothing more than what they'd talked about before: the pleasantness of the yoke that shaped their shoulders, the exertion they never had to think to choose. Instead he sits up on one elbow, taking in more of the striking elf beneath him just to study those deep eyes.
The wellspring of thought that gathers right behind them.]
Really....?
[ —isn't, for the record, what he wanted to say. It slips out before he's noticed, and so deprived of false air that it winds up coming off as reedy as a whisper in the process, earning a few sidelong blinks of telegraphed agitation. There and gone again.
Good start, Astarion.]
I always thought you were capitulating for my sake.
no subject
No.
[Well—]
The first time, perhaps— though I would not call it capitulating. I was apprehensive, but I was intrigued, too, or else I would not have brought it up. Besides: we had spent a week discussing it beforehand. I had time to think it over, and that made all the difference. But after that first time in the sex shop . . . no. It was nothing like capitulation. I will not say it is my favorite thing we have ever done in bed, but . . . really, Astarion. It's thrilling to give you that power. It's thrilling to see what you do with it.
[For a moment his mind flutters back to the sex shop, but Maker, he can't linger there for long. Not if he wants to keep them chaste, at any rate. Ears and cheeks a little warmer, he clears his throat and continues:]
And truthfully, amatus . . . it's intriguing to see what you do desire. I enjoy that aspect, too. Knowing that you can cater me to your fantasies, and knowing that I am enacting whatever it is that thrills you most at the time . . . that, too, has appeal. Whether that be with— [there's the briefest of hesitations, and then:] — with dressing up or simply seeing what kind of poses and positions you prefer . . . it grants an insight to you that I might not otherwise have.
[He tips his head.]
Does the thought of the opposite appeal?
no subject
For once, Astarion listens.
For once, Astarion's attention isn't fleeting (although neither is his smile). The flush spread of imagined warmth across his neck isn't either, for what it's worth, but in this case he stays positioned exactly as he is, bringing up a few chilled fingers to coil tightly round Leto's own, the scrape of his claws catching (light) against his own cheek by proxy.
So little can escape the consequence of their gravity, after all.]
More than you could know.
[Comes easy. Whispers through him. The rest not so much, but he's learned to trust with Leto that the answers simply wander in according to their whims over time— or they won't.]
And I can admit beyond the tantalizing thought of letting go of....[his fingers squeeze; his nod does the lion's share of gesturing towards the rest of him.] all this. [The endless hunger pangs, the predatory slant in his within his stare that casts his prized companionship as food, the urge to bite, to rend, to dominate and burn with bitter jealousy— and fear. ] I'd like to know you, too.
More than I do now. More than I might otherwise, as you said.
I've satisfied plenty of unbridled desires over the years— but it's yours I want to understand, without anything else involved.
[His next inhale runs thin, whittled by jagged borders.] Mmn. It was such a treat to see you in fine silk and lace though, wasn't it....?
no subject
[For Astarion to have the ability to let go if nothing else, for that is a gift he dearly wants to offer his mate. Even if nothing else pans out, gods, he wants his amatus to know some peace. To not have to fight himself every minute of every hour of every day not to eat nor brutally ruin his chosen mate for no reason other than instinct . . . oh, for that, Leto would do almost anything.
Besides: he does want to share that part of himself more. He wants to give that gift to Astarion, not just because his amatus deserves it, but because he wants him to have it. He wants them to know one another on every level they possibly can, and this is part of it. It's something beyond fantasy and into the realm of pure desire, and while it's not as if Leto has ever been shy about sharing those fantasies, still . . . still, there's so much more to discover together. Especially when it's been such a long time since Leto has topped, and they've both undergone such changes . . . oh, yes, he wants Astarion to know every one of his newfound fantasies here.
That said:]
But we ought to discuss this more. I know what you do and do like, but I would prefer we go over such things before I take control. Things that you do not wish me to do or say, or even ways in which I should not stand, or senses you do not wish to lose . . . I do not mind surprising you with my own desires, but I would know of yours, too.
[They'd had the same talks before Astarion took control of him, of course, but . . . mmph. It all feels so different on the other side. The thought of having that kind of power over Astarion is both thrilling and unnerving all at once. Thrilling for the thought of being able to finally assert himself as dominant again, watching as his vampiric mate is made into a vessel for all of Leto's darkest fantasies, knowing all the while that he wants it . . . oh, yes. Oh, yes, and it will only start with forcing him on his knees. There's a whole world of things that he might want to try, and all the time in the world to enact them.
But unnerving for two reasons. The first: this entire exercise skirts so much closer to Astarion's trauma than it ever had Leto's own. There can be no room for misstep when it comes to something so extreme, and he'll have to be rigorous when they dive further into consent. Perhaps even moreso than they were when it was Leto on the other end, for he will never forgive himself if something goes wrong while he's in power.
But they will. He knows even now that they will.
It's the second part that preys at the edges of Leto's mind. For there's a growing thought that using his magic (his magic, still such an uneasy phrase even now) to control Astarion is . . . gods, he doesn't have the words for it. Not hurtful. Not troublesome. Not something that sends him reeling into flashbacks, for there are none; certainly Danarius had never controlled him so thoroughly, and while he's sure some poor soul in Tevinter has been bewitched by blood magic before, it's not as if Leto ever saw it.
And it isn't doing it to Astarion, either, for he wants to. He does. It's just . . . perhaps he will have to work through his own tentativeness, just as he had when it came to him being controlled. Perhaps they'll start small, just as they had with collar and leash, just to see what happens.
(And so Leto can see, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is not becoming the very person his master was).
In any case: that's for later. It takes him a few seconds too long to come out of that revere, but when he does, it's with a blink: oh, soft and a little doeish, and so distracted is he that he forgets to be flustered over what they speak of. Which is for the best, because what comes out next isn't hedged, but rather the plainly spoken truth:]
It need not be the only time you see me in such outfits.
no subject
Irony of ironies, he supposes. Somewhere the Maker stands delighting in the fact that only one of them at a time can be at ease inside a tub.
Or their own body.]
Shame we can't still traipse unchaperoned about the city. It'd be fun to know what sort of mischief you'd get up to with an entire shop at your disposal.
[You can't bring up that night and expect him not to reminisce, darling.]
In other words, once this mess is done with [Cazador, he means, though his flippancy won't name it lest some part of him invoke his gaze (old superstition thicker than blood within cold veins) ] I intend to have it all.
[The point of his index claw trails down across tanned skin, tracing the outline of those marks to where thin linen stops his sly advance— neither silk nor lace, alas. Capitulating only as proof he's on his very best behavior (for now, anyway), but as thumb and forefinger smooth chastely over the worn edge of Leto's rolled-up cuff, sobriety inevitably turns his focus backwards. Casts it softer yet again, awash in what they might share of his own comforts. His limits.
Much as he's vexed to admit it, he's too used to— everything, really. What he did or didn't like was simply part and parcel, and when Leto came along, dull hues turned bright once more, infecting even the mundane with keen exhilaration. Examining it further never needed to happen so far as Astarion was concerned after that; there was nothing he wouldn't gladly give to his earthbound glimpse of sunlight. And maybe he hasn't anything that he dislikes, he thinks, so long as it's with Leto Ancunín.
But it wouldn't be fair to that same creature if he didn't make a go of self-examination, he supposes. Mull it over for a while, pick at the old dark corners of his past.
Which, come to think of it....]
You're certain it won't bother you?
Magic like that, I mean....
[I will ask Gale for lessons tomorrow seems so ironclad, in retrospect. Dutiful and determined in all the ways Leto excels at, true, and it's not as if he doubts his dearest wolf, but.... ]
I never got close enough to Minrathous, granted, but I remember what I saw of Tevinter.
[Glimpses of a world he can't forget. What magic was synonymous with, the stench of iron hot and tacky clinging even in the air.
(How he stands Astarion's own needs in that regards sometimes, even Astarion doesn't know. You're no abomination, doesn't change the scent. The connotation.)]
no subject
It may.
[There, that’s honest. And yet not damning, for there’s nothing in Leto’s expression that demands retreat. Rather: he says it deliberately, as methodical as when he weighs out assets and tactics within a fight. Because it’s simply easier to think of magic that way, he’s found. Not as an infectious power of which he will never be fully rid, but rather as an asset. A weapon to be used or put down as he sees fit, to be given constant consideration and the wariness that such a deadly thing deserves. It makes him no happier about having it, but at least it offers him a sense of control.
His eyes flick down, trying to sift through his feelings.]
I suspect if we were in Thedas, it would be something that I would balk at— indeed, if we were in Thedas, I suspect it wouldn't be a discussion at all, for I would outright refuse. But we are not in Thedas. And the magic here is . . . it feels different, loath as I am to ever praise it. No less dangerous, but . . . perhaps more easily countered.
[Yes, that's closer. He meets Astarion's gaze again.]
In Minrathous, there was nothing that could stop him if Danarius used his magic. It barely mattered for what: to cause pain or induce pleasure, to fool the senses or command the elements . . . once he had decided it, it simply was, and all I had was his nonexistent mercy to try and spare me by degrees. I could not counter it. I could not fight it, not least of which because he had the weight of the entire legal system behind him to assure him that it was his right to do as he pleased— never mind to his property. To have that kind of power over you— to know that I could make you dance on my strings and no matter how much you loathed it, you could do nothing to stop me— that I could not do.
But here . . . there are so many more counters to spells. [For gods' sake, there's literally a spell called counterspell, and hadn't it been an afternoon of mixed emotions when Gale had taught him that.] There are ways non-mages can protect themselves— and if they cannot, we live in a city that does not assume anyone wielding magic is automatically free of suspicion or guilt. If I were to misuse it, I would be rightly punished for it— and that is a great comfort to me.
The weight of it— of my magic, [for he must get used to saying it] —the responsibility of it— I will never forget either. I will never treat it flippantly, just as I do not my blade or my dagger. But . . .
[He hesitates.]
The thought of hypnotizing you does not feel like I am attempting to perform a bastardized version of blood magic. It does not feel as though I am attempting to break you under my heel, nor enact the kind of dependency that Danarius used to crave. It feels . . . malleable. Able to be shattered with a word or a deed, especially from someone so strong.
I suppose . . . the thought feels much like the collar we played with. [Absently he slides his fingers across Astarion's own, prying at them until he can lace them together.] There were parallels. There were things I could have associated it with, and did . . . but it was not the same. And the difference was enough to lessen my discomfort.
[So. There. And that's a very longwinded way of approaching the point, which is:]
It may well make me uncomfortable, but it is a discomfort I do not mind enduring— and this is an experience that I would like to give to you, if I can.
But even more than the collar, I need to be certain we are doing as you please, for I know this is something you have far worse experiences with than I. And I would give this to you as a gift, not a torment to be borne. I would have us go over it step by step, and check in with you at each and every turn, just to be certain.
[Perhaps this is a foolish idea. Perhaps they're courting danger, and who knows which of them will shatter beneath the memory of ancient hurts first? But he does want to give this to him. And sometimes, as he had once said to Hawke long ago, you must turn and face the tiger. Whether this is a mistake or not, they need to face it together.]
1/2
They aren't.
For a moment the weight of the world rests within the interlocking of their fingers, heavy as the lidded shadows of their pasts. All examined. All retraced nearly a thousand times over (with no doubt countless more to come). There's more burning rage in Astarion than there are stars in the sky— not solely for Danarius or Hadriana or the other slaves content to leave their heads bowed low whilst Fenris was fashioned into whatever shape his master pleased, but the society that fostered it. The culture that enabled it from the very bottom up.]
And I'll accept it, I promise you that. [Speaks to more than just the present offer, his voice laced with unmasked honesty— a deeper timbre. His smile twitches. The pressure of his fingertips increases by the slightest of degrees.] That offer. Your absolution and dissolution of my nightmares. The toll that it might take— and the assuagement that I'll endlessly provide you if it does.
[But— ]
2/2
[It lingers on the tip of his tongue, the urge to ask something he shouldn't, not when the conversation is unpleasant enough already after all his prodding.]
Was magic so different in Thedas?
[Leave it to Astarion to know better and still do it anyway.]
I mean, my association with it was tenuous at best— scarcely there at all. In fact, I was so afraid of assumed collusion that I did my damndest to keep my distance from it right down to the last glimmering drop. Not even an enchantment rune or borrowed spell.
Far too risky for my taste.
no subject
Yes.
[At least to him, at least right now . . . he squeezes his fingers.]
Here . . . perhaps it is because the Weave is so different than the Fade. But here, a spell is a spell. Magic is picked up and put down as people see fit, and if one were truly dedicated, one could learn magic all on their own. There are counterspells. There are means of disabling magic— that sussur necklace you stole for me is but one. Even when casting, mages draw on the Weave, but they never need enter it— and if they do, the only things that risk preying upon them are the devils that demand deals and offer power.
In Thedas . . .
[How to explain? He tries to think back to what he's heard Merrill and Anders say; what things he remembers from his own venture in the Fade.]
It feels so much more volatile.
Each time a mage dreams, they enter into the Fade— and like clockwork, every demon within a miles-wide radius flits towards them slavering to make a deal. They offer anything and everything, and what's worse, some of them can give a person the strength or power they desire. Demons of pride, lust, envy, guilt . . . Danarius would summon them during the day and enslave them, bending them to his own purposes, but they would haunt his dreams nonetheless. And if a mage is weak— if they have a moment of doubt— the spirit will possess them, and thus make them into an Abomination.
Mages here . . . I know they are powerful. Some powerful enough to level a city or destroy an army, I have no doubt. And mortal weakness is a constant among all species, I know that too. But . . .
There is a difference between deliberate action and a moment's weakness. The Weave is more natural here, but the Fade . . . I cannot speculate whence it came or why, but you must remember how weak it was in Kirkwall. Minrathous is even worse. There are nights where the air is thick with magic and you can almost hear their whispers, cajoling and promising both. Varania—
[Mm.]
I remember her waking from nightmares. I remember her crying to me, begging me to come to the Fade with her and protect her from the spirits that terrified her. They will target even a child, and they are a constant threat.
In Minrathous . . . the magisters cheat at their Harrowings, did you know? [He doesn't doubt Astarion speculated as such, but still.] None of them ever fail, for such things aren't acceptable— and so they usually have someone else on hand to do the hard work for them, lest their precious sons and daughters find themselves tempted by alluring promises of wine, women, or song.
[One long, slow breath, and then he says with frank honesty:]
Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps it is the same, and the difference is only ever in degrees. But . . . I do not think, if I had been cursed with magic at home, I would have taken to it the way I have here. For here, it does not scream in my veins and beg to be used. And it does not feel so much like a curse, but simply . . . simply something that is.
no subject
Because the closest he can come to sibling grace is holding Dal within his arms as she wept every now and then between scant decades. By morning though, inevitably, survival necessitated callous cruelty. To treat it all as if it'd been a drunken dream and nothing more, for if being flayed alive or picked apart fingernails first wasn't incentive enough to turn on one another like starving dogs, compulsion was— and they were never sentimental creatures.
Not really.
Privilege, on the other hand, feels like someone else's half-told memories; with centuries of feigned nobility under his belt, he's not sure where reality begins and his own self-soothing ends, and honestly, he'd likely been closer to those magisterial children than not. So he considers what he hears rather than trampling it— opting not to deflect, but to offer them a chance to catch their breath.]
Said as if the demons here don't just pluck up anyone they fancy, mage or otherwise. [Is throaty. Softened by tongue and sympathetic expression both, nevermind a sympathetic slant to brows pinched tightly upwards when Astarion's profile nuzzles in close just once.
The words I'm sorry can't ever suffice.
(Levity, on the other hand, at least might ease the sting.)]
....but I am glad the necklace helps.
[I'm glad it isn't you suffering through those nightmares, the volatility of it, the assault its presence incites. That's what he means to say, only can't. The words don't come.
Maybe feeling it is enough.]
no subject
[It's funny, too, for it doesn't actually feel particularly good. Somewhat like having to wear socks and shoes, he'd explained (a little huffily, in face of Astarion's clear amusement) once. It isn't that he can't function with it, but it's like accessing the world through a set of barriers. Not wholly unpleasant, but still, notable. He doesn't wear it most days, but it helps to have. And it means more than he can say that Astarion gave him such a gift.
He turns his head into that nuzzling touch, returning it with gentle insistence. Perhaps it suits that Astarion instinctively turns to levity rather than sincerity, for it helps in moments like these. It wouldn't if he didn't know him so well, but as it stands . . . there's such gentleness woven within those words. Such doting adoration, fretful and yet all too aware of how fragile a topic this truly is. Astarion is trying— gods, more than that, he's being sensitive in a way he needn't.
And in turn, Leto can be a little less defensive than he might ordinarily.
So: that nuzzle. The way he runs his palm deliberately down the side of Astarion's neck, caressing him and soothing him all at once. Don't fret, don't withdraw, and maybe Astarion isn't— but he'd rather be wrong than ignore him.]
Does it make sense to you, what I say?
[It isn't a trick question.]
You are as much a product of both worlds as I am— and you had your exposure first, and longer. What do you see when you compare magic in Thedas or in Toril?
no subject
[Exhaled like a concession, though it's all thought at its core. The segue from Leto's first question towards his second, sinking back around his shoulders till they're laying side by side.]
At least in Kirkwall, I felt connected to your lyrium. [Selfish of him isn't it? To aspire for it still, knowing what it cost. Something he has to make up for now through scent, through the traces of him that linger to Leto's skin and clothes when he wanders out into the wide terrible world beyond tavern doors, having to hope that it's enough. So what he means is: at least in Toril] I could always tell when you were near or closing in— felt it right down to my bones—
Although I don't miss the pain of that bloody shard.
[He withdraws his fingers from their tanglement with only the slyest of grins, pressing with one thumb against the center of an opposing palm as if massaging out a phantom pang.]
Outside that I can't begin to compherend the limits of templars or their Circles. And Maker knows I've no intention of ever learning in the event that we manage to return. But yes, I believe you're right.
There was a difference.
How much of that difference was owed to magic being either demonized or canonized rather than treated as simple studywork, however, is impossible to say.
Because for all the nights I spent reading unseen in Riftwatch's rather expansive library, I've scant little to show for it beyond the idea that maybe chaos is baked into the marrow of the Fade in ways the living can't unravel owing to the god that made it. [This is, perhaps, the only and potentially last time Astarion will ever deign to admit a certain belief in the Maker being real. Cherish it, if that matters to you.] Or maybe, were Minrathous not a hotbed of simpering corruption and the south not an utter mess of counterweighted denigration....[ —well] and if the Chantry didn't opt to hold its own fun little group bonding exercises like localized genocide here and there along the way, there might exist more methodical ways of dealing with demons, magic, and lyrium to say the least. Half the time it felt as though trying to do anything in Thedas involved a great amount of experimentation. Luck.
[Poor Rosalind must've been up to her ears in work.
She might still be, now that he thinks of it. If she isn't dead or whisked away into the ether once more.]
But what do I know? I'm just a simple creature who prefers his husband happy— and myself too, if it can be helped.
As a treat.
[The necklace is that. As is this moment.]
no subject
For now: his larger point is more important. Demonized or canonized rather than treated as simple studywork— and it's such an objectively true fact that it almost takes Leto by surprise. And yet: that is the difference, isn't it? Religion and magic have been interwoven for centuries in Thedas; that was part of the reason for all those Exalted Marches, after all, save Andraste's own original one. First to attack the elves and their wild magic, and then, later, to return to Tevinter to declare war on the empire again and again for their magical heresy.
He hadn't realized . . . all these months he's marveled at the fact that Baldur's Gate isn't another Minrathous, but it's that, isn't it? Magic simply is here, neither elevated nor reviled. It isn't an automatic trait for power, nor is it reason to single a person out. It almost seems too simple, except that it makes so much sense that Leto wonders at the fact he'd never thought of it before.
All those thoughts are pushed to the side as Astarion crisply adds that last sentence. Leto's eyes flick up, going from internal thought to focusing back on his husband.]
You make me happy simply by being near me.
[Like so many of the things he says, he says it simply and steadfastly: as much a fact as it is a compliment. Inching in closer, he bumps his nose gently against Astarion's cheek, unable to resist the extra bit of affection.]
And you know a great deal more than you ever get credit for— from myself or otherwise. Clever thing, don't think you can fool me.
[It's a compliment and quiet teasing all at once, making way for what he says next.]
I miss being connected to you. I will never miss the pain of my lyrium, nor all the years of agony it caused me, but . . . it was a comforting thing to feel your shard pulling on it. To watch you in the glow of it, and feel the way you took so much care never to touch it unexpectedly.
[It was so soothing, too, those nights when one of them would wake up screaming. How many times had Leto woken up with a jolt, iron still searing around his neck and his mind in Minrathous, only to know instinctively that he was safe.]
You are not wrong. Perhaps it was religion that made all the difference . . . making magic into something to be fear or reviled or cherished, but always something different. Add that to the centuries of blood magic, genocide, and all the ways in which that thinned the veil . . . I doubt they will ever be able to go back. Here . . . it still baffles me each time it is treated so mundanely. Like furniture, or rain . . . it defies comprehension some days, though the longer I spend here, the more I grow used to it.
The way gods are treated around here still defies my comprehension.
[A few seconds pass, and then, quietly:]
You think the Maker real?
no subject
As you said in a way, you've seen the way gods are here; they're not shy about their presence— only selective about who's on the receiving end.
[The word 'selective' has a sneer to it. Not a day goes by when he can't recite how many days his voice went hoarse from prayer. His knees bruised by more than just his duty.]
....but then he gave me you.
[Or someone did.
Something that plucked him from the worst of his already rock-bottom nightmares, and set him not just smack dab in the middle of a place both void and free of Cazador Szarr, but directly in the hands of his dear wolf. His beating, vibrant heart.
Twice.
(More, perhaps, if those attuned visions his young lover sports are indicative of anything direct.) And so the silence is expansive. Takes the boundless shape of what one might call divinity in variable forms, tethered deeply to them both.
He knocks back against that gentle contact, feeling the transmuted measure of his anchor shard straining towards his lover's lyrium.]
How can I not believe in him after all that....?
no subject
Perhaps he'll never know. Perhaps it is a flaw in his own personality, that he wants so badly to believe and yet feels far too much doubt to ever fully commit. It makes sense to think that the Maker has died long ago; it makes more sense still to think that He is nothing but a figment of imagination, born out of a desperate longing for order in a world built upon chaos. But then again . . . what are the chances? Two elven slaves born centuries apart in worlds apart, destined to find one another not just once, but twice, thrice, endlessly, over and over again . . .
For those dreams of other lives eternally linger in Leto's mind. He does not speak of them often, for they're overwhelming to consider and take a long time to process— but they linger. He dreams of them often, and writes them down in the aftermath: trying to match each dream to a different lifetime, desperately scribbling down clues and observational details as he recalls them. There's no pattern to them, no meaningful denotation as to where or why or how they find each other; the only consistency is that they do. Always, they do.]
I do not disagree. I cannot say I do not believe in him, not when I look at all that has happened between us, but nor do I think him such an active presence as others might. A dead echo, perhaps, feels most right.
[Cold skin is impossibly soft beneath the stroke of his thumb. It never fails to awe him a little— how something so strong has the capacity to be so soft all at once.]
. . . but there are times, Astarion, when I find it easier to believe in you than the Maker. For it was you who survived all those years. You who found me, and I who found you, over and over, no matter what tore us apart. In every world, in every iteration my dreams show me . . . it is no mere coincidence.
And I am loathe to attribute that to anyone else beyond our wills.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)