[It's not a lie to be so honest that you're wrong.
I'm not being the words Astarion rushes to lean on before they give out underneath his heels in a silent, damning drop. Im not, I'm not, insisted on again like it'll somehow change something, that mantra. As if more of it might support the weight of what he's desperate to be true. But wishing— regardless of how fervently— never did anything for him, and Astarion can't wish his way out of buckling any more than he could vampirism.
In the end, he's still here. Still aching from the dig of sharp fangs against the inlines of his cheeks; from the bite of his claws against his skin.
Though true to his own nature, he doesn't go down without fighting.]
I know that I'm not him. [And which 'him' he means might well be anybody's guess, including his own.] I know—
There's a difference.
[Empty. Hollow. Not in tone, just in conviction. Its failure agitating his frustration with a sudden snap.]
Godsdamnit, I've mangled you a thousand times before, it shouldn't be so hard.
[And as his head drops into the ocean of his lover's kindness, it's the gruffness that resonates. The roughshod rumble in a throat that he's heard growl and snarl to be left alone on days when everything's gone brittle like old markings, incapable of tolerating touch. (Noise. Light. Closeness. Mercy.) And when even the gentlest of friction stirs up the worst of your own inevitable monstrosity and all attached, endless outrage, maybe that's the problem. There's no reclaiming something like that on its own, no tidying it up into something more beautiful, no matter how you swear you can. No matter how you want to, try to, ache to— and with an anger in his eyes Astarion shoves Leto back down atop the mattress, pushing him flat. Palm splayed across the dead center of his breastbone, dagger back in his hand and lividly catching in the light. Eyes redder than red. Redder than slag-hot coal.
Cold metal set just against the skin over Leto's heart.]
Help me, or don't.
[Help me, or I can't. Help me, or I won't do it.]
I won't mark you just to have my name haunting you like a ghost.
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I'm not being the words Astarion rushes to lean on before they give out underneath his heels in a silent, damning drop. Im not, I'm not, insisted on again like it'll somehow change something, that mantra. As if more of it might support the weight of what he's desperate to be true. But wishing— regardless of how fervently— never did anything for him, and Astarion can't wish his way out of buckling any more than he could vampirism.
In the end, he's still here. Still aching from the dig of sharp fangs against the inlines of his cheeks; from the bite of his claws against his skin.
Though true to his own nature, he doesn't go down without fighting.]
I know that I'm not him. [And which 'him' he means might well be anybody's guess, including his own.] I know—
There's a difference.
[Empty. Hollow. Not in tone, just in conviction. Its failure agitating his frustration with a sudden snap.]
Godsdamnit, I've mangled you a thousand times before, it shouldn't be so hard.
[And as his head drops into the ocean of his lover's kindness, it's the gruffness that resonates. The roughshod rumble in a throat that he's heard growl and snarl to be left alone on days when everything's gone brittle like old markings, incapable of tolerating touch. (Noise. Light. Closeness. Mercy.) And when even the gentlest of friction stirs up the worst of your own inevitable monstrosity and all attached, endless outrage, maybe that's the problem. There's no reclaiming something like that on its own, no tidying it up into something more beautiful, no matter how you swear you can. No matter how you want to, try to, ache to— and with an anger in his eyes Astarion shoves Leto back down atop the mattress, pushing him flat. Palm splayed across the dead center of his breastbone, dagger back in his hand and lividly catching in the light. Eyes redder than red. Redder than slag-hot coal.
Cold metal set just against the skin over Leto's heart.]
Help me, or don't.
[Help me, or I can't. Help me, or I won't do it.]
I won't mark you just to have my name haunting you like a ghost.