There he is at long last, his sire. Possessed of conviction like none other, limitlessly devoted to the path of his own perserverance— and understand, though Astarion always thrills to feel the essence of command wash over him, this isn't strictly about power: there's so much more to it than that (reducing such a complex balance down to the shiver that occasionally runs up his spine when Vakares goes utterly adamantine would be like calling a garnet an apple just because it's red). In moments like these, he's lucent, his darling. Without daylight. Without moonlight. So steeped in his own indelibility that even a cold cynic like Astarion finds himself hanging on every word. And under the brightness of an ember stare undaunted, suddenly it's not a joke anymore—not a cruel insult spat out at Astarion's feet— but a challenge. one more task set before a firstsired capable enough to leave if he so desired it.
And isn't that the underlying message for a mind as infinitely fixated as Astarion's? You could leave, Fenris could never— ]
I could leave. [Astarion reiterates softly. Breath still in his throat, book already on the floor, entirely unharmed aside from those small, clinging little puncture marks pushed in against its cover— pouring himself deeper into Vakares' touch. Wending against his chest like a thing called home at dusk. Nuzzling at everything in reach.]
Probably should, in fact. Your empire always was a sinking ship.
[(No, he couldn't leave. He won't leave; written in the fault lines of this exchange from the trail of pettier destruction strewn about to the way he draws in close. Someone inclined to run would've just run.
Particularly now, at the end of all sheltered surety.)]
....but then I can't trust my younger counterpart to leave you anything to wake up to, can I?
[Those talons alight with gentleness when they move to catch his chin, wild and yet— not. The tensity of a creature only tame by its own volition, deigning to tolerate the mercy of close comfort.
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Oh, there he is.
There he is at long last, his sire. Possessed of conviction like none other, limitlessly devoted to the path of his own perserverance— and understand, though Astarion always thrills to feel the essence of command wash over him, this isn't strictly about power: there's so much more to it than that (reducing such a complex balance down to the shiver that occasionally runs up his spine when Vakares goes utterly adamantine would be like calling a garnet an apple just because it's red). In moments like these, he's lucent, his darling. Without daylight. Without moonlight. So steeped in his own indelibility that even a cold cynic like Astarion finds himself hanging on every word. And under the brightness of an ember stare undaunted, suddenly it's not a joke anymore—not a cruel insult spat out at Astarion's feet— but a challenge. one more task set before a firstsired capable enough to leave if he so desired it.
And isn't that the underlying message for a mind as infinitely fixated as Astarion's? You could leave, Fenris could never— ]
I could leave. [Astarion reiterates softly. Breath still in his throat, book already on the floor, entirely unharmed aside from those small, clinging little puncture marks pushed in against its cover— pouring himself deeper into Vakares' touch. Wending against his chest like a thing called home at dusk. Nuzzling at everything in reach.]
Probably should, in fact. Your empire always was a sinking ship.
[(No, he couldn't leave. He won't leave; written in the fault lines of this exchange from the trail of pettier destruction strewn about to the way he draws in close. Someone inclined to run would've just run.
Particularly now, at the end of all sheltered surety.)]
....but then I can't trust my younger counterpart to leave you anything to wake up to, can I?
[Those talons alight with gentleness when they move to catch his chin, wild and yet— not. The tensity of a creature only tame by its own volition, deigning to tolerate the mercy of close comfort.
I want you, yes.]