Joined— [His head spins when he manages to yank himself upright across his own forearms.
Reality spins faster.
Surrounded by a grand study and suddenly it feels cramped enough to choke. A box. A fenced-in, miserable bracket surrounding the humiliating concept of co-rulership through the absurdity of a bedded bond: as if they were a pair of mortal weaklings. As if their sire watched them fuck just to prove a point about getting along (oh Astarion, you know that wasn't it; he loves you more than that). As if their past sharpness meant nothing whatsoever compared to a couple instances of good behavior. Their thundershirt: Fenris' ability to suck down come— oh yes, that's the glorious making of true vampiric sovereignty, isn't it? Divine Right the punchline shoved between two sets of open legs. 'Which consort did you choose?' 'I don't know, their merits are so varied— they both give such good head.'
The Court will have a field day once news of this gets out. Joined together.]
—with him?
Have you lost your lightdamned mind? [Hand over hand, he turns (albeit slowly) where he sits— rearranging himself through buckled sets of trembling inches that force the idea of disentanglement while he finds his way into hunching over, that precise angle the definitive key to pulling his own leg free. He doesn't care that his tone is disrespectful.]
Is this a bloody joke?
[Gods, maybe it is. Maybe this is the part where his master breaks into a knowing chuckle at last, confessing that he knew just how his fretful first-sired would pitch such a bitter fuss if he thought it wasn't him meant for the throne. Fitful little Astarion, endlessly short-sighted even now on the eve of his departure.
1/2
Reality spins faster.
Surrounded by a grand study and suddenly it feels cramped enough to choke. A box. A fenced-in, miserable bracket surrounding the humiliating concept of co-rulership through the absurdity of a bedded bond: as if they were a pair of mortal weaklings. As if their sire watched them fuck just to prove a point about getting along (oh Astarion, you know that wasn't it; he loves you more than that). As if their past sharpness meant nothing whatsoever compared to a couple instances of good behavior. Their thundershirt: Fenris' ability to suck down come— oh yes, that's the glorious making of true vampiric sovereignty, isn't it? Divine Right the punchline shoved between two sets of open legs. 'Which consort did you choose?' 'I don't know, their merits are so varied— they both give such good head.'
The Court will have a field day once news of this gets out. Joined together.]
—with him?
Have you lost your lightdamned mind? [Hand over hand, he turns (albeit slowly) where he sits— rearranging himself through buckled sets of trembling inches that force the idea of disentanglement while he finds his way into hunching over, that precise angle the definitive key to pulling his own leg free. He doesn't care that his tone is disrespectful.]
Is this a bloody joke?
[Gods, maybe it is. Maybe this is the part where his master breaks into a knowing chuckle at last, confessing that he knew just how his fretful first-sired would pitch such a bitter fuss if he thought it wasn't him meant for the throne. Fitful little Astarion, endlessly short-sighted even now on the eve of his departure.
(How it stings that he sighs instead.)]