A reverberating little thump landing as its gutted carcass collapses over tattered parchment, scattering into dismal thwips from so much jostling before sinking into silence.
And Astarion isn't any different, when the dust settles.
(Vexing. Frustrating. He's so angry. So hurt. He can feel it under his skin, seething like blackened bile in his throat— so why won't anything come?) Standing there like a slack-jawed fool: Astarion, the beguiling— who could talk the jewels off a baron's knuckles. Astarion, charmer of men; as if the words tell me are the most indiscrutible ones ever known.
Still hunched into himself.
Still angled towards Vakares, despite everything.]
What's there to tell?
[There. That's it. Start somewhere. Spread your arms, flex your claws; posture like this isn't the end of everything you'd wanted (it's not. It's not, it's not— but he can't see that anymore, blind past the tip of his nose).]
Everything's already decided. What I say won't make a damned bit of difference now....
[Ensuing pause thick against the back of his teeth, facetious in tone, and sharp as pricking claws, but—
[Understand: there's no disappointment in the way Vakares answers, just swiftness. He doesn't seek to put down, but nor will he allow any scrap of hope to thrive. If Astarion thinks there's a crack in Vakares' defense, oh, he won't hesitate to grope for it, using every trick he has to try and chase after what he wants. It's an admirable trait sometimes; amusingly vexing in others. And gods know Vakares indulges it from time to time . . .
(That's enough work for now, and Astarion's eyes were so bright as he'd draped himself over Vakares' desk, knocking away ink and paper with ease. Still such a young thing in those first few centuries, caught between bouts of intense insecurity and giddy indulgence; such a doting thing, urging his sire into playful rule-breaking and drawing him away from duty. Come here, try this wine with me, and back then, Vakares had so desperately needed it. His life had been nothing but quiet days and long nights, and it wasn't that he regretted it, but . . . gods, he hadn't realized how reserved he had become until Astarion was in his life. Clever little minx. Coy little temptation, his sweetest consort who would take him by the hand and urge him into indulgence, what's the point of living forever if you never live at all? Taking him to the theater, to dances, to parties— let me show you, let me be with you, and always, always there was that moment of truth. When Astarion would ask and Vakares would answer, and if there was the slightest hint of hesitance—)
But that was then.
This is now.
Now he cannot indulge that flare of hope.
But he can soothe it.]
But you know better than anyone that what you say to me makes every difference in the world.
[It's gentle. He takes another step forward, ignoring all the signs that scream to keep away in favor of closing the distance between them. And maybe it was a good thing that Fenris brought up the past, for now his mind is attuned to it— and that helps. It helps to remember that he has never done this before; that he is acting only out of instinct and shrewd insight— and that even a creature centuries old makes mistakes sometimes.]
. . . I should have told you alone.
[So maybe it's better to start there. Not a plea for forgiveness, exactly, but a quiet, rueful acknowledgement: I should have done this differently.]
And I will not say I did not consider that you would not like it, but . . . I did not realize just how badly it would hurt you.
[And he is their sire. And it doesn't matter what your spawn or your consorts feel, for when you're lord of a coven, it's your will that matters above all else.
Oh, it's never an easy thing to chart a different course, is it . . .?]
You feel as though I am abandoning you.
[It's a guess.]
And that I am joining you with him in a vague attempt to alleviate that loneliness.
[Tell him he's right. Tell him he's wrong. Tell me, little gemstone so loved, oh, Astarion, Astarion, and Vakares' heart aches to see him there. So desperately wounded and trying so hard not to show it, and it takes everything not to gather him up and tug him close. I'll call it off, I'll make it right, and he won't, but gods, it's tempting.]
[Acceptance. Not even death can outrun the necessity of it— nor undeath for that matter: all the instances coming to mind of his sire (more powerful in will and form than any other creature Astarion has ever known, more breathtaking than night's embrace), uttering phrases like 'I cant' or 'I must'.
And the thing is, Astarion knows he means it. That it isn't a lie when it comes slipped between sips of wine or roaming fingertips. The fact that he resents it for existing in the first place doesn't— much to his own eternal frustration— change its underlying nature in any applicable respect (so many years at one another's side breeds questionless certainty like bedrock, settled at the root of their association, concrete and entirely unshakable: if his master insults or incenses him, it's never been malicious— just knowing).
Power has its limits. So does love. So does eternal life. (So does the slouch in Astarion's shoulders. The scathing ire in his stare, fading at its seams against the cut of stubbornness laid bare.)
No, Vakares says. But what comes after it isn't a lie, either. Even if it feels like petty platitude to wounded pride. Even if— ]
Aren't you?
[Tenterhooks, that's the word for it. Weight shifting to the balls of his feet, posture pulling forwards in its tilt while the venom drains (slowly) from his tone. Closer to that ruined sitting area than the wall and its prized tomes— closer to opening his mouth, judging by the slight cinch in his jaw. Honest questions. Honest response.
(There won't be any heartfelt breaths defining the subtle shape of forgiveness, but a peaceable truce? Acceptance?
[Said so gently to be sure it doesn't come out as a rebuke. And he wants so badly to reach out in that moment, you know. His palm to Astarion's cheek, a cherishing touch (and how he used to nuzzle so freely against it, all but purring in his contentment— but ah, don't fall into that nostalgic trap, not now, or you'll never go to your rest).]
He needs you.
[It's simple. More importantly, though, it isn't a lie.]
He is such a young thing, Astarion. He know nothing of politics, or how to maneuver through the ebbs and flows of nobility. He takes the bluntest approach possible, and it will not be long before that backfires on him. He does not know how to flatter without falsely promising things, or insult without being direct . . . and he does not know how to hide what he is.
[He never has.]
And if he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed, either by some rival coven or a mob who decided they did not want a vampire in their midst.
[But that isn't the only thing he can offer. Vakares pauses for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, before continuing:]
And I fret for your solitude. I will not deny that. I ache for what is to come for you, and I do not relish leaving you. Many times . . . [No, don't go down that path.] I would see you two bond, yes. I would be happy to wake and find you two companions instead of rivals, I will not deny that. You have far more in common than either of you realize.
But I do not do it in a paltry effort to combat the ache that will come when we are parted. I do not think that he will serve as substitute for me— and I do not expect you to give him anything save your guidance and your protection.
[He exhales slowly, allowing that to sit in the air for a long few seconds. Then, his voice a little more raw, he adds:]
You know I have no gift for poetry. I do not pretend to be as deft with words as you. And so I cannot tell you just how much I ache to think of leaving you— nor how badly I will miss you, and dream of you with each passing year.
[Gods, will he ever. So much it aches. So much that he has put this off over and over, just one more year, for even when all the world was exhausting and dark, Astarion shone like starlight, bright and beautiful and perfect.]
His eyes are wet. They burn— and isn't that ironic? A vampire, weeping. Everything tense. Flared again. Hurt again. The truth of it all being that this is as much about loss and replacement between them, maybe more so than Fenris— maybe not— it's too knotted, too possessed of cluttered thorns; every time Astarion might begin untangling it it bites down on his fingers, and he makes the smarter choice to leave it be.
(Leave him be.)
Another book in his hands— a fitful mess slamming against the walls of his chest, wracking him with the urge to vomit, to run, to wail and tantrum like a child unloved— and he doesn't tear it. Claws sunken in its cover, holding it so tight that he trembles, unable to do— ]
....Young thing. Loved thing. [His muttering hoarse with the hallmarks of defeat; no closer to biting than he is to ripping that book, instead of clutching at it like a lifeline.] Talking about how you don't want to go, but you'll leave me— and add to it the shame of ceremony.
[They'll be a joke, his wedded whores. And that's aside from the fact that once Vakares sleeps, he'll be a joke, anyway— at least to all the vengeful wretches out there with wagging tongues and a tiredness for being kept in line.
And the air is thick.
And they're both so tired.
And this room....this old, forgotten relic looks nothing like it did centuries ago. Barely recognizable, rotting in the dark.]
It was supposed to be me.
[Red-rimmed eyes sliding higher, echoing the shade of his changed pupils. Red, like every vampire. Broken, like every vampire.
(Unlike Vakares, he's always been able to admit that about them.)]
At least then I could console myself with power, once you were off dreaming of the next wounded creature you'll turn after you've forgotten us both. [Unfair, Astarion. It's unfair, and he knows it— he never could stop himself from trying to share his pain.] Now what? Babysit him while the whole world laughs because 'he needs me.' [He needs you. What about me— ]
—I need you.
But you couldn't even give me the decency of my dignity as you walk out the door.
[He cannot hide the hurt that flashes over his expression at that seething statement. He knows what it is and it still hurts, for after so many centuries, Astarion is decidedly good at knowing just where to bite. Adn yet: good. Let him see that his blows have landed; he deserves that. He deserves the vicious satisfaction of having returned some of this pain, Vakares thinks, guilt twisting at his heart. He hadn't realized, he hadn't known—
But he had. And he did. And he'd assumed . . . oh, he'd assumed them smaller things. It was no act of deliberate cruelty to ignore them, and of course he'd been aware of the rivalry, but . . .
And the sentence trails, even in his own mind. But, and any excuse is a paltry one. But we had long since agreed to see others if we wished. But I thought you would grow used to him, once you realized your place in my heart could never be budged. But I did not realize how badly this would hurt you, and it's too late to take it back. Even if he could, he wouldn't. This is the right way forward, he knows it is.
I need you, and some part of Vakares' heart shatters quietly. Another year, it whispers, just as it always has. One more year, just for him— doesn't he deserve at least that? All this pain you have caused him, all this grief and hurt— wouldn't it be better to stave off your sleep for another few years and soothe him?
But he can't, and there's a thousand reasons for that. And he has to trust that Astarion will see them, even if it isn't right now. Even if he does not earn his darling first-sired's forgiveness before his rest.]
No, you don't.
[It's soft, achingly so— and before Astarion can misunderstand, there Vakares is, two hands gripping his spawn's arms with firm tenderness. Look at me, stay with me, his thumbs stroking gently as he tips his head forward.]
You want me. So fiercely and hungrily that it takes everything in me not to stay with you, even now— look at me, Astarion, [for there is nothing masked about his expression now. In place of his usual serenity is longing and grief, gnawing at him as it has for months now.]
But you haven't needed me for centuries. You are more than capable of leading your own coven; you are far more than capable of leading this one.
[A hesitation, and then:]
I used to fear that you would leave, you know. For centuries, I was certain you would. Sooner or later, you would chafe beneath my reign and leave me, and I prepared myself for that. I would not impede you, I thought. I would help you as much as I could, but I would hide my aching heart. And then, when that did not happen, I thought even then that such preparations could make me ready for this separation.
[He feels so clumsy with his words. He is a good orator when it comes to political matters, or even day-to-day things, but ah, emotions are far trickier. And yet there's no time to refine this, and so it all comes tumbling out, impulsive and as emotional as he ever is.]
It should have been you, yes— but Astarion, it is. I do not give this position to you on a whim, solely on the basis that you were my first. I give it to you because I know you are capable of leading it&dmash;
And I join him to you because he can help you.
Let them laugh. Let them sneer if they will. [Oh, he has endured it. Vakares the chaste, Vakares the pure, sneers pulling at pretty features as they'd joked both behind his back and to his face. What a field day they'd had when he'd made Astarion his consort, though he'd tried his best to shield him from it— and that's to say nothing of when he took a second one . . .
Vakares' gaze hardens.]
And then shut them up.
[Oh, how intensely he says it, his gaze hard and his words fierce.]
Prove to them that the two of you combined are far more powerful than those lazy, indulgent vampires and their sycophantic allies. Show them that you are nothing to be mocked, and show them why— for you two alone have every resource available to you. Lyrium and teeth, clever political maneuvers and minds so intelligent that they routinely surpass the vampire who sired them . . . prove to them that you are every bit as shrewd and powerful as I know you to be, and they will have no choice but to change their laughter into words of awe.
I did not do this to humiliate you, my Astarion. And I promise you that their whispers will turn to awe soon enough. It is no easy thing, to be the heir of a vampire who has never been typical . . . but I promise I did not set you up to fail.
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.
[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.]
On those roaming fingers— so mild that it doesn't even begin to break skin, let alone bruise it. Astarion's viperish hastisement so contextually gentle that it lacks teeth of its own beyond the pointed edges of harsh fangs; yes, he's fussy still. Oh yes, he's resentful of necessity, and bitter about what he'll lose in the process of attending it— but even so.]
Don't you dare.
[Wretched sire so cherished beyond measure, how dare he make him consider the possibility of something so unthinkable (never mind that it was Astarion who'd brought it up to begin with); how dare you, precious thing. Outline of my heart. Mooring cage I'll never flee. How dare he even bring that up now, when everything tangible is wading through the gaps of lax entanglement, nested softly under the press of clothed thighs and shifted ankles: chest-to-chest in ways both awkwardly undignified and artistically bewitching— unafraid of how they might look to the outside world. Lax like animals in repose are almost boneless, an arm draped here or a leg there, faces close enough together that false breath pools.]
I ought to bite your pretty tongue out for that glibness.
Keep it as a souvenir. [A kiss as sharp as spiced wine finding its way to the supple center of those lips. He's always been more inclined to physicality than soothing chatter when it comes to all sincerity; keeping hold of Vakares' jaw to press it upright in his grip, tilting only so far as it takes to work a warming little path of bitemarks and bruises down the frontside of that unattended throat. Incandescent seconds involving the satisfying give of vulnerable skin caught between parted lips (and fangs, and the roiling tip of his tongue) passing as if they were weighted minutes.
Oh, never doubt Astarion loves his sire. But despite the hierarchy instilled in their kind by default, he isn't slavishly servile in regards to his maker (there is such merit to being firstsired; the boldness rooted in intimacy that'd once been only theirs decades ago, understood by no one else): while the world bows its head in varied deference— and Astarion does the same— behind closed doors, he can reach with despotic fingertips to grip his master by the reins, knowing that's his right. His luxury.
One that truly can't be shared, given the nature of its origin.]
What did he say to you?
[Asked in a lowered rumble as he climbs to straddle his beloved. Agile spine stretched long (his shirt still open, his legs almost painfully splayed to push snugly against his master's hips across that aging settee), his hand still holding fast.]
Knowing him, Fenris wasn't exactly clamoring for sex after news like that.
[Ergo: they must've talked, those two. The scent is too strong not to have been a recent exchange, though it doesn't reek of rutting. And you know, in Astarion's hawkish estimations, they did always seem the type for quiescent conversation. Gentle reassurance in the face of adversity, and all that.]
[Understand: he does not play favorites, not between his consorts. With them, yes; there is such a delight to elevating the two of them above all others in this coven, pointedly putting them first. But everything that Astarion gets, Fenris does too, and vice-versa, for he will not cheat one to sate the other, no matter how they might beg for it.
But that doesn't mean he treats them uniformly. That would be foolish; the relationship he has with both of them is unique, and so he cannot spoil them both with the same hand, as though there is no difference between them. And within those relationships, there are variances. Privileges afforded to each in turn based on their sired-order, and things that Vakares cannot deny. Fenris is the younger, and so he gets treated with a softer hand, and as for Astarion . . .
Astarion gets this kind of intimacy. This pointed dominance, this reversal of roles . . . oh, yes, this is his right. This is what centuries of intimacy has earned him, and after all this time, Vakares relishes it: the relief that comes from allowing someone else to take control. The joy of letting his eyes flutter closed as the air slowly expels from his lungs, his lips parting as Astarion bites at his throat. Impudent thing, he thinks, and slides his hands around lithe hips, both palms gripping full cheeks and tugging them forward.]
Nosy.
[As gentle as those bites. He'll let Astarion have his way, oh, yes, for that is the least of what he owes him, but he needn't be passive about it. His fingers grope at supple curves, blunted talons digging in as he pulls the other vampire forward, rut, guiding him along a grinding lapdance.]
We spoke of the past. Of my turning, and of yours— though when it came to you, I advised him only to ask of your past.
[No secrets revealed, no details offered. He is not callous.]
He wanted to understand why I made the decision I did— and why I had not simply made you heir instead.
[Astarion pointedly asserts through fangs that've been gritted by the heady grinding of their hips (not angered: incensed), his eyes reduced to lidded sits, brimming with arousal left unchecked.
An exhale thicker than blood sliding from his throat on the next pull forwards, grip fastened by the pricking tips of his claws— counterweight to the way Vakares pulls him in against the arching of his spine; the feeling of exhaustive constriction running rich along his inner thighs, each new burst of sensation more bewitching than the last (settee grousing loudly underneath their shifting balance, too old to endure too much too quickly, making this a languid march towards their own hedonistic effulgence).]
And where those thoughts of yours have been roaming without me nearby to guide them.
[Not to mention his fingers, his hands— his heart. Oh, there's no great unmasked truth involved in revealing that he thinks about Vakares all too often when they aren't together, unable to swallow down the sleepless twitch of paranoia skittering within his skull; unable to stop pining for the maker he's without. And yet in this case?
It's just a bluff.
A predictable, believable lie.
He was thinking of Fenris, actually. His secondary shadow. His purported twin amongst the flock. The only other soul capable of completely consuming that much of his mind— and a rival to their master's claim on his waking thoughts, though Astarion could never in his wildest dreams even begin to see what ire has to do with fond obsession. No, there's nothing there to pick over, he asserts to the emptiness of his own mind in addition to the open air with his breathless denial.
(If one rejects anything long enough, it might well become the truth.)]
I'll never understand what it is you two adore so bloody much about the past, anyway. [That much alone is true, though it comes with a delving slip of pale fingers past the barrier of Vakares' lips— smoothly gliding over the channel of his tongue for a few exploratory beats. A mask for the way he then pushes back against the hold across his hips (oh, but the feeling of those palms rucking against his trousers), slow in sinking down towards his sire's shadowed legs.
Lower. Lower....
Catching lacework in the outline of his teeth.]
It isn't memory that can suck your cock, you know....
[Distantly, Vakares realizes he's grateful for this. It's the most tangential emotion right now, a faint wisp all but buried beneath affection and swiftly-rising arousal, but it's still there. There were so many other ways this might have gone, and he would have happily endured them for Astarion's sake— but gods, this is a far sweeter way for them to part. One last intimacy just for the two of them, just as it had been from the start.
But that's a quiet thought, buried in the next moment beneath the fierce heat that thunders through Vakares' veins. Crimson eyes have gone hooded, his next false inhale a slow and even thing. There you are, my little pet, lust and affection tangling together in one searing moment as he looks down at the figure kneeling between his legs. Not just his Astarion, not anymore, but his consort: slick-mouthed and eager, his eyes bright as ever as he tugs at his master's laces. A pretty thing so eager to settle into his role one last time, oh, he's missed this.
Leaning back in the chair, his legs fall open lazily.]
And yet I've so many memories of you doing just that . . .
[His fingers card gently through silver curls, combing them back before tightening, tugging Astarion closer to his cock.]
So prove your point. Show me how much better it is to linger in the present, Astarion.
[A little smirk as the head of his prick rubs against plush lips, precome smearing against a mouth already swollen from use.]
[Shadows trace across sharp features, cascading underneath the map of Vakares' fingers, their outline almost lost in a sea of moonstone curls. Between them, light plays where it catches glossy traces of saliva pooled across pale lips— or across the occasional little flick of a pink tongue as it darts outwards, its anticipatory habits making Astarion look that much more serpentine in nature— which, given the metaphorical and mythological aspects of all scalebound, covetous beasts, is something of a feat all its own.
And the thing is, it's not an act.
Tomorrow's going to come no matter what he wants; he's done his railing and rattling and vicious ranting, and in the end it brought him this (the sight of spread legs clothed in dark silk, a pair of coalfire eyes glancing down across abyssal distance— as if a dark room is the same thing as an oceanic chasm, endless by design). Fingers pushing along the borders of those open legs while his teeth and tongue do the bulk of cruel unraveling, making a show out of each knot undone without the aid of either hand. The past compared to this is papered faff— even at its most beautiful, there's no comparing dusty recollection to molten ardor. To the electric scrape of friction scratching fiendishly against bare skin, sparking up the start of something grander.
They've had better nights, the two of them; they've certainly had better futures laid out at their feet, too.
So why not here? Why not now? Why choose anything else but the present, when it's always the present that gives so very much.]
Maybe I will....
[Purrs the thing already doing just that: freeing a thickened cock with just enough pressure to let it spring from tighter confines— knocked back against his lips.
There's a soft click when his tongue leaves the roof of his mouth in the next few beats beyond that (effort made to unfurl while he opens wide around the tip of that sweet length, glazing the very crown of it— and forcing those legs wider as he rocks forwards onto his knees), flirting with the idea of claiming what invites him in.]
You do have to admit, if I was ever going to sabotage your hopes of sleeping for an eternity, I'd do it by making sure you couldn't rest—
[Consonant barely kissed before he plunges over rigidity itself, forcing tense heat to the very hilt until it slams against the back of his waiting throat. Muscles working in a coaxing pull akin to the sensation of swallowing—groping at his sire's ensnared prick using only the deftness of his tongue.
And since he doesn't need to breathe....
Well.
Staying there is the only logical choice, isn't it? (How better than to make his maker pant.)]
[It's a roughened noise: a panting exhale that can't decide if it wants to be a moan or a rueful laugh. Both, maybe. A moan for the sight of Astarion on his knees, his eyes so dark as he stares up at his sire; lips stretched pliantly around the base of his prick, suckling eagerly in worshipful devotion even as his darkened gaze promises nothing but mischief. And a moan for how bloody good he is at this— gods, and Vakares ducks his head, his lips thinning as tension wracks through his slender frame. Every eager swallow sends sparks shooting through his veins, heat pulsing through him as his prick sinks so deep into narrow, hot confines. His hips shift experimentally, rolling forward and pulling back by mere centimeters; it's worth it to see slick flesh slowly rock in and out of Astarion's mouth.
And for a moment, the instinct rises in him. Vicious and beastly, a snarling demanding desire that nearly overcomes him for how intense it is. Blackened lust and vampiric arrogance tangle together, and all Vakares wants in that moment is to be mean. The fantasy sears itself in his mind so vividly; without thinking he tightens his grip in Astarion's hair, his gaze gone black as he looks down at him.
He wants to fuck him, you see. Yank him by the hair and keep him on his knees while Vakares fucks his mouth with vicious hunger. He wants to watch as his consort's eyes water and roll back; he wants to see that fierce need for attention finally sated, Astarion moaning thickly as his mouth is taken. He wants to hear sated moans turn into wet whimpers and pleas, his hand shoved between his legs and all of him thrashing and fighting uselessly, caught between desperate desire and an instinctive need to flee. He wants to see Astarion pushed to the brink, to the very limit of lust; he wants to claim him over and over, spilling into his belly until he outright drools come. Until his eyes are hazy and he sways with exhaustion, a little slut neatly broken, compliant and eager only for his master's taste.
And the trouble is: Vakares could have that.
Not just as bedsport. Not just as a playful little game that they can call off whenever they please. He could ruin his consort tonight, and no one would stop him.
Control yourself.
One long, slow breath.]
Good boy.
[He could ruin him, yes. He could enact that fantasy. He could do so many things— but then, he thinks, he would not have this. His doting consort, his immortal beloved . . . his wicked little darling, and Vakares' hand drops, palm cupping his cheek for a few adoring seconds.]
So your plan to stave off my rest is to become my cockwarmer for the next century . . . perhaps you have learned enough patience for such a feat.
[It's low. Rumbled and roughened, his fangs biting at his lip as he settles into this pleasure.]
You were such an eager thing at the start . . . mm, don't touch yourself, [he adds almost absently.] When you come, it will be at my hand, impaled upon my cock, your legs spread and your expression all mine to drink in.
[He's quiet for a little while, then. Content to do nothing more than drink in the sight and sensation of Astarion kneeling before him, fingers stroking slowly through his hair. But then, softly:]
Praise so potent it boils in the pit of his stomach (while his lips run tight around his maker's divine breadth, messily inviting worship) through voiceless pops of slick saliva welling thick against his lips. Posited scenario so inviting he can't help but break into a submerged groan while his head bobs appreciatively up and down (and up and down— ) milking at a cock more perfect than it has any right to be in a rough substitute for fantasy made real; told not to palm himself— behaved enough to abide by it regardless of how his fingers twitch— but desperate enough to fulfill his need another way: noisily suckling at that prick in rhythmic measure that's matched to the bouncing of his unclaimed hips. As if bumping it to the back of his throat over and over again is the same feeling of pressure described in lurid detail.
A whore rutting with spread legs. Eager to please. Eager to open himself to being brought low in every last sense of the word. Used. Fucked. Ridden hard and put away wetter than anyone might have thought possible.
Transitive friction near to palpable if he shuts his eyes (if he focuses long enough for the sluggish drag across his tongue, his lips— down, down into the back of his throat), and it's not hard to think he's already seated atop the sire he covets above all else, taking his conquered pleasure from gilded heighths instead of waiting for it to be offered on a silver platter.
Good boy.
Words lapping distantly at the shores of his own focus, thrumming like the very weight within his mouth (and while it's been a while since he bedded something living, he'd swear his master's just as scalding as he feels: white-hot jolts of reflex warring wildly along his tongue with ruthless patience), unhurried to reach the finish line. In the wreckage of a room (a hall, a wing) sporting the evidence of his countless misdemeanors and well-aimed slights, he is a good boy now. Of that, he's keenly certain.
The world, Vakares says. True both ways, if one feels like being metonymical.
An entire world trapped inside the margins of their merger.]
I know.
[Slick, the outline of those words. Brief interlude fit against the underside of a well-loved cock gone flush with spared attention.]
And could you blame me for being eager? [Asked while his knuckles slide between soft thighs, working slowly at plush curvatures left buried beneath dark trousers and their unwound laces. Methodical and sweet.]
You were a bewitching fascination in those days compared to anything I'd ever known. Willful and isolated both.
[Not strictly Astarion's past, but....oh, it is the past, isn't it? Close to the horizon, like a foothold left exposed.]
And you have always been so deft at drawing me out . . .
[And it suits that they should speak of the past like this, doesn't it? Astarion mouthing them slickly against Vakares' cock, his lips slick with saliva and every word coated in lust and love both . . . how many times have they done this? How many times has Astarion fallen to his knees like this, so hungry to worship his sire that he wouldn't take no for an answer. Deft fingers tugging at laces and crimson eyes glimmering with mischief, you can spare half an hour, can't you? For me?
It isn't that he longs for those times. The past hundred years have been far more good than bad, after all, and he does love both his consorts so very much. But tonight of all nights . . . tonight, Vakares decides, they can allow themselves a bit of nostalgia. They deserve to indulge (even if some small part of him twinges in guilt, there and gone). In wake of so much grief and hurt, misunderstandings and aching hearts that will take so long to repair . . .
Just for now, Vakares thinks, they can pretend it's just the two of them once more. Not a trio, but a duo: a sire and his darling spawn, bound together forever in love and lust both.
He tugs those hands away from his thighs and urges Astarion back up, his hands firm but not cruel. Come here, murmured softly as he draws him into his lap again. There's a faint shiver for how plush curves still clothed press against his cock, but ah, he has far more important things to focus on. His hands slide slowly over the swell of his hips, urging him in close. And heat smolders in his dark gaze as he stares so intently up at his little siren. There you are, his attention suddenly focused and fixated on the only thing that matters. On his first love, so very different than any other. On the very first thing that had ever piercing through the protective cocoon he had built around himself, deadly as a blade and yet soft as starlight.]
And am I still so bewitching, little gem?
[Softer, his tone. Indulgent in a particularly besotted way, even as his hips rock up to grind and rub against him.]
Take off that shirt, now.
[His own hands are already moving: one prying swiftly at the laces on Astarion's trousers; the other lapped at with practical swiftness before it slips down the back, two fingers massaging indulgently at the tight little cinch always so eager to greet him— and ah, how swiftly he opens. How quickly Vakares can pump two fingers into him, middle and ring fingers hooking indulgently as he drinks in every moan and twitch and whine that might occur.]
I told you that you would come only on my cock, and that is true. But I intend to come in you. And now that you've gotten me so slick . . . I want to watch you bounce. I want to see you take all that you are owed, and all that you desire . . . and I want to see you enjoy it.
[His hand tugs those trousers down hard, forcing them just beneath the curve of those supple cheeks: baring him without going to all the trouble of stripping him fully.]
Go on, my darling. My love. My Astarion . . . I am yours.
Well you certainly don't bore me, if that's what you're wondering....
[Awash with blazing vigor coaxed up from keener embers: Vakares' physical response (dilated eyes, bated breath; hands that waver in their focus) the kindling that sparks beneath his words— and every visual it depicts in the lightless pith of his own tack. Shadows pooled around the image of a cock fit snug into its sheathe, with slick glimmers of glistening oil and precome flickering like starlight over vulnerable skin that wrings at its own bridle. His prick tipped skywards as it leaks, bouncing between buckled arms that brace his pistoning hips— neither hand touching— please the only thing on his lips between the constant slap of skin-on-skin. Percussion fit for desperation, when each beat's quicker than the last. Please come— please come so that I can come— touch me, sire— maker— lover—
Oh, love.
One who knows just how to rein him in when he's gone too far. No blunt pressure or cruder force applied through the sort of crass manipulation the other lords employ (it's easy to tell a slave to rut or a thrall to obey— it might even be easy to make them want it by rewarding them like a sotted hound: a couple of treats or a pat on the head the closest thing to careworn coaxing. But Vakares? Oh, no. When he herds them away from their worst instincts it might damned well be through learned knowledge of their needs, but he isn't some mastermind at work plotting moves across a board with a few expendable pawns, just a clever thing in love; easing off the worst of his consorts' pain or ambition. Their wants or their maddened streaks of mouthing lust.
In other words: it's no crime to be canny the way their sire is canny, where even his absent mind runs hot with mastery's keenest breath.)
His thighs sting from the biting pressure of his trousers and their straddled tension, muscles no doubt bruising when he rocks himself forwards into it (cold air cut across his exposed curves, wholly unguarded against clawed fingers or a waiting prick), but— ]
How could I ever resist?
[An answer to all things, that. Laid out sharp through the hollow rumble in his throat, hitching before it stops— (slick like those fingertips, pulled away from in one little roll of movement)— and speared fully on thick ardor in the very next beat.
To the hilt.
To the lurid flush.
Friction just a measure for how deep he runs inside the tightest narrows, bumping hot against malleable walls (no one else to reach between them, dulling down its blistering intensity: each twitch finding a corresponding pulse of entrenched force, left to right, forward and back, digging in as he arches forwards) into— fuck— ]
—you are mine....
[Through the grit of his teeth and the ache in his jaw: his. Through the unnfixed and unanchored movements outside the drag of rigid satisfaction rocked harsh against the figurative grain; his hips rolling before they work up into a steady rhythm evoking the exact images from before.
(Vakares was his from the moment he'd bitten him, and he always will be.)
Pact sealed by thready gasps and shuttling rhythms (writ by snaring snaps of rapid movement rather than trite words), hunched over well-braced palms.]
Don't you dare forget it just for shutting your pretty eyes.
[Oh, never, never. Never, not his Astarion nor the way he belongs to his starlit boy— and it isn't because of this. It isn't because he takes a cock well (so well, and the lurid moan that sounds as tight, slick heat envelops Vakares to the hilt is far too loud as it echoes hoarsely down the hall). It isn't because he's so very clever in bed, coyly proposing new games or showing just how well he can handle a fuck (and it had taken Vakares so very long to realize that his consort thought he needed to be so inventive to keep his sire's attention— oh, darling boy, as if he ever needed to be anything but himself). When he goes to his slumber, he won't dream of all the lewd ways his consort has kept his bed warm, no.
He'll dream of his eyes, just as they right now. Crimson sparkled with darker flecks, narrowed in focus and yet eagerly triumphant, as smug as any kitten who just caught his first mouse. His voice, purring low in satisfaction even as his thighs shake for how much he enjoys this; the curve of his cheek and the scent of him thick in the air, as all the he ruts and grinds and bounces atop his prick, half-sated from being filled alone.
I love you, Vakares thinks and does not say. There's no room for it, not right now— but still, as his hands settle on Astarion's hips and darts his head up to catch his beloved in a swift kiss, he thinks it. I love you, I love you, I love you, so fiercely and so achingly that he has reconsidered his slumber too many times to count. I love you, and it is unlike any love he has ever had before; it is wholly different and separate than what he has with Fenris, and all the stronger for it. I love you, every bit, emphasized over and over the steady pump of his hips upwards, cock daggering in and out of his consort's slick hole. I love you for all that you are and more—]
Ah—
[— and for this, too.
For the goading taunt in Astarion's voice, yes. For the way he ruts so eagerly, his hole cinching so tight with rhythmic glee as his cock bounces between them, thick and swollen and untouched. But most of all: for the way he ignites a blaze unlike any other within his sire, coaxing him past all those centuries of self-control.
Before he realizes what he's doing, there's the sound of fabric shredding and seams ripping apart; in the next moment Astarion's trousers lie in tatters around him, thighs springing free even as he keeps up his bouncing rhythm. His hands lock around his hips, his eyes flicking down to drink in the frankly lurid sight of his cock bouncing between them, thickened hang flushed darkly in desire— and then up to that pretty face again, their eyes locking for one brief bursting second before Vakares surges up.
Mine, he thinks, or maybe it's yours, the two tangling up together in ouroborosian desire as his palms cup plush curves and he stands, yanking Astarion in close. His fingers dig in cruelly, spreading his consort open with vulgar intent (and he wishes he could see it: the sight of Astarion suspended in midair, spread open and speared atop a thick prick, oil dripping around the rim of his swollen hole) as he crosses the room in two strides and slams the elf against the wall.
There. There, his hips bearing Astarion's weight as his hands wrap around slender wrists, pinning him against the wall with cock and fingers and lips— a searing kiss, his tongue thrusting forward as he fucks into him. Hard and hot and fast, and every slap of skin against skin serves as echo for all of those words: I love you, you're mine, I'm yours, I will see you filled with my claim and mewling for my touch all because you said you wished it, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—]
Vampires are quickened things, even unto themselves; expending precious effort on even registering the scope of their own reflexive movements would be as pointless as it is a total waste— not including the inherent blindness attached to all present depravity (the distraction that'd only drag him away from just how good it feels to be held aloft in his master's claws over the drooling pinion of his prick: sensation melted into immoral weightlessness. Senselessness. Panting like an animal at bay for all the good it does him); loss of control one more ritual steeped in utter trust. Antithetical to sightlessness, the only leap of faith they've ever shared was in the narrow band of seconds just before sharp fangs pierced his living throat.
Well—
That, and whatever comes tomorrow.
But all that matters right now is that awareness is a passing footnote.
One more glimmering little afterthought devoid of reason. Purpose. Power. That it exists as something infinitely more primordial than its clever origins— good only for tracking the differences between cold plaster and kindled skin. The scuffing divide between their bodies once they hit the wall, harsher than before and coarser than the scrape of flint across steel. His own prick pushed against hard borders (like the rest of him), pressure nothing but a vulgar denouement for subsequent violence—
(Insobrietous violence. Decadent lust fed raucous little scraps for so long behind decorum's measured bars that when they give way at last, they snap.
Even behind Vakares' stunning eyes.
His shackled mind. His fettered heart. His soul so damp with discipline that he shines in a room full of fallow wretchings, lesser as they are— even then— he proves what Astarion has always known: no beast is ever tamed. No amount of filing could ever dull sharp fangs or claws. Paperwork does not a mortal make, and whenever he finally wakes, he ruts like the wanton thing he is.)
Oh.
Oh—
There's no time to brace. Before Astarion can stutter out even an acclimating bark, his vision blots with stardust. His lungs are empty. His throat— his mouth— that savaging tempo at his hips having pumped every last drop of air from him before he's fully readied, and he can't tell if he's baying like a beast in heat or silent as the grave for how deaf he is to everything beyond the rapid sound of every thrust— fuck, the dizzying vibration of it, a rhythm so inhuman it might as well be buzzing in ways mortal things could only dream of, shattering like brittle glass beneath his skin. So damned wet with slakeless lechery the floor has to be drenched already while his own claws scrabble wildly for purchase (at the wall. At the borders of his sire. At the barely-caught fringes of dark hair, wrapped in a snapping frenzy against the back of Vakares' neck as he whines or whimpers or wheezes or screams or groans or begs or— or or or)—
No one could fuck him like this.
No one could mount him like this, bruisingly untamed and brutally untempered: a lion mastering his herd or a wolf pinning down its pack until it bows with fierce obedience would whimper just to be caught beneath his gaze. Astarion's body raw and his voice hoarse and still it doesn't stop— faster. Harder. Deeper—
Until his eyes roll back and his belly feels damp, blank slate struck across his mind.
In (blinking against the blurred lines of the ceiling); Out (gasping as he lulls against his sire's shoulders, wracked with split sensation), his lips flecked with gloss and his limbs too limp to bother twitching where they hang. Hips bouncing still atop their wicked transgressor. Cock still jerking harsh against the wall. Neck slung back, profile nosing at— a cheek? A neck? He doesn't know.
He hardly cares. Scent alone tells him who it is he's nuzzling against.
That, and the fullness of his hips.]
Hnn— ngh— [Ah. Ah, catch your breath, Astarion. Inhale before you try to speak, Astarion. Teetering on the panting edge of molten ardor won't make you any more coherent unless you try, licking at your lips first.]
[He doesn't answer at first. Sweet platitudes and clever words, oh, such things belong to the creature who reigns over this coven. The wearied diplomat, the overworked Duke— he'll have his turn soon enough, whispering sweet words of adoration to his darling firstsired.
But he's a creature of instinct now: his fingers still wrapped loosely around one narrow wrist, thumb stroking gently as he returns each of those nuzzles. Mine, their foreheads bumping together as his lips drift over the the curve of a pale cheek. A soft chin. Lips swollen and sore from overuse, and all the while his hips still pump inwards shallowly. Pearl streaks down the length of his prick, viscous droplets slowly drooling down to puddle on ancient wood as Vakares slides his lips down. Mine, the mindless mouthing of a predator finally at ease— though not thoughtlessly so. It's no mistake his mouth settles just atop those twin scars he'd given his beloved so many years ago.
(This will hurt, he had whispered to the wounded thing in his arms, until it won't. I promise you it will ease, little one. Just take a deep breath, his fingers smoothing through curls clotted with dried blood even as his fangs ached with phantom longing. It would take nothing to make him yours, that awful little voice had whispered to him. He's too weak to fight, and no one will dare intervene— take him. Strip him down and rut into him like the mewling prey he is. Fuck him from both ends and listen to him scream around the press of your cock. Flip him over and sink your teeth into his neck; promise him that you'll turn him and make him earn it, and when you've had your fun, drain the last bits of blood out of him and throw the corpse into the canal until he rots beyond recognition—
And the trick has never been that he doesn't desire such things.
The trick is knowing how to store it all up until he needs it.)
They aren't done. Even now, as the focus slowly returns to his ruby gaze, he can feel his hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Astarion feels too good in his arms, lithe limbs and cool skin; he just feels so delicious wrapped so tight around his prick, tight and hot and perfect. Mine, he thinks again, and his gaze is still a blackened thing as he stares up at his consort. His hips still pump in deep, hungry to claim every inch of that tight little cinch, and never mind how many times he's done it before, for it's never enough. It's not enough, that ugly part of him whispers, not when this time tomorrow he'll be in someone else's bed—
Enough. One last lick to those scars before he speaks.]
Mm, I have not forgotten, no. But I tell you this: I have not begun to charm you, little one.
[It's hours before they return. Long enough that night has turned to day, and it's Astarion's laughter that rouses Fenris from his dozing slumber. And then—
And then it begins.
Not the ceremony itself, but oh, there are endless preparations to be made. They're dressed in their finest, silk and satin dyed black and stitched together with the most delicate silver threads. Kohl lines their eyes, eyeshadow and accessories added to their personal tastes. Jewelry adorns their ears and throats (though not their fingers), all of it tastefully placed and obscenely expensive. Witnesses are introduced; outside, the crowds are slowly prodded into gathering. And in that way hours somehow pass, though to Fenris' mind it all goes by far too quickly.
They head into the main hall, standing before Vakares in front of what feels like the entire population of Baldur's Gate. Eyes dart between Astarion and Fenris, whispers filling the hall as people place their final bets, and gods, but Fenris hates it. He has never done well in the spotlight, and today is no different: his eyes go shuttered, his expression turning to stone as he stands next to his—
Well. Not fiancé, not really. And yet perhaps Fenris is still too tied to morality, even a century later, to not think of all this in terms of a wedding.
Thank you for your patience these past three days, Vakares says, and just like that, it's begun. Fenris' stomach pitches, but it's too late to protest. Too late to do anything but fixate on a vantage point in the distance and try not to glance over at Astarion, lest he look too much like an anxious bride. And I hope the celebrations were to your liking. It is not often I have cause to revel for so long, but the announcement of one's heir is cause for celebration, I think.
It goes on. He speaks of his family, his followers, and how loyal they all have been; he speaks of the joy of partnership, and how it was not reclusiveness but unity that made him a stronger politician and better person. He emphasizes community and teamwork over isolation, and Fenris wonders if the brighter ones in the audience have picked up where he's going with this. Certainly they all know this isn't normal; there's whispers here and there, a susurrus that only grows as Vakares sets his hands on both their shoulders.
But I digress. You are all here to see me choose my heir, and I have done so. A pause, and more than anything Fenris wishes he would just get on with it. I have chosen both of them. Both Astarion and Fenris will share command, joining together in a ceremony more ancient than even I.
And there are other words, of course. More introduction, because ceremony is nothing but talking, but Fenris is too busy scanning the crowd. Most are shocked. Some are pleased, though whether that's a good thing or not remains to be seen. The whispers grow louder— and then, just loud enough to be heard, there's a giggle. It's brief and swiftly hushed, but it's there.
Vakares ignores it. So does most of the crowd, to be fair: their whispers settling as Vakares urges them both to face one another. Join hands, he commands, and Fenris extends his own, not daring to tear his gaze away for a single second.
Do you, Fenris, swear your fealty and loyal to Astarion? Vakares' voice is low and rolling, his confidence absolute as he utters the first part of their oaths. Fenris' stomach feels like lead, his tongue numb— and yet the words slip past his lips nonetheless, for all that he stares warily as he utters them.]
The ceremony and the leers. The judgment. Encouraged by every instance of giggling or muttered commentary, their audience is a palpable chasm of shock and indignity and amusement cut through by little pulsework echoes, each one reverberated in someone else's mouth before passing on (and on, and on).... He feels the harshness of firm knuckles pressed against his own once their fingers intertwine, and from the narrow gap between them (sire and sired, all), it feels as if he's being choked by everything he's wanted for so long: the regalia fit for Vakares' shoulders is far too scratchy along its seams and artful hems (it worries at his shoulders; leaves him itching just to touch it or scrub it or rip it free); the attention from established eyes, hawkish and overtly loud (later, it will be worse); the coronating esteem his maker's always carried, stamped down in slow farewells; the brute that is his younger kin, compelled to listen to him— if only so they share.
But he's not a child, for all his frequent whinging.
The ridicule waiting for them in the wings didn't start when their sire opened their mouth to speak. It started long, long before now. (Before his tantrum or their isolation. Before Vakares treated them as equals at his heels. Decades upon decades ago, before the fresher idea of better started to eclipse the notion of is and always has been, razor lips were already peeling back to show off equally jagged fangs.) The other vampires wouldn't have spared them if Vakares uttered I choose Fenris any more than they would've done to hear Astarion: one configuration of voices might differ in isolation, true, but still— if a chorus trills from its left or its right side in equal volume, does that really make it any different a scenario?
No.
Obviously not.
Petty things— like Astarion— will always be petty things. Takes one to know one (or a lot of ones), as they say: he doesn't like it, but there's comfort to be found in the fact that Leto clearly doesn't, either. Their shared grip so stiff and obligatory that it could be a metaphor for its surrounding pomp— and you know, when it comes to a pair that looks only towards their waiting master rather than at one another, it is, actually.
But again, he's not a child. Not a fledgling. Not a spoiled prince whining for a wetted throat to suckle from, rather than standing on his own buckling legs. Eventually, the din feels more like background noise. Rustling wind equal to a drunken baroness teasing her own spawn by tugging at their ears and suggestively whispering it's such a good idea— making favorites breed for life. Literal husbandry, someone mutters back, and Astarion hears it as much as he doesn't, just like a noisy gust of wind. Birds chirruping. Shutters flapping in a breeze. Peripheral distraction warranting little as he tightens his already rigid grip, his kohl-lined eyes narrowed into lightless puddles when he adds:]
I do, of course.
[Temptation part of his own incorrigible existence, consigned to keeping quiet dignity at bay.]
If only because it'll be fun to see how many of our esteemed kin might finally strain their poor fragile little minds to tell us apart, now that they'll have to look up to call us by our names.
[Tsk tsk. So much for graceful vows— though Astarion silently smiles as a clawed thumb is dipped in blood before being brushed across his lips by an attending hand (and vice versa), staining their respective mouths a striking shade of crimson.]
It's not a nice thing. Certainly no one in the waiting audience would mistake it for the radiant smile of a bliss-filled vampire eager to be even closer to his counterpart, starry-eyed and sweet. At best, it's a sardonic thing, there and gone and yet so very vivid now that blood coats his lips.
And you know, Fenris is still such a young thing. Only barely a century old and so terribly disinterested in vampiric politics, but still. He knows how people work. He knows what details they will remember in the coming years, when all the words have faded and all that's left is the stark impressions. No matter that Vakares squeezes both his consorts' shoulders in warning, for Fenris thinks that perhaps this is what will matter most in the coming years.
This exchange. This quiet little moment when Astarion speaks and Fenris responds, the two of them suddenly allied together in a moment of quiet camaraderie.
There is so little they agree on, after all. Vakares has always been their chief point of connection, the two of them setting aside their rivalry to make their beloved happy— but perhaps they can join in on this, too. The two of them unifying not for the sake of peace or love (oh, Vakares is such an earnest thing, so eager to see the future as nothing but good and bright), but sheer bloody spite.]
A hundred golden coins says that they get us mixed up more than half the time—
[What a dedicated thing their sire is, for he doesn't pay his whispering spawn any mind. He doesn't even break his stride, intoning the next part of their oath with all the enthusiasm and muster his position requires. But the sudden squeeze of his fingers against their shoulders speaks volumes, as does the sharp little glance he darts down at both of them. Shut up.]
I do so swear—
[Loyalty. Partnership. The vows settle on their shoulders like mantles, binding them together with more than just spoken words. There's magic woven in these rituals, Fenris realizes. Not the paltry spells that wizards use, their powers torn from the Weave; this is far more ancient. It's a bitter aftertaste beneath the blood slowly dripping down his tongue, so subtle that his lyrium doesn't bother to react. Not a deliberate thing Vakares kept from them, no— simply a pledge. A binding pact, as definitive as the ties that bind they two to their sire. Each promise a lash, each vow a cinching knot, until at last—
Seal your pact before the world, Vakares commands, and Fenris' eyes focus up once more.
And maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's grief for Vakares, sudden and yet all the more painful for it. Maybe it's the wariness of a century's worth of rivalry suddenly flaring its head, sparking old instincts born of a lifetime ago that whisper that nothing is certain. That to trust is to lead oneself to destruction; that everyone, everyone is out only for themselves, and Astarion most of all. And it doesn't matter that they just exchanged a teasing joke; it doesn't matter that they both of them promised Vakares they'd do their best. Emotions don't ever need rational thought, and all Fenris knows in that moment is this:
That whatever comes next, he will have to fight to keep himself from harm.
So he hesitates. It's the briefest thing, a half-breath's balking as wariness and rebelliousness and loathing all tangle together. He doubts anyone in the audience notices, but the two near him surely do.
Act, those instincts insist— and without a moment's thought, Fenris does. His hand darts to the back of Astarion's neck, drawing him in with one quick motion so Fenris can fit his lips to his so pointedly. For if they are to do this— to embark on this partnership, to be a duo instead of a singular ruler— Fenris will not be a passive partner. He will not be the younger brat constantly waiting for his elder to take control, no: Fenris kisses as though he means to take, domineering and rough. Mine, hungry pushes and eager pulls a vulgar rhythm once, twice—
Before he draws back, his tongue flicking out to lap at the blood coating Astarion's lip.
There, now. That's far better, and he does not realize just how self-satisfied he truly looks.]
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.
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A reverberating little thump landing as its gutted carcass collapses over tattered parchment, scattering into dismal thwips from so much jostling before sinking into silence.
And Astarion isn't any different, when the dust settles.
(Vexing. Frustrating. He's so angry. So hurt. He can feel it under his skin, seething like blackened bile in his throat— so why won't anything come?) Standing there like a slack-jawed fool: Astarion, the beguiling— who could talk the jewels off a baron's knuckles. Astarion, charmer of men; as if the words tell me are the most indiscrutible ones ever known.
Still hunched into himself.
Still angled towards Vakares, despite everything.]
What's there to tell?
[There. That's it. Start somewhere. Spread your arms, flex your claws; posture like this isn't the end of everything you'd wanted (it's not. It's not, it's not— but he can't see that anymore, blind past the tip of his nose).]
Everything's already decided. What I say won't make a damned bit of difference now....
[Ensuing pause thick against the back of his teeth, facetious in tone, and sharp as pricking claws, but—
Maybe he wants to hear it, to be sure.]
....will it?
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[Understand: there's no disappointment in the way Vakares answers, just swiftness. He doesn't seek to put down, but nor will he allow any scrap of hope to thrive. If Astarion thinks there's a crack in Vakares' defense, oh, he won't hesitate to grope for it, using every trick he has to try and chase after what he wants. It's an admirable trait sometimes; amusingly vexing in others. And gods know Vakares indulges it from time to time . . .
(That's enough work for now, and Astarion's eyes were so bright as he'd draped himself over Vakares' desk, knocking away ink and paper with ease. Still such a young thing in those first few centuries, caught between bouts of intense insecurity and giddy indulgence; such a doting thing, urging his sire into playful rule-breaking and drawing him away from duty. Come here, try this wine with me, and back then, Vakares had so desperately needed it. His life had been nothing but quiet days and long nights, and it wasn't that he regretted it, but . . . gods, he hadn't realized how reserved he had become until Astarion was in his life. Clever little minx. Coy little temptation, his sweetest consort who would take him by the hand and urge him into indulgence, what's the point of living forever if you never live at all? Taking him to the theater, to dances, to parties— let me show you, let me be with you, and always, always there was that moment of truth. When Astarion would ask and Vakares would answer, and if there was the slightest hint of hesitance—)
But that was then.
This is now.
Now he cannot indulge that flare of hope.
But he can soothe it.]
But you know better than anyone that what you say to me makes every difference in the world.
[It's gentle. He takes another step forward, ignoring all the signs that scream to keep away in favor of closing the distance between them. And maybe it was a good thing that Fenris brought up the past, for now his mind is attuned to it— and that helps. It helps to remember that he has never done this before; that he is acting only out of instinct and shrewd insight— and that even a creature centuries old makes mistakes sometimes.]
. . . I should have told you alone.
[So maybe it's better to start there. Not a plea for forgiveness, exactly, but a quiet, rueful acknowledgement: I should have done this differently.]
And I will not say I did not consider that you would not like it, but . . . I did not realize just how badly it would hurt you.
[And he is their sire. And it doesn't matter what your spawn or your consorts feel, for when you're lord of a coven, it's your will that matters above all else.
Oh, it's never an easy thing to chart a different course, is it . . .?]
You feel as though I am abandoning you.
[It's a guess.]
And that I am joining you with him in a vague attempt to alleviate that loneliness.
[Tell him he's right. Tell him he's wrong. Tell me, little gemstone so loved, oh, Astarion, Astarion, and Vakares' heart aches to see him there. So desperately wounded and trying so hard not to show it, and it takes everything not to gather him up and tug him close. I'll call it off, I'll make it right, and he won't, but gods, it's tempting.]
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And the thing is, Astarion knows he means it. That it isn't a lie when it comes slipped between sips of wine or roaming fingertips. The fact that he resents it for existing in the first place doesn't— much to his own eternal frustration— change its underlying nature in any applicable respect (so many years at one another's side breeds questionless certainty like bedrock, settled at the root of their association, concrete and entirely unshakable: if his master insults or incenses him, it's never been malicious— just knowing).
Power has its limits. So does love. So does eternal life. (So does the slouch in Astarion's shoulders. The scathing ire in his stare, fading at its seams against the cut of stubbornness laid bare.)
No, Vakares says. But what comes after it isn't a lie, either. Even if it feels like petty platitude to wounded pride. Even if— ]
Aren't you?
[Tenterhooks, that's the word for it. Weight shifting to the balls of his feet, posture pulling forwards in its tilt while the venom drains (slowly) from his tone. Closer to that ruined sitting area than the wall and its prized tomes— closer to opening his mouth, judging by the slight cinch in his jaw. Honest questions. Honest response.
(There won't be any heartfelt breaths defining the subtle shape of forgiveness, but a peaceable truce? Acceptance?
Ah, maybe that.)]
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[Said so gently to be sure it doesn't come out as a rebuke. And he wants so badly to reach out in that moment, you know. His palm to Astarion's cheek, a cherishing touch (and how he used to nuzzle so freely against it, all but purring in his contentment— but ah, don't fall into that nostalgic trap, not now, or you'll never go to your rest).]
He needs you.
[It's simple. More importantly, though, it isn't a lie.]
He is such a young thing, Astarion. He know nothing of politics, or how to maneuver through the ebbs and flows of nobility. He takes the bluntest approach possible, and it will not be long before that backfires on him. He does not know how to flatter without falsely promising things, or insult without being direct . . . and he does not know how to hide what he is.
[He never has.]
And if he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed, either by some rival coven or a mob who decided they did not want a vampire in their midst.
[But that isn't the only thing he can offer. Vakares pauses for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, before continuing:]
And I fret for your solitude. I will not deny that. I ache for what is to come for you, and I do not relish leaving you. Many times . . . [No, don't go down that path.] I would see you two bond, yes. I would be happy to wake and find you two companions instead of rivals, I will not deny that. You have far more in common than either of you realize.
But I do not do it in a paltry effort to combat the ache that will come when we are parted. I do not think that he will serve as substitute for me— and I do not expect you to give him anything save your guidance and your protection.
[He exhales slowly, allowing that to sit in the air for a long few seconds. Then, his voice a little more raw, he adds:]
You know I have no gift for poetry. I do not pretend to be as deft with words as you. And so I cannot tell you just how much I ache to think of leaving you— nor how badly I will miss you, and dream of you with each passing year.
[Gods, will he ever. So much it aches. So much that he has put this off over and over, just one more year, for even when all the world was exhausting and dark, Astarion shone like starlight, bright and beautiful and perfect.]
1/2
[He cuts in roughly, the word strangling him.
His eyes are wet. They burn— and isn't that ironic? A vampire, weeping. Everything tense. Flared again. Hurt again. The truth of it all being that this is as much about loss and replacement between them, maybe more so than Fenris— maybe not— it's too knotted, too possessed of cluttered thorns; every time Astarion might begin untangling it it bites down on his fingers, and he makes the smarter choice to leave it be.
(Leave him be.)
Another book in his hands— a fitful mess slamming against the walls of his chest, wracking him with the urge to vomit, to run, to wail and tantrum like a child unloved— and he doesn't tear it. Claws sunken in its cover, holding it so tight that he trembles, unable to do— ]
2/2
Anything at all.]
....Young thing. Loved thing. [His muttering hoarse with the hallmarks of defeat; no closer to biting than he is to ripping that book, instead of clutching at it like a lifeline.] Talking about how you don't want to go, but you'll leave me— and add to it the shame of ceremony.
[They'll be a joke, his wedded whores. And that's aside from the fact that once Vakares sleeps, he'll be a joke, anyway— at least to all the vengeful wretches out there with wagging tongues and a tiredness for being kept in line.
And the air is thick.
And they're both so tired.
And this room....this old, forgotten relic looks nothing like it did centuries ago. Barely recognizable, rotting in the dark.]
It was supposed to be me.
[Red-rimmed eyes sliding higher, echoing the shade of his changed pupils. Red, like every vampire. Broken, like every vampire.
(Unlike Vakares, he's always been able to admit that about them.)]
At least then I could console myself with power, once you were off dreaming of the next wounded creature you'll turn after you've forgotten us both. [Unfair, Astarion. It's unfair, and he knows it— he never could stop himself from trying to share his pain.] Now what? Babysit him while the whole world laughs because 'he needs me.' [He needs you. What about me— ]
—I need you.
But you couldn't even give me the decency of my dignity as you walk out the door.
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But he had. And he did. And he'd assumed . . . oh, he'd assumed them smaller things. It was no act of deliberate cruelty to ignore them, and of course he'd been aware of the rivalry, but . . .
And the sentence trails, even in his own mind. But, and any excuse is a paltry one. But we had long since agreed to see others if we wished. But I thought you would grow used to him, once you realized your place in my heart could never be budged. But I did not realize how badly this would hurt you, and it's too late to take it back. Even if he could, he wouldn't. This is the right way forward, he knows it is.
I need you, and some part of Vakares' heart shatters quietly. Another year, it whispers, just as it always has. One more year, just for him— doesn't he deserve at least that? All this pain you have caused him, all this grief and hurt— wouldn't it be better to stave off your sleep for another few years and soothe him?
But he can't, and there's a thousand reasons for that. And he has to trust that Astarion will see them, even if it isn't right now. Even if he does not earn his darling first-sired's forgiveness before his rest.]
No, you don't.
[It's soft, achingly so— and before Astarion can misunderstand, there Vakares is, two hands gripping his spawn's arms with firm tenderness. Look at me, stay with me, his thumbs stroking gently as he tips his head forward.]
You want me. So fiercely and hungrily that it takes everything in me not to stay with you, even now— look at me, Astarion, [for there is nothing masked about his expression now. In place of his usual serenity is longing and grief, gnawing at him as it has for months now.]
But you haven't needed me for centuries. You are more than capable of leading your own coven; you are far more than capable of leading this one.
[A hesitation, and then:]
I used to fear that you would leave, you know. For centuries, I was certain you would. Sooner or later, you would chafe beneath my reign and leave me, and I prepared myself for that. I would not impede you, I thought. I would help you as much as I could, but I would hide my aching heart. And then, when that did not happen, I thought even then that such preparations could make me ready for this separation.
[He feels so clumsy with his words. He is a good orator when it comes to political matters, or even day-to-day things, but ah, emotions are far trickier. And yet there's no time to refine this, and so it all comes tumbling out, impulsive and as emotional as he ever is.]
It should have been you, yes— but Astarion, it is. I do not give this position to you on a whim, solely on the basis that you were my first. I give it to you because I know you are capable of leading it&dmash;
And I join him to you because he can help you.
Let them laugh. Let them sneer if they will. [Oh, he has endured it. Vakares the chaste, Vakares the pure, sneers pulling at pretty features as they'd joked both behind his back and to his face. What a field day they'd had when he'd made Astarion his consort, though he'd tried his best to shield him from it— and that's to say nothing of when he took a second one . . .
Vakares' gaze hardens.]
And then shut them up.
[Oh, how intensely he says it, his gaze hard and his words fierce.]
Prove to them that the two of you combined are far more powerful than those lazy, indulgent vampires and their sycophantic allies. Show them that you are nothing to be mocked, and show them why— for you two alone have every resource available to you. Lyrium and teeth, clever political maneuvers and minds so intelligent that they routinely surpass the vampire who sired them . . . prove to them that you are every bit as shrewd and powerful as I know you to be, and they will have no choice but to change their laughter into words of awe.
I did not do this to humiliate you, my Astarion. And I promise you that their whispers will turn to awe soon enough. It is no easy thing, to be the heir of a vampire who has never been typical . . . but I promise I did not set you up to fail.
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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.]
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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.]
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On those roaming fingers— so mild that it doesn't even begin to break skin, let alone bruise it. Astarion's viperish hastisement so contextually gentle that it lacks teeth of its own beyond the pointed edges of harsh fangs; yes, he's fussy still. Oh yes, he's resentful of necessity, and bitter about what he'll lose in the process of attending it— but even so.]
Don't you dare.
[Wretched sire so cherished beyond measure, how dare he make him consider the possibility of something so unthinkable (never mind that it was Astarion who'd brought it up to begin with); how dare you, precious thing. Outline of my heart. Mooring cage I'll never flee. How dare he even bring that up now, when everything tangible is wading through the gaps of lax entanglement, nested softly under the press of clothed thighs and shifted ankles: chest-to-chest in ways both awkwardly undignified and artistically bewitching— unafraid of how they might look to the outside world. Lax like animals in repose are almost boneless, an arm draped here or a leg there, faces close enough together that false breath pools.]
I ought to bite your pretty tongue out for that glibness.
Keep it as a souvenir. [A kiss as sharp as spiced wine finding its way to the supple center of those lips. He's always been more inclined to physicality than soothing chatter when it comes to all sincerity; keeping hold of Vakares' jaw to press it upright in his grip, tilting only so far as it takes to work a warming little path of bitemarks and bruises down the frontside of that unattended throat. Incandescent seconds involving the satisfying give of vulnerable skin caught between parted lips (and fangs, and the roiling tip of his tongue) passing as if they were weighted minutes.
Oh, never doubt Astarion loves his sire. But despite the hierarchy instilled in their kind by default, he isn't slavishly servile in regards to his maker (there is such merit to being firstsired; the boldness rooted in intimacy that'd once been only theirs decades ago, understood by no one else): while the world bows its head in varied deference— and Astarion does the same— behind closed doors, he can reach with despotic fingertips to grip his master by the reins, knowing that's his right. His luxury.
One that truly can't be shared, given the nature of its origin.]
What did he say to you?
[Asked in a lowered rumble as he climbs to straddle his beloved. Agile spine stretched long (his shirt still open, his legs almost painfully splayed to push snugly against his master's hips across that aging settee), his hand still holding fast.]
Knowing him, Fenris wasn't exactly clamoring for sex after news like that.
[Ergo: they must've talked, those two. The scent is too strong not to have been a recent exchange, though it doesn't reek of rutting. And you know, in Astarion's hawkish estimations, they did always seem the type for quiescent conversation. Gentle reassurance in the face of adversity, and all that.]
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But that doesn't mean he treats them uniformly. That would be foolish; the relationship he has with both of them is unique, and so he cannot spoil them both with the same hand, as though there is no difference between them. And within those relationships, there are variances. Privileges afforded to each in turn based on their sired-order, and things that Vakares cannot deny. Fenris is the younger, and so he gets treated with a softer hand, and as for Astarion . . .
Astarion gets this kind of intimacy. This pointed dominance, this reversal of roles . . . oh, yes, this is his right. This is what centuries of intimacy has earned him, and after all this time, Vakares relishes it: the relief that comes from allowing someone else to take control. The joy of letting his eyes flutter closed as the air slowly expels from his lungs, his lips parting as Astarion bites at his throat. Impudent thing, he thinks, and slides his hands around lithe hips, both palms gripping full cheeks and tugging them forward.]
Nosy.
[As gentle as those bites. He'll let Astarion have his way, oh, yes, for that is the least of what he owes him, but he needn't be passive about it. His fingers grope at supple curves, blunted talons digging in as he pulls the other vampire forward, rut, guiding him along a grinding lapdance.]
We spoke of the past. Of my turning, and of yours— though when it came to you, I advised him only to ask of your past.
[No secrets revealed, no details offered. He is not callous.]
He wanted to understand why I made the decision I did— and why I had not simply made you heir instead.
So curious about him, after all this . . .?
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[Astarion pointedly asserts through fangs that've been gritted by the heady grinding of their hips (not angered: incensed), his eyes reduced to lidded sits, brimming with arousal left unchecked.
An exhale thicker than blood sliding from his throat on the next pull forwards, grip fastened by the pricking tips of his claws— counterweight to the way Vakares pulls him in against the arching of his spine; the feeling of exhaustive constriction running rich along his inner thighs, each new burst of sensation more bewitching than the last (settee grousing loudly underneath their shifting balance, too old to endure too much too quickly, making this a languid march towards their own hedonistic effulgence).]
And where those thoughts of yours have been roaming without me nearby to guide them.
[Not to mention his fingers, his hands— his heart. Oh, there's no great unmasked truth involved in revealing that he thinks about Vakares all too often when they aren't together, unable to swallow down the sleepless twitch of paranoia skittering within his skull; unable to stop pining for the maker he's without. And yet in this case?
It's just a bluff.
A predictable, believable lie.
He was thinking of Fenris, actually. His secondary shadow. His purported twin amongst the flock. The only other soul capable of completely consuming that much of his mind— and a rival to their master's claim on his waking thoughts, though Astarion could never in his wildest dreams even begin to see what ire has to do with fond obsession. No, there's nothing there to pick over, he asserts to the emptiness of his own mind in addition to the open air with his breathless denial.
(If one rejects anything long enough, it might well become the truth.)]
I'll never understand what it is you two adore so bloody much about the past, anyway. [That much alone is true, though it comes with a delving slip of pale fingers past the barrier of Vakares' lips— smoothly gliding over the channel of his tongue for a few exploratory beats. A mask for the way he then pushes back against the hold across his hips (oh, but the feeling of those palms rucking against his trousers), slow in sinking down towards his sire's shadowed legs.
Lower. Lower....
Catching lacework in the outline of his teeth.]
It isn't memory that can suck your cock, you know....
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But that's a quiet thought, buried in the next moment beneath the fierce heat that thunders through Vakares' veins. Crimson eyes have gone hooded, his next false inhale a slow and even thing. There you are, my little pet, lust and affection tangling together in one searing moment as he looks down at the figure kneeling between his legs. Not just his Astarion, not anymore, but his consort: slick-mouthed and eager, his eyes bright as ever as he tugs at his master's laces. A pretty thing so eager to settle into his role one last time, oh, he's missed this.
Leaning back in the chair, his legs fall open lazily.]
And yet I've so many memories of you doing just that . . .
[His fingers card gently through silver curls, combing them back before tightening, tugging Astarion closer to his cock.]
So prove your point. Show me how much better it is to linger in the present, Astarion.
[A little smirk as the head of his prick rubs against plush lips, precome smearing against a mouth already swollen from use.]
Show me how much you want me, my precious gem.
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And the thing is, it's not an act.
Tomorrow's going to come no matter what he wants; he's done his railing and rattling and vicious ranting, and in the end it brought him this (the sight of spread legs clothed in dark silk, a pair of coalfire eyes glancing down across abyssal distance— as if a dark room is the same thing as an oceanic chasm, endless by design). Fingers pushing along the borders of those open legs while his teeth and tongue do the bulk of cruel unraveling, making a show out of each knot undone without the aid of either hand. The past compared to this is papered faff— even at its most beautiful, there's no comparing dusty recollection to molten ardor. To the electric scrape of friction scratching fiendishly against bare skin, sparking up the start of something grander.
They've had better nights, the two of them; they've certainly had better futures laid out at their feet, too.
So why not here? Why not now? Why choose anything else but the present, when it's always the present that gives so very much.]
Maybe I will....
[Purrs the thing already doing just that: freeing a thickened cock with just enough pressure to let it spring from tighter confines— knocked back against his lips.
There's a soft click when his tongue leaves the roof of his mouth in the next few beats beyond that (effort made to unfurl while he opens wide around the tip of that sweet length, glazing the very crown of it— and forcing those legs wider as he rocks forwards onto his knees), flirting with the idea of claiming what invites him in.]
You do have to admit, if I was ever going to sabotage your hopes of sleeping for an eternity, I'd do it by making sure you couldn't rest—
[Consonant barely kissed before he plunges over rigidity itself, forcing tense heat to the very hilt until it slams against the back of his waiting throat. Muscles working in a coaxing pull akin to the sensation of swallowing—groping at his sire's ensnared prick using only the deftness of his tongue.
And since he doesn't need to breathe....
Well.
Staying there is the only logical choice, isn't it? (How better than to make his maker pant.)]
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[It's a roughened noise: a panting exhale that can't decide if it wants to be a moan or a rueful laugh. Both, maybe. A moan for the sight of Astarion on his knees, his eyes so dark as he stares up at his sire; lips stretched pliantly around the base of his prick, suckling eagerly in worshipful devotion even as his darkened gaze promises nothing but mischief. And a moan for how bloody good he is at this— gods, and Vakares ducks his head, his lips thinning as tension wracks through his slender frame. Every eager swallow sends sparks shooting through his veins, heat pulsing through him as his prick sinks so deep into narrow, hot confines. His hips shift experimentally, rolling forward and pulling back by mere centimeters; it's worth it to see slick flesh slowly rock in and out of Astarion's mouth.
And for a moment, the instinct rises in him. Vicious and beastly, a snarling demanding desire that nearly overcomes him for how intense it is. Blackened lust and vampiric arrogance tangle together, and all Vakares wants in that moment is to be mean. The fantasy sears itself in his mind so vividly; without thinking he tightens his grip in Astarion's hair, his gaze gone black as he looks down at him.
He wants to fuck him, you see. Yank him by the hair and keep him on his knees while Vakares fucks his mouth with vicious hunger. He wants to watch as his consort's eyes water and roll back; he wants to see that fierce need for attention finally sated, Astarion moaning thickly as his mouth is taken. He wants to hear sated moans turn into wet whimpers and pleas, his hand shoved between his legs and all of him thrashing and fighting uselessly, caught between desperate desire and an instinctive need to flee. He wants to see Astarion pushed to the brink, to the very limit of lust; he wants to claim him over and over, spilling into his belly until he outright drools come. Until his eyes are hazy and he sways with exhaustion, a little slut neatly broken, compliant and eager only for his master's taste.
And the trouble is: Vakares could have that.
Not just as bedsport. Not just as a playful little game that they can call off whenever they please. He could ruin his consort tonight, and no one would stop him.
Control yourself.
One long, slow breath.]
Good boy.
[He could ruin him, yes. He could enact that fantasy. He could do so many things— but then, he thinks, he would not have this. His doting consort, his immortal beloved . . . his wicked little darling, and Vakares' hand drops, palm cupping his cheek for a few adoring seconds.]
So your plan to stave off my rest is to become my cockwarmer for the next century . . . perhaps you have learned enough patience for such a feat.
[It's low. Rumbled and roughened, his fangs biting at his lip as he settles into this pleasure.]
You were such an eager thing at the start . . . mm, don't touch yourself, [he adds almost absently.] When you come, it will be at my hand, impaled upon my cock, your legs spread and your expression all mine to drink in.
[He's quiet for a little while, then. Content to do nothing more than drink in the sight and sensation of Astarion kneeling before him, fingers stroking slowly through his hair. But then, softly:]
Precious thing . . . you mean the world to me.
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Praise so potent it boils in the pit of his stomach (while his lips run tight around his maker's divine breadth, messily inviting worship) through voiceless pops of slick saliva welling thick against his lips. Posited scenario so inviting he can't help but break into a submerged groan while his head bobs appreciatively up and down (and up and down— ) milking at a cock more perfect than it has any right to be in a rough substitute for fantasy made real; told not to palm himself— behaved enough to abide by it regardless of how his fingers twitch— but desperate enough to fulfill his need another way: noisily suckling at that prick in rhythmic measure that's matched to the bouncing of his unclaimed hips. As if bumping it to the back of his throat over and over again is the same feeling of pressure described in lurid detail.
A whore rutting with spread legs. Eager to please. Eager to open himself to being brought low in every last sense of the word. Used. Fucked. Ridden hard and put away wetter than anyone might have thought possible.
Transitive friction near to palpable if he shuts his eyes (if he focuses long enough for the sluggish drag across his tongue, his lips— down, down into the back of his throat), and it's not hard to think he's already seated atop the sire he covets above all else, taking his conquered pleasure from gilded heighths instead of waiting for it to be offered on a silver platter.
Good boy.
Words lapping distantly at the shores of his own focus, thrumming like the very weight within his mouth (and while it's been a while since he bedded something living, he'd swear his master's just as scalding as he feels: white-hot jolts of reflex warring wildly along his tongue with ruthless patience), unhurried to reach the finish line. In the wreckage of a room (a hall, a wing) sporting the evidence of his countless misdemeanors and well-aimed slights, he is a good boy now. Of that, he's keenly certain.
The world, Vakares says. True both ways, if one feels like being metonymical.
An entire world trapped inside the margins of their merger.]
I know.
[Slick, the outline of those words. Brief interlude fit against the underside of a well-loved cock gone flush with spared attention.]
And could you blame me for being eager? [Asked while his knuckles slide between soft thighs, working slowly at plush curvatures left buried beneath dark trousers and their unwound laces. Methodical and sweet.]
You were a bewitching fascination in those days compared to anything I'd ever known. Willful and isolated both.
[Not strictly Astarion's past, but....oh, it is the past, isn't it? Close to the horizon, like a foothold left exposed.]
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[And it suits that they should speak of the past like this, doesn't it? Astarion mouthing them slickly against Vakares' cock, his lips slick with saliva and every word coated in lust and love both . . . how many times have they done this? How many times has Astarion fallen to his knees like this, so hungry to worship his sire that he wouldn't take no for an answer. Deft fingers tugging at laces and crimson eyes glimmering with mischief, you can spare half an hour, can't you? For me?
It isn't that he longs for those times. The past hundred years have been far more good than bad, after all, and he does love both his consorts so very much. But tonight of all nights . . . tonight, Vakares decides, they can allow themselves a bit of nostalgia. They deserve to indulge (even if some small part of him twinges in guilt, there and gone). In wake of so much grief and hurt, misunderstandings and aching hearts that will take so long to repair . . .
Just for now, Vakares thinks, they can pretend it's just the two of them once more. Not a trio, but a duo: a sire and his darling spawn, bound together forever in love and lust both.
He tugs those hands away from his thighs and urges Astarion back up, his hands firm but not cruel. Come here, murmured softly as he draws him into his lap again. There's a faint shiver for how plush curves still clothed press against his cock, but ah, he has far more important things to focus on. His hands slide slowly over the swell of his hips, urging him in close. And heat smolders in his dark gaze as he stares so intently up at his little siren. There you are, his attention suddenly focused and fixated on the only thing that matters. On his first love, so very different than any other. On the very first thing that had ever piercing through the protective cocoon he had built around himself, deadly as a blade and yet soft as starlight.]
And am I still so bewitching, little gem?
[Softer, his tone. Indulgent in a particularly besotted way, even as his hips rock up to grind and rub against him.]
Take off that shirt, now.
[His own hands are already moving: one prying swiftly at the laces on Astarion's trousers; the other lapped at with practical swiftness before it slips down the back, two fingers massaging indulgently at the tight little cinch always so eager to greet him— and ah, how swiftly he opens. How quickly Vakares can pump two fingers into him, middle and ring fingers hooking indulgently as he drinks in every moan and twitch and whine that might occur.]
I told you that you would come only on my cock, and that is true. But I intend to come in you. And now that you've gotten me so slick . . . I want to watch you bounce. I want to see you take all that you are owed, and all that you desire . . . and I want to see you enjoy it.
[His hand tugs those trousers down hard, forcing them just beneath the curve of those supple cheeks: baring him without going to all the trouble of stripping him fully.]
Go on, my darling. My love. My Astarion . . . I am yours.
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[Awash with blazing vigor coaxed up from keener embers: Vakares' physical response (dilated eyes, bated breath; hands that waver in their focus) the kindling that sparks beneath his words— and every visual it depicts in the lightless pith of his own tack. Shadows pooled around the image of a cock fit snug into its sheathe, with slick glimmers of glistening oil and precome flickering like starlight over vulnerable skin that wrings at its own bridle. His prick tipped skywards as it leaks, bouncing between buckled arms that brace his pistoning hips— neither hand touching— please the only thing on his lips between the constant slap of skin-on-skin. Percussion fit for desperation, when each beat's quicker than the last. Please come— please come so that I can come— touch me, sire— maker— lover—
Oh, love.
One who knows just how to rein him in when he's gone too far. No blunt pressure or cruder force applied through the sort of crass manipulation the other lords employ (it's easy to tell a slave to rut or a thrall to obey— it might even be easy to make them want it by rewarding them like a sotted hound: a couple of treats or a pat on the head the closest thing to careworn coaxing. But Vakares? Oh, no. When he herds them away from their worst instincts it might damned well be through learned knowledge of their needs, but he isn't some mastermind at work plotting moves across a board with a few expendable pawns, just a clever thing in love; easing off the worst of his consorts' pain or ambition. Their wants or their maddened streaks of mouthing lust.
In other words: it's no crime to be canny the way their sire is canny, where even his absent mind runs hot with mastery's keenest breath.)
His thighs sting from the biting pressure of his trousers and their straddled tension, muscles no doubt bruising when he rocks himself forwards into it (cold air cut across his exposed curves, wholly unguarded against clawed fingers or a waiting prick), but— ]
How could I ever resist?
[An answer to all things, that. Laid out sharp through the hollow rumble in his throat, hitching before it stops— (slick like those fingertips, pulled away from in one little roll of movement)— and speared fully on thick ardor in the very next beat.
To the hilt.
To the lurid flush.
Friction just a measure for how deep he runs inside the tightest narrows, bumping hot against malleable walls (no one else to reach between them, dulling down its blistering intensity: each twitch finding a corresponding pulse of entrenched force, left to right, forward and back, digging in as he arches forwards) into— fuck— ]
—you are mine....
[Through the grit of his teeth and the ache in his jaw: his. Through the unnfixed and unanchored movements outside the drag of rigid satisfaction rocked harsh against the figurative grain; his hips rolling before they work up into a steady rhythm evoking the exact images from before.
(Vakares was his from the moment he'd bitten him, and he always will be.)
Pact sealed by thready gasps and shuttling rhythms (writ by snaring snaps of rapid movement rather than trite words), hunched over well-braced palms.]
Don't you dare forget it just for shutting your pretty eyes.
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[Oh, never, never. Never, not his Astarion nor the way he belongs to his starlit boy— and it isn't because of this. It isn't because he takes a cock well (so well, and the lurid moan that sounds as tight, slick heat envelops Vakares to the hilt is far too loud as it echoes hoarsely down the hall). It isn't because he's so very clever in bed, coyly proposing new games or showing just how well he can handle a fuck (and it had taken Vakares so very long to realize that his consort thought he needed to be so inventive to keep his sire's attention— oh, darling boy, as if he ever needed to be anything but himself). When he goes to his slumber, he won't dream of all the lewd ways his consort has kept his bed warm, no.
He'll dream of his eyes, just as they right now. Crimson sparkled with darker flecks, narrowed in focus and yet eagerly triumphant, as smug as any kitten who just caught his first mouse. His voice, purring low in satisfaction even as his thighs shake for how much he enjoys this; the curve of his cheek and the scent of him thick in the air, as all the he ruts and grinds and bounces atop his prick, half-sated from being filled alone.
I love you, Vakares thinks and does not say. There's no room for it, not right now— but still, as his hands settle on Astarion's hips and darts his head up to catch his beloved in a swift kiss, he thinks it. I love you, I love you, I love you, so fiercely and so achingly that he has reconsidered his slumber too many times to count. I love you, and it is unlike any love he has ever had before; it is wholly different and separate than what he has with Fenris, and all the stronger for it. I love you, every bit, emphasized over and over the steady pump of his hips upwards, cock daggering in and out of his consort's slick hole. I love you for all that you are and more—]
Ah—
[— and for this, too.
For the goading taunt in Astarion's voice, yes. For the way he ruts so eagerly, his hole cinching so tight with rhythmic glee as his cock bounces between them, thick and swollen and untouched. But most of all: for the way he ignites a blaze unlike any other within his sire, coaxing him past all those centuries of self-control.
Before he realizes what he's doing, there's the sound of fabric shredding and seams ripping apart; in the next moment Astarion's trousers lie in tatters around him, thighs springing free even as he keeps up his bouncing rhythm. His hands lock around his hips, his eyes flicking down to drink in the frankly lurid sight of his cock bouncing between them, thickened hang flushed darkly in desire— and then up to that pretty face again, their eyes locking for one brief bursting second before Vakares surges up.
Mine, he thinks, or maybe it's yours, the two tangling up together in ouroborosian desire as his palms cup plush curves and he stands, yanking Astarion in close. His fingers dig in cruelly, spreading his consort open with vulgar intent (and he wishes he could see it: the sight of Astarion suspended in midair, spread open and speared atop a thick prick, oil dripping around the rim of his swollen hole) as he crosses the room in two strides and slams the elf against the wall.
There. There, his hips bearing Astarion's weight as his hands wrap around slender wrists, pinning him against the wall with cock and fingers and lips— a searing kiss, his tongue thrusting forward as he fucks into him. Hard and hot and fast, and every slap of skin against skin serves as echo for all of those words: I love you, you're mine, I'm yours, I will see you filled with my claim and mewling for my touch all because you said you wished it, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—]
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Vampires are quickened things, even unto themselves; expending precious effort on even registering the scope of their own reflexive movements would be as pointless as it is a total waste— not including the inherent blindness attached to all present depravity (the distraction that'd only drag him away from just how good it feels to be held aloft in his master's claws over the drooling pinion of his prick: sensation melted into immoral weightlessness. Senselessness. Panting like an animal at bay for all the good it does him); loss of control one more ritual steeped in utter trust. Antithetical to sightlessness, the only leap of faith they've ever shared was in the narrow band of seconds just before sharp fangs pierced his living throat.
Well—
That, and whatever comes tomorrow.
But all that matters right now is that awareness is a passing footnote.
One more glimmering little afterthought devoid of reason. Purpose. Power. That it exists as something infinitely more primordial than its clever origins— good only for tracking the differences between cold plaster and kindled skin. The scuffing divide between their bodies once they hit the wall, harsher than before and coarser than the scrape of flint across steel. His own prick pushed against hard borders (like the rest of him), pressure nothing but a vulgar denouement for subsequent violence—
(Insobrietous violence. Decadent lust fed raucous little scraps for so long behind decorum's measured bars that when they give way at last, they snap.
Even behind Vakares' stunning eyes.
His shackled mind. His fettered heart. His soul so damp with discipline that he shines in a room full of fallow wretchings, lesser as they are— even then— he proves what Astarion has always known: no beast is ever tamed. No amount of filing could ever dull sharp fangs or claws. Paperwork does not a mortal make, and whenever he finally wakes, he ruts like the wanton thing he is.)
Oh.
Oh—
There's no time to brace. Before Astarion can stutter out even an acclimating bark, his vision blots with stardust. His lungs are empty. His throat— his mouth— that savaging tempo at his hips having pumped every last drop of air from him before he's fully readied, and he can't tell if he's baying like a beast in heat or silent as the grave for how deaf he is to everything beyond the rapid sound of every thrust— fuck, the dizzying vibration of it, a rhythm so inhuman it might as well be buzzing in ways mortal things could only dream of, shattering like brittle glass beneath his skin. So damned wet with slakeless lechery the floor has to be drenched already while his own claws scrabble wildly for purchase (at the wall. At the borders of his sire. At the barely-caught fringes of dark hair, wrapped in a snapping frenzy against the back of Vakares' neck as he whines or whimpers or wheezes or screams or groans or begs or— or or or)—
No one could fuck him like this.
No one could mount him like this, bruisingly untamed and brutally untempered: a lion mastering his herd or a wolf pinning down its pack until it bows with fierce obedience would whimper just to be caught beneath his gaze. Astarion's body raw and his voice hoarse and still it doesn't stop— faster. Harder. Deeper—
Until his eyes roll back and his belly feels damp, blank slate struck across his mind.
In (blinking against the blurred lines of the ceiling); Out (gasping as he lulls against his sire's shoulders, wracked with split sensation), his lips flecked with gloss and his limbs too limp to bother twitching where they hang. Hips bouncing still atop their wicked transgressor. Cock still jerking harsh against the wall. Neck slung back, profile nosing at— a cheek? A neck? He doesn't know.
He hardly cares. Scent alone tells him who it is he's nuzzling against.
That, and the fullness of his hips.]
Hnn— ngh— [Ah. Ah, catch your breath, Astarion. Inhale before you try to speak, Astarion. Teetering on the panting edge of molten ardor won't make you any more coherent unless you try, licking at your lips first.]
....so you do still....know how to charm....
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But he's a creature of instinct now: his fingers still wrapped loosely around one narrow wrist, thumb stroking gently as he returns each of those nuzzles. Mine, their foreheads bumping together as his lips drift over the the curve of a pale cheek. A soft chin. Lips swollen and sore from overuse, and all the while his hips still pump inwards shallowly. Pearl streaks down the length of his prick, viscous droplets slowly drooling down to puddle on ancient wood as Vakares slides his lips down. Mine, the mindless mouthing of a predator finally at ease— though not thoughtlessly so. It's no mistake his mouth settles just atop those twin scars he'd given his beloved so many years ago.
(This will hurt, he had whispered to the wounded thing in his arms, until it won't. I promise you it will ease, little one. Just take a deep breath, his fingers smoothing through curls clotted with dried blood even as his fangs ached with phantom longing. It would take nothing to make him yours, that awful little voice had whispered to him. He's too weak to fight, and no one will dare intervene— take him. Strip him down and rut into him like the mewling prey he is. Fuck him from both ends and listen to him scream around the press of your cock. Flip him over and sink your teeth into his neck; promise him that you'll turn him and make him earn it, and when you've had your fun, drain the last bits of blood out of him and throw the corpse into the canal until he rots beyond recognition—
And the trick has never been that he doesn't desire such things.
The trick is knowing how to store it all up until he needs it.)
They aren't done. Even now, as the focus slowly returns to his ruby gaze, he can feel his hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Astarion feels too good in his arms, lithe limbs and cool skin; he just feels so delicious wrapped so tight around his prick, tight and hot and perfect. Mine, he thinks again, and his gaze is still a blackened thing as he stares up at his consort. His hips still pump in deep, hungry to claim every inch of that tight little cinch, and never mind how many times he's done it before, for it's never enough. It's not enough, that ugly part of him whispers, not when this time tomorrow he'll be in someone else's bed—
Enough. One last lick to those scars before he speaks.]
Mm, I have not forgotten, no. But I tell you this: I have not begun to charm you, little one.
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And then it begins.
Not the ceremony itself, but oh, there are endless preparations to be made. They're dressed in their finest, silk and satin dyed black and stitched together with the most delicate silver threads. Kohl lines their eyes, eyeshadow and accessories added to their personal tastes. Jewelry adorns their ears and throats (though not their fingers), all of it tastefully placed and obscenely expensive. Witnesses are introduced; outside, the crowds are slowly prodded into gathering. And in that way hours somehow pass, though to Fenris' mind it all goes by far too quickly.
They head into the main hall, standing before Vakares in front of what feels like the entire population of Baldur's Gate. Eyes dart between Astarion and Fenris, whispers filling the hall as people place their final bets, and gods, but Fenris hates it. He has never done well in the spotlight, and today is no different: his eyes go shuttered, his expression turning to stone as he stands next to his—
Well. Not fiancé, not really. And yet perhaps Fenris is still too tied to morality, even a century later, to not think of all this in terms of a wedding.
Thank you for your patience these past three days, Vakares says, and just like that, it's begun. Fenris' stomach pitches, but it's too late to protest. Too late to do anything but fixate on a vantage point in the distance and try not to glance over at Astarion, lest he look too much like an anxious bride. And I hope the celebrations were to your liking. It is not often I have cause to revel for so long, but the announcement of one's heir is cause for celebration, I think.
It goes on. He speaks of his family, his followers, and how loyal they all have been; he speaks of the joy of partnership, and how it was not reclusiveness but unity that made him a stronger politician and better person. He emphasizes community and teamwork over isolation, and Fenris wonders if the brighter ones in the audience have picked up where he's going with this. Certainly they all know this isn't normal; there's whispers here and there, a susurrus that only grows as Vakares sets his hands on both their shoulders.
But I digress. You are all here to see me choose my heir, and I have done so. A pause, and more than anything Fenris wishes he would just get on with it. I have chosen both of them. Both Astarion and Fenris will share command, joining together in a ceremony more ancient than even I.
And there are other words, of course. More introduction, because ceremony is nothing but talking, but Fenris is too busy scanning the crowd. Most are shocked. Some are pleased, though whether that's a good thing or not remains to be seen. The whispers grow louder— and then, just loud enough to be heard, there's a giggle. It's brief and swiftly hushed, but it's there.
Vakares ignores it. So does most of the crowd, to be fair: their whispers settling as Vakares urges them both to face one another. Join hands, he commands, and Fenris extends his own, not daring to tear his gaze away for a single second.
Do you, Fenris, swear your fealty and loyal to Astarion? Vakares' voice is low and rolling, his confidence absolute as he utters the first part of their oaths. Fenris' stomach feels like lead, his tongue numb— and yet the words slip past his lips nonetheless, for all that he stares warily as he utters them.]
I do so swear.
[There's no going back now.]
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The ceremony and the leers. The judgment. Encouraged by every instance of giggling or muttered commentary, their audience is a palpable chasm of shock and indignity and amusement cut through by little pulsework echoes, each one reverberated in someone else's mouth before passing on (and on, and on).... He feels the harshness of firm knuckles pressed against his own once their fingers intertwine, and from the narrow gap between them (sire and sired, all), it feels as if he's being choked by everything he's wanted for so long: the regalia fit for Vakares' shoulders is far too scratchy along its seams and artful hems (it worries at his shoulders; leaves him itching just to touch it or scrub it or rip it free); the attention from established eyes, hawkish and overtly loud (later, it will be worse); the coronating esteem his maker's always carried, stamped down in slow farewells; the brute that is his younger kin, compelled to listen to him— if only so they share.
But he's not a child, for all his frequent whinging.
The ridicule waiting for them in the wings didn't start when their sire opened their mouth to speak. It started long, long before now. (Before his tantrum or their isolation. Before Vakares treated them as equals at his heels. Decades upon decades ago, before the fresher idea of better started to eclipse the notion of is and always has been, razor lips were already peeling back to show off equally jagged fangs.) The other vampires wouldn't have spared them if Vakares uttered I choose Fenris any more than they would've done to hear Astarion: one configuration of voices might differ in isolation, true, but still— if a chorus trills from its left or its right side in equal volume, does that really make it any different a scenario?
No.
Obviously not.
Petty things— like Astarion— will always be petty things. Takes one to know one (or a lot of ones), as they say: he doesn't like it, but there's comfort to be found in the fact that Leto clearly doesn't, either. Their shared grip so stiff and obligatory that it could be a metaphor for its surrounding pomp— and you know, when it comes to a pair that looks only towards their waiting master rather than at one another, it is, actually.
But again, he's not a child. Not a fledgling. Not a spoiled prince whining for a wetted throat to suckle from, rather than standing on his own buckling legs. Eventually, the din feels more like background noise. Rustling wind equal to a drunken baroness teasing her own spawn by tugging at their ears and suggestively whispering it's such a good idea— making favorites breed for life. Literal husbandry, someone mutters back, and Astarion hears it as much as he doesn't, just like a noisy gust of wind. Birds chirruping. Shutters flapping in a breeze. Peripheral distraction warranting little as he tightens his already rigid grip, his kohl-lined eyes narrowed into lightless puddles when he adds:]
I do, of course.
[Temptation part of his own incorrigible existence, consigned to keeping quiet dignity at bay.]
If only because it'll be fun to see how many of our esteemed kin might finally strain their poor fragile little minds to tell us apart, now that they'll have to look up to call us by our names.
[Tsk tsk. So much for graceful vows— though Astarion silently smiles as a clawed thumb is dipped in blood before being brushed across his lips by an attending hand (and vice versa), staining their respective mouths a striking shade of crimson.]
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It's not a nice thing. Certainly no one in the waiting audience would mistake it for the radiant smile of a bliss-filled vampire eager to be even closer to his counterpart, starry-eyed and sweet. At best, it's a sardonic thing, there and gone and yet so very vivid now that blood coats his lips.
And you know, Fenris is still such a young thing. Only barely a century old and so terribly disinterested in vampiric politics, but still. He knows how people work. He knows what details they will remember in the coming years, when all the words have faded and all that's left is the stark impressions. No matter that Vakares squeezes both his consorts' shoulders in warning, for Fenris thinks that perhaps this is what will matter most in the coming years.
This exchange. This quiet little moment when Astarion speaks and Fenris responds, the two of them suddenly allied together in a moment of quiet camaraderie.
There is so little they agree on, after all. Vakares has always been their chief point of connection, the two of them setting aside their rivalry to make their beloved happy— but perhaps they can join in on this, too. The two of them unifying not for the sake of peace or love (oh, Vakares is such an earnest thing, so eager to see the future as nothing but good and bright), but sheer bloody spite.]
A hundred golden coins says that they get us mixed up more than half the time—
[What a dedicated thing their sire is, for he doesn't pay his whispering spawn any mind. He doesn't even break his stride, intoning the next part of their oath with all the enthusiasm and muster his position requires. But the sudden squeeze of his fingers against their shoulders speaks volumes, as does the sharp little glance he darts down at both of them. Shut up.]
I do so swear—
[Loyalty. Partnership. The vows settle on their shoulders like mantles, binding them together with more than just spoken words. There's magic woven in these rituals, Fenris realizes. Not the paltry spells that wizards use, their powers torn from the Weave; this is far more ancient. It's a bitter aftertaste beneath the blood slowly dripping down his tongue, so subtle that his lyrium doesn't bother to react. Not a deliberate thing Vakares kept from them, no— simply a pledge. A binding pact, as definitive as the ties that bind they two to their sire. Each promise a lash, each vow a cinching knot, until at last—
Seal your pact before the world, Vakares commands, and Fenris' eyes focus up once more.
And maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's grief for Vakares, sudden and yet all the more painful for it. Maybe it's the wariness of a century's worth of rivalry suddenly flaring its head, sparking old instincts born of a lifetime ago that whisper that nothing is certain. That to trust is to lead oneself to destruction; that everyone, everyone is out only for themselves, and Astarion most of all. And it doesn't matter that they just exchanged a teasing joke; it doesn't matter that they both of them promised Vakares they'd do their best. Emotions don't ever need rational thought, and all Fenris knows in that moment is this:
That whatever comes next, he will have to fight to keep himself from harm.
So he hesitates. It's the briefest thing, a half-breath's balking as wariness and rebelliousness and loathing all tangle together. He doubts anyone in the audience notices, but the two near him surely do.
Act, those instincts insist— and without a moment's thought, Fenris does. His hand darts to the back of Astarion's neck, drawing him in with one quick motion so Fenris can fit his lips to his so pointedly. For if they are to do this— to embark on this partnership, to be a duo instead of a singular ruler— Fenris will not be a passive partner. He will not be the younger brat constantly waiting for his elder to take control, no: Fenris kisses as though he means to take, domineering and rough. Mine, hungry pushes and eager pulls a vulgar rhythm once, twice—
Before he draws back, his tongue flicking out to lap at the blood coating Astarion's lip.
There, now. That's far better, and he does not realize just how self-satisfied he truly looks.]
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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.
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iliad XXX: the return to iliadening
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iliad 34534676 forever and ever
ILIAD III: RETURN OF THE KING
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