A lesser creature would snap under its boundless gravity, caught off guard the way Astarion finds himself in those passing seconds while his master's grip still holds him and his wedded consort's fangs settle coolly against his lips (but he's not lesser, is he? Astarion). Softer than it should be. Sweeter than it should be. Oh no, he's not some stumbling cub on buckled legs— (Fenris, that is— ) not with his profile leading before either of their minds have a moment to keep pace. Thoughtlessness begetting thoughtlessness, considering it's Astarion that gives chase in the narrow aftermath, smearing red beyond the border of their mouths.
Then there's wine, and there's drinking, and a shocking number of slighted guests even deftly pretend to be happy for them— and partway through all those necessary overtures involved in such a dizzyingly attended coronation, the old, embattled lion that devised all this knotwork-solemnization slips away.
Small in stature.
Subtle gestures.
Misunderstood in the moment (or not, depending on attentiveness), just a single sweep of passing pressure along his darling's shoulders as they endure a flood of accolades and deferential flattery— capped by a silent kiss to their respective cheeks— their temples. Common as the contact traded each and every night before sleep or during dullest conversation. No more words to shed when everything's already been long uttered between them (and punctuation can hardly overstay its welcome without bleeding into the next chapter).
By twilight's stumbling entrance, when the doors have all been shuttered and the grand hall hushed down to a dispersing din already rife with drowsied calm, Archduke Vakares sleeps.
It's nothing they didn't know was coming.
Inevitability has a habit of kissing their shoulders just as frequently as their sire always— (ah) did.
But they aren't led by his spawn to his bed. Or to their own bedchambers either, for that matter. Call it a belated gift, perhaps, on behalf of an apologetic patron that had one last little card tucked high within an unassuming sleeve:
An atrium.
A former one, converted with blacked out windows where gossamer arches had likely held aloft old skylights— only mosaics now, but the oil-black mirror shine of countless tiles overhead is as fittingly stunning for a pair of heirs that seem as at odds with each other as that selfsame show of vivid stars and swirling void. Less prone to mixing than battling each other for dominating clarity, yet underneath: one bed. One half-study. One storage chest. One grooming table. One to one to one to one, with the bottom line being the same rule their clever maker always tried to impose— share.
Astarion slips in last, through a half-cracked door frame; such a serpent of a beast that he can't suppress his own nature even in a slumbering manor. Winding his coils into empty space, and setting those albinic eyes on the only other figure present.
(And gods, they do look so small in a room this expansive, don't they?)]
Did you mean it?
[He asks dryly between the sounds of (inherently) prowling footsteps. No clarification given, naturally.
no subject
A lesser creature would snap under its boundless gravity, caught off guard the way Astarion finds himself in those passing seconds while his master's grip still holds him and his wedded consort's fangs settle coolly against his lips (but he's not lesser, is he? Astarion). Softer than it should be. Sweeter than it should be. Oh no, he's not some stumbling cub on buckled legs— (Fenris, that is— ) not with his profile leading before either of their minds have a moment to keep pace. Thoughtlessness begetting thoughtlessness, considering it's Astarion that gives chase in the narrow aftermath, smearing red beyond the border of their mouths.
Then there's wine, and there's drinking, and a shocking number of slighted guests even deftly pretend to be happy for them— and partway through all those necessary overtures involved in such a dizzyingly attended coronation, the old, embattled lion that devised all this knotwork-solemnization slips away.
Small in stature.
Subtle gestures.
Misunderstood in the moment (or not, depending on attentiveness), just a single sweep of passing pressure along his darling's shoulders as they endure a flood of accolades and deferential flattery— capped by a silent kiss to their respective cheeks— their temples. Common as the contact traded each and every night before sleep or during dullest conversation. No more words to shed when everything's already been long uttered between them (and punctuation can hardly overstay its welcome without bleeding into the next chapter).
By twilight's stumbling entrance, when the doors have all been shuttered and the grand hall hushed down to a dispersing din already rife with drowsied calm, Archduke Vakares sleeps.
It's nothing they didn't know was coming.
Inevitability has a habit of kissing their shoulders just as frequently as their sire always— (ah) did.
But they aren't led by his spawn to his bed. Or to their own bedchambers either, for that matter. Call it a belated gift, perhaps, on behalf of an apologetic patron that had one last little card tucked high within an unassuming sleeve:
An atrium.
A former one, converted with blacked out windows where gossamer arches had likely held aloft old skylights— only mosaics now, but the oil-black mirror shine of countless tiles overhead is as fittingly stunning for a pair of heirs that seem as at odds with each other as that selfsame show of vivid stars and swirling void. Less prone to mixing than battling each other for dominating clarity, yet underneath: one bed. One half-study. One storage chest. One grooming table. One to one to one to one, with the bottom line being the same rule their clever maker always tried to impose— share.
Astarion slips in last, through a half-cracked door frame; such a serpent of a beast that he can't suppress his own nature even in a slumbering manor. Winding his coils into empty space, and setting those albinic eyes on the only other figure present.
(And gods, they do look so small in a room this expansive, don't they?)]
Did you mean it?
[He asks dryly between the sounds of (inherently) prowling footsteps. No clarification given, naturally.
—well.
At least not without a clever, weighted pause.]
That smart little quip about the coins.