[How his selfish heart aches to feel Astarion nuzzling against him. Slow relief washes over him, a tension he'd only half-realized he was holding ebbing from his frame as he wraps his arms around his beloved. Here you are, come here, and he knows all isn't suddenly forgiven, but nor does it have to be. It's enough that Astarion at least sees the shape of his plan; it's enough that he knows Vakares did not do this to him to humiliate or hurt, nor acted out of a thoughtless kind of cruelty. It's enough to hold him right now, on the eve of his departure.
There you are. He returns each fierce nuzzle with one of his own: kissing the top of Astarion's head again and again, nosing against silver curls as he soaks up every bit of him. Here you are, his darling. His beloved firstsired. His consort, his Astarion, so loved and so longed for, here you are.
And when clawed fingers catch his chin, he draws back, willingly going where Astarion leads: his concession. A concession, too: he does not correct that teasing little comment. Let Astarion have his biting remarks; Vakares has never demanded complete obedience from either of them.]
And with you leading the way . . . what will I wake to find my empire has become, I wonder.
[He really is quite curious. Every coven is different, just as every vampire is; whatever is to come, their coven will change. Astarion and Fenris will have their own preferences and ways of doing things— and Vakares is eager to see how they flourish when offered that kind of power.
More sincerely, then:]
You could leave, Astarion. You could have for centuries now.
But I am more glad than I can say that you won't.
[Oh, his darling. His precious consort, his little gemstone so very loved . . . gently, he leads Astarion towards one of those overstuffed armchairs. Come here, tugging him into his lap as he has a thousand times before. Come here, precious thing, and he can still remember the very first time he did it. All those years ago, back when it had just been the two of them . . . he does not rue the present, but he does miss the past sometimes.]
Now tell me, my little gem: shall I still step into the sun?
[It's not a rebuke. It really isn't. Rather: it's a gentle nudge, trying to gauge his consort's mood. Are you still angry, are you still upset, and it's all right if he is. It's all right if they work it out in one last rut (for they have done that before, Astarion viciously biting as he fucks him until his anger ebbs) or if Astarion wants to lay out his grievances one by one . . . but he does not want to let such things lie until he's certain they're through with it.]
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There you are. He returns each fierce nuzzle with one of his own: kissing the top of Astarion's head again and again, nosing against silver curls as he soaks up every bit of him. Here you are, his darling. His beloved firstsired. His consort, his Astarion, so loved and so longed for, here you are.
And when clawed fingers catch his chin, he draws back, willingly going where Astarion leads: his concession. A concession, too: he does not correct that teasing little comment. Let Astarion have his biting remarks; Vakares has never demanded complete obedience from either of them.]
And with you leading the way . . . what will I wake to find my empire has become, I wonder.
[He really is quite curious. Every coven is different, just as every vampire is; whatever is to come, their coven will change. Astarion and Fenris will have their own preferences and ways of doing things— and Vakares is eager to see how they flourish when offered that kind of power.
More sincerely, then:]
You could leave, Astarion. You could have for centuries now.
But I am more glad than I can say that you won't.
[Oh, his darling. His precious consort, his little gemstone so very loved . . . gently, he leads Astarion towards one of those overstuffed armchairs. Come here, tugging him into his lap as he has a thousand times before. Come here, precious thing, and he can still remember the very first time he did it. All those years ago, back when it had just been the two of them . . . he does not rue the present, but he does miss the past sometimes.]
Now tell me, my little gem: shall I still step into the sun?
[It's not a rebuke. It really isn't. Rather: it's a gentle nudge, trying to gauge his consort's mood. Are you still angry, are you still upset, and it's all right if he is. It's all right if they work it out in one last rut (for they have done that before, Astarion viciously biting as he fucks him until his anger ebbs) or if Astarion wants to lay out his grievances one by one . . . but he does not want to let such things lie until he's certain they're through with it.]