(In hindsight, that's why Astarion could never see it. That's why it never revealed itself when he sat there nursing the endless fear that gushed from his own split skin, fingers pinched on either side to staunch the blood he didn't have for being endlessly, endlessly starved.
Only to be starved again in Thedas.
So much that every lie felt inescapable, and every truth— )
—ah. There it is again, small and incandescent when it catches.
No cloying sympathy. No rote attempts to soothe. As far as it gets from some wistful hypothetical plated up just to make him passive— Astarion can well picture every drop of it, based solely on the night they once shared seething like a wildfire on the verge of utter mutiny, mouthing out the sort of things that gets elves killed over swaths of bitten skin: I am no one's pawn or puppet, coupled with a cock shoved down a waiting throat. I will not be silent, etched along burned wrists. I will not be sweet. No lyrium beast here; no manifested mischance between the fade and a mimicking spirit. No. No. No. I'll fight them. I'll kill them.
For you, I'll make them bleed.
And granted the bloodier half of that assertion wasn't anything but fantasy the first time around, same as it is now, of course. Without being cornered, they're not mad enough to pick a fight with Riftwatch directly, and Astarion had his fonder brushes of care for a scant few Rifters that'd only be worse in someone else's clutches, when it comes down to it.
But the idea of rage like that let loose from its quiver just for him?
Hot.
Gods' breath, it's aphroditic. And when his pen digs against the page in pausing, it's just to state the obvious.]
fasta vass
Leto Leto
Fenris
You can't just write things like that when you're so bloody far away, you know. [This is a travesty. This is a travesty and no one knows how much he suffers!] If I thought there was even a chance I'd survive the sunlight between us I'd be on you right now in the middle of that inn. Right in front of that drunken little hollyphant and every other patron in it.
no subject
(In hindsight, that's why Astarion could never see it. That's why it never revealed itself when he sat there nursing the endless fear that gushed from his own split skin, fingers pinched on either side to staunch the blood he didn't have for being endlessly, endlessly starved.
Only to be starved again in Thedas.
So much that every lie felt inescapable, and every truth— )
—ah. There it is again, small and incandescent when it catches.
No cloying sympathy. No rote attempts to soothe. As far as it gets from some wistful hypothetical plated up just to make him passive— Astarion can well picture every drop of it, based solely on the night they once shared seething like a wildfire on the verge of utter mutiny, mouthing out the sort of things that gets elves killed over swaths of bitten skin: I am no one's pawn or puppet, coupled with a cock shoved down a waiting throat. I will not be silent, etched along burned wrists. I will not be sweet. No lyrium beast here; no manifested mischance between the fade and a mimicking spirit. No. No. No. I'll fight them. I'll kill them.
For you, I'll make them bleed.
And granted the bloodier half of that assertion wasn't anything but fantasy the first time around, same as it is now, of course. Without being cornered, they're not mad enough to pick a fight with Riftwatch directly, and Astarion had his fonder brushes of care for a scant few Rifters that'd only be worse in someone else's clutches, when it comes down to it.
But the idea of rage like that let loose from its quiver just for him?
Hot.
Gods' breath, it's aphroditic. And when his pen digs against the page in pausing, it's just to state the obvious.]
fasta vass
LetoLetoFenrisYou can't just write things like that when you're so bloody far away, you know. [This is a travesty. This is a travesty and no one knows how much he suffers!] If I thought there was even a chance I'd survive the sunlight between us I'd be on you right now in the middle of that inn. Right in front of that drunken little hollyphant and every other patron in it.
You would be gagging on my adoration.
[Hm.]
....and my name, too. But adoration first.