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therookery2022-07-20 03:59 pm
illithidnapped) wrote in therookery2022-07-20 03:59 pm
Entry tags:
CRYSTAL | MISS ME, DARLINGS?
FORM: sending crystals, during the truth event, you know what to do
SENDER: your favorite rogue, Astarion xoxo
RECIPIENT: as always, everyone
NOTES: if you drank Truth Soup, cough up your feelings; if you didn't drink the soup, make it worse for everyone, I dare you
[Someone's bored tonight. And it's been over a year since the last time he felt restlessness stirring him into needling action— particularly when he's noticed a couple of blurted-out confessions running high and harsh in the air. He could sleuth around. Sniff about for any signs of volatile tampering (or ask if this is just the next phase of whatever sleepless affliction's still nipping at everyone's collective heels)....
But this is so much more fun.
Anyway— ahem, and all that:]
Name one thing you like about someone else in Riftwatch. Anything. Anything at all.
Bonus points if you feel like getting weird with it.
[And don't think he's generous enough to actually start this game himself: that, you're all going to have to do on your own.
Or maybe just ask nicely.]
no subject
[Not as loyal. That's....interesting.
You know in hindsight, maybe it was nothing but the grandness of Sebastian's bearing, or maybe it was the substantial distance between them, battlefields and armies being what they are— or maybe it was the wealth, when everything's said and done. The notion of royalty inherently favorable because of course it is, at least to one stranded elf busy scraping up coins when he knew luxury once, even in torturous captivity.
Either way, Astarion's surprised to hear it. It's not what he'd expected or imagined.
('You think he'd go for someone like you? Should I introduce you?' 'No human prince in Thedas is going to shack up with an elf— not officially, anyway. I'm just saying it wouldn't be the worst job, playing paramour to a regal thing like that. Lots of favoritism, influence, wealth.' 'Yeah, he's not bad to look at.' 'Shut up, darling.')]
I saw him. At Starkhaven over half a year ago, when Corypheus pushed south. [The clarification's important; he knows Leto can't remember.] Tantervale went up in flames, and everyone thought Starkhaven was next— but he was right there on the front lines, dressed in white and gold, putting up such a fight that even now I can't really deny that might've been what ultimately held the figurative line.
I can tell you he survived the fight. And that last I checked he's still there, hale and whole, looking after his people.
[It's one. One of Fenris' pack that survived, albeit one of the outliers, possibly; Astarion studying Leto's expression as they're left half-tangled around one another, sitting upright and sprawled oddly now— legs bracketing his companion's own. Trying to get a read on it all in his own practiced way.
Fond and kind are all well and good, and there's more he wants to ask, if not for:]
....you didn't turn them in, though? [It's a hunch. Something about the way Leto says it. Loyalty, always so important to him.
And Astarion can't help but wonder if it's because that's what he was attuned to, or because for anyone forced into it for so long— well, speaking from personal experience— that's the greatest gift to be given, isn't it.]
no subject
And maybe that was the problem right there. For Leto had always gotten the impression that Sebastian, fervently faithful creature that he was, knew in the depths of his soul that whatever the Chantry decreed was Correct and Good. And so it followed that if anyone opposed it, they were Wrong. And it was really as simple as that.
But you know, the Chantry is also the reason there are alienages. The Chantry was the one who struck Shartan's canticle from their official records. The Chantry led a March against the Dales and canonized a man whose greatest achievement was that he terrorized and murdered more elves than anyone else. The Chantry, Leto knows, says that anyone who isn't human is somehow farther from the Maker's light, and thus utterly unsuited for any kind of clerical role.
For the Chantry is only an organization. And every organization is made up of people: fallible, petty, prejudiced people. And it's not that they don't have faith; it's not even that they're being deliberately malicious. It's that it's so, so easy to justify just about anything under the header of religion. It's so easy to hear your own thoughts and think them divinely blessed, especially if those thoughts are reinforced and reiterated as Right.
Blind belief is a terrible thing.
Leto has plenty of opinions, and he certainly believes they're right. But he's also aware that he is, when you get right down to it, kind of a prick about some things. It is what it is, and he isn't a bit sorry for it, but it does affect his viewpoint. If nothing else, this past conversation has proved that: what he says isn't always what he believes, and his traumas and emotions both can cloud his mind and his opinions both.
He hadn't approved of Hawke sparing Anders all those years ago. But he hadn't threatened to raise an army and raze an entire city to the ground because of it.]
. . . no. I didn't.
[He's slow to say that, rising up out of the depths of his own thoughts.]
When she attained the position of Guard-Captain, Aveline once told me that there were reports with my name on them. Complaints from our neighbors, and inquiries from Danarius' agent. Thank you for getting rid of them, I told her, and she informed me that she hadn't. Another time, she told me to be more discreet about my very existence as an elf in Hightown.
[Now, why he had brought that up? He glances away for a few moments, but ah, this is much easier to deduce.]
I see the way we are looked at when we leave the house. I remember the way those in Teviner would stare at me when Danarius would send me on an errand. Elf. Slave. It barely mattered what they objected to, but the thought behind it was always the same: put a toe out of line, stop apologizing for your existence, stand tall and proud on your own, and we will put you right back in your place.
I suppose my running to the Templars would feel the same. Turning them in to a higher authority that I did not trust, for every organization is a little corrupt. I did not approve of them, but . . . nor did I have any wish to see them dragged off in chains, torn from our sides because I felt pettily malicious.
Does that make sense?
no subject
And yes.
[Does that make sense? Does anything, at times? Even compulsive enchantments have their limits, it seems, for Astarion fully grasps what Leto means when he draws his lines between the two comparisons despite the ways they drastically differ— the emphasis fit around trust and corruption: for him, he'd have felt the oppressor, even if he saw the reason behind the argument of mages being kept in check.
It's complex. And complexity doesn't do well in being shaved down into something so simple as true or false, good or evil. His mind stumbles over the conflict with the Chantry, all the promises of reason and civility— the assurances it wouldn't be so bad, or that things have changed, or that no one would let it reach a tipping point, or— or that the mages have Rifter's best interests at heart, to flip the coin to the other side and see just how much a pretty lie can be upsold.
And in the end, what is goodness if not something malleable?]
They were your friends.
[The bottom line, Astarion assumes.]
I imagine, given your closeness, that even if you didn't agree with one another, they still helped you— and you did the same in refusing to sell them out.
A little rough. A little unfortunate, that he wasn't close enough to do the same.
Or....[Hm. Astarion, who so often teases those most devoted to the Chantry, suspects he might know the type.] who saw that as his own way of helping them.
[Funny isn't it? Like slotting in a name into a convenient little phrase. The __ can't manage themselves, so we do it for them. Pick your poison: elves, mages, non-believers, the poor, too, if treading over Toril's own messier tendency to do the same; the pattern's very much there, and so soothing a thought to anyone that might take it in at face value, wanting it to be paradise rather than a shackling cage.
Still, though:]
Odd that he didn't actually just do it himself, though, when you refused.
Must've been a shattering blow, once—
Well. [It's been said enough already; maybe they don't need to trample over mentioning it directly every two seconds.]
no subject
At a guess: he felt he owed Hawke.
[He shifts again: this time pressing himself up against Astarion's torso, urging him into reclining back a little more, his legs stretching out as he does. It's clumsy affection, thoughtless and a little hungry, more intent on proximity than anything involving settling in. It's neediness, yes, but more than that: it's a sign of vague comfort. Anders is a difficult topic; Sebastian far less so.]
Hawke helped him avenge his family, and I assume he felt he owed her a debt. He did owe her a debt, frankly, as did we all. But to explicitly betray her trust and turn in her friends . . . I suspect he felt it wasn't honorable.
[Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to lose his allies. Who can say?
He's quiet for a moment, letting the answer sit in the air. And then, quietly:]
I'm glad you know.
[Of all of them. Sebastian and Anders, Merrill and Aveline, Varric and Isabela . . . all of them are important.]
I . . . it has been a long time since I spoke of them. I was too angry to do so before. But I . . . they were more family to me than any blood relation I have ever had. And I am glad to share them with you.
I would tell you more, too, if you would like to hear it. But I have a question of my own, [and there's a hint of a smile on his lips, faint but noticeable,] so long as we are revealing such truths to one another. Concerning something I found in your room.
[Not a bad thing, certainly, not judging from his expression or his bearing.]
no subject
Before Astarion settles back more fully, content to be the equivalent of a fanged chaise lounge for his adored counterpart. Uniquely secure, and steeped in shared heat.]
Mm. I'm glad you told me. Normally I'm not the type for sentimentality, owing to my own jealousy and bitterness over owning nothing of the sort, and not quite knowing how to handle it if I did. [The puff of air in his throat is for his honesty. Forced, yet not wrong.] But given that it's you— that they're all part of who you are, even in their absence— I find I'm only drawn to it. The idea of warmth and comfort. What it meant to you. What it must have been like.
There's a great deal more I'd like to know. Questions I'd like to ask. And if you're not against writing to one very handsome— albeit possibly troubled— prince, it couldn't hurt to let him know you exist. Maybe after all this time, he's grown t—
[To.... slowing to a clunky stop at the edge of his mouth, one arm now wrapped loosely around Leto's shoulders like a shawl. Pale fingertips twitching for a beat.]
Err....in my room?
[If he sounds a little on edge, it's only because he's trying to remember what he actually has in his room, stockpile that it is of odds and ends— though much of what made his home in Lowtown a cluttered mess is now reasonably dispersed around the mansion at large.
Still, he's a magpie of a thing, and a pessimistic one at that. Given the change in subjects, he can't help but make a broader leap across all possible logic itself: had he unintentionally plucked up something belonging to Hawke? Leto's friends? Something more incriminating? Or— what, maybe it's drugs?
He has those, after all. Because of course he does.]
no subject
But ah . . . better, maybe, to focus on other things. His eyes flick up at that uncertainty, and despite himself, his mouth twitches upwards in amusement.]
So nervous . . . now you make me wonder what else is in your room. I promise you I did not intentionally invade your privacy; Ataashi warped her way into your wardrobe, and I feared she would claw all your clothes to pieces before she found her way out again.
[But he won't leave him in suspense any longer. Hoisting himself up, he carefully fits his fingers around the base of Astarion's throat.]
I did not think your proclivities extended to collars.
[And then, mercifully (and brutally honestly):]
Do not misunderstand me: I am not upset. I was . . . unsure, at first, on what it meant or why you had it, and the immediate association to my own enslavement repulsed me. But . . . I am not upset, nor angry, for I've had time to think about this. And the idea of it— on you, at least— is intriguing.
Besides: with anyone else, I would assume they wished to fetishize my past, and they would suffer the price for it. I would be angry. But as always, you are different. You know what it is to suffer as a slave; I do not fear you playing at master and slave for bedroom sport.
[So. There, and then his mouth runs on:]
And I remembered what you wrote in our list. About being your prey . . .
[Well. That's for later, he thinks vaguely. Far, far in the future, for though he connected the dots, he can't yet bring himself to imagine a collar around his own throat. It isn't an impossibility, but . . . mm, well, one thing at a time.]
In any case: it intrigued me. And I wished to discuss it with you.
no subject
What potent punctuation, the sound of fabric tearing in the background: Ataashi's lowing growls painting an all-too-vivid picture of the would-be chaos Leto describes— and one that turns Astarion a far paler shade of bloodless than usual.
Or maybe that's just his rabbiting pulse, jumping hard beneath the alluring pressure settling around his throat, tangible and tentative. Crimson eyes running dark with dilation as synaptic impulse takes control of all his senses. His tongue wet, his throat dry, before— ]
Drugs. [Blurted out sharply.
And it's not that he's not fully immersed in considering the rest of what was said, overwhelming as it was, it's just— Leto asked; the compulsion is there.]
Aquae Lucidius. Under one of the stone panels in the far wall.
In the mattress' slats, too, beside a locked coffer full of stolen gold. Everything I took from Riftwatch, in addition to Thedas' wealthiest residents— in case their fortunes were marked or enchanted.
Black powder's stitched behind the painting of myself, the one hung over the fireplace.
And two stolen bottles of egregiously expensive Carnal 8:69 Blessed are tucked within a false panel in the back of the wardrobe, bundled up with a sword I commissioned for you. A gift. [which comes with the sheepish addition of:]
....alongside a few strands of your hair.
[When he clears his throat, it's sharp.]
That last one's for me.
[Not you.
Of all the things he didn't mean to confess.]
no subject
In truth: there is a flash of . . . oh, don't call it hurt, for that's too strong a word. But Leto is startled to find that there's so much that he doesn't know about. Bits and bobs, little secrets that Astarion is well within his right to keep to himself, and it's not that Leto doesn't have his own secret little things hidden, but . . . he's gotten so used to the two of them knowing near everything about each other. It's a short, sharp reminder that such a thing isn't always true.
But it isn't bad. Black powder, truthfully, is the one that shocks him most at first; the rest is a surprise, but not an overwhelming one. Aquae Lucidius is interesting for some very specific reasons, one he's sure they'll explore some night together, and the same with the wine. The money makes sense, and Fenris nods faintly after hearing it— who cares if it's stolen? It's them against a world that tries to make life unfair and difficult, and they need all the help they can get. Besides, it's not like they're swimming in money; the mansion takes care of a lot of expenses, but not all.
And that isn't the reason Leto freezes to hear what comes next, but it's a reason.
A sword I commissioned for you. A gift. And that must have cost . . . oh, he can't imagine. A sword? A commissioned sword? One made tailored to him, a blade that suits him and only him, oh . . . and he has no idea what it looks like or what qualities it has, but even the plainest longsword isn't cheap, not when it's new. And it's not about the money, but then again, it sort of is— for though they show their love in a multitude of ways, still, still, it means so much that Astarion should go out of his way like this. To explicitly spend so much just for his Leto, when he knows damn well he never needed to, that Leto wouldn't dream of ever asking such a thing from him. From him, Astarion who has hoarded and stolen and saved every damn coin he could, for this world is so unkind to elves who have all the cards stacked in their favor, never mind an ex-slave Rifter from another world. Astarion who looks at Thedas with the keen eye of a survivalist, always pitting his own odds against all the dangers and horrors of the world. For Astarion to take that amount of coin and think yes, this is where it will serve me best—
He has no words, truly. He tries to come up with some, but all the things he can think of to say are paltry, and he looks a little frantic as he tries to think of them. Thank you and this means so much and I didn't know, no, none of them are right. And thank the Maker for a loose tongue, for Astarion continues on. A few strands of your hair, and he knows what that means. He knows why the other has kept it; why anyone keeps such a thing from their lover.
(And beyond that: why Astarion, functionally immortal, might look at his beloved and want a keepsake. Why he plans for an eventuality that he might need a reminder of his kadan, for they live in such a dangerous world).]
I want a token from you.
[Wow. It's blunt and comes out completely wrong, a bratty little addition that wasn't at all what he meant. Leto shakes his head and reaches for Astarion's hand, clasping it between his own.]
I mean only—
You mean so much to me. You are . . . I did not know you had these things, but I care little for your secrets, for they are yours, and I would not begrudge you them. They intrigue me— I want to try that drug with you, I want to drink those vintages when you are ready, if you wish to share— but they are yours to have and keep. But a sword—
No one has ever—
[Up, down. His gaze always goes a little anxious.]
I do not have the words to describe what that . . . what you mean to me. And what it means to me that you would get me such a gift. I find it overwhelming. No one has ever given me such a thing before, and I am not socially well-adjusted on the best of days, never mind equipped to handle such displays of affection, things I know must have cost you a great deal. But I am . . . I—
Thank you feels wildly inadequate, but I do not know how to tell you the depths of my gratitude. My adoration and love for you, how it refracts and grows as I see how much you adore and love me. My . . . my fear that I am not worthy of such a thing, but I look at you and . . .
[Oh, even with this forced honesty, you can't tell what isn't there. The words elude him, his emotions too large to disseminate in such a way. He takes a breath, and then, more steadily:]
You have a lock of my hair. I would have happily given that to you if you had asked. I would even sit for a locket portrait, if that's what you wish.
But I wish for something for yours. Something I can wear. A scarf, or an earring, or . . . anything. But that I can wear to declare to everyone that I am yours, proudly and boldly. I would have the world know that I am yours and yours alone, yours no matter what, loyal to my dying day.
no subject
(His sins are stitched into his skin. He wears them the way he wears his fangs, his scars, his corrupted gaze and wicked hands— and yet Leto looks at them and confesses he fears he's not good enough. How? How, when he remains the most breathtaking thing Astarion's ever set eyes on. Something too perfect to ever take for granted, knowing what he does of the dark.)]
You would look good in earrings. [Low, that confession. Thumb pressing softly, against the lobe of one of Leto's ears, rubbing at it for a few steady beats.
He's overwhelmed; they both are, and this is how he tries to wind them both down, rolling pressure running smoothly over warm skin.]
But I'd rather you have something that you can keep close, without requiring my fangs nibbling at your ears to puncture a pretty little hole or two for it to fit through— [he mimics the act of piercing with one dull pinch of his fingers] mm. Not that I'm against the idea overall.
[Something to revisit later, maybe.]
....but are you certain you want one from me?
[Neither one of them are chivalric creatures. Leto— Fenris— isn't a knight in shining armor any more than the vampire-turned-elf wrapped protectively around him. For all his talk of Eladrin and their brilliant glory, Astarion grasps precisely how far he's fallen. How they, both of them, don't slot beautifully into Thedas' neatly drawn lines enough to warrant gilt tales of timeless devotion.] You remember what I am, don't you. What vampires are. We're not—
Typically speaking, no one would ever offer a gesture like this. It'd be like....[his voice trails off in temporary thought] asking a demon to thread a ribbon through an inscribed band. Stand on a balcony so that you could serenade it, or kiss your armor before battle.
[Of course Astarion gathered strands on his own. Of course he hoarded it all away like a pining villain in a picture book, dragging claws over mementos too delicate (I would sit for a locket portrait, if that's what you wish, and he'll greedily return to that later), but:]
I wouldn't even know what to give you.
2/2
It's Astarion that sits up first.]
No. No, absolutely not, you mangy beast— this isn't going to be one of those cutesy little scripted affairs where a dog coughs up a narratively relevant item so that everyone around them cheers. No thank you.
Shoo. Shoo!
[And with that swatting show of disapproval aimed at her snout (none of it connecting, of course), she skitters away, plodding off the bed and vanishing through the nearest wall in a blaze of green light.]
Tsk.
The nerve.
no subject
He chuckles in the aftermath, glancing towards the wall where she'd disappeared before aiming a small smile up at Astarion.]
I know what I ask of you. And from whom I am asking it.
[It's calmer. No less honest, but at least missing some of the raw intensity of before. Setting the damp sleeve down, he twists a little further, settling in to once again halfway face the other man. One hand grasped between his, his thumb patiently stroking against the curve of his palm.]
Truly, Astarion. I care little for what others might do or what foolish notions they might have; they are irrelevant, and always have been. I know what you are. A vampire. A fearsome predator. A creature that stalks the nights in search of victims to drain. A murderer. A seductor and corruptor, one that uses and uses until their victim is spent in every possible way.
Yes. I remember.
[He doesn't smile, not for this, but there's still that gentle warmth in his gaze.]
I remember you making me dinner three days ago. Burning it, admittedly, but still, the attempt was sweet. I remember you tucking the blankets close each night around my body during the colder months, fussing over whether I was warm enough— an act I loved, for it made me feel safe, and yet that I feared pointing out lest drawing attention to it made it cease. [Ahem. Anyway.] I remember you, menace that you are, distracting me from my nightmares with wicked tales of how you'd take me the next morning— and when that did not work, telling me stories of Baldur's Gate instead, and the sights you had seen in the city.
Yes. I wish for a token from you, and only you, for no other will serve. You are a vampire. And you are a high elf. And you are mine. My amatus. My kadan. I do not use those words as mindless endearments, and you know that. Astarion, I know what you have done to the rest of the world, but truthfully, I am little better. What I look at, truly, is how you treat me— and you are kinder and more thoughtful, than any I have ever encountered before.
[Remember this. Remember I cannot lie to you, and remember these words, for I mean every single one. He holds his gaze for as long as he dares, trying to convince him. Know that I love you. Know that you mean more than anything or anyone.
The moment passes, and he adds:]
As for what . . . scold her all you like, but she was right. A bit of fabric— not, not this, I do not wish for it to be covered in wolf drool— will serve. I would ask for something with your crest on it, if you had such a thing, but in lieu of that . . . something with your initial on it, perhaps.
Think on it. I do not need it right away.
no subject
No more beating around the bush, so to speak.]
If I ever had a crest, I couldn't tell you. It's as gone as the rest of my old life. My memories. [Astarion isn't saying it to deflect; obvious in the next moment when he adds:] Still, I'll think of something—
You have my word.
[Wicked as he is, he means it: discarding the ankle-deep concept of forced honesty, it's the first time anyone has looked at him in absolute full (all his ugliness, all his attempts at open-handed trust), and— so unmistakably— embraced it not just for what it is in shallow comfort, but what it could be, disentangling the jagged wire left knotted through his chest after two centuries of bloodied palms.
He'll be worthy of that trust. He'll pay it back in kind.
That, or he'll die trying, thinking it worthwhile to his last sip of sallow air.
Chased by a crude imitation of noble gallantry as his caught hand is raised and turned: cold lips kissing the edge of tattooed knuckles, pressed down for one drawn out beat. Fangs settling (light) over skin a moment later, possibly a clever play on the notion of how he ('I know what you have done to the rest of the world, but truthfully, I am little better.')— how they— oscillate freely between dignity and beastliness alike, driven only by their own unshackled whims.]
Mm. I want something from you in turn. Something that isn't stolen. Whittle for me, or find something for me to wear of yours. I would take you up on that locket, but [ah] I'm afraid I still can't picture something so delicate wrapped around my throat without getting lost or broken.
After all, I adore finery, but as you can see—
It doesn't survive around me.
[His chin dips once, nodding towards the sleeve at Leto's side, mangled and utterly defeated, and forming a darker pool of drool over soft sheets.]
But speaking of things around my neck....[There, narrow fingers turn as they free themselves from a matching grip: sliding around to settle Leto's hand in the dip between thumb and forefinger, gentle when they're framed around the base of Astarion's throat once more.]
I should confess, I hid that collar to keep it from upsetting you; I told you anything I had was yours, and I meant it, it's just that I knew you'd struggle if you saw it without warning.
Possibly with warning, too.
Yes, my darling. [He leans into that pressure across his neck, a steady difference of degrees.] I've a weakness for the idea, though I know far, far too many— my former master included— who would delight in discovering that truth.
[A beat, crimson shining along the lower rise of shadowed irises.]
....you, on the other hand, I wouldn't mind being tethered to.
no subject
Anyway. A problem for later, for now they're focusing back on the collar. And oh . . . he knew it was true from the moment he found it (so carefully tucked away and hidden, buried beneath layers of silk shirts and carefully pressed trousers), but still, something in him warms for that confirmation. I knew you'd struggle, and how easily he says that; how openly he acknowledges it, without patronization or cloying sympathy. Yes, he did struggle with it. He stared at it and remembered, just as he is now.
But the memories aren't overwhelming. They're there, and it would be foolish to pretend they aren't, but that's all they are. They don't control him. He feels the pliant span of Astarion's throat beneath his fingers, the subtle rise and fall as he takes a breath, and startles himself with the inclination— quiet, certainly, and only ever incremental, but still‐ to press down. To control that narrow span, so that what air the other man gets is controlled only by him . . .
And that's to say nothing of Astarion being tethered to him.]
How . . . tell me what you thought of. How it would take shape.
[Maybe that's the way to do this. The trauma is in the room with them, so indominable that it's hard not to defer to it. But why not replace it with something better? They only ever go as far as they wish to; a filthy fantasy is not a promise of execution. And perhaps it would help them both grow used to it. For that's the other factor, you know. Astarion was right about it. Both their masters would have gotten such sick, sadistic delight out of knowing that they— or he, Leto thinks, for he can only do so much at once— had such proclivities.]
I would collar you. Leash you. Have you be mine.
[(And the thing about Danarius' collar was this: it was not inherently sexual. There was a sexual component there, oh, yes, undeniably so, but its primary purpose was not to remind everyone that Fenris warmed his master's bed. Rather: it was subjugation. Miserable humiliation, and a pointed jab towards the Qunari, but it's not as if he ever kept it on when his master called for him at the end of the night. It was such a bulky thing, heavy and inconvenient; it did not hinder his fighting, but there was little purpose to keeping it on when no one else was around to see it).]
Have you always on hand . . .
[Still gripping his throat, Leto's thumb strokes upwards, idly pressing against Astarion's pulse. And then: gentle pressure. Exerting, but not demanding, not with the intention to cause pain. Just . . . guiding him back, pinning him to the headboard behind him, his grip on his throat slow and inexorable, as Leto crawls atop him. Straddles him, surging up to hover above him, his expression still oddly curious.]
Utilize you for my pleasure only, and never mind if you got off or not . . . yes? My . . .
[Pet, and no, he cannot say that word, hesitating visibly. But all right: not that word, then.]
Mine. Utterly and completely mine. Mine to dress up or strip down, mine to torment with pain or pleasure . . . you wish to be locked in that collar and surrender the most terrifying aspects of freedom.
Yes?
[For he needs to understand (and, maybe, see if his own desires are reflected or refracted).]
no subject
[Astarion reiterates comfortably, at ease beneath every tentative step deeper into opaque shallows.
It's an echo, and a promise, and an answer all at once: yes, Leto, every inch of his body drawn out over tangled bedding and wadded-up pillows wedging itself back against all that exploratory pressure. Yours, he says, voice running noticably tighter across the flat of his tongue as corded muscles tense beneath roughened fingerpads, and it means yes and it's all right and I'm not shying from this, keep going— conversation condensed down into a single breath. This is safe. This is fine. This is welcome.
Their masters don't live here.
Not in this room. Not between them.
Not for a long, long time.]