[It's an odd relief that Astarion does not dance around the question, nor pretend that he does not single Leto out in some way. That above all else disarms him, so that when the actual answer comes about, he isn't going in with his hackles raised. You are mine, Astarion says, and Leto—
He expects a rush of anger. Repulsion, perhaps. Mine is such a shackling word, after all, and he has heard it plenty of times before. How often had Danarius asserted the same thing? My dear little wolf, jealously hoarding him like a jewel, wrapping a collar around his throat and unleashing him only ever to bring glory to his master.
He expects the same now. The feeling of iron wrapped thick around his throat, panic rising within him, screaming at him to squirm free of whatever expectations Astarion holds, but— no.
No. Nothing of the sort. Instead: a quiet shiver of pleasure running up his spine, a swell of satisfaction as his heart beats a little faster. For mine is what Astarion says, but . . . yours is what Leto hears.
His to protect. His to cherish. His to spoil and serve and love. To be a former slave is to know exactly what it is to give all of yourself to another, and perhaps it breaks something irreparably in them, for Leto knows that feeling so well. Devotion and adoration, a desire to hoard and keep and protect that which you have found on your own. It isn't possessiveness, and then again it isn't selflessness, either. They cling to each other with white knuckles, so desperate not to lose the only thing in their lives that has ever made sense.
Leto knows. He does, truly.]
It goes both ways.
[He does not mean to say that. He means to offer something better— some wise reflection about possessiveness, perhaps, or a quiet assertion that he understands what Astarion means. But the words slip out of him nonetheless, and he does not take them back, for they are true.]
no subject
He expects a rush of anger. Repulsion, perhaps. Mine is such a shackling word, after all, and he has heard it plenty of times before. How often had Danarius asserted the same thing? My dear little wolf, jealously hoarding him like a jewel, wrapping a collar around his throat and unleashing him only ever to bring glory to his master.
He expects the same now. The feeling of iron wrapped thick around his throat, panic rising within him, screaming at him to squirm free of whatever expectations Astarion holds, but— no.
No. Nothing of the sort. Instead: a quiet shiver of pleasure running up his spine, a swell of satisfaction as his heart beats a little faster. For mine is what Astarion says, but . . . yours is what Leto hears.
His to protect. His to cherish. His to spoil and serve and love. To be a former slave is to know exactly what it is to give all of yourself to another, and perhaps it breaks something irreparably in them, for Leto knows that feeling so well. Devotion and adoration, a desire to hoard and keep and protect that which you have found on your own. It isn't possessiveness, and then again it isn't selflessness, either. They cling to each other with white knuckles, so desperate not to lose the only thing in their lives that has ever made sense.
Leto knows. He does, truly.]
It goes both ways.
[He does not mean to say that. He means to offer something better— some wise reflection about possessiveness, perhaps, or a quiet assertion that he understands what Astarion means. But the words slip out of him nonetheless, and he does not take them back, for they are true.]
Do you know that?