In Thedas, there's a joke somewhere in this moment. Some Orlesian penning something trite about an off-screen pair of elves mostly existing as comedy relief between acts of his loftier work criticizing the empire's central war. Two ex-slaves offering marriage to one another in a boarded room with nothing at all to wear along their fingers. The joke being: it isn't even real marriage, given what they are. The punchline being: they wrap some old scraps of cleaning cloth around their wrists like a gritty little promise of devotion before cutting back to the actual romantic leads.
In Toril, there's another joke somewhere in this moment. A vampire and his mortal mate, some pretty young thing that doesn't know better than to whisper sweet nothings like marry me or change me, for he desires his own pointless demise and everyone knows fanged things are hearts of wicked stone: they don't beat, they don't love, they hunt and feed and sick themselves on blood and play the sweetheart just for a monstrous bout of fun— and when the poor thing bleeds to death with a smile in the third act, well— cautionary tales never lack their endless charms in the eyes of a broader populace.
Here, though, it's only them.
Them, and the sort of low-mouthed sweetness like a stake set through his heart, slid right between the ribs.
He's not complaining. There are worse ways to go— every other way to go, in fact: worse. Wan. Sour. Stale. If he had to die to anything, it'd be to this. Gladly. Breathless against his lover's aching (and chapped) lips, a thin patina of sweat salt and herbal salve clinging in the gaps between their profile, stark and stinging at inhuman senses (and sweet, sweet, sweet).
How he loves him, this strange, wondrous little creature in his arms. The only thing he's found that he— cynical, hateful, wounded and wicked to a fault in his bleak, brittle mind— would die for. Live for.
It's you. It's always been you.]
That isn't the fever talking, is it?
[Astarion puffs out in response against one sniffling, sick-as-a-dog profile with a smile wrapped around his teeth and soft heat behind his eyes. A nuzzle. A push. His arms wound tight around slight shoulders, pulling everything of his mate close.]
Because if you're joking or delirious, you'd better tell me now before I get my hopes up.
no subject
Amatus.
Beating heart.
His everything.
In Thedas, there's a joke somewhere in this moment. Some Orlesian penning something trite about an off-screen pair of elves mostly existing as comedy relief between acts of his loftier work criticizing the empire's central war. Two ex-slaves offering marriage to one another in a boarded room with nothing at all to wear along their fingers. The joke being: it isn't even real marriage, given what they are. The punchline being: they wrap some old scraps of cleaning cloth around their wrists like a gritty little promise of devotion before cutting back to the actual romantic leads.
In Toril, there's another joke somewhere in this moment. A vampire and his mortal mate, some pretty young thing that doesn't know better than to whisper sweet nothings like marry me or change me, for he desires his own pointless demise and everyone knows fanged things are hearts of wicked stone: they don't beat, they don't love, they hunt and feed and sick themselves on blood and play the sweetheart just for a monstrous bout of fun— and when the poor thing bleeds to death with a smile in the third act, well— cautionary tales never lack their endless charms in the eyes of a broader populace.
Here, though, it's only them.
Them, and the sort of low-mouthed sweetness like a stake set through his heart, slid right between the ribs.
He's not complaining. There are worse ways to go— every other way to go, in fact: worse. Wan. Sour. Stale. If he had to die to anything, it'd be to this. Gladly. Breathless against his lover's aching (and chapped) lips, a thin patina of sweat salt and herbal salve clinging in the gaps between their profile, stark and stinging at inhuman senses (and sweet, sweet, sweet).
How he loves him, this strange, wondrous little creature in his arms. The only thing he's found that he— cynical, hateful, wounded and wicked to a fault in his bleak, brittle mind— would die for. Live for.
It's you. It's always been you.]
That isn't the fever talking, is it?
[Astarion puffs out in response against one sniffling, sick-as-a-dog profile with a smile wrapped around his teeth and soft heat behind his eyes. A nuzzle. A push. His arms wound tight around slight shoulders, pulling everything of his mate close.]
Because if you're joking or delirious, you'd better tell me now before I get my hopes up.