illithidnapped | INBOX II

He sends a message, first. An invitation, as usual, seeing as he can't be the one to go anywhere too easily-- and a promise that he has something new to offer, though he refuses to say just what sort of gift it is that he's acquired this time, only that he thinks Astarion may find it interesting.

When he arrives, he'll find Emet-Selch's room more or less the same as usual, save for a couple of additions: a pair of wineglasses sit on his desk, but instead of a single bottle of wine, there are two. One unopened, and one clearly opened already, albeit still full.

"Well, there you are," he says by way of greeting, nudging Sol aside-- the cat meows in complaint, but hops down off the bed. "I would tell you to make yourself comfortable, but I've no doubt you need little encouragement."

“Nice to know your predictive mind’s still sharp as ever.” Astarion teases, gloved fingertips set against the door at his back as he snaps its heavy lock into place. One of the few benefits to the Gallows’ high towers— and likely one of the most vital conditions ensuring his continued visitation. Because as much as he’d promised Yseult he’d be keeping watch over the Ascian, the full depth of that promise being either audible or visible to the rest of Riftwatch at large is...

Well no, that actually is sort of thrilling in a dangerous, knife’s edge espionage sort of way.

But the point is there’d be complications. Not good ones, either. Not anything Astarion wants to welcome with open arms. Or Emet-Selch for that matter, either.

So.

Click goes the lock, off come his gloves, and—

“....are we...celebrating something?” Asked with a cocked head and an arched brow, a few pale fingers still curved around the dark leather of a disentangled glove.

Did the Ascian finally earn his freedom?

"Not quite. Not yet, at the least," he says, with a roll of his eyes. Honestly, by his estimation, if what he's done isn't enough then he doesn't know what else they will insist on asking from him... but regardless, he's still stuck here for now.

Emet-Selch shifts to set his feet on the floor, pushing himself off the bed to move over to the desk. The previously-opened bottle is the one he plucks up first, offering it out to Astarion in an easy, casual sort of gesture.

"But I was of the mind to experiment with something, and expected you may be interested in the results."

Which-- all right, yes, he did this specifically for Astarion, but he doesn't think the man needs it spelled out for him.

Astarion meets that offering without much in the way of ceremony: outstretched fingers tucking themselves just around the base of the bottle, turning it over within his grasp as he tries to get a decent look at the label.

Something rare, perhaps? Magically infused?

"You were of the mind to experiment, and thought I'd make a fitting subject." He corrects coolly, though despite all present wryness, it's not actually offense; if he didn't trust the Ascian to exercise at least some amount of restraint rather than leaping to risking his closest (only, Astarion suspects) true ally, then he might be calculating just how many steps rest between his own back and the aforementioned doorway.

"Just tell me it's not going to do anything...weird to me. Hilarious I can stand, but still. I'd like to think you can figure out what sits squarely out of playful bounds."

The label is fairly normal, actually; Astarion will likely recognize it as a pretty decent vintage, certainly not among the most expensive, but higher quality than just acceptable wine.

"Well, I may have engaged in said experimentation with the subject in mind from the start," he allows, with a wave of his hand. "That one is yours-- the other is unaltered. But I do not believe this should have any sort of unintended effect, unless there proves to be something you've yet to tell me."

A pause to consider, before he picks up one of the empty glasses and says, "If it's been done correctly, I believe you will understand from the scent alone." The glass is held out, then, a silent invitation.

“Hm. Thrilling.” Astarion teases, tipping the bottle to pour it into that offered glass and—

Oh.

Oh, he notices it right away once that aroma’s let free from the neck of the bottle: the hint of magic he’d detected before, only let loose and unmasked, its true nature laid bare— crimson eyes dilating until they become deep, lightless pools. His subsequent inhale deep.

Reactive.

And then Astarion sets the bottle down, drawing his glass to his lips, unable to wait before he takes the deepest possible sip.

It's overwhelmingly bright. Robust. Subtle richness overridden by a metallic slick of familiarity, ringing as well-aged heat snakes its way down the back of his own throat. The dryness of the alcohol and all its faceted notes; the snapping bite of the arcane, dark as unspooled shadow.

"...Hells." He exhales in the wake of it, studying his own awestruck expression in thin-wrought glass.

Emet-Selch is studying that expression, in turn, now seated at the desk chair with one leg folded over the other. He's yet to bother pouring his own glass from the second bottle, attention thoroughly focused on Astarion... and, when it seems all has gone well, he cannot quite keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

"Successful enough, I take it?" The corners of his mouth quirk in a slight grin, as he uncorks the other bottle and pours it.

"I knew it could be infused with other flavors easily enough, but whether blood would take... well. There was certainly a risk this would turn out entirely unappetizing, if not."

"This blood is yours, I take it."

Not a question— barely even an assumption; he remembers vividly the unsubtle heat of Hades' blood, pooling bright against the flat of his tongue, oh-so-sweetly stinging the corners of his lips with a headier boldness, like cardamom. Or cinnamon. Or—

Something else entirely. Something far too impossible to describe by any measure of mundane taste.

Still, he sets the glass he's clutching down atop the desk (albeit somewhat reluctantly), and reaches to take up its not-so-tampered twin, giving it a decent swirl to let it stand some sort of fighting chance— presuming it's lacking the additional secret ingredient.

"Did you not say you would be able to tell?"

Faintly amused, there-- and still thoroughly pleased that it seems to have worked out well. Well worth the effort spent in bleeding himself for it.

The second glass is perfectly normal wine, and while he'll wait to let Astarion compare, he does add: "I'll have that one after, if you do not mind. I did not expect you would wish to share the first." Nor does he have much interest in it, himself; he'll stick with the normal wine, thank you.

The low, throaty, near-cough of a sound Astarion lets off in the wake of his sip says everything for him: bitterness burning in his throat with its own entirely flat bouquet, the former vampire almost winces with distaste as he holds the glass back out towards Hades himself, clearly expecting the Ascian to take it.

Eugh.

“Apparently I was right.” Weighty consolation that it is.

“You know, if all your experiments are like this, I could get used to this Research Division thing— ” but he cuts himself off there, the lip of his designated wine glass fit just against his lower lip.

Wait.

“...you’re not going to actually report this to anyone, are you.”

"Well, of course not."

He rolls his eyes as he takes that glass back, sipping from it. Good enough by his standards. A few moments of silence follow as he debates his words, before he finally just sighs and waves his free hand.

"It is not a work experiment, nor is there any particular reasoning behind it-- but neither could I call something like this a gift without knowing it would work."

Just imagine if he had, and it had turned out absolutely horribly. He won't have it.

“Shockingly sensible.”

Or maybe not so shocking, given Hades’ penchant for carefully balancing out his own curiosity— amongst other things, to say the least.

“But good, I’d hate to let anyone in on our...private arrangement.” Spoken as he sips again from that initial glass, already slipping down to sit opposite to his far more severe companion, chilled light catching in narrow strips across the stony flooring at their feet.

The final, minuscule addition to that thought added just a beat later, ever so casually:

“Aside from Wysteria, that is.”

"It shall remain private enough, so long as you insist," he answers with a shrug, a wave of his free hand. It hardly bothers him, keeping it quiet; frankly, it's no one else's business.

He takes a moment for a sip or two of his glass before he asks, one brow arched:

"Why her, in particular?"

Astarion’s chuckle is thin, albeit both smooth and amused besides.

“She was the second to catch on to my— shall we say, affliction.” The word, despite his tirelessly elegant tone, is laced with an unmistakable current of contempt. “The first being Fenris, though he never found himself compelled to ask about the details.”

Wysteria, on the other hand, asks about everything.

Always.

"You are hardly obligated to inform her of all your arrangements as a result, you realize," he says dryly, over the rim of his glass. Just because she knows doesn't mean she must know everything. "Unless you simply desire to?"

"Oh, gods no." He scoffs sharply, almost recoiling from the notion and nearly spilling his glass in the process— only just recovering it at the very last second.

"But much as I hate to admit it, the irritating creature does remarkably decent research, and the truth is...."

He stops there, frowning across the lip of his glass, letting the sentiment fester for a beat. "I don't really know what I am anymore since stepping through the Fade: its alterations might have more consequences than the ones I've already discovered— and much as I love surprises, I don't love the ones that could easily get me killed, or sickened— or worse."

Val Chevin had been proof enough in its own way, of precisely how dangerous the unexpected could be.

Edited 2022-02-15 10:04 (UTC)

"I see. A matter of convenience, then, which outweighs the annoyance involved?"

He's hardly unfamiliar with that sort of arrangement, after all, idly swirling the wine in his glass as he considers.

"And I do suppose she has proved sharp enough not to be disregarded. In that sense, you certainly could do worse."

“A matter of necessity. The woman knows this world like very few others do— natives included.”

A happy confession that is not, but the wine, warm in his throat and sweet with the bitter richness of magic-laced iron, takes the edge off his present train of thought.

He slips closer to Hades, resting his hip against the desk instead of maintaining that nominal distance.

“….have you done much work with her before? Being part of the same department, that is.”

He allows Astarion to close the distance easily enough- not reaching out to him, leaving that a rarer thing as he is often wont to do, but not withdrawing either. It's grown more comfortable, over time, just letting him do as he pleases.

"Not much more than what you are already aware of," he answers with a slight shrug. "Answered her initial survey with a few corrections, and I have paid mind to what she broadcasts, but I would not say I have often worked with her directly."

[Within minutes of this.]

Hey. Do you have a second?

For you? I’ll spare five.

[But then he realizes that tone isn’t exactly brimming with brightness, so:]

Is something wrong, darling?

Damn, a whole five?

[Trying for lightheartedness, though.]

Anyway, um. Fenris wants to meet with me. He's got some questions. I want to not make this weird as hell, even if that's kind of a given? Because I know he's going to ask about you and him.

Thoughts?

Maybe refrain from mentioning that I wept on your shoulder the night I realized he was gone. [It's said— perhaps unsurprisingly— in the very same way Astarion talks about his own past: dismissive wryness, the muted deflection of subtle humor let out through sharp teeth.]

Anyway, just tell him the truth; it won't hurt him to know he and I were— [Were what. Friends feels wrong, somehow, both far too trite and overly familiar all at once; companions makes it seem they were more work-aligned than anything else, which couldn't be farther from the truth. So he stops there, just for a beat, and hums out a puzzled little noise through his nose.

It sounds a bit like 'err'.] allies, I suppose.

Still, given the magnitude of what he's lost, it might be best to stick to the broader strokes— by which I mean try not to make him feel like he's the odd man out in our little club of memories.

Be gentle.

Yeah, wasn't planning on mentioning that one.

[Though, for the first time, Ellie does realize that it's likely this is how he treats all things in hindsight. He spoke the same way about Cadazor. Mentally, she files that bit of information away, stokes her hatred of the monster.]

Okay. I can try. It's fuckin' weird no matter what I say.

But... on the bright side. He really didn't leave on purpose.

Not to worry, it’s far weirder for him than it is for us.

Probably.

[He’s the one missing half a year of his life, after all. Speaking of which, though— ]

I...

Mm. There is that.

On the other hand, it also means someone might’ve been out to control him. Take him back, tamper with his lyrium— I don’t know. [Concerned over the possibility as Astarion is, he’s not about to start hovering along at Fenris’ back like a pestering nuisance.

He’s enough of one already.]

Just...try to make sure no one’s watching you when you go. Snooping around. Following too closely, that sort of thing.

I'd say definitely.

[But Astarion hits on the other thing she's worried about, which draws out a rough sigh from her side.]

Yeah. My bet is that Fenris is on the lookout for somebody suspicious already, but. No idea if anybody did this to him. Or if they're not still doing this to him.

[Which would be extra fucked up, and she hates that she's thinking it, but it wouldn't be outside of the scope of things she's seen.]

But yeah, you know I will.

[Still doing this to him, and oh, doesn’t that just make Astarion’s blood run cold.

But all that can be done about it is being done; he forces that reflexive pang of concern aside before it has a chance to sink beneath his skin.

There’s no point in falling prey to simple fear.]

Thank you, darling.

[A beat, before he adds, mildly:]

And good luck.

You bet.

[She says it softly. They can't be afraid. They can only be fast, and clever, and stronger than everything that wants them dead. And yeah, maybe somewhere, a tiny bit of luck.]

[ Sylvie sounds particularly pleased with herself, the sounds of a market behind her audible as she reaches out across the Crystal. ]

Are you home?

I am. To what do I owe the impending pleasure?

[He assumes it's impending anyway, presumptive thing that he is.]

[ It's a decent assumption, with how she's making her way into Lowtown already, regardless of what his current state was. She has some other business in the area at least; but none quite so fun. ]

I'll tell you when I get there. Where is it exactly that you live?

Well. [Color him intrigued; the sound of his voice akin to the way someone sits up in their own seat, thank you very much.]

Cut through Lowtown towards the docks— stop just short of them, just off the righthand side of the main market: first door on the high wall that overlooks port.

[A narrow place. A miserable place, but it's his, and it's far better than what most city elves will ever have etched beneath their figurative names.]

I'll be waiting.

Make yourself presentable will you?

[ It's nice to actually be the one leaving him curious for once, and she tucks her crystal away before her poor human hands freeze straight off; Kirkwall has become miserably cold and while the air is surprisingly fresh and clean-- that doesn't help much when it hurt's your face.

It's a few minutes longer than she'd like before she's tucking through the market, but not long enough to leave anyone questioning her whereabouts. There's a learning period to estimating how long it takes her to get anywhere now that she's still in. Not that she's ever had anyone to let know she was coming really. No one that mattered.

The turn in towards Astarion's place at least buffeted from the chill slightly, and she takes that as a comfort as she tucks into his door frame -First Door on the high wall, hopefully his- and knocks twice before tucking herself back around the package she has hidden under her cloak. ]

[It’s opened in short order, heavy iron pulled aside with a sticking creak of protest; there’s a dagger in his hand, of course, but it’s all precaution: not intended for her so much as the routine risks that run high these days in Kirkwall. Risks that run deep across the rest of Thedas, too.

And Lowtown is Lowtown, after all.

His smile is crooked, the amused scoff he lets out light through his nose as he tips his head for her to come inside. Loose shirt, unwrinkled slacks sans boots or belt, and maybe it’s no surprise he adds in the moment that she passes:]

Is this presentable enough for you, darling?

[ There's a security to it, the way the door moves with obvious weight; it's something that she's been missing in the Gallows by right of how they had everything set up for the 'new comers', just beds and zero privacy what so ever. It'd be worth it, even with how less than pleasant the area was, to have something that is just hers.

She'll admire his little place from the inside though, thanks, and offers Astarion a matching grin as he appears in the door- relaxed but put together- and steps aside so she can slip in. The chill of the streets follows her, but the inside of his apartment is thankfully warm enough, almost cozy. She had been teasing, but it's still nice to see that he did put some thought into the request, and gives him a very visible up and down examination in response. ]

Hmm. It'll do.

[ Her attention turns to his home again, the narrow but high walls and crackling fireplace at one end, already taking the bite out of her extremities, and she runs her fingers over the grain of his table a moment. After a beat Sylvie pulls out a chair and sits, crooked with the back resting between them of course, looking quite like the cat that ate the canary. ]

I brought you something.

[The sea of cluttered acquisitions (his empire, his hoard) has a sort of pathing to it: the main walkways are (mostly) clear, enough that Sylvie has no trouble making her way to that rickety little table and all its rotten wood. Astarion, on the other hand, while drinking in the whole of her attention, lightfootedly meanders his way through the mire of gilded trinkets and scattered refuse to settle easily down along the edge of his bed, comfortably seated just across from her. Hello.

At the mention of a gift, his red eyes glitter.]

Oh?

Something expensive, I hope—

Or...tasteful, perhaps?

[And then, with all due enthusiasm coupled alongside a single, throaty purr:]

Or both?

Expensive, with my modest income it certainly is. Tasteful? Well, that is up for interpretation.

[ There’s absolutely innuendo in that, and usually she’d say something about the organization of his place (if not just to tease him) if she wasn’t just that excited to see what he thought of the dark red velvet bag she pulls out from under her cloak. It’s clearly got weight to it, and jangles a little as she lets it swing from the cord that is holding it closed a moment before tossing it to him.

Sylvie drapes her arms over the back of her chair and rests her chin on her hands, a little bounce in her leg as she watches him. A ridiculous amount of thought has gone into this little gift, that had started out as simply a tease, after all. Partially due to the artisan who had just happily gone along with plenty of nice ideas. ]

Go on. Open it.

[It's the jingling that draws his attention first, head cocked sidelong almost immediately as though detecting the faintest trace of money—

(Is that it, Sylvie? Have you come with a gift of coin to make amends for first greetings?)

He catches it in one palm and— oh, no. Immediately he can feel the heft of something else far more solid than what he'd previously expected. It shifts within his grasp, fingers turning just to one side as he pulls at fine cording, peering down into the bag's depths.

And then, lifting that gilded collar free, Astarion lets out the sharpest bark of abrupt, unexpected laughter.]

Oh, my darling girl. [Breathy, when he pulls back from chuckling into the realm of speech, now turning that unspeakably wicked little gift over in his palms.] Exactly how much trouble did you go through to get this?

And more importantly...

[He tips his chin a little higher, extending the line of his own neck.]

Does it fit.

[ The moment he catches the bag Sylvie falls almost predatorily still, watching his expression, the miniscule changes as he goes through his range of thoughts of what the bag contains, and then finally opens it to find-- The thing that she had picked up and brought over here straight away, she was so happy with it. The collar is a soft leather, sure not to chafe, and detailed with pale delicate swirls around the middle. Certainly tasteful in her mind, and his laugh pulls a soft echo out of her as a smile breaks across her face, utterly uncontrollable, her nose scrunching up as she sits back again in the chair.

It's payment enough to see Astarion speechless for once, even if it is just for as long as he he is laughing. ]

Well I've throttled enough men to have a good idea of size just based on look, but it does adjust. There's a leash in there too you know.

[ She stand then, throwing a leg over the chair as she rounds it and leans backwards against the backrest on the heels of her hands, making a point not to lean towards him-- though in such a small space their knees only barely do not touch. ]

Would you like help trying it on?

Are you....calling me average, my dear? [His chin tips forward, leaning in towards her offer rather than away from it, affording both the means and the opportunity to tend to him if she cares to.]

Because I can assure you I’m anything but.

[But there, angled in close, is when he opts to add with a sudden twist of hooded sincerity:]

Hm. [Light, that sound. A faint, thoughtful hum.] You do realize I was only teasing you across the network, yes?

I’m not opposed to lending you a little carnal relief, of course. I imagine rutting with yourself— literally speaking— [what with she and Loki being duplicates and all] might turn tedious after a time.

...but I’m not here to be bought.

[Not that the notion inherently offends (he has friends in the red lantern district— good ones, worth every last drop of their own salt), but there’s a distinctive difference between work and play.

Astarion’s had far too much of the former in regards to intimacy. What he does now, he wants done as a favor at best. A mutually beneficial game without any barbed illusions. A way for two allies or strangers (or whatever else he manages to find in Kirkwall) to pass the time as they please.

No strings attached. No leashing obligations.]

Not even by a very pretty trinket.

[ This was a fun game, up until Astarion insinuates what he does. The smile drops and is replaced with a fair bit of revulsion, her hands that had been just lightly touching the collar in his hands pulling back and upwards. ]

Gods, do you really think I'd try and pay you for sex with a gag gift.

[ There's a moment as she takes a breath, letting that process, hands still hovering upwards as if unsure what to do with them. ]

Astarion, I can't hardly handle being the object of Loki's divided affections, I'm not trying to keep anyone else. Through payment or otherwise. I just thought you'd like it- but if you'd rather I take it back?

No no. No no no no. [His fingers have curled around that pretty little trinket all the more so, now. Just in case there’s any mistake over how much he actually wants what she’s brought him— joke or otherwise.] Let’s not be hasty, darling.

[But back to the matter at hand:]

Intentionally? No, my dear. [Not her, not in the slightest given what they’ve both endured over the tiresome years tucked away beneath their belts.

It isn’t a lovely subject to broach; like so many ugly things, however, there’s such a necessity to it. Better to show a little rot than sink senselessly (uncomfortably) into old follies.] But I need you to understand what I was offering, not what might be expected when we’re giddily tugging away at one another’s throats.

[Better that than for her to think this was transactional in any amount.

Well. Beyond the baseline of carnal attention itself, that is.]

...it bothers you? His affection, I mean.

[ He holds on tighter and she presses her teeth into her lip, finding the back of the chair again as she slides back into it again. At least she hasn't completely offended him, by how he doesn't want to hand it back. By the choice of the word 'when'.

There's a point though to the way she places herself neatly away from him now, resting her arms on the back of the chair again. ]

It's..a lot. How much he...feels. I can tell he's trying to hold it all back and it's still more than i can handle. [ Something a little easier to talk about than...well whatever this is. ] And by the way, he's not average in the least either. I don't think I'll tire of rutting with him any time soon. You're actually missing out on that one.

[ There's a beat as Sylvie just watches him for a moment, eyebrows slightly furrowed-- and then goes back on topic. ]

I don't expect anything from you, at all really. Not even [ She waves a bit between the two of them.] whatever this is.

[ The tentative friendship she had been afraid to fuck up. ]

[He doesn’t chase after her when she retreats. It’d be a stupid thing to do, for one (space, between creatures like them, is taken like gasps of air: one does it because they need it, because it’ll feel better after it’s managed, and not for some cozy little impulse), but more than that, it isn’t quite fitting for him to leap on given the subject at hand.

His grip relaxes, posture slipping back easily across the edge of the bed as he watches her in turn; the gears in his head clearly turning, though it’s with a passive sort of cast now.

More akin to the night they shared in that frigid castle than anything else.]

His heart is a terribly overfull thing, isn’t it?

Much like something else, apparently. [Good to know.

A light breath, a thoughtful tilt of his head— dark lashes lowered just so.]

...does he love you, do you think?

[Has he said it?]

[ It's a very accurate description of him, an overfull heart. One that makes her feel a bit hollow in comparison.

This wasn't where she had predicted this visit to go. ]

He says he does.

[ It's not said with confidence though. What do either of them really know of love? She likes to think she knows the tells of it, what the results are-- but actually feeling it? Understanding first hand? That she's not particularly certain about. Her own feelings or his. ]

But he also has other commitments.

Lady Alexandrie.

[And oh, the way he exhales her name: knowing, in a word.]

Paramour of his Thedosian self.

[No, this isn’t how this encounter was meant to go— but they’re here within its topical confines now, and there’s nothing to be done to escape its trajectory short of disengaging entirely.

And that, he won’t do. Not unless she asks.]

Does it frighten you, the thought that he cares so much for you— or is it more that you simply don’t believe it, given his...

Prior attachment.

[ What a question.

Sylvie furrows her brows, lips parting a moment as she seems to go to answer, and then instead muses on it a bit longer; eyes lowered. The stitching on the collar in his hands are neat and even, all save one that is ever so slightly longer than the others. A flaw she hadn’t noticed before. ]

No. I don’t think he’s lying, honestly his commitment to her I think helps in that he has someone else to focus that feeling on other than me.

[ Frightening then. Overwhelming in how much she likes it and how vulnerable it makes her feel. Confusing in that she can’t quantify what her own attachments to him mean or are even called.

She’s been only able to think of survival and revenge for so long it’s hard to see anything outside that narrow frame.

Her eyes flick up to his a moment, blue on crimson. ]

Have you ever been in love?

[Well. That's forward enough, isn't it?

Tit-for-tat, considering how he'd prodded her into discussing her own troubles to begin with, true, but it catches Astarion off guard somehow all the same: a momentary pause, a lifting of his eyebrows for just the narrowest of beats— a single blink, and then:]

No.

[No, not that he can remember. Not under Cazador's cruel reign. Even before that, it's hard to imagine what sort of life he might've actually led within Baldur's Gate at the pinnacle of society, where obligation and hedonism so often mingle hand in hand.

His lips purse slightly. He sets the gift she'd brought him aside at last, exhaling just once through his nose. Conceding.]

I don't imagine it's for someone like me. [And the glance that meets her own when red eyes lift is— unreadable, maybe. Deliberately so.

How she chooses to determine what he means, or how he means it, is entirely up to her.

And there might not be a wrong answer.]

[ It's hard not to categorize all the little tells on his face, the stillness, the way he clearly is thinking, the slight shift of his eyebrows. What they could mean, the context to them, ways to see into someone's thoughts without having to enter their minds.

Astarion is more complicated than the average person, but at the same time she's more invested in learning him than she has been others isn't she? To learn more about the one person who isn't a variant of herself that she connects with at a very base level. Experiences are different, yes, but their foundations are almost unsettlingly similar.

So when he gives her his answer she presses her lips into a knowing kind of smile, eyebrows twitching downwards a moment as she gives a subtle nod at that. ]

I felt the same way. Now I'm not as sure.

[ There's an insinuation in that to his own situation, and she touches the tip of her tongue to her teeth a moment, an uneasy stillness in her body as she considers her next step. Somehow talking to Astarion continuously puts her slightly out of her comfort zone-- he's too similar in ways she supposes. It's harder to put on a front when you're looking in something of a mirror. ]

Anyways, I just wanted to bring you that and see your face when you opened it. Which was exactly what I had hoped, quite satisfying. I wont keep you.

[ It's said in a long exhale as she stands, stretching out her arms and fingers as if trying to shrug off the seriousness of the moment. ]

[He sees it the moment she moves to stand. Recognizes it easily, that kneejerk instinct to run. To break away from obvious discomfort when it can't be easily dispelled; he feels it too, after all, the dead-drop weight of emotion's tangled weave drawn right across their shoulders. Looming just overhead.

Love. Want. Hope—

And knowing the world won't ever give it to you.]

Sit down. [Light, that demand. Feather-light, in fact, barely a cheerful brush of air across his tongue as his back straightens slightly, leaning through his own posture.

Combative as she is, though, Astarion imagines she might refuse without good reason given, and so, without pretense (and with a few raised fingers that gesture lightly towards the trinket still resting at his side):]

We're not done yet, you and I.

You still have a collar to attach, after all.

[ His direction makes her pause mid rise, eyebrows furrowing a moment as she watches him lean forward, weighing the lackadaisical tone against the actual weight of his words. ]

Ah. Do I now?

[ Sylvie sits again, a little slowly and with care as she shifts so that her feet are kicked out on either side, and she neatly folds her hands back on the head rest as she watches him with undisguised curiosity. It's a welcome change of topic, though awkward in it's own way. ]

I had thought that was off the table.

[Sometimes it’s easy to see just how much she’s been on her own. How little contact factored into the whole of her existence— or how fleeting it all must have been, flitting from place to place, unable to leave a trace without it costing her dearly.

Astarion, touch starved for a different reason, doesn't miss the tell tale signs of curiosity battling a sort of narrow wariness that threads itself throughout her bearing: the rise of her eyebrows, the way she's slow when she slips back down, as if weighing his sincerity.

Or her options.]

Not unless you want it to be. [He answers, sporting nothing lackadaisical this time. A set gaze, dilated eyes. The shadowed hang of his own dark lashes across them as he fits her with the whole of his stare.]

Wanting a little clarity between us owing to past...difficulties, shall we say, isn’t the same thing as turning away from it entirely.

So come here. Let me wear your gift around my neck, if only for a little while.

Mm...no. I don't think I want that.

[ This is normal isn't it? Actually discussing things before hand, beyond "I'm going to die soon, are you willing". It's not all fuck off or fuck yes, and nothing in between; normal people could talk about difficulties and struggles and everything in-between. They didn't learn about each other by entering their minds and picking apart their secrets. Astarion certainly isn't normal, and even considering him that way makes her laugh once, a short quick sound, but at least in this he's more normal than she is isn't he? Able to see something she missed in all this, that needed to be addressed, and having the ability to address it.

At least there's nothing at all convoluted in the way he looks at her now.

Sylvie rises again, but this time she unbuttons her cloak as she does, sliding it off her shoulders and tucking it into a clear space on the table. ]

Though, speaking of clarity.

[ The outfit underneath a simple black shirt and slacks, long sleeves and her trusty boots still on, making her steps a little heavier than his were as she pushes the chair back in and reaches past him to pick up the collar and turn it over in her hands. Since they are putting everything out in the open between them... ]

I can't currently read your mind, so maybe we should also discuss safe words? I'm particularly fond of the word Avocado.

[ The buckle is undone and Sylvie steps close enough to lean over him and slip it around his neck, careful to brush his curls out of the way as she secures it, not to tight, not too loose. ]

Look at that. Perfect fit.

[Devoid of all possible symbolism— all potential expectation— it’s easy for Astarion to feel comfortable in this. Pleasantly at ease beneath the solid weight at his throat, head tilted higher to stare up at her with a contented upwards curl to his own lips.

Hands settling on either side of her waist, bracketing the whole of her narrow form; a tugging touch without any tangibly driving purpose, thumbs resting heavily without ever harshly digging.]

What’s a safe word?

[One little beat before, with a light, sudden gasp of understanding:]

—oh, you mean that thing people do when they give up. Got it.

[Teasing, of course. Mostly.

True, Astarion’s capable of laying a great deal out on the table with preventative clarity, but let’s be honest: he still has issues.

Lots of them.]

I take it you’re staying, then?

Edited (shh) 2022-03-21 00:37 (UTC)

[ It's nice, the weight of his hands on her waist. The feel of the soft leather under her fingers as she traces the shape of the collar, then loops a finger in the ring on the front and adds a little bit of tension upwards. ]

That's one way of looking at it.

[ The bed creaks ever so slightly as she slips one knee and then the other on either side of his hips, not quite sitting in his lap as she hovers over him, head tilting to the side as she studies him through lowered lashes. ]

On Earth, where a lot of us Rifters are from, they have this thing they say when it comes to the types of appetites you and I share. Safe, Sane, Consensual. Now, I don't have much use for safe or sane, limits the fun. But that last one... if it ever feels like that's not all there, that's when you use it. Got it?

[ Her tone is light and playful, and with that said she does settle into his lap, carding back his hair with her nails as she grins down at him, the hold on his collar still firm. ]

I'll stay as long as you'll have me.

[How she seizes opportunity with ease, winding her way around him— fingers still keeping a hold on his (his) collar, prompting a slow slide into a fiercely devilish grin on his own part. Chin raised, eyes hooded. No time wasted at all before he’s moved his palms to rest across her hips, coaxing her down into his lap inch by insistently present inch.]

Sweet of you, darling. Though I’ll warn you now, that’s not likely to be a risk.

[Not for him.]

You, on the other hand. [His voice trails, his attention meandering in a feigned show of thought that’s clearly false in every perceptible facet.

...and wholly shameless, besides.]

Avocado, was it?

You got it.

[ She scrunches her nose up at that, barely able to keep her smile from breaking through as she lets him help settle her comfortably into his lap, the span of his narrow hips comfortable between her thighs. ]

However, it's generally not an issue for me either.

[ That smile is breaking through, the tip of her tongue running over the line of her teeth as she settles her free arm over his shoulder and just looks him over a moment at an angle; as if weighing her many options. Or perhaps considering eating him whole. ]

I do wonder how you taste.

[ It's said idly enough, but mischief glitters in her eyes as she dips down to brush her lips over his, feather light. ]

Alluring. Aromatic in the way of any fine luxury— well-aged and perfectly balanced, a little sweet and yet [And yet being the apparent point of no return for this exchange: mouth lifting eagerly to catch her own where she'd left off in a tease, far from mindful about his own fangs in the process— hands driving her down to press herself flush across his lap, shifting by minute degrees for the indulgent sake of friction alone.

And it takes so long for that hungering kiss to break, sharp and soft and dragging in its ardor...

But when it finally does, oh, how he grins.]

Endlessly intense.

How goes it of late, good Astarion?

Good Astarion. [Does he sound pleased about that choice of words? Because make no mistake, he absolutely is:] My my. That’s not an adjective I hear too often in regards to mine own self.

I'm doing just fine, my dear.

...well, fine as can be, considering the constant irritation we’ve faced as of late.

But braver souls are on the case, I think. At least I hope they are. [Never mind that, though.]

So that aside, what can I do for you, darling? Surely you didn’t call just to check in.

I did, actually.

[ His voice is a little wry. ]

I know that nightmares can lay heavier on some than on others. So.

I—

[What does he say to that? What can he say to that, caught off guard as he is?

Already some part of his paranoid, entirely protective mind is working quick as a snapping gear to dredge up some sort of reason as to why Byerly Rutyer would be reaching out to make certain he's not shattering under pressure (is it for the sake of Riftwatch's overall wellbeing? most likely, yes— they're a small lot, after all; is it because a confessed spy might want to make sure their confidant doesn't go entirely off the deep end? possibly so; or is it because they shared a haunted moment of tension under the press of old nightmares? that is....)]

Fair enough.

[Low. Quiet. For most he'd no doubt bite, opting to push the inquiry away rather than let it settle in like sullen snowdrifts.

Yes, all right. They'll talk about this.]

If we're spilling truths, I have the benefit of acclimation on my side: I'm used to night terrors— they've always been a constant, even without whatever's causing this in play.

I'm just not used to having nowhere to retreat to, mentally speaking, that is.

[Fenris helps. Ellie is a balm when she stops in. That doesn't do much to stem the tide otherwise, though.]

...what about you?

Ah. I'm fine. All things considered. I've been fortunate enough in life that the Fade doesn't have anything truly dreadful to torment me with.

[ Which - isn't precisely true. Byerly, by most metrics, hasn't been all that fortunate - born despised, surrounded by indifference, subject to scandal and censure, surviving on the meager generosity of others. But in comparison to Astarion, to what Astarion has gone through...By has rarely had cause to think about the number of things he could have experienced but didn't. What he's heard of the man's life - Well, it makes him quite cognizant of that. By has memories that make him sad; Astarion has memories that freeze the blood. ]

Irritable over the lack of sleep more than anything else.

[ Then - ] Have you tried elfroot yet?

At first.

[It’d always been a pleasant go-to, after all. Something warming and hazy alike, stolen just in the hours before sleep. And all right, yes, it was nice, too, as an accompanying distraction when he and Fenris were warding away the subjectivity of all their possible fears.]

But I’m concerned that being somewhat....altered might only make the disorientation of trying to parse reality when waking that much worse.

[Then, a little wryly:]

Not that I have much room to talk when I still drink, of course.

Still, I’ve found that waking up beside someone else helps more readily than anything else. Solidifies the timeline, as it were.

[To that extent...]

Is he staying with you now?

And don't patronize me by asking something clever like 'he, who'. You know who.

[ By shuts his lips on just such a clever reply. ]

Well, he's not in the room now. I'd certainly never let anyone listen in on this conversation. You deserve your privacy.

[There, at least, Astarion laughs. Shh. Don't tell.]

My darling, you do realize that does make it sound as though he's listening in...don't you?

[Not that even he suspects that, but still. Worth mentioning.]

[ Drolly, without any sting in it: ]

Only to the paranoid. And lightly sleep-deprived.

—you know what? Fair point.

[And he is both, so there’s no excuse for the tired little snort of amusement that prompts.]

Well. Not to be hennish, then. But I’m glad to hear you’re not on your own in this.

Ugh. Can’t believe I just said that out loud.

Now I know that I'm slipping from deprivation. Next thing I'll start confessing all my feelings, too.

[ Oh. Well, that's - Aw. That's sweet. ]

You already confess most of your feelings. You know - amusement, horniness...The important emotions in life.

Doubly so when I’m around you.

[Its duller, all that usual humor of Astarion's. A little more tired, yes, but it comes from him as easily as ever regardless.]

Something to be said for charisma, I suppose.

[A thought, then:]

Am I allowed to ask how he’s taking all this unsightly business?

[Allowed meaning: will you give him a straight answer.]

[ Fondly: ] He'd like it if you asked him yourself. Not too pushily, mind - he doesn't like to be pushed - but he spends so much time asking after others that he's always a bit touched when others ask after him.

[ A startlingly straight answer, perhaps. Probably much more than Astarion would have expected. Byerly guards Bastien's heart ferociously; it's a gesture of trust to share this. ]

But - He's doing all right, all things told. He endures discomfort with great stoicism. And it's not just swallowing down his feelings; he really does have that sort of stony determination where he doesn't allow it to disturb him.

[It's much more than Astarion had expected, truth be told— and like so much else in regards to this conversation, it's a fair reminder as to just how low his own (incorrect) assumptions had been.

Lesson learned.] Hm. Duly noted. If I find myself bored enough to start worry about my peers, I'll be sure to give him a call.

[One part joke, one part very much actual taking notes.]

Unpushily.

Anyway, I suppose being a bard might've influenced adopting such diligent defenses.

He told you about that?

You're surprised?

[Well now.]

Not shocked. It's not a deeply-held secret. But it's not something he tells everyone, either. A Bard's efficacy is somewhat reduced by his notoriety - though occasionally, it's enhanced, at least in Orlais.

I meant that more as a reflection of myself, darling. [Feather-light and honey-sweet; tired as he is, he's preening over this.] Attractive, compelling...

Trustworthy.

You confessed your origins to me. He confessed his. [Astarion confessed his own to both Byerly and Bastien but that's not relevant right now, shh. He's fanning his own ego. It's like a cozy little blanket.

Or a teddy bear.] In fact, you wouldn't believe the secrets I've been gifted in the near-year I've spent in Thedas thus far.

[ By grins. Astarion is incorrigible. ]

Really? Any juicy ones?

[He laughs, predictably amused by a question he very much knew was coming.] So many— but that’s the nature of secrets, my dear: can’t be told.

I only mentioned Bastien’s because I knew you two were in bed with one another. Literally, of course.

The rest don’t come for free.

And besides, I imagine you know almost as much as I do to begin with.

[ By laughs, and privately relaxes a bit. Good. He obviously had some faith that Astarion had discretion; it's good to get some amount of confirmation. ]

So what would your price be?

More than you could ever hope to afford, dearest spy of mine. [Mild and fond— and likely true as well, given the way Astarion says it.]

The things I want that I can't fetch for myself aren't easily found, and I've a heart made of frigid ice; nothing short of divinity itself will pry my collection from me prematurely.

Is that what your heart is made of? [ A very skeptical: ] Hm.

You disagree?

[This time it's Astarion's turn to sound skeptical. Come now, Byerly.]

My memory is faint, but if I strain, I seem to recall hearing something where you showed some compassion to a few people who were in a rather bad way.

Edited 2022-04-20 12:09 (UTC)

...ugh. I knew I never should've let you live when you caught me in that alleyway, now I'll never be able to escape the outermost perimeter of my own bad decisions.

Were you considering murdering me?

[ He doesn't sound particularly scandalized by the possibility. Lots of people think about murdering Byerly. ]

Mm. Just for half a second. Or ten.

[And you know what? That actually sounds like the truth.]

Not that I don't adore you, darling, just. Well, we've had our share of fanatical rats amongst the flock, so to speak. Difficult to place faith in anyone else for certain, particularly when one's standing in the unsettling dark, plotting how best to keep a pack of would-be— and undoubtably— lucrative assets safe.

In other words, the fact that I didn't go through with it might say a great deal about how much I trust you.

So do me a favor, and don't make me look the fool for believing that I can.

...trust you, that is.

[ Wryly: ] Provide some small salve to my pride, dear man. Pretend that I'm not so frail that you could take my life as easily as just thinking about it. Rutyer men are supposed to be warriors.

[ Then, hoping that little joke has put Astarion a bit at ease, Byerly says: ]

I did give you collateral. You could do quite a lot of damage to me with the secret I told you. So in the moments when your trust in my intentions falters, you can find your footing again by reminding yourself that you also are protected by my self-interest.

[ Was that the reason that Byerly shared that most sensitive of secrets? Probably. In the moment, the choice was rather surprising to him - probably even more surprising than it had been to Astarion - but upon reflection, he thinks that's why he did it.

There'd been a dog who'd skulked around the manor when he was young, a half-feral thing with a permanent limp from having been hurt by thrown stones. While he never exactly bonded with it, it had come to trust him and take small tidbits from his hand - and he'd gotten to that place first by sitting down, laying his open hands palm-up, not guarding any of his vulnerable spots. Sometimes a hurt thing needs to know that it can hurt you back, hurt you worse. Sometimes that's how it feels safe. ]

I won’t do you the disservice of lying. [Teasing as it is, that start, there's also so much smugness in play for a solid half beat or two:] You and I both know I could tear you to shreds in an instant if I wanted to.

But I don’t want to. You’re far too pretty to die.

[There. Ego padded with simple honesty instead. A far rarer gift.

As for the rest, though....]

Still, you’re not wrong there. And admittedly not a day goes by where it doesn’t bring me some amount of comfort, knowing what I do about you. [He means that. Despite the casualness of his exchanges with so much of Riftwatch, there are startlingly few souls present that serve as a balm against Astarion's own (at times paranoid) fears.

Collateral helps. Duplicitous collateral even more so, if only for the fact that at times a spy and a spawn like Astarion aren't all that different. Easier to trust a snake that says it's a snake, than a tactician that claims themselves nothing more than a diligent observer.] Can’t imagine you’ve shared it with many souls here— although it would be particularly clever if you did. Making everyone feel at ease around you with a not so secret secret.

But like I said, I don’t suspect you of that kind of deception. We’ve seen a great deal of one another’s scars, all things considered.

I place faith in that.

[He does. He's learned to.]

Anyway, you’ll excuse me if I flutter away before the nightmares find me. Lots of relentless thieving to do in Kirkwall lately— and the bills won’t pay themselves

Not without a little help, that is.

[ What does that mean? I don’t suspect you of that kind of deception. We’ve seen a great deal of one another’s scars. Meaning, what, that Byerly had provided him with a more valuable sort of collateral? That's certainly not the case: Byerly's disgrace had been a matter of delighted gossip, back when it had happened. Every Fereldan noble above a certain age likely heard of his public shame. So -

So what's his meaning? That the scars make Byerly more trustworthy? That someone who's suffered like that is less likely to hurt Astarion? Maker, would that that were true. By remembers well how utterly his disgrace had turned him vicious and cruel. How calculating and evil he'd become after it all...

But at the same time: he won't hurt Astarion. He knows that he will not betray him. So maybe there's something to Astarion's faith, after all.

A lighter topic: ]

Thieving, my dear fellow?

[A lighter topic indeed.]

A man has to pay his bills somehow, and much as I adore Riftwatch’s precious little stipend, it’s not nearly enough for an elf in Lowtown attempting to pay rent outside the Alienage, which....

Eugh, no.

[Not in a thousand eons would he resort to relocating there.]

Hence. Borrowing. Aggressively.

You're going to get us into trouble.

With whom, darling?

The ruffians in the harbor? The riff raff and mercenaries that do just as much to ruin the scabbiest of lives in this flea-ridden city?

Come now, Byerly. I don't rob from the rich....

[Well.]

...much.

[Mostly never— which is almost always, as far as well-behaved odds go, if you think about it.]

And the ones that stray into Lowtown and the like know exactly what they're getting into.

Ah, so he's not a thief - he's the Black Fox come again. No wonder Bastien is fond of you.

[ Easily teasing, with no bite in it. The tone remains light as he says - ]

It'd simply look a bit bad if word got out. Even if it is just riff raff. Riftwatch has all those foreign heathens, and they come to prey on our people.

[Memo to look up the Black Fox later then— if only to potentially discuss it with Bastien at some future point.]

Mm. [Light mm, cavalier (yet gently so) mm.

A warning for the inevitable mischief that follows:]

So what I'm hearing is that I shouldn't leave them alive when I rob them blind.

[ Just a hint of the stressed, unhappy Division Head creeps through Byerly's light irony. ]

Ah, Astarion...

What?

Oh come on. That was funny. I was funny.

[The jury's still out on that one, Astarion. But still:]

You’ve let your work sink its claws into you far too much these days.

It’s going to break my blackened heart, at this rate.

You should have known me before all this.

[ He's droll again, his little stress-bubble forcibly popped and dispersed. ]

Before la responsabilité. I was fun, if you can believe it. I'd have gone with you on those robberies.

Edited 2022-05-04 21:58 (UTC)

Oh?

[Astarion doesn’t sound like he doubts it, actually.]

Surely your desk didn’t just change you overnight, though.

...or if it did, cursed as it might be, I could just burn it. Unshackle you and set you free.

Ha. I'd adore you for it.

[ He sounds like he really would. ]

But it sounds like you're accusing me of having been serious-minded for some time. Or are you saying that perhaps there's fun still buried in me?

The latter, more or less. Maybe both. Does knowing you for almost a year now count as ‘quite some time’? Because if so, yes.

And I’m starting to think I might need to resort to drastic measures to save you.

I’m afraid that even if the desk burns, the work will remain.

So, you're resigned to your fate now, is that it?

Byerly Rutyer: once fun, now recently only remembered as the very handsome, well-dressed fellow with a charming partner and...

Mm.

Adequately endearing pup.

[ Hey. ]

Extraordinarily endearing pup.

Maybe so.

I'll admit, expecting the creature that's fed for two centuries purely on animals to weigh in on the cuteness factor of them isn't exactly going to net you reliable results.

[Because, let's be honest:]

...they all look like snacks to me.

That excuse doesn't hold up, dear fellow. I also feed primarily on animals.

Oh, do you? How refreshing to hear; I always thought you sorts fenced yourselves off from snacking on the pettish types, but if we're both complete carnivores, well—

I stand corrected.

You'll have to teach me what traits are considered precious, though. Consider it part of my socialization.

...localization?

[Hm.]

Both, maybe.

What - You don't know? You don't feel that tremble of your heart when you look into a pair of big and shining eyes?

I—

[Hm.]

Sometimes.

But they're not animal eyes.

Well, imagine that for animals.

[ As long as it's not lustful. ]

Mm. Well. [Hang on. Just. One minute.

Or two.

Or—

....]

No— no. I can't. It's just getting weirder the longer I try.

What’s weird about it? Just picture my face, mustache and all, on a cat.

...eugh.

Worse.

[So much worse???]

Can't we just go back to the part where I remind you you're being all work and no play lately?

[ Head swivel, etc. ]

Fenris,

[ said with the contemplative tone of a thinking man labeling the subject he is about to expand on, like freedom or the Empire, over too much wine. ]

Is his voice really like that? It’s not something he only does in public to sound bigger than he is.

[ Right? ]

Hmm?

[The timing of this.... Bastien are you snooping?

No, of course he is, and you know what? Admirable. Misplaced, but admirable.]

What, you imagine he sounds differently in private? Gentler, perhaps?

[Amusing thought, actually.]

Maybe. Maybe like…

[ Bastien is no good at accents. That has to be the Maker specifically nerfing him, though, because he is otherwise so excellent at impressions that he would have been unstoppable. His replication of tenor and cadence, phrasing, feeling—all as flawless as they could be without literal shapeshifting. Posture and expression, too, but that’s useless through a crystal.

So for the next few words, he does sound very much like Fenris, if Fenris were feeling a little off (to so familiar an ear, at least) and had some Orlesian mangling that lovely/sinister Tevinter accent. ]

I find myself picky as I settle into middle age.

[ Something Fenris has said to him before. Testing it out as a baseline before the real proposal; next he sounds like a fellow might sound if talking like Fenris required talking from deep in the chest, with a natural voice that’s reedier, thinner, and higher. ]

I find myself picky as I settle into middle age.

[ Maybe it is also how Fenris might sound if he stubbed his toe badly enough. Who knows? Not Bastien. ]

Like that.

[It certainly gets a laugh out of Astarion, if nothing else— and really, it's not bad as far as impressions go. Orlesian lilt aside, he's rather endeared to the likeness.

And the idea behind it, too.]

And for a moment I almost thought he was here with us. [Mm. No, he didn't.]

But no, darling, much as I hate to spoil the fun of picturing him shedding that unique voice of his like a thick coat or heavy pair of gloves at the end of the day, that's...actually what he sounds like. All the time.

[And there are parts of Astarion that wonder if that tireless gruffness was once part of his training too: yet another wolfish trait Danarius had imparted upon the creature kept ever at his side (very, very likely, he imagines), but that would spoil the mood to bring up in conversation— and it isn't really his place to besides, regardless of whether or not Fenris would mind.

His privacy is his own.

And speaking of which...]

Might I ask what inspired this curious little question of yours?

You could've easily asked him yourself, you know. It's not as if he bites. And he's much less likely than I am to lie.

Infinitely less, in fact.

You would lie to me?

[ Shocked. Appalled.

He's laughing a little while he says it.

But as part of the same joke, he's perfectly honest in his answer: ]

I did not ask him because I do not know him as well, and it is a ridiculous thing to ask someone, and it is really only a pretext to ask you about him. You were quick to go from one bed?! to I will share with Fenris—and I know you have your choice of bedfellows.

Oh, well it—

[Wait.]

What? No—

Bedfellows? No. It's just. [Go ahead, Astarion. Say no again.] He and I trust one another, that's all.

[In ways that run deeper than blood. It's fine. And normal!!]

And besides, it wasn't one bed?! It was one bed. One. Bed....d. Hard stop. No lift.

Don't be so bloody Orlesian, you're in Kirkwall for gods' sake.

And don't think I don't know what exactly you're up to with this. I do.

[ Interesting, that Astarion doesn't take the opportunity to insinuate that there is something going on, truthfully or not. Sex is so much easier to come by than trust. Much less revealing.

On his end of the crystal, Bastien's head tilts curiously, and he waits out the rest of the response with great patience. ]

What am I up to?

[ A little warmth. It's a genuine question—what Astarion thinks he's trying to do. ]

[A h. That's the thing about pushy declarations, they don't actually scare off anyone clever enough to either A: see through them or B: follow through. In other words, this is the part where Astarion's given nickname of oison really does stand out like a sore thumb.]

You—

You're prying, obviously. Sniffing around for dirt, just like you did on the network not so long ago.

Well it won't work. Trust me when I say there's nothing to stick your curious little snoot into.

[And you know what? That last bit? Shockingly sounds sincere, in fact— even if he has been covering his own figurative tracks.]

Ah, mon oison—

[ speaking of ]

—I am curious about so many things besides who is fucking. And I like you, [ to continue treating forthright honesty like a sport he can win at, ] so I like to hear about your life.

I am glad you are finding people to trust, though. That’s a lot harder than finding someone to sleep with, in my experience—and my experience has been so much kinder than yours.

[It disarms him, that assurance. Obviously it’s meant to, and there’s a part of him that knows that, but there’s also far more of Astarion that believes it.

So...yes. He drops his guard. A little. As much as he knows how when he’s speaking to someone that isn't Fenris or Ellie: the pair that've come to take up full time residence in his withered, blackened heart. It lives in the way his voice drops. Tone lighter. Far, far more fragile when Astarion finally adds:]

He—

He means a great deal to me, you know.

[A truth.

An understatement.]

And it’s not that I wouldn’t sleep with him [The words 'I'm not blind' muttered somewhere underneath his breath as emphasis underlining the fact that yes, the man is absolutely alluring by Astarion's surprisingly picky standards.] and it’d certainly be a lot easier to discuss if we were knocking figurative boots. It’s that he isn’t—

Well. I’m not his type.

[ Because he's heard the way Fenris speaks about the people in his past. The exchanges he's had, and held, and left behind. Because Astarion’s tried before, after all, painted in a thousand near misses and absolute misses, and the longer time goes on, the more Astarion finds himself at ease with that truth despite all his longing. Loki once said love can transcend things like that.

Astarion’s starting to believe it.]

And that’s fine. Really. Mostly.

Sort of.

[Look.]

I don’t care if it’s unrequited, so long as he stays. And I worry, after his memory loss. It’s not as if the Venatori don’t experiment on everything they can get their filthy little hands on. What if—

[He cuts himself off there, breath leaving him in a narrow, constricted little noise that's squeezed out through set fangs.]

Tch.

Look, if there really are Crows in Antiva looking to hurt anyone aligned with us, then I want to be with him.

I want to make sure he’s all right.

[Because so much more than anything else:]

I can’t lose him again.

[ Bastien frowns at his crystal, as it spills out far more than he’d expected. ]

My first love—

[ Is this Astarion’s? It seems likely that it’s the first he can remember, or at least the first he’s experiencing as something aching instead of friendly and fizzy. ]

I wasn’t his type, either.

[ Bastien doesn’t want to talk about Vincent. He’s not mentioning it to talk about it. Only to make a tacit promise to be as careful with this raw piece of heart as he would have wanted someone to be with his own. There won’t be any further eyebrow waggling from his corner. ]

You won’t lose him. He will be alright. We are taking a lot of precautions—and you will look out for him. [ Gently, ] And he will look out for you, non?

[ Not rhetorical. He wants to hear it. It’s one thing not to be someone’s type. It’s another to be so entirely devoted to someone who doesn’t care—as a friend or brother or whatever other way they can offer—just as much in return. ]

Most likely. He’s a very devoted creature, I think.

[Mine, being the word Astarion had offered, and Fenris had met it so willingly that Astarion amends his own typical cynicism immediately when he adds:]

Yes, actually. I think he will.

[Not that Astarion isn't content to always look after himself first and foremost, but the thought is, admittedly, oddly refreshing. That he has someone at his back to rely on. To safeguard. To cherish, even— and yes, to love, too. Conditionless a thing as it is.

Strange. Wonderful. Terrifying....just a little.

Something Astarion can easily bear in exchange.]

But it’ll be easier to ensure that if we’re sharing the same space. Which reminds me—

[Now that he’s confident this is a safe, trustworthy exchange filled with earnest investment on all sides, and not the (far from malicious) curiosity of a once-spy now bored:]

I won’t be living in Lowtown anymore.

We can still flit about as we like. Fetch something to eat whenever you miss the ferry— you’ll just need to stop by Hightown first. Or 'knock on my crystal', so to speak.

[Horrible joke. Just awful.]

I only mention it because I’d hate for you to turn up at my door and find some ruffian instead.

There are so many in the city’s underside, after all.

Mm. I enjoy a ruffian, now and then.

[ Did enjoy a ruffian, now and then, before everyone but Byerly lost their lustre.

Anyway— ]

Is that safe? Hightown.

[ Elves in Hightown. Bastien knows—he talks to people, he listens well—that Fenris lives there, so it’s no huge leap to imagine where in Hightown Astarion might be staying. And he knows Fenris must know Kirkwall better than any of them.

Still. ]

[A different sort of ruffian, then.

Thought in the beat before his voice shifts away from softness into wryness in its entirety:]

Ohh, you're not worried about us, are you?

I know you are very fast and very fierce.

[ His tone of voice—a touch of sing-song recitation, an equal touch of flatness—makes that complimentary allowance actually mean I am worried anyway. ]

[His own laugh in response is sincere, if nothing else. No false guard or lilting, performative tone. Proof enough that in his own way, he's actually touched by it, that concern.]

And shockingly handsome, too. Can't forget the most important detail.

Between my sharp eyes and his...oddly bare feet [what is it with native elves, huh] that are admittedly probably very good at running, we'll see gilded trouble coming from well far away, I'm sure.

And it's not as if you won't be looking out for us, too.

[And maybe it's unfair to circle back now that they're so far out, but Astarion's conversational tides travel as a habit: with all pressing topics pushed aside, the one detail that's stuck in his head since it was first mentioned is the only thing left clinging to the tip of his tongue.]

...you know, you mentioned your first love, before.

What ever happened to him?

[Not that they couldn't have drifted apart, but Thedas is a tumultuous place, and Astarion imagines it wasn't always easy, living in it as Bastien did.]

[ On his end of the crystal, Bastien’s concerned frown has begun to stretch into a smile, at the jokes and at the fact that Astarion thinks (correctly) Bastien would look out for them. And for Fenris, sure. Bastien hardly knows him, but for Riftwatch’s sake. For Astarion’s.

The question doesn’t make him stop smiling. It makes him smile wider. It’s reflex. Easier and often less suspicious to channel a grimace into a grin than to do nothing at all. ]

Oh.

[ He rubs the smile off his face with his hand. He shouldn’t be caught off guard by this. The circling-back. Bastien does it to people often enough, himself, and Astarion’s done it before. But still. ]

He died. He was hanged—two years ago now.

We hadn’t been close for years before that.

[ A footnote to avoid pity, to avoid claiming any portion of grief larger than rightfully belongs to him. Vincent had a wife. Vincent had three children. They were there when he died—the oldest, at least—and Bastien wasn’t. ]

The lesson to take from this, my young old vampire, [ is lighter, in a gallows humor kind of way, ] is never move on and never get [ mostly ] over anything, or someone will die.

[Strangely enough, Astarion doesn’t laugh.

Mostly because it’s difficult for him to imagine what it might be like, standing in Bastien’s softer soled shoes. Because he doesn’t like the idea of it, he realizes suddenly. Falling for someone the way he’s fallen for Fenris, watching him sink onto someone else’s arms—

Losing him, piece by piece, until it all means next to nothing in hindsight.

So maybe Bastien needs that humor; Astarion can’t be sure.

And he doesn’t ask.

Not about that, at least. His voice still lingering on the edge of lightness when he gives in to a different train of thought:]

Oddly specific, hanging.

[Was he a thief? A mercenary or swindler, perhaps— or just a man unlucky. Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.]

Yes.

[ That's nearly all he says. The instinct to stonewall, to take advantage of other people's willingness to leave things alone. He thinks Astarion, who has in the past tolerated only so much investigation and inspection before his mood has twisted sharply to prickly darkness or sharp-toothed humor to force a subject closed, would understand.

But Astarion has been so awfully honest today.

So, still grimly good-humored: ] A little sedition goes a long way.

[ That is all he's going to say. There's a noise, quiet for him but perhaps loud for Astarion, as he taps his fingernail on the sending crystal twice, like a punctuation mark. ]

I am sorry about his memory loss. That must be...

[ Terrible. Of course. ]

Do you think there is any hope he will recover from it?

I don’t know. [And that’s honest, too. An equally accomodating shift from one brittle topic to the next, much like navigating broken glass while barefoot.

He trusts Bastien enough now to make the effort, even if it is an uncomfortable one.]

It’s possible. But he’s lost— [ah, no. That’s Fenris’ business. Leto’s business. And it isn’t his story to tell.] a great deal, overall.

And it’s not as if our story was any different before then, compared to now.

[His heart didn’t beat for Astarion when they fist met. It doesn’t beat for him now.] I suppose I should be grateful for that. Could’ve been worse.

[Ah. Glass. Just there.]

And if nothing else, he still remembers the Champion of Kirkwall, so I imagine he’s still quite useful to Riftwatch and all its diplomatic needs.

[ Bastien hums in agreeable acknowledgment. Since they're being awfully honest, he won't claim not to give a damn about Fenris' usefulness or connections. The stakes are the world, etc. etc. etc. But that part is not what is interesting at the moment. ]

Was she his type?

[ Was that the emphasis of respect or the emphasis of jealous resentment? ]

[Being Astarion, the latter is the safest bet... and also the correct one, technically.]

Maybe. [He never asked, ghosts being what they are. The way culture in Thedas tends to deify and villify however it pleases, and how discussing it seemed to hurt. Like nooses and old flames, sometimes the hint of a story is enough.]

One of her allies was for certain— not that I actually blame him, given what I’ve heard of her.

[Well.]

Not that I blame him at all, regardless.

I might enjoy every flavor there is to catalogue, but it’s not as if people get to choose which ones actually melt across their tongues.

[Even so:]

...doesn’t mean I’m thrilled to find myself the odd man out, though. Irony of ironies, and all that.

Go two hundred years seducing people and without feeling a thing, and—

Well.

As you Orlesians say: c’est la whatever.

[ A single huff's worth of laughter. ]

Oui. And the whatever goes on. All that has happened to you, everyone you have met since you arrived—in five years you will have seen five times as much.

[ When he was deep in the muck of unrequited love, he would have loathed anyone who told him there was something better waiting. Doubly if they did it from the perch of a dizzyingly happy relationship. So he's not going to say it. He's only going to imply it. That's much better.

What he would have liked someone to offer him, down in that muck—or on his perch, too, honestly— ]

Tell me about him. Nothing private, I mean, but... What is it that has you so aflutter? The eyes?

[ An invitation to gush. ]

[Five years.

A dream he doesn't let himself hope for, and yet wants all the same.]

His eyes, yes. Pretty as they are. [And there's the temptation to leave it at that level precisely. Stick to the figurative shallows of it all: talk about how he's breathtaking to look at, captivating in a fight. The strength of his bridge line or the narrowness of his hips. How his voice thrums when he speaks, so characteristically his own, and unmistakably unique. The little downturned slant to his ears, a little doggish— and entirely precious, compared to the knifing sharpness (ignoring the local terminology) of the ears Astarion possesses and is used to from his life in Toril (not home, anymore).

At first, yes, back when this world was all fresh tracks in untouched snow to his mind, he was drawn to each of those superficial facets with ease, but now...]

I wasn't alone, you know. In enslavement, I mean. Enthrallment. Whatever you want to call it.

My master had countless other spawn at his beck and call, and when he sent me out to hunt for him— as I've mentioned to you before— I was at least able to drown myself for a time in the company of the living. [And soon to be dead.] I knew people. I thought I knew them all, much in the same way I imagine a bard does, too: set your sights on someone, watch them for a time, and their world might as well make itself into an open book.

Usually an ugly one.

And it never bothered me so much that I was a monster when everyone else around me was one too, albeit just a different sort of breed: the rich, the greedy, the callous, the lustful, the utterly, selfishly spoiled— who always will be exactly what they are from the moment they're born till the day they die.

[There are times when he's proud of his fangs. His eyes. His ability to be terrible and terrifying in perfectly equal floes. There are times when he can't stand to look in the mirror, if only because he still sees everything he's lost for good.]

He's different.

And I don't mean because he understands what it is to be so trapped, and I don't mean because he suffered. I've met plenty of others that have in all its varying degrees, and there certainly isn't a shortage here.

When he's beside me, I find myself capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.

[Not better. Not kinder. Not gentler, the way some people insist it's meant to go, where betterment is the only goal of being near someone else, just— ]

I'm finally at ease.

[ Is it better or worse, to do this over the sending crystals, where Astarion can't see the way his answer makes Bastien smile? On one hand it might embarrass him, shut him up prematurely; on the other, it would be answer enough on its own, if he saw it. No need to say anything. ]

Good.

[ Since he has to say something. ]

I think that is more than a lot of people ever have.

[ Even if it isn't everything he wants. ]

[It's better, honestly. Not because he can't see the look on Bastien's face, but because of what's said if only to fill otherwise dead air— and how off guard the truth of it catches him.]

...I...

[Hm.]

I suppose you might be right.

[A pause, then, as though determined to switch tack:]

But maybe not more than what you have, I think.

No.

[ All quiet sincerity, for that word. A glimpse of raw beating heart. But then— ]

But I am the luckiest man in all of Thedas. An outlier. Anyone who holds their lives to the standard mine sets will wind up bitter and miserable. You must not do it.

[He doesn't want to laugh at that, you know. It's far, far too easy a joke, and more than that, too rewarding: if he lets Bastien in on just how little it takes to make Astarion snort in earnest, he'll never—

Oh. No. Wait.

He already knows that.

(And besides, Astarion actually is laughing already, so.)]

Right, that's it. I've had all the talk of love and happiness I can stomach. Go on. Shoo.

Get out of here, and go back to winding yourself around the man tighter than his own belt.

[It's warm, for the record, his tone. And don't you dare bring it up.]

[after a particular string of public comments:]

Well, then. I don't suppose you intended to make mention of that, at some point?

[his tone is about the same as it ever is: lightly amused, though astarion certainly knows by now that this is equally likely to be disguising any other tone he might take, versus something genuine.]

But I expect you ought to be offered congratulations of some sort, regardless.

Oh, it—

[Look, Astarion isn't the brightest spawn in the pack, but even with a wellspring of blind spots, matters like this don't land anywhere but squarely within his grasp. He's had two hundred years to figure it out, after all.

Though never from this perspective before.]

...you're upset.

[Hades' tone is impeccable— it's only his phrasing that tips Astarion off: the fact that he opts to hone in on congratulations and talk of outright discussion rather than simply taking notice with curious indifference.]

What do you expect I would have to be upset over?

[Really, can a man he's slept with not wonder if he was going to be informed without being assumed to be upset?

Well. It probably just isn't the right word, at any rate.]

I don't know, maybe it's the fact you're actually saying something for once.

You've never had the urge to before.

[All those times Astarion smelled of someone else's scent, or spoke of leaping into bed with anyone on the network that asked.

In fact, the Ascian's always had a habit of feigning indifference about so many things. Feigning because Astarion's seen it keenly by now: just how much Hades actually feels once he starts letting it drift to the surface.

They were always alike in that, the instinct to mask the truth of their own emotions.

So. If there's a shard of ice floating above the water, then beneath it must lie...]

Nor has anything of the sort been said, before. May a man not wonder at you keeping your counsel on the subject?

[It's different, after all. There's a distinction between sleeping with someone and seeing them; a difference in reaction is, therefore, only natural.]

Really, you could have made mention of it sooner. I'd expect you would have preferred the room to yourselves, considering.

...mm. I suppose that's true.

[And with that consideration, Astarion's suspicions subside completely, freeing him of all assumed need for gingerness in approaching the topic at hand. For better or worse, he moves on:]

Still, it isn't as if Kostos— that utterly wretched excuse for a mage— would've given you different arrangements even if that were the case. And Fenris and I were just fine in sharing the bed with you, as was Ataashi.

We were more than capable of stealing away on our own whenever we—

Well.

[There were a lot of late nights in Rialto.]

[Oh, good. It sounds as if he's dodged suspicion--

The trouble is he forgot, for a few blissful moments, what exactly that would mean. Somewhere on the other side of the crystal he just rubs at his face, with a muffled background grumble of 'must you.']

Yes, yes, I can assume well enough for myself, thank you.

[An explanation, he supposes, for Astarion's recent lack of interest, but put that way-- well, it's embarrassing, in hindsight, to so frankly hear that he was in fact something of an outsider there. He does still have his pride.]

You were the one that wanted to know. Don't be shocked that I answered, particularly when communication— or lack thereof— was the reason you called me in the first place.

[Compared to Astarion's usual penchant for illustrative embellishments, he's being exceptionally tame.]

...did you mean it, by the way?

What you said before.

[And just before you assume he's being particularly savvy about Hades' deception:]

The bit about congratulations.

I've never— well. I've never done this sort of thing before, you know. I don't know how it's meant to go.

Nor do I, frankly, so I haven't any idea what you expect me to tell you.

[He's had relationships, yes, but-- always things of necessity. A means to an end, a part of his plans, rather than anything motivated by emotions. Hades loved his first son, but not his wife; the others he has loved, he never had in that fashion.

There's never really been the opportunity to know.]

What? Are you joking with me? Pulling my leg?

It isn't funny if so.

[Here he is showing his own stupidly soft underbelly...]

You're self-descriptively ancient. You said life paled for you once. That you'd seen enough.

And I had. No equal existed in that world after the destruction of my world, or at least none that was not more of a colleague than aught else. I have had relationships-- marriages, even-- but never genuine. They could not be.

[Not when they were mortals. Not when the people he loved were long gone.

Unlikely here, too, he supposes, and if he's leaving out any mention of Thedas-- well. That's purposeful.]

...why not?

[He and Hades might never have seen eye-to-eye on a great many things, but they aren't so dissimilar that it feels as if a connection to someone else— even if said someone else wasn't equal— would've been impossible.

(And then there's the figure in the Ascian's memories. The one Astarion had snarled at like a possessive dog. Dead. Lost, but— )]

Even if I had held genuine affection for them-- their lives were fleeting, in comparison.

[It may not have been impossible to love, completely, but it would always end in loss. It would be such a certain thing, with his immortality; nothing lasts forever, but to know it won't be eternal is one thing. To know it will always be brief is another.]

But my focus was ever on my duty, regardless. Anything that I pursued was, then, by necessity only.

[A brief pause.]

Anything before that--

It is easy, when everyone is immortal, to believe one has all the time in the world.

[Until they didn't, and they all were gone, with everything left unsaid.]

[He thinks of Fenris for a moment. Just a passing beat.

Astarion doesn't know if he's immortal still, after passing through the Fade into Thedas. If he is, then he'll outlive the elf he's fallen for—

And this is the first time he's realizing that, misery curdling in his chest. Fingers tightening around the edges of his crystal.]

...I suppose it is.

...then I suppose you can see how it would be best to avoid disappointment, where one can.

[He's had enough of that in his life, but-- it can't be outrun every time.]

I had no plans to change that.

Hard to say.

[Even with the knotted tangle of emotion rotting away beneath his ribs— even with his fingers bruisingly tight against the edges of his crystal— it slips out of him more easily than he'd ever anticipated.

As does the rest.]

Disappointment has a way of coming for us all, you know. Relentlessly, even.

I might not be as long-lived or overtly knowledgeable, but what I do understand is that misery is easy to find. Pain, too. Suffering. Sorrow— and it doesn't stop just because you pull back into yourself.

Better to have something for a little while than nothing at all.

[Whether or not Astarion actually believes that once he's back to 0 remains to be seen. But for now....

For now, he's certain.]

[There's a unique sort of sting to the words on this subject on particular. Anything else, any other time, and he might be more inclined to listen. Maybe take a bit of it to heart.]

Mayhap so-- if one should happen to find it within their reach.

[-is what he settles on saying, easy as ever, careful to keep it out of his tone. A touch of truth does end up in his answer, though:]

But it is not simply the fleeting nature of their lives. It is more difficult, I believe, for them to understand someone longer-lived, and to be fully understood in turn.

Difficult, yes. Maybe not impossible, though.

My experience with immortality is still different than my master's— or your own. I can imagine to my heart's content how far removed from the world you might feel, but I can't actually claim any of it's accurate.

But I also know that Fenris doesn't need a few hundred years tucked against his chest to comprehend pain and suffering that more than easily might rival my own. Or what it's like to let that go in favor of a little wicked fun.

And while I'm not normally the pep talk sort, I'll make an exception for you.

After all, I always did.

You're wasted on yourself, my darling. Don't keep shuttering your impulses away, especially now when there's no guarantee just how long we might have in this world—

[A mild beat, before, teasingly:]

Well, how long you might have in it. I'm going to bask forever on its tumultuous shores, no matter what it takes. But still. Point stays the same.

You're such a pretty thing. I'd hate to see you wither.

Not every impulse ought to be acted upon.

[It comes out shorter than he would like, perhaps, but he manages to tinge it with a little false exasperation-- just a response to the teasing, that's all. He both does and doesn't want to hear what Astarion has to say.]

Nor have I ever been quite so impulsive as you to begin with, you realize. I've no idea just what you believe I require the pep talk for, but I do expect that I shall manage well enough.

[There's the slightest pause left hanging there, a sort of non-verbal non-visible version of a quirked brow, set down knowing full well that if anyone's observant enough to grasp what it means, it's Emet-Selch.

And then he sighs.]

You are stubborn. You don't listen well. You consider yourself the eternal end-all-be-all source when it comes to just about everything, and in the rarer event that something new catches your eye, you're more likely to tut your tongue about it or study from the sidelines, hovering attractively— I'll give you that— but still.

You set yourself apart.

And take it from me, if you can die now [if they are all made mortal by their foray into Thedas itself ] you might as well go out in a blaze of brilliant glory, rather than all that tempting isolation.

All I'm saying is, just. In case you're struck with some bitter need to go back to old habits—

Leave yourself open this time around.

I know well enough where that leads.

[-he says, before fully thinking his answer through, and breathes out a soft sigh. A little too close, he thinks. A little too revealing.

This was, perhaps, a mistake. And so-]

At any rate, I have said what I called upon you to say. If I do not return to my work soon, it shall sit abandoned for the remainder of the night.

[Where that leads.

No, it's not more than a little revealing. It is explicity revealing to a creature designed to sniff out moods the way a blindfolded sommelier can scent out wines on command.]

Oh.

[An arched oh. The kind of needling oh Astarion so often uses on Venatori captives.

That oh.]

But you're not upset.

I've already told you, that is not--

[He cuts off with a mildly frustrated-sounding huff of breath. He didn't want to get into this, thank you very much.]

No, I would not say that I am upset.

Lucky I don't care what you'd say, then. Because whatever it is, it's obviously a lie.

[Tsk.]

Do you really think you can fool me, darling?

[Of course he does. He's spent millennia fooling people.

Astarion isn't someone he wishes to do it to, although he certainly doesn't wish to have this conversation either.]

It is not the word I would use. You make it sound as if I object in some manner.

[The softest, nastiest little gasp:] Oh. Do I?

Because think I don't make it sound like anything more than what it is.

You're hiding something.

What you think. How you feel. [An opinion or an objection or both, maybe, but:] It'd better be bloody important if you're so committed to treating me like a damned idiot.

[Damn it. He should simply have cut the connection-- he probably still should, really, ought to just end it.

Maybe it's the tone of Astarion's voice that keeps him from doing so. Instead, he exhales and just says, a little tiredly:]

Is this truly how you wish to continue this conversation?

[He's not certain, in the moment, if doing it at a distance is simpler or more difficult.]

How else would you suggest?

[Sharp, arching. It stands in lieu of snapping his teeth which is— well, it could be worse, all things considered.]

Because if it's 'go our separate ways and pretend I've noticed nothing at all', I'm going to have to pass.

What I am asking is whether we shall have to do this at a distance or in closer quarters, Astarion.

[It's past being able to say he wants to pretend there was nothing to this at all, much as he might have preferred to do so.]

[Somehow, all this offer seems to be— given what Astarion suspects— is a potential disaster in the making. That's not to say he hasn't waded into the muddy waters of emotion before, only that he's used to doing it to people he doesn't care about, is all.

Hades isn't that.

Which means this could go wrong, meeting face to face. Trying to feel out what exactly seems to be driving the Ascian to (higher than usual) stiffness. He pauses for a moment, and then:]

Fine. In person, then.

[And in less than an hour, he's there, rapping gloved knuckles against Hades' doorframe, stony-faced, but far, far from livid.]

-fine.

[And when he arrives, Hades opens the door for him, pausing a moment to take in his expression. His demeanor.

...a slight pause, then, before he exhales a sigh and steps back, beckoning him in, moving to go take a seat on his own bed. His sword is propped in its usual place, the planter still on his windowsill; the crystal grace in it seems to be well cared for.]

Ask what you wish to ask, then.

[Good signs, if nothing else. There's no scattering of ancient texts across every surface while everything else withers and rots, which means he isn't likely sinking into a pit of corrupted, sword-induced madness— and probably isn't cursed, either. Which means whatever has him so stiffened at already stiff seams is likely just....

Real.

Just him.

Astarion strolls inside like he belongs there, as he's done a hundred times before, settling down in that chair opposite the bed.]

You know what I'm asking. Don't make me spell it out.

It is not such a simple thing to speak of, Astarion.

[He hasn't found himself in this position before, not really. Only once-- but it was a difference of opinion, of chosen paths, which led to him losing someone while they still lived.

It wasn't like this.]

You clearly have your assumptions. I would know precisely what they are, ere I correct them.

[Assumptions isn't exactly the word for it. At least not how Astarion would describe it if pressed— which he supposes he is, now.

His lips thin out for how he flexes them, attention drifting towards the Crystal Grace where it catches little slivers of light. Better to look at while he thinks....and then, once he finally has it, back to Hades yet again (he can't afford not to read his companion's every response, if he's sniffing out half-hidden truths).]

Something's bothering you.

[There. A start. Not a judgmental one, either.]

I don't know if it's me, or this news, or something else you're trying to bury, but as I said before: you can't fool me, darling.

I'm no slouch at this particular game.

[For such a long, long time, it was all he knew.]

You are not, no, but I must tell you that is not necessarily a benefit in certain moments.

[He sighs that out, shakes his head slightly; his hair falls a bit into his face, now that he's grown it long enough to do so, and he brushes it back.

Both arms fold as he leans forward, braced on his knees, posture hunched.]

I intended to say nothing of it because I did not wish for it to become a disruption, but as we have clearly passed that point...

[His mouth thins as he debates how to continue. How honest to be, to someone doubtless evaluating his every word. Someone who can be as good at it as Hades is, himself.]

I still do not wish for it to put further distance between us.

[The word choice is fully intentional, finally getting around to pointing out what he'd read as a growing lack of interest. He knows his seclusion here, forced or not, did them no favors, and he knows how long it's been since they shared a bed (the Rialto arrangements notwithstanding.]

Then let me counter that argument.

[It's not that he's resentful; the glittering cast to blood red eyes isn't filled to the brim with overwhelming anger or the urge to sink his teeth into whatever part of Hades lies within reach.

Without the crystal barring expression or intonation from being read, Astarion's also infinitely more transparent.

He's being wary.]

I don't like being left in the dark.

[A byproduct of his past, if the Ascian's feeling particularly insightful; the stiffness in his posture is too telling, the depth of his tone and the rigidity it offers up are just too easily placed.

It's the same tone he always uses when Cazador is involved.]

I know.

["He's not gonna know shit about how to handle it," he'd been warned, just before. "He might even be an asshole about it, because he'll be worried he's going to lose you."

Hades glances back up to him, taking him in once more, observing the wary cast to his expression and the stiffness in his bearing, and quietly thinks that-- well, at least they are both out of place in this.]

It is not exactly you, nor exactly the news. More than anything-- [He huffs a short breath of a laugh, though it isn't very funny.] More than anything it is what you said after. I am wasted on myself, I should be more open with others, I ought not restrain my impulses-- you do not even know what they are, do you?

You insist I cannot fool you, but you've yet to realize that I have left myself open. With you.

[In a way, it actually does come as a surprise; not the idea that Hades had been open with him— honest and trusting, and perhaps warm as well, if the black blades perched ever at Astarion's hips mean anything— but the depth of it, he supposes. Old as the Ascian is, his stubbornness and stiffness have perpetually perplexed his younger companion whenever it came crawling to the forefront of their conversations: easy to relegate the physical portion of their exchanges to curiosity. Openness. A willingness to let himself be somewhat mortal again, while the rest of his mind clutched itself close.

Now, he isn't so sure.

And it shows, pinching his brows together. Thinning out the line of his mouth.]

I don't understand.

[Short. Clipped. He exhales once, and turns his attention towards the window.]

You've obviously let yourself be open with me: I was the one that took you in when you were cast off for being a villain-accused. I saw your past— heard everything of it. No unfeeling corpse goes sleeping with a paramour by night, and pours his own blood into bottled wine by day.

But you said you knew where this leads.

[Specific. Too specific.]

You can't have meant sooner than before we met, if that's the case. And it's only showing its teeth now.

[He doubts it needs to be asked out loud, but still:]

What am I missing?

Edited 2022-07-01 08:21 (UTC)

No unfeeling corpse does such things, no, but neither do most individuals. Surely you realize there is no other here for whom I would go to such lengths.

[When Astarion lays it out like that, he thinks it seems all too obvious-- enough so that he wonders how it was missed. Whether his companion simply deemed it impossible and thought no more of it, or just... overlooked the signs, just as surely as this news caught Hades off-guard when he half feels he ought to have noticed something of it before.

Maybe, in this way, they're both a little bit in the dark, despite being creatures of it.

His fingers run restlessly through his hair once again.]

I have often been honest with you. The truth is not always a well-timed thing, however.

[In this case, he certainly doesn't think so. This is why he meant to say nothing of it, to just leave it be.]

Nor is love.

[....ah.

He goes still. Attention already drawn back from the sill and its pretty plant, not needing to measure the Ascian's face to recognize the obvious traces of veracity lingering in his tone, and yet chasing it down all the same.]

No, I suppose it isn't.

[Reality defying Astarion's suspicion that Hades had been displeased with his decision to go slipping willfully into the arms of an elf that had— albeit not intentionally— effectively abandoned him for a time (or if not that, just a flicker of passing jealousy). Small and not worth mentioning, only for the fact that—] We talked about this.

I talked to you about this. Before I ever so much as—

[His sigh is exhausted. Narrow shoulders sinking as if deflating, because whatever blow he'd been braced for, he doesn't need to hold onto now. As Astarion's own time with Fenris proved ever-so-quickly, there's no controlling who sinks their claws into your heart. Maybe before now he'd have been closed off when confronted with something like this, he doesn't know. As it stands, though, tiredly running a hand along his neck....

He gets it.]

I'm....

[Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, stare unblinking, gone glassy with sincerity.]

Sorry.

Edited 2022-07-01 09:39 (UTC)

... I know. I know you did.

[In a way, that sincerity is harder to deal with than the alternatives. Than being pushed away, snapped at. There's a sting to the ease with which Hades believes it, at the way there's really just- well. Nothing to be done about it, for either of them.

Maybe he'd have preferred it if Ellie was right about him being an asshole about it.

It doesn’t matter how fond you are, or how much you want it, Astarion had said to him, once. The universe, as I’m sure you already know, has its ways.]

I am not blind to the reality of the situation, either, I know you do not...

[Hades shakes his head, there, exhales a slow breath.]

I could tell. I never intended to make mention of it.

[Why, when he already knew what would come of it at best, and didn't know what could come of it at worst? But better this than leaving it at that earlier sharpness in his tone, letting him assume worse for a certainty.

He doesn't mind others thinking it of him. He would mind it of Astarion.]

I never meant to—

[He'd said it so many times it became almost second nature. To Thranduil, to Dante, to Sylvie and Hades and every other soul he drew in close enough to touch. Don't get attached. Know exactly what this is. Midnight to dawn, and nothing more. As if that changes anything. As if words could be a bulwark against feeling. Gods, he was a stupid thing back then.

Two centuries of life lived in handfuls of unshackled days at a time between months (or decades), and it might as well have been nothing at all. Not compared to this single year.]

I love him.

[Astarion, don't. Shut up. You're not helping. A chastising echo cut from his own voice.

But it's true. And if they're baring stinging realities, this one has to come first. Dealing in obscurities only ends in a tangled mess of half-excised feelings, still sticking stubbornly to bone.]

I always have.

He knows me in ways I barely even know myself. I've never felt so at ease as I do when he's near. The sound of his footsteps padding around at all hours turning into the strangest balm for my own restless senses.

When he leaves, I can almost swear I'm drowning. Stupidly unable to take a breath to save my own damned life.

[He knows it hurts to hear. He knows. He is sorry.]

I was jealous, you know. Selfishly, back when that spirit took the form of your companion. The one you couldn't save.

I used to think there wasn't any point to it, chasing after something you've lost. Bleeding yourself dry for it. Wanting it until everything else tastes of bitter ash.

[But.]

I understand it, now.

[And the sobriety swept up in his voice doesn't fade when he adds softly (because it is Astarion, and humor is all he knows at times as bleak as these):]

....You're not going to try to end the world over this, are you?

[It does hurt to hear, in ways he often wouldn't care to admit -- his eyes squeeze shut for several moments, head bowed, posture not exactly stiff but still unmoving. Gloved fingers lace together where his arms are propped on his knees; it's been some time, probably, since Astarion last saw him wear them around him, but he can almost certainly identify them as what they are. A small sort of protection, just to feel that much less exposed in all this, given that it's been more or less what he anticipated.]

Do not flatter yourself overmuch, [he says in response to that last comment, his tone dry. But before he says more, there's another pause.]

It has been the same for me. You, more than any other, have understood what I have given you of myself, even if you did not yet understand reaching for what was lost. I told you once that I had no interest in anyone else, and whether I knew it yet or not, I meant more than simply the physical.

... But I could not tell, until very recently, whether I had lost yours or whether it was simply a consequence of being trapped here.

It's all I know.

[Self-flattery, that is.

Of course, it doesn't last. His sense of humor pales at the sight of Hades gone wholly sharp at the seams, eyes dropped, posture sunken down into the folding of his hands.]

Hells, darling. [A painful mutter, that one. The sort of half-breathed curse that comes with a heavy dosage of remorse. Strewth, he'd been so blind.]

I thought you'd meant that because you didn't know anyone else.

[Aloof and removed, at odds with the world itself at times. Having an appetite for someone familiar— it made sense, you know. If one's options are limited, anything begins to look enticing. Especially if it's as intentionally prurient as Astarion himself.

Now, though....

Well, hindsight is so often flawless, for better or worse. Laid out in terms like understanding, and whether I had lost yours. But like a blindfold lifted, sight doesn't instantly reward the unmoored soul with knowledge of where they are— or where they ought to navigate to next. His tongue is dry. His lips drawn thin.]

I wasn't— [He tries once more with the worlds you didn't—, but it falls flat, too, long before it has a chance to spread its own figurative wings. Yes, Hades lost it, as much as he didn't actually lose anything, either. Complex and tangled and frustratingly messy.] It wasn't intentional neglect.

I wasn't yanking my offer to rut or keep company from your hands, I just....didn't realize that's what you wanted.

[Something more. So then, in that respect, it becomes Schrodinger's arrangement: Hades lost nothing because Astarion wasn't giving him what he hoped for, and Hades lost everything he'd hoped for because Astarion hadn't granted it in the first place.]

And nothing else has changed, you know. I won't shun you just because my heart is his.

[Astarion still struggles with it, calling friendship by name. Even so, he feels it just as keenly.]

...of course it was what I wanted. But I am all too aware of your-- disdain, for the place, and there was nowhere else I could go at night-- I could not ask you to keep coming simply for my own sake.

You always had more interest in such things, either way. But you ceased to ask.

[A slight shrug tugs at one shoulder, there, lets it fall just as easily to sag back into place. He's a perceptive person; he'd noticed the days stretch out between propositions, until they eventually stopped.]

I suppose in that sense, I ought to have seen it coming... but you never spoke much of him either, despite his apparent hold upon your heart.

[He glances up, there, though his head doesn't quite lift, dulled yellow eyes a sliver of color against his lashes. A question he doesn't quite bring himself to ask, of how close they actually have been.]

Hey.

[ —is very friendly and casual for a first time interaction. ]

How's it going.

[Totally friendly and casual and fine, which is definitely how everyone is feeling right about now!!]

Oh, just peachy, darling. [Light, airy.........absolutely not wonderful at all.]

But I'll be the first to admit I'm a little more interested in hearing how you're doing, what with two of yours out soliciting for volunteers— and using the absolute height of all professional grace and charm for it.

Me? I'm great.

[ 'Light and airy' is not his version of whatever they're doing right now. Quick, mainly, an aloofness that sounds like it'll come down heavy any second. ]

Thanks for bringing that up, though, I'm doing kind of a temperature check if you got a minute.

Ask away.

[It's the verbal equivalent of an obliging bow. Possibly paper-thin. Possibly not.]

On a scale between one and ten, what amount of professional and charming did that notice have to be to avoid, uh, being threatened with violent throat removal.

[ His tone implies he is holding a clipboard and a pen, ready to take notes. ]

I think they shoulda mentioned there'd be cookies, for starters.

Oh, don't even pretend like either of them can bake. [Or that they'd have the sense to hire a caterer for that matter, no matter how risky or demanding the experiment.]

Let's set the bar high for Wysteria, though, shall we?

[In the flattest voice imaginable:]

Three.

Edited (shh I have a fever ) 2022-05-31 04:42 (UTC)

Three. Wow.

So a strong seven's gotta be, what, whispering it while they tuck you in at night?

Edited (ilu feel better sorry about my character) 2022-05-31 05:04 (UTC)

Precisely.

[Said with one almost approving click of his tongue against the backs of his fangs.]

Ten's presently unattainable by the greater public, so I'll be the first to admit it's a somewhat narrower scale in terms of accessibility.

Five might be considered— oh, I don't know, common decency?

Yeah okay.

[ These prissy Diplomacy guys are just too much. ]

Look, I don't care what side of the coffin you woke up on. A message that says 'please' and 'thank you' is gonna have to be good enough for you, pal, from this moment forward. Do not [ a beat, as emphasis, in the ever-speedy clip of his tempo ] threaten Wysteria Poppell, or any members of Research, again. For any reason.

I'll put this in writing so you can keep it mind next time a network post about sensitive info doesn't come with a free handy.

Oh.

Oh I see.

So, she comes in, snaps deliberately at my heels regardless of the gravity of the topic at hand and all its dangers, and I'm the one meant to respectfully endure it from here on out because— what, because she's yours?

Did you even give her a figurative slap on the wrist for all her provocations? Do you even care to consider what might happen if her experiments backfire, or worsen the shards' growth— or, perhaps, succeed beautifully and we're all treated like nothing more than lyrium flukes because the Chantry gets wind that we react to it, and postures in all the ways it does best?

I don't dislike you, my dear. In fact, I'd imagine I might enjoy your company under better circumstances.

But things being what they are, with all the affection in my rotting, withered heart:

—bite me.

[Oh Astarion....]

I'll play nice so long as she does the same.

Edited (screams at own hands to stop typoing) 2022-05-31 07:29 (UTC)

Nuh uh. Let's be clear, Twilight—

I don't care if you guys play nice or don't. Use the c-word where young children can hear, not my problem. The problem here is you're operating on the incorrect premise that throwing in death threats is part and parcel with witty repartee, and that I should be cool with it because Poppell was mean to you.

I'm not, and you don't get to do that. You wanna discuss ethics, scientific hubris, weigh in on the diplomatic ramifications of whatever? Then keep your fangs out of it.

[Death threats and cordial conversation being entirely separate entities is— in Astarion's own grievously skewed experience— possibly the most factually incorrect claim he's heard all night. And more than that, there's nothing about the idea of lowering his figurative snout to the floor in obedient acquiescence that appeals.

But he needs Riftwatch.

Not to mention Bastien and Byerly both had argued a similar case in their own way— something Astarion won't throw aside as easily as his own instincts insist.

...and, of course, beyond that, he can always find other ways to bite back, he supposes.]

Fine.

[So much like a sulking child told to apologize, the consonants stick.]

I'll keep my fangs to myself— talk included.

Happy?

Ecstatic.

[ No acid in his tone, it's more of a handwave than a baring of teeth. ]

Good talk, let's not do it again sometime.

[But wait, there's more!!]

No no— don't think for a second our chat is over.

This is your responsibility, as you said, and Wysteria sent me your way to field any complaints I might have.

And I do have them.

[ The niggling knowledge that he can't just implement Dad Voice and then pretend he's going through a tunnel still does not stop him from a solid few seconds of pause, weighing his options, before responding with caffeinated cheer; ]

Hit me.

[Oh, where to start.

No, really: gnawing on his own frustrations and still weathering the tangled rush of resentment, adrenaline and instinctive, bristling dread, he's more likely to blurt out something along the lines of I hate her and I wish the Fade would eat her alive, which— not really helpful, no.

So. From the top, maybe.]

Did you know what they were planning?

And if you did, which I'm assuming might just be the case, let me start by telling you: stop them.

Cutting her own arm off is one thing, but fiddling around with lyrium— [His consonants have gone sharp, stuck against the roof of his own mouth. Resetting comes with effort (and let's be real, it doesn't last for more than a single sentence).]

We're not exactly an airtight organization. What if people find out about what's being done? About how lyrium affects or— perhaps infects Rifters. What do you think they'll do if they start suspecting we're now not just soulless little inconveniences ready to fade away at will, but actual Fade-magic-borne mishaps. A bunch of lyrium mistakes trotting around wearing living faces, able to fiddle about with rifts as we please— I'm sure any amount of leverage we have to throw against the Chantry's arrangements to lock us all away will shrivel up faster than a troll's prick in winter.

And that's not to say what might happen to anyone volunteering for this.

When I arrived, it was almost half a year before I found out about Tevinter's plans for shard bearers. Everything they've been doing so far, everything they aim for.

How do you imagine it'll go the next time we get a new Rifter and they retroactively find out— what, someone's shard reacted poorly. Or grew out of control. Or died. Or— I don't know. That's the point.

No matter how clever Wysteria is or thinks she might be, she's never going to consider potential cost. Not in full.

You know she won't.

Wrong,

[ immediate. ]

I know Wysteria Poppell, and judging by the way you talk to her, probably better than you ever will or could, my guy. I know she knows the cost, and I know she's not a coward about making space in the budget.

Here's what I think—you're afraid, but you're coming at it from the wrong direction. You're scared of the Venatori, the Chantry, the existential implications of our place in this shitty ass world, and you totally should be. We are not the enemy. Knowledge is not the enemy. There is nothing we can do or find out that will make things worse for us, but we can equip ourselves with the knowledge we need to fight for our place.

I don't not get it? But you're being awfully optimistic about what our fate looks like if we don't do this stuff.

Edited 2022-06-14 23:46 (UTC)

Oh, knowledge can be so much the enemy.

[Says a man that is— yes— exactly as fearful as Tony presently surmises.

More so, maybe.]

It isn't always a cure. It isn't always a solution. I've seen prodigies and scholars burn lifetimes in search of something they never find. Others who, with the purest intentions in their hearts, subsequently languish as the devil lurking at their back takes everything they've ever done and uses it like a poison rather than a poultice.

[Futility. Corypheus. Success.] It's a gamble.

It'll always be a gamble.

And regardless of it all, every scrounged-up granule of knowledge that comes is wine poured from a bottle into wet sand: once you've done it, there's no putting it back.

So yes, you're right. We don't have any guarantees as to how any of this'll turn out, whether or not Wysteria de Fonce and her exceptionally silent cohort go through with this. But there is absolutely a great deal that can be found to make things worse.

Don't doubt that for a damned second.

[ There's a Kermit-y expression into the middle distance at de Fonce, which he stopped using after he got appropriate the Fonz mileage out of it, but anyway— ]

If it's not us, it's someone else.

[ Short answer. The long; ]

The Venatori love our asses and we don't know why, apart from how we're very cool and attractive and have anchor-shards. But if there's something else we're not seeing, part of what we can do to mitigate whatever that portends is knowing. They're not gonna stop digging just because we get shy, over here.

And as for the Chantry, you guys in Diplomacy can figure out how to spin it, we'll keep an eye out for devils. Teamwork makes the dream work.

Abby's dog Wagner, warhound in training, skews a little too young to be smartly following express commands (not all of the time, anyway). Lately he's been taking any opportunity to give his owner the slip whenever she dares stop to talk to somebody during a walk, and today he is spending the five minutes of snuck freedom running, ears flapping in the wind when–

a specific scent catches his interest, a good, strong whiff of something like dog–

so he changes direction, skidding, giving chase.

The person who owns the scent is a very tall man who smells like lavender most of all, and something oily, and something earthy, herbal, smoky- not food. Disappointing. Wags rushes him all the same, barely stopping when he reaches his legs to leap up in an enthusiastic greeting. Hi!

Astarion almost shrieks.

Look, it's been a long few...everything in Kirkwall lately, outside the well built walls of Hightown (and even then he's found he needs to be more careful, hold his head a little lower— carry something in his arms at all times: not a Rifter, not a thief, but a servant or messanger to unassuming eyes, and for the most part it works), so the sight of a mabari outright bounding towards him is enough to have him stiffening in bracing dread—

He's already reached for his dagger, but the beast isn't biting.

At his side, a wolf: fur dark as night itself appears from thin air, letting out a baying cry that mirrors Astarion's distress. A show of warning for anyone familiar with the yaps and yowls of pack animals.

A warning delivered after Astarion is already under snuffling, friendly siege.

...some guard dog.

"Off." He hisses, coiling like a nudged serpent— all of his posture shrinking as he tries to keep the bottle of wine (and a packet of something else, pristinely bundled in shining paper) held high against his chest.

"Off, shoo, you— oh, filthy beast!"

Ataashi, on the other hand, has seized an opportunity to stretch out her neck in order to catch a whiff of the puppy pawing at her owner.

She's very stealthy (she is not).

The sudden appearance of the mournful, scrabbling wolf startles Wags, who bursts into a flurry of barks. He springs backward. There's a lot to investigate now, but thankfully for Astarion, he's far more interested in the very large black dog, that cranes herself toward him around the leg of the yelling man, sniffing tentatively.

To his credit, Wags holds still long enough to be sniffed. Then he leaps toward her, bounding, ready for play. He's trying to initiate a game of chase, dipping into a bow on his front paws, nipping at his new friend's paws in encouragement.

He does not answer the call of his owner. Even when she tries again, in stilted Orlesian, to command him to heel.

"Sorry-" Abby is panting a little by the time she catches up, both hands on her hips. Would her dad be happy to know that she's still putting those tracking lessons to good use even if he knew she was using them primarily on finding her unruly dog... "He gave me the slip. Wags. Seriously!"

A glance at Astarion and the way he's holding himself, prompts, "Oh fuck, he didn't bite you did he?"

"Miraculously, no."

Snitty thing that he is, he doesn't realize that the only misbehaving creature present...is him.

But he's closer to her, now. More than he'd like to admit— more than he'll likely tell her, too. And so with nothing more than a fussy little huff Astarion relaxes, grip loosening around now-crushed parcels. Eugh.

"Is that drooling little thing yours?"

Asked as he gestures towards the pup bounding happily at the front paws of a massive wolf that— oh. Oh she's retreating. Cowering and yelping and trying to hide behind either Astarion or Abby (or both), body almost slithering across the ground like a snake.

If they're not careful, she's going to topple them both.

"Yeah," Abby breathes, non-plussed. Maybe it says something about her as an owner that she doesn't rush to Wags' defense but she's not gonna boo Astarion, he's right–

She nearly trips over the wolf when she takes a step forward.

"Wagner." At least the full name always makes him look, "She doesn't wanna play, buddy. C'mere–"

God she is trying so hard not to laugh because she knows it'll encourage the puppy, but it is taking all of her willpower. He's getting big, but Abby is still strong enough that she can scoop him up easily, muddy paws and all, and hold him to her chest. Just for a moment, just to get him out from underfoot.

She rubs his back to calm him down. His tongue lolls out of his mouth. "Are you bullying this horrible man and his dog? Huh?"

A horrible man and his horrible 'dog'? Yes. Bullying? No.

Sweet and eager as Wags is (and so much smaller than all three other parties present), there might be something to the general notion that pets are a reflection of their owners, considering the way Astarion and Ataashi both sort of cant their heads in silent contemplation, watching Abby lift the pup into her arms.

The vampire stays put, clutching his ruined spoils even as his expression softens.

Ataashi, however, cranes her very tall neck and begins snuffling at Wagner's back— whatever part of it she can reach while he's in his keeper's hold.

"Horrible?" He puffs, brow line dropping sharply before, "That's the best compliment I've heard all day."

Aren't you sweet, Abby.

"I thought mabari only imprinted on great warriors. Who in the Realms did you manage to steal this one from?"

Abby, grinning, holds the puppy out above Ataashi for her to sniff at his dangling paws. Might be safer this way? She doesn't think the wolf will try to eat him or anything, but if Wags was annoying enough (something that would not be a problem for him), well...

Yeahhhh

"He's Orlesian," Abby explains, "So that's probably why." Har har, "I got him a couple months ago, a guy in Kirkwall sold him to me."

I.e she got him honestly? And didn't steal him? That was you, thanks. Wags was even puppier, then. He's gained a bit of height already, and has the physique of a fucking barrel. Solid little guy. "I had a dog back home, sorta. My faction owned heaps of them, and we got to take them out in the field with us all the time. It's really nice having one around again."

"Hm."

Orlesian, and yet purchased in Kirkwall of all places. If it weren't for the influx of refugees and the inevitable back and forth in the wake of Val Chevin, Astarion might suggest her dog might not be anything but swindled.

But he supposes the odds of legitimacy— all the above considered— aren't nil: she might actually have a very respectable mabari on (or in, hah) her hands. One that's now being subjected to Ataashi's curiosity, her confidence swelling now that he's not moving a mile a minute: lifting herself onto her hind paws (and putting one forepaw on Abby's arm) to snuffle ever closer, giant ears perked upright as her tail stays low.

And neither Fenris nor Ellie are here to tell her not to.

Astarion, pet owner that he isn't, simply keeps talking. "I suppose the Rifts don't like to bring pets through along with us."

That's what he assumes happened, anyway. That she'd had her faithful Leggy or Armmy at her side (Ellie, Abby— they're very double-consonant-plus-eey-sound centric names), right up until Thedas snatched her away.

The problem with Wags is that he truly refuses to stay still or held for very long. Abruptly he twists in Abby's arms, being difficult. She tries to hold him out of range of kicking at her body as she drops him back down onto his feet with a dismayed cluck.

Oh well. At least he's holding still again for now, to eagerly sniff Ataashi back.

Abby, watching him, rolls her eyes. "Guess not. But that's probably a good thing."

Otherwise the Gallows would be... much more crowded. Hang on, the way he worded that. "Did you have one back home? Are wolves your thing?" She sounds vaguely offended. Wolves are Abby's thing.

Congratulations, by the way—on being wrong.

[Thin, the laugh that finds its way through the gaps in his fangs. Not unhappy, just— look, he's come a long way in this last year, and he's doubtlessly enamored, but there was (and perhaps still is) a time when admitting things like this without making a believable joke of it in deflection could be used like a weapon against him. A little sobered now, and trusting Bastien as he does, he's only easing into it like a bath.

Contentment, that is.]

Probably the first time I've ever been so pleased to be.

[And then, a touch slyer:]

Did you suspect it?

No.

[ Maybe he should be embarrassed. Perceiving things is meant to be his business. But he doesn’t know Fenris, and sometimes that really is the end of the story. A friend loves a friend. They stay friends. Nothing else. ]

Did you? Or did he catch you entirely by surprise?

[It's fine, Bastien: Astarion's just as attuned to perception when it comes to attraction— and still:]

No.

[Frank, that response. Entirely transparent, and conversationally so.]

I went for months, entirely oblivious. Thinking he felt— [Ah, but he stops there, snorting only to himself; their last conversation had been revealing enough about that, he supposes.]

More than once, I thought he couldn't stand me so much as touching him.

[She starts doing it just because, but then it becomes a running joke. Whenever she comes over, Ellie hides a note somewhere. Sometimes it's tied to a ribbon around Ataashi's neck, sometimes it's tucked under his pillow, sometimes stuck in the window where she's carefully closed it behind her.]

How do vampires flirt?
By batting their eyes!

What's a vampire's favorite fruit?
Neck-tarines!

I never understood why necromancers always got a bad rap; sometimes they just want to raise a family in peace

how does one tell if they're sharing space with a member of the Chantry?
trust me, they'll make sure you know

what has two eyes, two hands, and is soon to be blind if it walks into the study between the hours of midnight and noon tomorrow?
y-o-u

no, really, stay out of the study unless you're in the mood to see a cockfight or two
love you darling, xoxo
-Astarion

There is... about a week or so, where Astarion doesn't much hear from Ellie. A lot of things happen in quick succession, and she is still very much bruised when she decides to make her way down to where Astarion's place is.

Climbing is nearly out of the question, but the trellis filled with ivy is there, and Ellie grits her teeth through the ache of it and goes slow.

He's either out, or somewhere else in the house. Ellie drops the twine-tied load of firewood (a smaller haul than normal) next to the fireplace and kicks off her boots before she crosses the room to flop onto Astarion's bed.

It's probably shitty of her to be vaguely annoyed that he's not here right this minute, when she's the one with a lifetime's worth of things racked up to tell him, but she still shoves it down. Instead she lays her cheek on one of the pillows and falls asleep right there on the counterpane.

For the time being, the nightmares leave her be.

If he'd known, he'd have come back sooner. It's not an excuse or a regret, per se— just a fact. The unfortunate problem that arises once one starts feeling more than callous selfishness on endless loop: that he can't be everywhere at once. He can't always be wandering in Fenris' shadow the same way he can't always be here waiting for the window to pop open and reveal her green-grey eyes. The ones he loves— gods take him for admitting it now— are the ones he has to trust to know how to care for themselves, even as the world conspires. And when hours later he walks in to find her there, Ataashi's already curled up in a bracketing ball at her side, making the two look utterly denned down, as though the massive wolf considers her companion to be both pack and littermate.

But he doesn't need to look past the warm mess of dark fur to see why she's really here.

He can smell it on Ellie already. Salt, or— iron, possibly. Faint in hitting his nostrils, but present all the same. Readable aside from it, and even more so once he sees the outline of bruises on her skin.

Oh, darling....

Fearsome creature that she is, it doesn't matter whether she's been out fighting Venatori assassins or tavern brawlers: he ends up beside her with a pot of numbing salve and soft rag tucked in his grip (brand new, from the looks of it; part of a more recent push for renovation between Astarion and Fenris within the bounds of selfishly imposed isolation— Circles this, lyrium that, nightmares and old haunts and fresh fears— it was too much for a while), either waking her gently or not at all when he begins patiently tending to the marks etched across her skin.

Glaring at Ataashi when she snuffles in her sleep.

(He'd send her away if he wasn't certain she'd jostle the whole damned bed with one lumbering leap.)

Derrica had helped heal the worst ones. Her face, her collarbone. But they were there, bruises and welts across her hands, across her arms, visible when she pulled off her gloves.

Ellie had come awake at Ataashi climbing up next to her, but only somewhat. Astarion registered as such a comfortable presence that until she felt something wet, she didn't wake at all.

When she does, it's with a deep inhale, wide eyes that only belatedly focus on Astarion and his cloth, and the herbal scent of the salve.

"... fell asleep," she mumbles, the words feeling thick in her mouth. It's meant to be an apology while she pieces together what's happening, feels immediately guilty for worrying Astarion like this.

"Looks worse than it is, promise," she tells him, flops her head back down on the pillow, looking up at him through her lashes. The numbing salve tingles on her skin, and it feels... nice, actually.

"That stuff feels amazing."

what

what is this

why was this drinking at the other tavern today

Edited 2023-11-29 04:45 (UTC)

[He's trying not to laugh so hard it hurts. It actually, stupidly hurts, practically stabbing out a response of his own underneath Leto's work of art with the lumpy addition of a mug of beer.

And a hat.

Probably.]

Was it dressed like this?

Looking especially dour?

So utterly soused it couldn't blink straight?

that is not an answer to my question astarion why is there a FLYING ELEPHANT DRINKING BEER HERE

Sweetheart.

Angel.

Darling.

Precious little moonstone.

Dear beloved wolf.

Treasure beyond treasures.

Kadan.

[Don't be testy with him!!

Or do.

It's cute. And so so fun to rile.]

I'm just trying to puzzle out if you're having feverish hallucinations from overusing your own magic, or

[and that's a much more likely or:]

baby moon elf's spotted his very first hollyphant.

[There is such a pause before he responds. Little droplets of ink suggest he's tapping the paper several times over— torn, perhaps, between protesting that patronizing doting and his own growing horror.]

~~im not~~

~~do not~~

[Another pause.]

What is a hollyphant.

[Pause. He circles Astarion's drawing and (somewhat grudgingly) adds:]

Yes. It's wearing a hat. It's drinking and wearing a hat and flying. and talking about a case. It's talking.

Oh

oh no, really?

Oh that's not a good sign, then. It definitely shouldn't be flying or talking.

Are you feverish? Are your fingers shaking?

Did Talindra tell you to rest when you left her side?

Edited 2023-11-30 02:58 (UTC)

[>:)]

Joking~

They're celestial creatures, my love. Officially: servants of the heavens and divine heralds for all those gods devoted to the cause of goodness and light.

Academically: the reigning hypothesis is that they're spirits like the ones you know back home, only shaping the way we see them for a more....friendly conjugality between planes.

[Hm. Call it a hunch, but he's starting to imagine Leto puffing up like a barnhouse cat: hair standing on end, ears pinned back, green eyes bright and wild.]

You don't like it?

[Frankly, it isn't an inaccurate portrait. He isn't being so obvious as to be rude, but at the same time, it's hard not to see how he stares. The damned thing keeps bobbing up and down on wings that don't look nearly strong enough to support it, and that's to say nothing of how it's slurping down alcohol . . . he might actually try to forget seeing it drink, though time will tell if he can manage it.]

No.

[It's a blunt answer that stands for a few seconds.]

it's a spirit that's also an elephant with wings that floats around despite the fact said wings should not carry its bulk, going around solving cases and talking about how much it wants to get drunk for the rest of the week. it wears a hat. it wears a HAT and has a PIPE and it's gone through two bottles of wine already.

and no one questions this? no one thinks this odd? this is just how your world works? miniature elephants fly around solving mysteries and getting drunk and I am meant to simply accept it?

[Understand: he isn't hysterical. It's not as if he's getting worked up, or at least not visibly to anyone but Astarion. But there's so much that's strange here. There are so many things he's learned to adapt to, from his own magic to the strangeness of looking up and seeing Selûne and her tears instead of the familiar glow of Satina and her twin. There's ten thousand more sentient beings than just the set four he's used to; there's all kinds of politics and holidays and cultural customs he's never heard of. There's languages to learn and dangers to get used to, devils and demons, psychotic squidmen and the goblins that hunt them, and Leto has adapted, he has, but—

This is just too much. This is what breaks him. A goddamn miniature elephant that's more rotund than Montressor floating around, yammering on and on about a case that it's just closed. It's too much. It's too fucking weird. He can't. He can't! That's it.]

it's frowned, i assume, to kill such beasts.

[He's joking, sort of. Kind of.]

[A year and a half ago he'd have barked out something bitter about broodmothers, blights, abominations and nugs, meeting irritation beat for snappish beat.

As it stands?

He only laughs. Warm and doting, and nothing Leto can hear when Astarion's pen nib funnels its way back towards thicker paper.]

Only if you get caught.

[Wink wink— ]

And the Blue Wraith's not exactly wraith-y these days, from what I hear.

Then his companion ought to utilize his own talents and aid him.

[Even irritable and biting, he won't use the word vampiric where someone else might read it. But fine, fine: there's silence for a little while. Long enough that perhaps the topic seems to be dropped; perhaps they even chatter about unrelated things, little stories that mean nothing. But sooner or later:]

it keeps staring at me astarion

oh

[Soft oh. Playful oh. The other sort of thing that doesn't come through in text format like the warning that it is unless one knows it well.

To which: Leto probably does.]

Maybe she's sweet on you.

[After all, who could blame her?]

that isn't funny

i'm not going to save you the next time montressor decides you as a bat is a fun new toy

[But then, rather belatedly:]

how did you know it was wearing a hat

how do you know its a she

do you KNOW it?

Edited 2023-12-02 01:59 (UTC)

[You're going to save him because you don't want him dead, and you both know it, little wolf.

Although.... ]

If it's who I suspect? Very well. Very well indeed.

[By reputation only but— who's counting? And all those ruffled feathers do so fascinate.

Leto's, that is.

Not the creature they're discussing.]

Valeria the hollyphant: divine drunkard of Baldur's Gate, exiled by the celestial bodies themselves.

Shall I say more, or would you rather growl into the book for a little while first? Really lean into the aura of Ataashi when a bin's set out of place.

[Gods, now that Astarion's said it, he does feel that way. It's the same growling wariness, the same fierce defensiveness born of uncertainty and shock . . . he presses his lips together, half-expecting to feel them peeling back away from elvish fangs.]

you were the same with nugs

[No, he wasn't, but that's neither here nor there.]

tell me more. why is it exiled?

[Leto, it's a person, not an animal, don't call her it.]

I was the same with Chantry sisters, too.

Sometimes templars.

Always Magisters.

[ —ah.

Now there's a thought that strikes him right beneath his breastbone.]

And Cole.

[How he hated that little spirit. Right up until he loved him like a friend. The question of how that memory's evaded him for so long— he doesn't know. Probably just the way of the Veil or his splintered mind, or just the turbulence of coming home, distracting with the buzz of making certain they were safe in unsafe places.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Anyway:]

I also hated halla, and believe you me, that one never sat well with the elves that wanted to take me in.

[Maybe— maybe— he's having a little bit of a moment of sentimentality-borne camaraderie here. Enough to make it gentle, the segue.

Don't dare say a word.]

She, you riled little thing, was shunned for raising a call of alarm that one of the holiest of high beings, the Archangel Zariel— beloved by all the Heavens themselves— was in fact as twisted as they come. And I don't know about your life experience, but as far as I've ever seen, the loftier the court, the nastier the backlash against any and all accusations.

Particularly when the one sounding the alarm is a nasty little daydrinking ball of fur and feathers who couldn't deduce her way out of a wet sack, from what I hear.

She and the city guards sent so many innocents to jail it's a wonder there's only a handful of running jokes about it.

well

flapping jokes, I suppose.

Edited 2023-12-02 20:31 (UTC)

[There's plenty to say to that. Zariel, the one from the Hells, that's a question he wants to ask (his education on Toril and her major players growing, but still rough around the edges). How did she realize what was happening and yet is still such an incompetent, that might be another. How the hell do you know it's a she is a pressing third— but just as it's always been, nothing extraneous ever matters half as much as Astarion does. That includes a riled, snarling mood.]

Cole?

~~He was~~

It was

[Penning before your time feels wrong when it was Leto— Fenris— who had always been there first. Was there all along, in fact, only wandering the world in ways that Astarion's quickly learned it hurts to think about. Mostly because if he spends too long rolling that notion around inside his mind, the scenarios only twist into the ugliest possibilities imaginable: held captive and tortured by Venatori before managing to break free; lured in by Varania for her gain; injured and amnesiatic, not knowing who he is or where he belongs.

Of course admitting to his lover that he'd spent time dealing with a demon stuck outside the Fade is, erm....potentially almost as unpleasant, so there's that.]

how should I put it

[Eh. The truth as best as he can name it seems good enough, clumsy as it is.]

A spirit. Ghost. Thing.

Loitered around the Gallows early on in the form of a young boy, unable to go back to the Fade. Also only visible to some. Knew a few of your friends, too, actually. Had quite a lot to say about Varric.

I spent so many weeks trying to shunt the little thing. Hissed up a storm. Bared my fangs and threatened it like you wouldn't believe.

Even ran away, once. Though in my defense, that was before I knew it wasn't alive.

[In truth, his very first thought is an exhausted one. Of course the demon knows Varric, for everyone knows Varric. He still half-expects to hear his name thrown about whenever they meet anyone new; why wouldn't Talindra or Gale know him, after all? And that goes for spirits. It must have happened after they parted ways, which is . . . a bit of a lonely thought, frankly. That Varric had hung around Kirkwall long enough to befriend this spirit, but was still gone by the time Leto returned . . . ah, but best not to dwell there.

And as for the second thought . . . mmph. He frowns down at the notebook, grateful he's time enough to compose his reaction before replying. Of course Astarion knows his views on demons, and it's an unpleasant shock to hear that he's befriended one— which, indeed, might explain why this has never come up before.]

What changed, then? You had [Ah, a pause, and he begins to write the correct reaction before crossing it out,] a certain viewpoint of it. What made that shift?

Nothing, actually. [Hm.] I still couldn't stand the fact that it didn't even have to exert itself to look right through me whenever it wanted, seeing everything I felt or suffered. [Making him relive it in the echoed feedback of it, sure as that tadpole had ever done.] Even my feelings about you.

It never sat well with me.

But he wanted to live. Aspired to be a person, rather than a monster confined to the shadows after dying in a cell, forgotten. I suppose it was self-serving in the end. Possibly dangerously so. [If Cole hadn't been— well if he hadn't been Cole]

Still, I'd argue even an odd creature like that's better than dealing with Valeria.

Is she still looking at you, my darling?

[He doesn't miss the change from it to he and back again. It hurt me, it made me relive through my worst moments, it reminded me of a love I thought for so long was unrequited (and gods, but Leto's heart pangs softly at that, a soft reminder to be tender to his beloved tonight). But then . . . he wanted to be a person, and what happened there, that Astarion thought such a thing even remotely worth entertaining?

But perhaps it comes from the notion that Rifters, themselves, were spirits. Leto had never put any stock into such a theory; indeed, the only reason he remembers it is because Astarion had been afraid. But perhaps therein lies some form of sympathy. Some aching bit of echo: this might have been me.

And it wasn't. Isn't. And they've never held truck with pity, either of them, but . . . ]

Yes. [It's deeply discomfiting, actually.] Do not change the subject.

What do you mean, "dying in a cell, forgotten"? He was an echo of a memory of a mage, then?

[A distraction from current hollyphant shaped distress? A vested interest in his story? Concern that Astarion was so careless in his fledgling freedom? Astarion can't guess with what little context he's given— limitations of writing, as it were— but all the same, he wasn't expecting that twist back towards the subject.

Less the fact that it's seemingly so....earnest.

Is he homesick, his amatus? Or is he just beginning to find understanding in a Weave that loves him so.]

yes?

maybe

I think so

[Scribbles upon scribbles: Hells' teeth, what was he? What do you call something you hate and yet want fiercely to be fine. Safe. Happy— if twisted things could ever be.]

I really don't know.

At one point, it seems within the realm of possibility: he held— memories. Things he showed me, in spite of how I spurned him. A lonely little mage in a locked room that died begging for salvation.

But the creature I knew wasn't that boy, of course. It knew it too, in fact, despite its aspirations to become said boy. [Draw one distinction here, cut another one there; it, he, I, him— what stranger is a vampire to paring down the difference between life and whatever misshapen existence comes after?]

After that, I couldn't turn it away anymore. I know it was stupid choice, but

I saw hope in him.

For myself.

[Oh, and suddenly Leto wishes he hadn't brought it up. Or, no, that's not true. He's glad he did. He's glad to know this about his Astarion, and he wants to know more— but gods, he wishes they weren't apart for this, for he wants nothing more than to gather Astarion up in his arms right now. A lonely little mage in a locked room that died begging for salvation, and it's not . . . it's not that Leto has such pity for the mages of his world. Don't get it twisted. He isn't some bleeding heart advocate, his ways and outlook suddenly and miraculously reversed just because he himself has magic. The source of his aching empathy begins and ends with Astarion (Astarion locked away in some lightless place howling in agony for a master that might have forgotten him; Astarion begging the gods for a hero that would never come, pleading in the darkness that ate it all up and never once spat out anything save pain in return).

But maybe buried beneath all that, so deep-down that Leto does not want to truly acknowledge it, there is a sliver of pity for that mage, too. Cole, he thinks to himself, and does not wonder that he will try to remember the name.]

Yes.

[That's too vague, he realizes in the next moment.]

Not that it was stupid. But that you saw yourself in him— I can understand why. And why, too, you would befriend him. Why it would feel important to befriend him, perhaps.

[It. A ghostly little spirit that longed for more . . . a spirit of what, Leto wonders. Pity? Compassion? Grief? Certainly not revenge. Not vengeance, and for the first time in a long time, he thinks about Anders. About his own demon, and all the ways in which it urged him to fulfill what it imagined he wanted . . . and what now? Are they still bound together? Is Anders still alive? Or is Justice wandering the plains of the Fade, echoing Anders' voice as it roams aimlessly to and fro . . .

Mmph.]

Tell me what you mean by hope.

Hope that you could be saved? Or that someone would care?

[It's too blunt in text, too cold, and he hopes Astarion understands his meaning. There is no shame in such a thing; he asks not out of judgement, but quiet understanding.

And then, after a pause:]

It wasn't stupid, Astarion.

[Thank you.

What he'd say if he were there, or Leto here. Sensed only like the absent thought it is that twitches in his fingertips.

And ends there before it hits the nib of his quill.

It's one thing to whisper I need you, I love you— everyone says that. Plenty of people say it without ever meaning it, and for centuries Astarion was one of them, trying it on like a blouse to see how it'd fit. If it'd satisfy. If it warmed him. Some things you just don't want to leave a trace. Don't want to see the proof of, now or ever.

Breathed out into open air? It doesn't scar.

Writing it down makes it confirmation eternal. There whenever he or Leto crack open that book to look back on their conversations: thank you stamped down in response and it might as well be yes, I was weak. Yes, I was stupid. Scared. Yes, I was lonely and frightened and still can't stop from buckling in the dark. Whatever you imagine on kneejerk instinct, you're right.

And yet it's unavoidable, isn't it? Like the topic well at hand, or the little ghost by Kirkwall's docks, or the memories he fights so hard just to forget, running doesn't change a thing.

He learned that early, after all.

Gods know they both did.]

That I could live again.

That much in the way of cursed princes and childish fantasies, a monster might just go back to being a person, if given half a chance.

[Tsk.]

Riftwatch had a knack for bringing me back to my senses.

[He will tear Riftwatch apart if ever they go back.

All of them. Every single one. Every wretched little scientist and arrogant Rifter who thinks they know better; every smug Orlesian and idiotic wretch who thinks that they were doing Astarion a favor by calling him little more than spirit, ghost, whore to be pushed into laying on his back so they could call it spying, oh, he'll tear them apart. He'll burn them alive. He'll slaughter them one by one on the ashes of Anders' madness, and it will not be some roaring rampage of revenge, no, he will do it coldly. Methodically. Savoring their terror and ignoring their pleas, until at last the halls run scarlet with their blood and all their records are destroyed—

In his hand, the quill creaks warningly. Leto blinks down at it, realizing belatedly how tightly he's gripped it.

And it's a fantasy, of course. He will not tear it apart for the same reason he did not the first time; the same reason he and Astarion drifted gently but deliberately away from the organization, allowing themselves to disappear rather than draw attention to an abrupt departure. But what was good sense in Thedas is cowardice in Toril, and there is nothing that sparks rage faster than hearing Astarion speak so miserably.]

They did not know of what they spoke, and the things they feigned having authority upon were no more than a childish attempt at control that endlessly fell flat.

[It's curt and cold. His handwriting is normally a methodically neat thing, precise to a fault; now it's blocky and thick, every letter all but carved into delicate paper.]

They did not bring you back to your senses. They cut you down to feel better about their own pathetic lives, whether that was because you were an elf or a Rifter or simply not obedient enough to suit their whims.

[Another pause.]

Do you think that still? That you are more monster than person?

[He can't see it. Can't sense it. There's no shift throughout the Weave that grabs him by the head or heart and shakes with transferred pain. Aside from little blotwork scratches and a willingness to circle old scars (barely two years somehow equating to old these days— gods, as if freedom works in dog years now that he's grown used to it: so short-lived and fragile that even the smallest spans are milestones rivaling greater swaths, trouncing decades at a time), there's really nothing to suggest that this isn't one more passed-off bit of grimness between two things already mired in it.

Honestly, they've been steeped in darkness so long they might as well be two fish talking about water each and every time it breaks— there's nothing there worth dwelling on they haven't picked apart before.

But then go figure it's minutiae like those little patchwork scrawls that Astarion's well-trained in. Most of all when it comes to Leto.

And like that, he has his answer.]

You know, I've met a lot of monsters over the years who live just like everyone else. Governing property and dressing better than you'd ever expect, knowing what they really are. They own pets, talk sweet, have reputable standing and oh so many friends, not to mention vault stores that'd make your very pretty head spin if you caught even a glimpse.

Even in Thedas, it wasn't really different.

[Merchant princes. Tevene Magisters. Hightown. Orlais. The Chantry.]

So if a handsome wretch from a fallen bloodline happened to find a lover, make a home with him atop a tavern, adopt two pups and only drink small sips of scrounged-up blood by moonlight, well, if you ask me, it wouldn't change a bit of what he truly was.

But

[But....]

No.

Or if I am, then not by even half as much as I used to fear back then, when the world was so new it might as well have been blinding.

[The stories get it wrong. They always do.]

I know you. You wouldn't have followed me here otherwise. And you damned well wouldn't have stayed.

So if I can't trust in my own judgment, then I trust yours.

[He holds his breath while Astarion writes all that out. He doesn't realize what he's doing until that last word appears and he suddenly exhales, one great gusting sigh as some of the tension releases from his shoulders. Good, he thinks, and does not wonder at his own tension throughout. Good, and perhaps it isn't the rousing assurance his heart would have liked, but it's something. More than a wisp of a hope easily dismissed by the encroaching dawn; it's a handhold in the darkness, firm and unyielding.

For Leto's certainty is like iron. He knows who is lover is; he knows very well that he is not a shining picture of flawless morality. That he is a selfish thing, dedicated to himself and those he loves first and foremost; that he has taken hundreds, thousands of lives— but ah, that's the trick, isn't it? His most damning actions were taken not of his own volition, but at the behest of his master.

And that does not a monster make.

He won't say so now. It might come across as cloying, and above all else he does not want to ruin this moment with something that seems insincere. But he will have to come back to it, Leto thinks. To double down on that assurance, quiet and steady, until Astarion learns to believe it for himself. And he will, of that Leto has no doubt— for they have centuries now, and all the time in the world to spend together.]

I'm glad.

Not just that you trust in my judgement— although I am glad for that, too, and that you know I would not lie to you about such a thing.

But I am glad you know it, too. You are no more monster than I am— and trust I know of what I speak. You never have been, not as long as I have known you.

[And he means it. No cloying sympathy, no exaggeration to soothe . . . he writes with total honesty, and he hopes Astarion knows it.]a

If ever we go back, I will tear that organization apart, and make each one of them answer for what they did to you. Know that, too.

[Proof only glints in the light.

(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.

You would be gagging on my adoration.

[Hm.]

....and my name, too. But adoration first.

[He hadn't expected that. He doesn't know what he expected, in truth, still so caught up in his grief and anger, but it wasn't that— and yet it's perfect. Right in a way Leto hadn't realized he was missing, but the relief (the pleasure) that suffuses through him at Astarion's words feels like sinking into a hot bath.

They're both such violent creatures, for all that this city has temporarily tamed them; they're both such wounded creatures, too used to fending for themselves to not shudder in pleasure at an offered hand. And to think of tearing through Riftwatch's ranks, to making every one of them try and form desperate apologies around their own bloodied throats—

Leto grins.]

Is that what I'd be gagging upon.

[He takes his time in writing it, a pleased flush tinging the tips of his ears.]

Perhaps I wrote it now because the sun is out. Perhaps I want you to have time to imagine all the ways in which you want to fuck me when I finally come home to you.

Mea culpa, though - shall I restrain from telling you just how I would tear them apart? How I would make each of them beg you for forgiveness before I slit their throats or tore their bloody hearts from their chest?

Or would you want something more prolonged, for all the days and weeks and months they put you through?

[ —be still his lifeless, bloodless heart.]

Maker's breath if you won't be the second death of me, relentless little minx who causes me no end of trouble for that perfect end of yours.

[Oh he's so riled. Worked up and elated and high on the euphoria of being loved in language as impure as his own wild nature.]

But you were never made for anything prolonged

well

almost anything, at least.

I just can't imagine you working with delicate finesse, even for a cause like this.

I seem to remember I sliced you with finesse enough. Or did those markings on your chin not count? Though it has been a while . . . perhaps we need another bout soon, just so I can put you in your place. You have gotten too used to being superior, my vampire.

[He cannot get riled, not in public— certainly not the way he wants to be, anyway. But the tavern is dim and the table provides cover; he can at least get away with a bit of filth before he has to stop.]

But if it is finesse you desire . . .

I could pin them to the floor with a blade through their stomachs, letting you watch as they writhe upon their own impalement, ready and waiting for you to drink their fill. Or I could slice into them a hundred times with my gauntlets, and let you watch as they bleed out for you.

Or do you want something more delicate? I suppose I could use those pretty daggers of yours, if you truly wished.

[He can't remember the last time someone had him on his heels like this for the game of dangerous seduction. Every time he tries to deflect, there Leto is pressing right back in again. Just like that fight— just like the dagger pushed against his chin— gifted heartbeat racing while his eyes blew black, so sure his grin would be the only thing that cut.]

I'd be lying if I said I didn't like the way you pierce me.

[He might as well be fanning himself; the breathiness implied. Vain as he is.... he still hungers for the bite of his own fangs, held by hounding hands.]

As for the rest? Depends.

How much would you be wearing in this future scenario of yours?

I could be persuaded to do it shirtless. I fought often like that in Tevinter, you know.

[It's true. It's also not something he associates often, his past and flirtatious behavior— but if anyone will understand mingling the two, it's Astarion. Besides: he rather likes the thought of something like that being used to their mutual benefit.]

Though I suspect if you had your preferences, you'd want me stripped stark and oiled up until I gleamed, hm?

[And thank you, Isabela, for that image long ago.]

[The fact that he's alone hunched over enchanted parchment in the well-lit sanctuary of their room doesn't stop a sudden gasp from slipping out between overlong fangs; old habits.]

sly thing

however did you know?

I have not spent the past two years blind and deaf. I see the way you all but drool when I practice my forms— and how eager you are to touch when I come home sweaty and spent.

if i joined the fighting rings when we return to Baldur's Gate, will you be able to attend a match? or will you be too fixated on pinning me to the mat in the middle of the bout to even let me win?

[>:O!

Excuse you, Leto:]

I don't drool. I yearn.

And don't be ridiculous. I'd never let you join those fighting rings.

you yearned a great deal atop my pillow last night, then

[Only a little. It's more than likely it was one of the pups, drooly little things that they are, but that's neither here nor there. But ah:]

you would not let me?

What can I say? I'm a creature of indulgent excess.

And the only person I want putting their hungry, overaroused, attractively injured body on yours, is me.

Then fight me tonight.

After I come home. Before we settle in for the evening. It's been too long— and you still owe me two scars. I have not forgotten.

We can go to the rooftops. This city may not be as large as Baldur's Gate, but there are a few hidden spots I've discovered; we will not be bothered.

[He's lopsided around overlong canines, sporting a grin that could span eons— aroused and thrilled and playful to the unliving quick.

He hadn't realized until it's written how much he's missed it.

Or how easy it is to set his figurative tail wagging.]

I owe you more than that— and I crave the same from you, if you can manage it with those stunted little claws of yours. You've gotten too used to whetting them on owlbears and adolescents, after all. A challenge of my caliber might prove difficult for a single moon elf on his own.

But that's all detail, not stakes.

What do I get if I win? Aside from the sight of you panting on your back.

[Is your prick hard yet, Leto? Because someone's trying to make it that way.]

A rather large boast from a man who fussed about cheating the first time I beat him. Will you still cry the same when I beat you again, or will you finally concede you like submitting just as much as you do winning?

[But ah . . . the trouble is, he is hard. Not fully, not yet, and he's confident enough he's hidden in enough shadow to not make it obvious— but at the same time, thank the gods his tankard is full right now. Leto takes in a deep breath, trying (and failing utterly) to calm himself before he writes again.]

You said last week you wanted to try predicament bondage. I can be more detailed if you wish, but . . . I will also let you pick what you wish that to mean. Whether it's serving you or merely while you watch, what toys we use with it or how you dress me, what game you wish to play . . . would that suffice as prize?

[And then, because he knows damn well it will:]

What will I get when I win?

[The next bit is written so so carefully (someone hasn't learned not to be a cheat, as it so happens. And between the two of them? Oh, darling, they both know there's only one rogue present):]

Bold words for a man sitting shivering across the room from a hollyphant.

[Warning shot fired—

Or at least it would be if it could save him from the rest of what Leto's just offered. What he's presently envisioning, in fact, and trying so damned hard not to.

(Can someone sprawl in bed to write in an enchanted book without giving themselves away? No— no.

No.

Probably not.)]

If you win, though....

A handjob.

[....bear with him, Leto. He's going somewhere with this.

Namely:]

Up against the wall in a quiet little public place. Your trousers half tugged down around your thighs and your legs spread where you stand pinned by the back of my arm. Blunt pressure squeezed against your spine so that you can only wriggle as I dip my other hand beneath the shadow of your obeisantly raised ass— reaching between the gap left by your open legs and pulled-down clothing to find the hang of you.

And tug you off until you weep for lenience.

Edited (don't eat my words, phone) 2023-12-17 02:45 (UTC)

Oh, damn it . . .

[He mutters it aloud, his ears flushed darkly as he glances away. The hollyphant is not as much of a deterrent as he would like it to be— frankly, as he needs it to be right now. He stares at it a few seconds longer, just in case, but ugh, no, that only makes it worse, for then he's disgusted and has a hard-on.

But ah . . . fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, and he taps his quill against the book a few times before he dares reply.]

You're so determined to make it a punishment?

[He isn't subtle and he doesn't care.]

[Tap tap tap. He loves you, little pup. Really, he does.

Which is why, in the spirit of mischief where it meets Leto's own prior teasing:]

If one enjoys submission....

Is it a punishment, or a reward?

Knowing you?

Both.

Much like this. I am in public, you realize?

[Of course he does.]

Fine. But I may change my answer before the end. I do enjoy submitting to you— but what use is your newfound strength and endurance if we don't put it to the test? I have yet to see you tied to the rutting machine we bought.

Edited 2023-12-17 05:02 (UTC)

[Oh he knows. Which is why he's got his reply already poised for a goading strike. The punchline for his winding setup, to which he's masterfully brought them this far: pen nib perched, grin fixed, wrist— ]

[The paper suddenly looks like this.]

[It is your fault.]

[Hot.

Hot and infuriating all at once, and Leto has to glance away, biting at his lip as he tries not to squirm in his seat. He's hard beneath the table, his cock straining at his laces— and yet though he knows damn well he has to calm down, the fantasy of Astarion in their bed plays out anyway. Sprawled with spread legs, his ass raised in the air and his fingers wrapped around his cock, moaning as he scrawls out word after word—

Mmh. But be realistic. It's a pretty fantasy, but not an accurate one. Not at all. Not when he knows just how this little retort was meant to be taken; not when he knows how spitefully (delightfully) petty his amatus can be. In all likelihood he's grinning right now, Leto thinks: smirking for a job well done, so very pleased with himself for how much trouble he's caused. A vampire in need of correction later on, to be sure, but as for now . . . oh, that can't be allowed to stand.

And yet: what can he reply with? Anything he can think of is only going to make it worse, and he can't, not right now. There's such a long pause, and then, finally:]

you are a damned menace

be ready for me when i return home

keep the pups in the bathroom

i am not submitting to you tonight

[He should have a hollyphant around all the time if this is where it leads.]

Fight me.

[His handwriting's a little shaky. A little unrefined, though the usual embellished scrawlwork's still there. If Leto is grinning, then they're both grinning, and it's not a draw so much as a prelude.

Foreplay with teeth.]

If you win, I'll ride that machine with as much pretty submission as you want.

[How's that for real incentive, love?]

when I win, I want you to be blindfolded too. gagged. utterly helpless for me, so that each time i touch you, you thrash within your bindings, hoping for more and unable to even beg me for it. driven out of your mind until we reach the end of your stamina once and for all.

[A pause. He's riding high on the wings of audacity, thrilled by the fantasy they're both painting and too far gone to care about propriety.]

and if you win tonight, i'll let you shove that potion we bought down my throat while you pin me to that wall.

[No need to elaborate on which one, for he's damn sure Astarion knows. It's been sitting half-forgotten in their trunk for the past few weeks.]

is there actually a spell that enables you to speak to animals, or is Talindra attempting humor again?

'Again?'

[He'll get to the rest in a minute, but— ]

What do you mean 'again?'

Is she picking on you, that sweet old doll?

I'll tell her you called her sweet. she'll get a kick out of it.

she tried to convince me last week that there were giant miniature space hamsters, whatever the hell that means.

[A kick and endearment most likely. Two things Astarion enjoys in spades.]

Oh, that old rumor?

Utter nonsense. Clever thing you are, not falling for it— though as far as spellwork for heated debates with actual animals goes: that one's true.

Wouldn't recommend it, though.

[More jagged, then, but don't mind his excitement:]

why?

i can talk to the puppies?

why would you not recommend it?

Talk is such a relative term.

They have two brain cells. Put together. Do you really imagine they'll have anything to say?

Tack that garbling nonsense onto every other screeching animal in a ten mile radius and you'll be begging for a little peace and quiet. Trust me.

they bark often enough. and even if it's only pleading for treats, i still want to hear it. can i speak back to them? will they understand me?

she said you could get a stone that would do it. can you just buy those in the market?

[There's a pause here. It's for an inaudible scoff.]

You really are set on this, aren't you?

Yes, they'll understand you. As for the rest, you'd be better off training yourself to enchant an object of your choosing: we're broke, spellwork like that is rare, and you're talented enough to manage it without paying some backalley thief a glinting premium for cheap dross.

[Gods, he really will have to cast it himself, won't he? They are broke, or at least too broke to consider buying something they could make themselves. And yet Leto still hates casting magic if he can help it, lessons or not. Perhaps he always will.

Mmm . . . but in the meantime, he circles Astarion's question.]

why wouldn't I be? i can talk to our puppies. even if it isn't all the time— are you not the least bit curious as to what they might say?

or are you simply worried they'll declare a preference for me over you?

Worried? Hah!

My dear boy, I might fret over a great [great great great] many things that are already well known, but when it comes to our rotund little rapscalry, I'm under no illusions.

We both know who it is they adore.

And it isn't me.

Meaning what they have to say is oh something along the lines of 'papa papa snacks snacks' for about eight hours on loop.

[God, there's honestly a pause for a few seconds as he stares into the distance and tries to hush the little part of him that just melts to imagine that.]

as far as you know

they're getting smarter by the day. fortunato is learning how to sit. she'll have more to say than montressor, anyway.

do you have a bracelet or ring or something you don't like anymore?

Will a cock ring work?

NO

[Whuff.]

You're no fun.

they are [a pause, as Leto realizes he's about to write babies, subsequently realizes he's become one of those Pet People, and finally settles on] small, and i am not facing questions from them about why i'm wearing something on my cock the first time i talk to them

[And then, because he knows he's being a bit of a killjoy:]

they fret enough when you fuck me as-is. gods forbid they learn this is some new torment.

[Write it or don't, Astarion already knows what you are, Leto.]

You're so adorable when you can't stop thinking carnally about us. Makes me want to keep going, just to see how red I can get you out in public.

But no, my love, I didn't plan on setting you to task as rigid as a washing pole. Well— maybe I did. A little. Passively. I just meant the thing's old and I've replaced it. You could use it as a worry stone for all I care— although now I'm starting to think that might excite you too much.

[Says the vampire who can't stop his own ears from perking or his eyes from glinting while he writes every innuendo known to elfkind in real time!!]

I do have a stolen little pendant, though, tucked away somewhere in storage. Half broken, but you could replace the clasp [like he's been meaning to before he fenced it, in procrastinated theory.] Would that suffice?

Edited 2023-12-28 21:25 (UTC)

if i am overly carnal, i blame you. and this world, too, for giving me all the eagerness of a young adult, but mostly you.

but yes. a pendant would work nicely, thank you. sell the cockring in place of it; you'll get more than a few buyers, i suspect.

[Mmph. A pause, and then:]

is it ordinary to you? the concept of animals being able to speak.

it seems wondrous to me. unfathomable, in its way.

[Gods, he truly has no idea how darling he is. Just how easily— with two sentences— Leto manages to drag one more unwilling smile to a pair of jagged fangs that'd all but forgotten how it went; relegating the dire details of worlds like the ones they ferry through to banishment, instead.]

It's about as odd to me as halla to you.

Uncommon, but not exactly a thing outside a more eccentric– [Long, the swaying tail of that singular c.

He's remembered where is. Which is: he's remembered that they're elves, they two, if not exactly keenly (and human habits prevail in a mind that was raised to be one, by all cultural intents).]

well, not outside the odd and elvish sorts, no. It's a rubeish eccentricity; no patriar past the age of five would ever look well on it.

Although maybe there's something to be said for the high and comfortable coming face-to-face with the fact that their dinner has opinions.

Edited 2023-12-30 14:30 (UTC)

[Oh, that's a thought that gives him pause, although admittedly for only a second or two. It's disturbing if he thinks about it too much, so he simply won't; he likes steak too much for that.]

it's strange

i believe you. and i understand how it would seem that way; i doubt i would think much of it if i had grown up in this world. but for toril has the capacity to disturb me with its revelations, i forgot what it felt like to be awed by them, too.

~~i wish~~

i will ask Talindra tomorrow to help me work the spell. you should come by afterwards— she has a gift for you, and refuses to let me ferry it.

[Come now. If Astarion has to converse with his dinners, he thinks it's only fair everyone else does the same. And really, it's not so bad: if one thinks humans are intolerable, hearing wild beasts recount villainy with an absolute height of tone-deaf ignorance is a treat all its own, but—

Oh.

Oh, there's so much to unpack here. Enough that even Astarion pauses with his pen nib to the parchment.

He wants to know. He wants to know, and yet there's a part of him that knows better than to pry when it comes to the gaps in all their margins. If Leto wanted to say it, he'd have said it, whatever that faint wish was. So, intimately comprehending that, the idea of letting it alone is more solid than an orcish fruitcake in his undead mind— but even then, a present isn't enough to completely distract him.

Hm.]

A gift?

For me?

[....]

she didn't say anything ominous ahead of time, did she? No questions about sunlight or wooden stakes.

[I wish, and the thought lingers, but what use is there in vocalizing it? Perhaps he will whisper it later, when they're curled up in the dark and things are a little easier to stomach, but it's little more than idle fantasy now. I wish I'd met you sooner, I wish I had been born here, and it will only serve to make him more melancholy.]

i would be referring to her in the past tense if she had

[He's joking, sort of, and then again he very much isn't.]

she's fond of you, you know. for all she scolds you sometimes, i think she's charmed by you. if you wish for a guess: i suspect it might be an ear-cuff.

[And if he ever does, Astarion will laugh through pain and fondness both as always, catching that still-Thedosian chin and whispering 'If we'd met any sooner, I'd have been carting you around in swaddling clothes, catulus.'

Kisses planted sidelong on both cheekbones before adding, slyly:

'And I was always with you.')

As things are right now, though, he's much less graceful:]

An ear cuff?? One of those silly elvish things?

Gods above, next thing you know she'll be trying to drag us out into the woods to dance naked by the fire with twigs in our hair.

[Don't be fooled: he's touched. He's tenderly, avidly, magnificently touched—

....If that's how she really feels about him. But since hoping for any sort of endearment from the living feels worse than white-hot pliers to his claws for the chance he might be wrong....

Gentle deflection it is. In spades.]

The only thing she likes is having her bills paid and a student that's worth bragging about. Mark my words, my dear, I'd bet your last minted copper she's just trying to make sure we don't go rushing back to Baldur's Gate.

[Later tonight, Astarion will see right through his hesitance and his fears, teasing him into a better mood and a sweeter disposition. Here and now, Leto smiles faintly at he sees that elegant script return to him in scrawling indignance, amused by the very real indignance (and all the deflection that it carries).]

I will not say our move is not a motivating factor. She was saddened to hear it yesterday.

[And Leto was saddened to tell her, honestly. He does not want to live in this city forever, no matter how wondrous it is; they both of them are too used to Baldur's Gate and all her diverse glory. But he will miss this place, and the people therein. His friends were far less gracious about the news; Leto hasn't spoken of it to Astarion yet, let they earn his scoffing ire.]

If you don't want it, I'll take it. She did say it would suit me more.

[She absolutely did not say that.]

what?

she did not

did she?

take a walk with me tomorrow night and find out

she did say she has always been fond of a man with tattoos, though

[She's going to murder him if she finds out how much he's been lying about her, or at the very least give him a stern look, which is almost worse.

[He's gotten too good at this. It's going to drive Astarion absolutely batty (in the non-literal sense— don't you dare), that he can't figure out whether or not his beloved, cherished, prized, adored, nuisance of a consort is playing him like a Waterdavian fiddle, or if Talindra really is that mercenary in her tactics.

Either could be accurate enough— which is a terrifying realization.]

Fine.

[See, Astarion? That wasn't so hard, was it?]

Far be it from me to overlook another creature prowling around my territory and stepping on my glorious toes.

But if you're just using this as an excuse to lure me out into the open so that I mingle with the living world, you're going to be devoured by two creatures tomorrow.

Talindra and myself.

don't threaten me with a good time

[Teasing, and he does his limited best to imitate Astarion's handwriting in lieu of teasingly taking on his accent.]

if i wanted to lure you out to mingle with the living world, i would invite you to a party one of my friends is throwing. they wanted us both to come, you know.

[And yet Fenris isn't going either, which suggests that, you know, maybe the elven version of teenage houseparties are not totally his jam.]

but i think it would be too inane. too tame or too [what's the word?] ~~childish~~ silly

[Leto might not be able to hear the little bark that lead-in drags out of the base of Astarion's throat, but it exists all the same.

Cheeky thing.

~~How proud he is of him, in his own way.~~]

Oh yes, because you're so sophisticated these days.

there is a difference between not minding cheap wine and spending all night merrily swigging ale in the hopes that it might get us so drunk we throw up. it's a question of maturity, not sophistication.

oh

oh I see.

So is the wine tasting you're attending this evening before or after you fight an owl bear with your bare hands?

and bare feet.

that was an initiation

[OBVIOUSLY. And he knows he's fighting a losing battle, and that it is all rather silly, but still.]

do you want to go? they have heard more than enough about you and still endlessly have questions; they would enjoy meeting you.

even folwin.

[The one that Astarion constantly suggests leaving behind to endure the consequences . . . and the one that, admittedly, Leto is least attached to, given he's an annoying little thing, so it's not such a bad suggestion all around.]

[Little little little, all teasing, all play. It's a losing battle in part for things here being exactly what they undeniably are, yes, but also because all Astarion sees is the paradox of an adolescent thing and the very same heart that led him out of the darkness when he was only a fledgling creature in freedom, barely able to stand on his own fretful legs.

Young, he'll always say with a grin where Leto's skin runs thinnest. (Young, he'll always mean when he thinks of himself lost inside that long-limbed shadow— awestruck by its beauty and boldness alike.)

But the days are getting shorter. The nights longer. Astarion's the one outside more and more with winter setting in, and while spells to speak with animals and jokes about keepers and parties are all business as usual, well—

Succeed or fail, these days won't come again.

Or as Folwin would say— stupid, stupid, Folwin— you only live once.]

Initiations are for children. [And they won't talk about the fact that every highbrow sommeliers club in Baldur's Gate has them. Shh.]

But those children adore you, you know. We should pay our respects. Give them a taste of decent wine for a change.

Maybe convince them not to destroy what's left of their livers before sunrise.

[He's not being nice, for the record. that isn't what this is.]

we can try, anyway, though i suspect we will fail, and enjoy ourselves in the process

[And honestly? He is sort of looking forward to it. Kind of. It's going to be exceedingly stupid and enormously rowdy, but perhaps he's missed that. And perhaps his thoughts wander in the same direction Astarion's do: that they have been through too much grief, with too much more to come, not to enjoy these silly little moments when they come.]

[. . . that said.]

they think you're a gravedigger

among other things

[Forget writing, from the spine of the book where that crystal is set:]

A GRAVEDIGGER?!

A BLOODY—

—what?

What do you mean OTHER things?

[Oh, they're doing this now . . . and yet Leto can't say he regrets it, not when it means he can hear Astarion's voice. Even if it is angry with him.]

I was vague on the specifics. I meant more to imply you were a bounty hunter, but . . . er.

[Ah.]

In retrospect, I may have accidentally given more of the impression of a grave-robber.

[He works at night. He works with his hands. It's contract work. Assassin, gentleman thief, vagabond, gravedigger— the lattermost seemed the most innocuous, and thus when Folwin had suggested it, Leto had leapt upon it with gratitude. That one, yes, the one least likely to draw any kind of attention, and also incidentally make enough money that their frequent purchases from the sex shop won't raise an eyebrow.]

[He stutters for a good five seconds, tripping in great, silent gusts over his own bewildered rage.

Also yes hi hello darling love you and also to hear your perfect voice too but ALSO— ]

NOT EVEN—

THAT IS THE WORST POSSIBLE KIND!!

THE SORT THAT DIG UP GRANDMOTHERS!! THAT PAWN YOUR PRICELESS FAMILY HEIRLOOMS— oh come to think of it that's actually quite true on that front— BUT THE REST OF IT—

They're going to think I'm some disreputable ingrate with cadaver dirt under my nails and liquor on my breath— [uhf!!!] What I mean is— nevermind that I am, there is a GLAMOR to being a vampire compared to a vulgar, grotesquely shambling reprobate—

[g a s p]

....is that why they dislike me.

[Oh, that's so much yelling. That's so much yelling, and Leto dutifully listens to it word by word, his ears flicking down as he waits for it to ebb. Astarion's angry, but he's not Angry, and Leto can endure until it ebbs out. Besides: it's not entirely undeserved, not really. There are worse professions he could have stated, but not many.

But then there's that little pause, and—

. . . oh.]

Er.

It may be.

[. . .]

They— I do not think they dislike you. But they have never met you, and know only that you are centuries older than I am and have a propensity for fucking me for hours and hours at a time. I think they sometimes imagine something far . . .

[Unseen, he waves a hand in the air, trying to gesture at his own thoughts.]

— baser than what we are.

[Oh gods below.]

[And just when you might've thought he was done quietly muttering curses and shocked colloquialisms to himself in the eight plus languages he now knows—

Nope. Still doing that.

(—and probably also pacing, if the sound of footsteps pattering back and forth alongside puppy paws means anything.)]

[Ah.

It's not as if they never annoy one another. Most certainly they do, little habits and larger ones, and they've had more than a few little spats. But it's one thing to squabble over habits or who was meant to take the pups out before they wet themselves; it's another to hear Astarion so genuinely annoyed by something that Leto could have easily prevented.

He's not guilty. Not yet, anyway. But there's a tendril of something like it curling low in the pit of his stomach; unseen, his ears flick down.]

Are you truly angry about this?

About the fact that a pack of sweaty, hormone-ridden, brainless little ingrates think I rail you in an open grave over nana's rotting bones with your ankles in the air from dusk till dawn about as often as I can get my hands on you?

I might be, yes.

[But then Astarion knows how hard it is to be free and, well— how hard it is to navigate the waters of everything you never had, let alone how much old apprehension ticks hard when the waters rise, and you suddenly find yourself up to the neck.

In over your head.]

[There is a sigh. It is neither the largest nor the smallest sigh to ever exist, but it's a depressurizing puff all the same.]

Just....

[He's trying, he's trying, he's trying.]

Tell me the rest of whatever it was you told them about me. Because either they think I'm the most successful grave robber of all time with a cock as wide as the Chionthar, or....

[or, like the spoken version of hands pressed loosely on either hip]

....that you're the easiest bought whore in it.

And only one of those assumptions ends in me not murdering the lot of them.

[There's a little noise when Astarion first lists out that snarling little summation. It's a quiet noise, bitten back and easily missed; it's a noise that means he'd almost just said well, that is not wholly inaccurate, a wry little smirk on his face. But ah, ah, he knows better: such jokes will only infuriate Astarion further right now, and he's in enoguh trouble as it is.

But hang on, hang on—]

Trust I will tell you everything in a moment. But which are you angry about, exactly? That they think of you that way . . . or they might think of me in such a fashion?

Look, I realize I'm not the most noble thing to ever walk the face of Faerûn, but particular as I am about my petty vanities, having a massive, massive prick and an equally massive amount of success isn't the sort of impression that warrants seeing red even in my impressively extensive book. Granted they might not like me for it, but that's not so terrible a reason to be hated— despite not being glamorous as far as cover stories go.

Or what I'd choose for myself if you go making another gaggle of friends in the future, let's be clear.

[And in case that wasn't clear, have a huffy little tsk before honestly completely takes him over: voice invoking the fussy replication of his own sharp ears pinning back.]

Urghh— you, all right? It's the one about you.

[All this time and he's still no good at this sort of thing, picking at his own claws for tenderness laid bare when other people are involved. The sort he can't just kill for overstepping, at least, knowing that in spite of threats and jokes, Leto likes this pack too much to let long fangs serve as any rectifying solution.]

Being looked down on like some naive idiot that makes himself the bridegroom of a sleazy, predatory thug. [He's been there, after all. Been the one swanning and swooning in the dingiest little dive bars over brutes that couldn't piss their own name in the dirt standing up for how empty the meat of their skulls was compared to the bulk of their hands. He remembers the stares it warranted. The peripheral comments that meant well but always— always wound up rooted in judgement.

Saying Leto doesn't deserve that is like saying water should be clean. That food shouldn't be ashen.

It isn't subjective; it's law.]

You're my bridegroom.

The precious, adamantly adored bridegroom of a sleazy, predatory vampire who very much happens to like you despite having spent an entire half a year trying excessively hard not to back at the start.

[And he did try. Very, very, very much so.

And in light of his own failing on that front, because he's never been less enveloped in what overtook him from the first moment that they barely touched in comfort:]

There's a difference. You're better than that.

[But before his own voice cracks for sinking back into his throat, quickly:]

I mean I'm better than that too but— well— one is more grating than the other, as it so happens.

[Oh. Oh, and suddenly, everything turns on its axis. The steady sound of footsteps these past few minutes suddenly ceases, Leto gone silent for a few minutes as he absorbs all that.

Then, quietly and yet firmly:]

You are not sleazy. And you have never been predatory— not to me.

[Because they're not talking about his eating habits. And it matters to Leto very much that Astarion does not think of himself that way. He knows who he is. He knows what he is, too, and he will not deny those aspects. But nor will he stand for this slander of self.

(And now, ironically enough, he does understand Astarion's fuss).]

I think . . . truly, Astarion, I think they do not know what to make of either of us. I tell them stories of my past, and they do believe me, but they cannot make sense of how I have accomplished so much so quickly. I boast of you, telling them of adventures from Thedas, and I do not know how they reconcile the two. Perhaps they don't. Or perhaps they simply accept it.

[Rowdy as they all are, eternally focused more on the future than the past, he doubts they do anything save accept it and move on.

But this isn't really about them. And it takes Leto a few moments, but then:]

I did not know you were . . . that my reputation concerned you so much.

[No, that's not it, and he makes a noise, waving that away.]

I have never . . . no one has ever thought about it overmuch, myself included. I have always assumed people will think of me what they will, and if it is negative, so be it. And I did not realize . . .

[Mph.]

. . . sometimes this place, these people . . . it doesn't feel real. As if it is all pretend, and some of it is. And I forget that I am not myself. I forget that these things linger.

[It isn't that he set out to paint himself as some cheap whore of a gravedigging thug; it's just that none of it feels real, and he does not think about the implications when he is with his friends. But that's hard to say, and harder still to know if it comes across how he means.]

. . . it means a great deal to me that you are concerned with it.

And I understand now why you are . . . for I do not like the thought of you thinking of yourself so disparagingly.

[It's a lot to consider, particularly when he's already keyed up from his own admission. A lot to take in— that care— that distinctly spoken specificity that comes from someone else insisting you're not so low as the slant of your perceived station, whatever you might think, ribs and heart as brittle as glass thorns just to hear it said (and it wasn't that he'd been angling for reciprocity— he wasn't, gods above, he swears— it's just)—

Everything washes over him.

Everything's considered, to the point that it isn't even a conscious choice how fresh context changes the shape of what they've already been over.

And then, because he might've gone a little mad and lost what little sense he had left for being so well loved:]

Have you....

[gods, what is he even saying right now]

....ever considered telling them the truth?

Err, the entire truth, I mean. Stories and accomplishments are one thing, and it's not as if I like the idea of other people knowing that I'm— you know, what I am, but still. Might be there's something to be salvaged if they see me and have two and two put together.

Stranger things have happened in this world, after all.

[which]

I mean, did I ever teach you about the time an entire city just fell out of this very plane right into the Hells? Or that quite literally anyone could theoretically become a god just by having enough garnered fealty from the living?

It's downright stupid when you think about it.

Compared to all that, my being a vampire and you yourself being a world-transcending god-killer is—

Edited 2024-01-09 06:24 (UTC)

Ah.

Erm....

....a lot still, actually. Right.

[A world-transcending god-killer, and you know, it's true, but it's still strange to hear. Stranger still to apply it to himself— or perhaps strange to apply it to himself while he lives in this world, where gods and their ilk are so much more common than in Thedas. It makes it more awe-inspiring, strangely enough. Corypheus . . . Corypheus was not unlike a god, and indeed in many ways was a god, but to Leto, it always felt like . . . well. A job. An exceedingly difficult job, admittedly, and a job he'd done as a favor to his friend, but still: a job, and one he would either succeed at or fail and die.

Or maybe it's not about Corypheus at all. Maybe it's that Leto's gotten so used to Astarion being the more remarkable one that he forgets the more unbelievable aspects of his own life.]

. . . . I thought about it.

[Yes, he had. Over and over, when it was late and the conversations grew more intimate . . . yes, he had wanted to. But . . .]

. . . I think they would understand, or at least try to. They are a loyal group, for all that they are immature, and I think ultimately that loyalty would win out no matter what. But . . .

I will not risk you. I have learned again and again that I am not familiar with all the intricacies and social norms of this world, and I will not risk my having missed some vital clue that might lead to disaster in any form. And . . .

[Mmph. Emotional honesty is difficult, even between them. Perhaps especially between them.]

I suppose . . . I have found it easier to enjoy their company when it is not me they know, either. I am not dishonest as a rule, but . . . as far as they know, I am merely a particularly well-traveled elf who can handle a blade and enjoys strange tattoos. I am not an ex-slave, or a god-killer, or friends with the Champion of Kirkwall. And I . . .

I suppose a part of me did not want to tell them, for fear it would make the inevitable loss of them all the harder.

[He can't do it again. He can't give himself away to a group of friends just to watch them disappear; it hurt too badly the last time. No matter that it would be vastly different now, still. Some part of Leto will always bear those scars, recoiling at the thought of true friendship for fear of how he will inevitably lose it.]

I know it would be different than— than Kirkwall. That they are not Anders, and the stakes are far different. Even the emotions are, for those bonds took nearly a decade to cultivate, and even if I had been honest with this group, it still wouldn't be the same. But I still . . .

[He can't bear it.]

I did not want to risk you. But I suppose, selfishly, I did not want to risk myself, either.

[There didn't used to be a heart to break at confessions soft as this. Nothing in his chest and lungs but selfishness alone, or so he's told himself in hindsight, swearing that he learned it. That it grew in him. That resonance is something he had to figure out how to quiet himself to feel.

Instead he's gone to pieces.

Like he always has when it comes to the sound of Leto cracking like split glass around the borders of his grown-in confidence. His own voice acting as a mirror of sorts, thinner than he expects when it slides free.]

....you really think you're going to lose them?

Just like that?

[Tsk. Who is he to ask that question— when all his years he can remember, it was loss that colored everything.

Even Fenris wasn't exempt from that.]

Yes.

[He says it simply, but there's far more exhaustion in his voice than he means there to be. Yes, and though he can feel something buried deep in his heart lurch for that admission, always felt and so long denied. He doesn't want to feel it, and yet—]

When have I not lost someone? There has never been an instance in my life in which I have not lost someone I loved, and that includes you. It was a miracle I found you in Thedas again; it was even moreso that I found you here, and I—

[Start again, for this is not really about he and Astarion. That makes up part of it (and Maker knows that Fenris is equal parts resentful and grateful for the fact he cannot remember losing Astarion the first time), but it isn't what this is about.]

Seven years in Kirkwall. Seven years of swearing we would be there for one another, and were, and it vanished in an instant. No matter that I saved their lives and they saved mine. No matter that we were so close-knit that I thought of them as more family than friends. It took one single act of madness, and all of that was undone.

Just like that.

It is . . . it is a matter of time. Or so it feels.

[It was a miracle the first time. A miracle the second. Fate-defying, one might call it, but there's no point at which a gambler feels safer for winning after being forced to bet it all— only more sure that they'll lose. And as many times as they've surpassed the damage of being torn from Thedas without a trace, it doesn't change the fact that just as Fenris says it now (and every time before that in the shadows of the past): he left.]

Still got a long way to go before I earn my keep, don't I?

[Awash with painful sympathy, as if late coming home from an errand, since that's the bottom line: I'd have found you. I won't say it again, but I'd have done that and more.

But still, it doesn't change a thing.

Ataashi. Kirkwall. Astarion. His newfound friends. Migration makes it hard. Awareness makes it harder.]

You know, what truly makes it maddening is that I can't even argue that you're wrong. Loss comes. Life changes.

But in defense of trying from someone who didn't believe in it before I ever met you....

[Little love.

Little fighter.]

I know you. You don't give up so easily as that.

[This is why he loves Astarion.

Because he does not say: it won't happen again, you'll see. He does not say: but that was different. He does not tell Fenris (Leto) that his fears are unfounded; he does not dismiss his grief and his fear, but simply hears them and says: yes. Yes, he knows why he is scared. Yes, it makes sense that he still flinches from the thought of companionship. Even that aching acknowledgement stings so bittersweetly: still got a long way to go before I earn my keep, don't I?, and Fenris exhales breathlessly in something far, far less than a laugh, for it's true. Two years, he thinks sometimes. Two years, and perhaps when they surpass the seven year mark, he will stop waking in the middle of the night, anxiously glancing about until he finds his beloved next to him once more.

Maybe.

But nor does he allow Fenris to sink utterly in despair. And that, too, is why he loves him, for Fenris needs that sometimes. Someone to count his misery and grief; someone to light a candle instead of joining him in cursing the darkness. Not a false promise. Not a cheery dismissal. Simply a reminder: when have you ever given up before?

Despite himself, a rueful sort of smile flickers over his expression, there and gone, utterly unseen. You don't give up so easily as that, and gods, but what a pain that is sometimes.]

You know me too well.

[It's a soft murmur. And what he really means is:]

Thank you.

[For the reminder. For the refusal to allow him to sink into despair. For being himself, steadfast and loyal and adoring.]

Do you? Believe in it now, I mean.

[For it is one thing to know a lover's general mood and thoughts and beliefs, and even, indeed, to know that you inspired some part of them. It's another to hear it laid out so starkly. And there's no right answer, not really— but he's curious.]

[It bolsters him, that first murmur. The second does him in; if his chest feels lighter, gods swear, he knows the reason why.

He's gone to cinders. Ignescent sparks shivering with more warmth against his wicked lungs than the kiss of life itself— and as they say: heat rises. Curls under his breastbone and drags the corners of his mouth higher in a reflex he can't stop.]

Strewth, darling, now you're thanking me? I'm starting to think you've forgotten I'm the reason you're stuck here in a body you never asked for, wrestling children and pups and perfumed oil day in and day out. Let alone your own magic.

[Faint flick of parrying brevity running like a vein through his otherwise sobered tone: insistence sweet in the face of so much weight. So much bloody gravity that the tips of his ears and toes feel lifetimes away from one another while he tries to drag his lover onto shore (no, he won't let his kadan sink into despair), even if all he can offer is a second or two at best against a higher tide. Laugh with me, my dear. Come on. Just for a moment.

Life might yet surprise you.]

[Which is to say, with all the softness he can muster:] But as for your question....

[He licks his lips. He curls his claws, unseen. Unheard.]

....you've no idea how much.

[And yes, there's iron proof of that in what's ahead of them. In why they're leaving at all. Proof, too, wedged tightly in the past, with so much yet left to confess about the very start of his first (last) enshackled centuries before they ever met. And that it wasn't solely time that backed him into a corner full of slack obeisance for the longest stretch— that it was Cazador. The difference between the prey he took then and the prey he takes now all laid out in its naked ugliness, and why it nearly tore him into tatters at the seams.

All things he starts to confess with the slowest puff of false breath drawn in before the line begins to pop and crackle with harsh static, tension winding in the air around the crystal caught in Leto's palm.

Tighter. Tighter.

Liminality twisting like elastic sinew yanked too hard, only it's everywhere, clotting thick and suffocating—

—until an overladen gush of volatile magic cracks open in waning daylight somewhere between Fenris and the tavern, its shockwave knocking over tarps and scattered mercantile goods. A shriek first. A yelp second. Gathered bystanders fleeing in a panic—

As a blur of pitch black fur and blazing emerald eyes goes rushing through the streets on hulking paws, snarling and snapping at their heels.]

[He thinks—

He doesn't know what to think at first. The tug of magic is so strong that for a moment he flashes back to the ache of his lyrium; in the next moment there's a harsh crackle, static cutting off Astarion's words and terrifying him to the point that he scrawls a message:]

are you alrigt i canot hear you

[Hasty and misspelled as he dashes forward, skidding down the street and heading for the tavern (for no matter what it is, innocuously misfired spell or attack from Cazador, they will handle it together). He cuts through the crowds, darting past elves shrieking in panic as he heads towards the danger. His hand goes to his blade, his fingers aching as they grip the handle; someone shouts don't, and as Leto finally reaches the cleared-out space, he sees nothing but a black mass leaping towards him.

He tenses up, but it doesn't matter: even braced, a hundred pounds of dead weight slamming into his chest is enough to knock him off his feet. The air bursts from his lungs as he goes down hard. His head spins as he's pinned to the dirt road; heat from savage breath and a glint of glowing green are the only things he has time enough to notice as the beast's maw opens, tongue lolling out as it darts forward—

And begins to lick him.]

[Furiously, in fact: tongue soaked with saliva lapping at every bit of Leto she can find, spittle in his hair and over his cheeks as her tail wags wildly. Her cold wet nose snuffles at him, inhaling every bit of his scent. Fenris, her Fenris, her papa, her papa who left her all alone for days-months-years (hours at most), that she had to travel worlds and worlds to find, but she has. She has she has she has, and now that she's found him she'll never let him go. Soft whines sound between them as Leto dazedly lifts his arms and wraps them around her, some part of him numb with shock.]

Ataashi . . .

[She yips in recognition, and that's all the confirmation he needs. With a soft cry he wrestles her in close, not caring for all the stares he attracts; his fingers scrub furiously through her fur, her large paws slamming against his body as she grows more excited and wriggles against his grip.]

Ataashi, Ataashi— clever girl, how did you find me here? Oh, good girl, good girl, my clever, clever girl, you found me—

[Explanations to the poor terrorized elves will come later, for this is his darling. Nothing else matters. Not explanations, nor destroyed property— nor even the book at his side, still crackling from magical discharge, temporarily forgotten in the fray. The world swims as tears fill his eyes; it barely matters, for she licks those away too, so determined to smother him in her scent. His words tumble into Tevene, his tongue adoring the familiar syllables as he coos and rumbles praise after praise:]

There you are, you clever thing . . . Ataashi, my Ataashi, my good girl, look at you, did you eat? Are you well? We will find you food, sweet thing—

[She bites at his fingers (well, mouths at them)— so excited that she can't help but tangle up inside his space with even the sharpest parts of her oversized form— claws and giant fangs all— wiggling and wagging and shoving so close the moon elf underneath her doesn't stand a chance of getting up until she's finished whimpering her hellos and chuffing in response to his Tevene.

Yes, she is so clever. Yes, she is so good. Yes, she is absolutely fucking starving thank you very much, particularly when both her doting parents dared to roam so far away that she's been forced to tear right through the Fade itself to find them. And she won't punish them for that oversight just so long as they soon feed her and swear to never do it again, assured by the joyous rumble in her throat, because those four hours were—

Oh.

Oh, she snorts once, hard.

She snorts again, blowing condensation against his cheek before her snout crinkles and her lips peel back, displeasure played out in a grimace, her great head shaking back and forth in the middle of backing away.

(And when she sniffs at him again: it repeats. He smells wrong. Like fur that isn't hers. Spit that isn't hers. Glowering, grousing, grunting angrily as she sniffs him in various other places just to check. And check. And check.)

C h e a t e r.]

[Oh. Oh . . . oh, he hadn't even thought— but of course she'd smell the pups, clever girl that she is. And it's silly to feel guilty for her jealousy, for it isn't as if he ever set out to replace her, but still, oh, he does feel his own ears lower in quiet contrition.]

I know, I know . . . I'm sorry, I know, you do not know them yet, but you will—

[Well, presumably she will. She has to. He cannot abandon the pups, but nor will he ever let Ataashi out of his sight again. But ah, perhaps now isn't the time to assure her of that; she's been left alone for Maker-only-knows how long and deserves all the pitying and coddling he can offer. His hands move in tandem with her signals: stilling when she growls and scrubbing briskly when she quiets, trying to assure her that he hasn't forgotten all the ways that she likes to be babied.]

They are small, and they were abandoned . . . I could not leave them where I found them, they would have died.

[It's stupid to say it. As if she can understand him (not yet, oh, he cannot wait to speak to her properly, he cannot wait to hear all her clever thoughts and learn her mannerisms). But maybe it helps his own guilt.]

But they did not replace you, my Ataashi, they could never. I missed so much, I thought of you each day—

[And he intends to go on and on for as long as she'll let him— but ah, people are returning. Cautiously, admittedly, for she's still an enormous wolf, but it's easy enough to see she isn't savaging him.

'Are you all right?' someone calls, and Leto waves a hand, trying (and perhaps failing, depending on Ataashi's mood) to sit up a little.]

I'm fine. She is a pet I had thought lost . . . but she will not hurt anyone, I promise you.

[She might fret from all the attention, though, and he keeps one hand pressed against her, rubbing soothingly.]

Come on. Come home with me, come greet Astarion— he has missed you as much as I have, and the pups could use someone to teach them how to behave. Come home, come on—

[Soothing and cajoling both, and he does not stop his quiet litany until they approach home. Not their home, nothing like the mansion in Thedas, and he hopes that does not set her off all over again. She's such a beast of routine, their Ataashi, and she has never enjoyed change of any kind. But ah, they'll learn. They'll adjust. It doesn't matter how long it takes; it doesn't matter if she sulks at him for weeks about the pups or pisses all over his belongings in pointed punishment, for she's back. She's here, and she isn't going anywhere— and that's so much more than he has ever thought he would ever get.]

[Lost animals— even the wildest ones— aren't so odd in Evereska, so if there's anything to be thankful for, it's that it's here Ataashi has turned up, rather than back in Baldur's Gate with the whole of the Flaming Fist ready to leap right down their necks en masse over even the smallest unbribed sin. Because talented sorcerer or not he'd be risking a great deal chasing her down in daylight, and as things are even in tolerant spaces while onlookers both calm (warm to the idea of a lost companion reunited) and agitated assess the situation, so too are the local guards, apparently.

Which is just one way of saying maybe it's for the best that Leto quickly decides to move on, disagreeable wolf a doting shadow plodding along at his hip: oversized paw pads keeping step with his bare feet in the same patterns they used to back in Thedas— just on unfamiliar streets. And maybe it's a little different between them considering the way they bonded (their language or their understanding, or the ancient Dalish stories of Elven guardians and their kept wolves), because whether it's for body language or kinship, despite the way she still happens to growl and snuffle and irritably flick her tail in the middle of his talking, there's a way she watches him— responds to him— that seems to saturate itself in a wordless form of listening; he says he's sorry and there, trailing along the droop of his ears comes her own with slow licks pushed low across placating fingers; he talks about the pups and oh— oh how she growls again (and again and again when he explains), clearly asserting their orphanship is not her problem.

But also that she missed him.

And that's enough to get them to the inn, past the first few puzzled looks and sideways glances, past the negotiation and/or sneaking required to cajole her inside and upstairs without a fuss.

And then they're home.

New home.

Smaller home.

A home that reeks of little mongrels as much as both her parents— and there she is prowling around every corner of it just a second after the front door opens, skittering in a harried hunch with her nose to the floor, her shadowy form suddenly a smear of shifting black and a series of anxious (audible) sniffs— all blowing right past Astarion and the set of sharpened blades he's holding up, both high and angled and white-knuckle-gripped within his claws.

Because gods and hells alike, he was certain of the worst. A series of messages already having been etched inside that book for nearly half an hour:

I'm fine. But I can't hear you.

Leto?

Fenris

Write something.

Where are you

what happened

are you all right

talk to me please

Apparently all ending with one anxiously bewildered vampire standing in the middle of their room trying to process....]

What—

[His eyes drop. Whip back to where they started, crimson flaring as hollow lenses refract light with every shift. He doesn't know where to look first. Leto— Ataashi—

Ataashi??????]

How did— what did you—

[Please. Please factory reset your vampire. He's still in his sleep clothes gesturing with the tips of his daggers, hair a mess, attire a mess, blinking through the bleariest stare gone wide in sharp confusion.]

Is that....?

[What?

What?????]

But it....can't be....

[In two strides he's crossed the room, catching Astarion's face with both hands so that he might kiss him: sweetly, exuberantly, his demeanor so very excited (and oh, those daggers, oh, those written words, he'll make it up to him, he will). With a grin he draws back by only an inch, his eyes darting about Astarion's face and the most inelegant grin spread over his lips.]

It is. She found us— she must have figured out a way to cross the worlds, or traverse the Fade— it barely matters, does it not? She's here.

[Oh, his baby, his Ataashi— and just this once, everything is going to go right. Just today, this perfect illogical day, he cannot be his normal dour self, hedging doubt and looking for the catch; just today, everything works out in their favor.]

Her magic cut us off. Ah— did I worry you?

[Well, obviously, for those daggers speak volumes. Some of the giddy mirth fades from his expression, and his next motion is a gentle one: nuzzling up against Astarion's cheek, his body language a little more animalistic right now.]

My apologies . . . she kept my attention, first in greeting, and then in displeasure— and in truth, I was in shock. But I did not mean to worry you.

[And he does mean it, for what it's worth.

There's an intruder in their midst.

A big intruder. A giant intruder. A very big, very giant, very large dog that wanders so freely in their territory, and the pups aren't quite sure what to do with that. Obviously this kind of blatant invasion can't stand, but also, she is a very big invader . . . and the way she snuffles and growls intermittently is deeply worrying.

But curiosity wins out over wariness, and it's not long before they scurry out: two rotund little bodies (though not as rotund as they used to be, their fur more grown in now) darting forward, yipping tentatively in greeting—

Only to be firmly and utterly ignored. Ataashi pointedly continues her survey as both pups stand at a slight distance, staring at her warily. Then, with a nervous little yip, Montressor darts forward. Eagerly she leaps and snuffles about Ataashi's paws, (oh she smells so interesting, like Papa and magic and dirt), her voice rising in a whine for attention—

Only to be met with a growl, low and utterly unamused. Ataashi's lips peel back, her teeth bared as she glares down at this little interloper that dares try and engage her— and oh, that's all it takes for both pups. With a whimpering yelp Fortunato skitters backwards, racing to the other side of the room so she can dive beneath the bed and quake there; Montressor is only marginally braver, dashing towards where her fathers stand, whimpering as she dances around their feet.

With a dismissive snort, Ataashi returns to ignoring them, her tail swishing faintly in self-congratulations.]

[Oh, it's the worst kiss he's ever given—

Astarion, that is, not Leto.

Master of carnal finesse humbled by shock to the point that Leto's mouth breaks across his stone-still lips while he's busy gawking for another handful of beats inside the bounds of those overwarm hands (that smell of Veilfire and dirt, musk and mending scrapes clinging to rough skin); his mind whirring while it fights to follow what he's hearing, feeling, seeing—

Overwhelmed in the best way, undoubtedly yes, but overwhelmed all the same.

And he was never a fast thinker outside of matters of reflex or pure survival, it's just that he's practically senseless putty in Leto's hands for all he's turned and scuffed and scrubbed at and kissed and adoringly reassured while his awareness lags dumbly behind: tripping again and again over sentences he can't start until his blades are slackened at his side (and until the wolf somewhere behind him growls, sending one fat little orb of a pup darting right into the back of his heel before clambering for Leto's own, squalling up a storm in her alarm).]

I—

[Yes, you worried him, but that's not half as important at the moment as the thing he cranes his head to get a look at— scrunching his cheek against the edge of Leto's palm, muttering:] Did you do this?

[The moon elf doesn't have his lyrium anymore, which in a way makes it a bit of a stupid question, but gods, he can't connect the dots to save his life. Just a half an hour prior they were talking about inevitable loss, inevitable change, inevitable surrender without surrendering as they mourned what they couldn't keep in favor of pressing forwards side-by-dauntless-side.

And yet here said thing-that-couldn't-be-kept is, proudly swishing her tail and returning to prowling and lifting her leg and p— ]

—oh no no— nononononoNO NO, Ataashi!!

[Yank— snap—

The hardest twist imaginable with vampiric speed as he tears himself free of Leto to rush backwards, lunging in a blur towards the hunching wolf that stands perched over their fresh laundry.]

Not my GOOD SHIRT— prohibere!! prohibere!!!

[He can't help it: he laughs.

It's more out of shock than anything: the abrupt swerve from stunning miracle to utter normalcy, heralded only by Astarion's barked out commands and Ataashi's vaguely embarrassed expression as she lowers her leg. She whines up at him, snorting in displeasure; does he not understand the entire place reeks of those little brats? And it's so ordinary (how long had it taken to train her out of doing that in the mansion, and even then, each time they brought home something new it was always a gamble); it's so stupid, just like the frantic yelps as puppy claws scrabble against his ankle. It's everything he's ever wanted, and oh, he's sure the fear of loss will come in time— but right now, he's basking.

Biting back his next laugh, he reaches down, scooping up Montressor. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, whimpering pitifully as he rubs one hand soothingly over her back and approaches.]

It was not me.

[Oh, he can't help but smile. Ataashi huffs up at him, unamused by the mere reminder of these pups, and presses her bulk up against Astarion in blatant favoritism. He doesn't manhandle the pups. He hasn't replaced her with this idiotic brood. He still smells of all the things he ought to— though she sneezes just once against his palm as the subtler variations in his scent register.]

She simply showed up— easy, [he adds, scrubbing Montressor a little more briskly. Settle down.] There was magic in the air . . . I thought it an attack, truthfully. But she simply tore through the veil as though it was nothing. I suppose to her, it wasn't. No more an obstacle than a door.

We're going to need somewhere bigger when we return to Baldur's Gate . . .

[Gods, smuggling in not just two pups, but a wolf . . . though then again, he thinks, a dog is not a wolf; surely a ban on one isn't a ban on the other. At worst, they'll bluff they're trying to bring Ataashi to the circus or something. ]

Eugh....

[It's a weary groan, overly deflated, that seeps from the back of his throat as his palm is made wet— thank you, daughter— though it's all fond resignation up front; he'd be yowling like a barnhouse cat for anything less than having truly missed the creature shoved against him now with all her hip-high weight, imagining for so long he'd never see her again.

Through the veil though, Leto says. As if it was nothing.

(All the leviathan gravity of that assertion just impossible to take in all at once; he can't begin to pick apart what it might mean for them— for her— for everything, least of all whether or not there's a way to go back. So if his thoughts shutter to it in favor of fixing on the handsome thing across the room from him scrubbing softly at the little furball in his arms (the bulk of fuzzy muscle propped against his own side sporting adoration), it's only natural progression at this point.

He's had enough of world-shattering revelations.)]

If it was that easy....I'm shocked she didn't come back before now. [Said as his damp palm passes over the top of Ataashi's head, both wiping it off and passing assurance back onto her form through pets too heavy-handed to be anything but deeply doting.

And then, with a snort of his own to that final comment:]

We're going to need a less reputable set of professions.

[A beat— oh it's not even a joke he wants to make, but it's there, it's right there and it's too perfect and too easy, and really, when have they ever shied from laughing at their own ordeals?]

....or one more dead Master.

Give or take.

[And Fortunato, coward that she is, is on the move.

Ohhh she's ambling on those pudgy legs, terrified but jealous of the love Montressor is getting. Prowling for the corner of Leto's left foot to huddle up against it.

Hello, she is scared, too. :C]

[It's not funny and Leto scoffs out a laugh anyway, for such is their way when it comes to their former masters. Laugh or despair over it, and they have had too much of the latter not to try and cling to the former when they can. Besides: it's good Astarion points it out. Gods know Leto has been thinking about it: returning to Baldur's Gate, and all the inevitable confrontation it might or might not bring. Even if they don't talk about it now (and they won't, for he doesn't want to spoil this joyful reunion), still, it's good to remember it.

But ah, his cowardly puppy . . . Leto makes a rather undignified noise under his breath as he bends down, oorugh, a cooing sort of chiding as he scoops up his jealous pup. She wriggles in his hand, leaping to try and lick at him; pay attention, and he holds her close. Which isn't the same amount of affection he'd offered her sister, and so in the end he simply has to sit on the edge of the bed, letting them both settle in his lap.

Needy little darlings.

But his mind circles back to that joke, and he adds curiously:]

Would you want to live in his estates?

[It's not such an outlandish thought, not when he'd lived in Danarius' mansion for years on end. There's something to be said for free housing. And he asks the question so lightly, knowing what weight it might carry and perfectly ready to shift the topic if it turns sour.]

[Two little blobs patter around in his offered lap, tumbling, nipping, yipping as they lick at his hands and fingers— stumpy little hindquarters wiggling so hard they topple completely off-balance with happiness, now that they've forgotten the Big Bad Wolf that sent them sprawling with a growl (and is it really a bad thing when her appearance led to this? Their favorite father already home early after barely having left this morning— ) it's a good sign in their teeny tiny books. The best sign ever, in fact.

As for Ataashi, her fussy, fussy master's found it in him to sit down on the floor beside her, giving her ample room to— well, not ample room, but enough room to sort of stuff her gigantic body into Astarion's lap instead, fastidiously grooming white hair with the longest drags of her tongue between sessions of little gnaws pushed hard against his scalp.

All he manages to do is grimace and mutter the occasional 'uhfff' or 'oh— don't—' in a tone about as sopping wet as his fussed-over curls, gigantic tail smacking at him for good measure.

But from over her shoulder he has a perfect view of that vibrantly blooming elf settled firmly on their bed.

And to tell the truth?

He feels it, too.]

My old home?

[His fingers scrub over a heaving spine, ruffling fur.]

Hm. [It's a good question. A valid question. One he sets his mind to about as avidly as he can in the realm of shielded abstraction: weighing things like grand ballrooms and palatial towers against musty carpet— walls without windows. And the conclusion he comes to?

It's fucking shocking how much their masters really did share a similar sense of taste.]

I don't know, actually. It'd need remodeling, that much I can say.

But you know, the more I think about it the more I suppose it's not that far off from our old stomping grounds, and we made that dank old place into something worth missing, didn't we?

—ah—!!

[The scraggliest grunt thanks to someone (Ataashi) smacking her gigantic muzzle directly into his face so that she can give him yet another kiss, quickly winding herself up into a wiggle.]

Enough— ENOUGH. Ataashi, iam mitesce.

[Iam mitesce, and after all the hours of semi-successful training with the pups, it's a wonder to watch how obedient Ataashi still is. With a low wuff (and a few extra wiggles) she slumps heavily against her father, tail whacking him over and over as she wiggles her way down to lie in his lap. Hello. Hello, hello, favorite father, beloved father who doesn't reek of pups and is now her favorite, and Leto pretends not to notice the way she pointedly glances over at him, checking to see if he's jealous.]

She missed you.

[She did. Jealous ploys or not, she does so love her father. Ataashi happily sighs as she turns her attention back to Astarion, cold nose intent on shoving against his stomach in joyful nuzzling.]

Obedient thing . . . learn from her, [he adds to the wriggling pups in his lap, who take absolutely no heed of that command. Sedere is obeyed a solid eight out of ten times, but it's a journey. Besides, Leto thinks fondly, their wolf is so much smarter than the two little sausages currently intent on getting as many scritches as possible.]

We did, though. And we will do it again if it pleases us— or sell it if it does not. I cannot imagine some wealthy patriar wouldn't want to buy such property just to say he had it— and we could afford something more manageable with the money we get from it.

[Real Estate Simulator 1494 . . . and of course, that's ignoring the fact that the master of that palace is still very much alive (in a sense, anyway). But today is a good day. A bright day, a miraculous day, and Leto will not spoil it with dour talk of all the things they've yet to face. Better to find bitter mirth in the thought of flipping their masters' property and benefiting from their death.

But ah . . . he cannot keep his mind from wandering utterly. And yet he does not want to ruin this day— so, a compromise. A gentle question, and one they might answer without getting into the larger implications.]

. . . would you go back, if you could?

[To that dank old mansion. To Thedas. To a thousand struggles and fears and joys and hopes; to a way of life that seems as appealing as it does repulsive.]

Faster than a spark—

And....[oh, give him just a moment to readjust after being shoved at with Ataashi's muzzle yet again (though she's being such a good girl this time, gentle as a monumental lamb with the largest tail you've ever seen, sweet girl)]....not just because Cazador can't reach it.

[Grin a sideways flicker just to add:]

Although it certainly doesn't hurt.

[And though he could elaborate— will elaborate, even— it's a change in subject he doesn't want to skip over on either end, clawed fingers sinking deep until they disappear in Ataashi's fur once he finally glances upwards towards the bed, making his corner of the room a sort of glowing-eyes-in-the-relative-dark-convention 1494.]

....what about you, kadan?

Would you go back, if you had an open doorway here right now?

[He asks it innocuously; there's no depth to it, no flaring coyness or sly curl across his tongue.

(He doesn't know about the devil's offer.

He wouldn't think it mattered if he did.)]

[Oh, and Astarion knows him well enough to read the mild surprise in his expression. And he wants to hear the elaboration, but that will come in time.]

No.

[Simple, but just as swift and certain as Astarion's answer. And perhaps there is a slight edge to it, perhaps he says it more intently than he might have otherwise done— but then again, perhaps not, for his expression is still light. He wiggles his fingers, amused as both pups leap upon them, gnawing with idiotic, overwhelming joy.]

I would if you wished to. If it was a question of Cazador, or whether or not you wished to live as a vampire . . . it would not be the worst thing to return. I miss Kirkwall. Our home— though not our wolf, not any longer, [he adds with a small smile.] And I miss the things I was accustomed to: foods they do not sell here, or spices whose names I have no hope of translating. And my friends, too . . . little matter that in all likelihood I was never destined to meet them again, there was still ever a chance. That, yes, I miss.

[A breath, and then he continues:]

But this world is a paradise to me. It is far from perfect, and its dangers are numerous, but to be able to walk freely down the street or find a home without fear of discrimination or mindless retribution . . . that alone is worth more than I can say. To live without pain, and to know that I have centuries to get to spend with you . . . that, too, is worth so much.

[He hesitates for a moment, his ears lowering as he internally debates, but then:]

Even the magic here . . . I will never love it. And I will never love the fact that it has been forced upon me. But it is less . . . horrifying than it was in Thedas. It is kept more in check. And its powers less volatile— and, truthfully, more wondrous.

[Gods, to be able to talk to the pups— and now Ataashi, too, he realizes with a pleased jolt. It's a wondrous gift, no matter that this world thinks it little more than child's play; he will never stop being delighted that he will someday be able to do such a thing.]

So: no. Not unless you wished it.

[There is so much to say. So much to feel with every word.

Bittersweet as it all might be in its full measure he warms to it like sunlight, that confession. Everything in him— from his expression to the angles of his shoulders— rounded out with a sort of indescribable bliss that he can't hide. Talk of the future or tomorrow feels far away compared to the all-encompassing eternity of this moment, and he before he knows it, he's already opened his mouth. Sucked in air around his fangs. Ready to ask for the one thing that wounded him most in its disappearance aside from Leto himself.

(And his fingers curl a little more along the outline of knotted tissue gone glossy with time. Tangible. Unmistakable. 'I will not forget you.' Here. Just here. This is where— if the worst comes to pass and he returns to Cazador, or the world does its damndest all over again to rip their chapter apart at its seams— this is the place he'll remain.)

A thickened pair of knitted scars; lie down about to be the next thing said— ]

[It's just that Ataashi beats him to it.

Leto said `I miss Kirkwall. Our home— though not our wolf, not any longer.`

Leto said he missed her.

And if she understands those spoken concepts or doesn't, the glance he gives her with a smile does register, and before Astarion can soulfully request to carve up his own mate in a return to older spaces, she's already outright trampling her first keeper just to hop up onto all fours (Astarion yelps as he's bowled backwards, the noise strangled to its root), vanishing in a puff of vibrant green—

And then returning a moment later.

Leto's long-abandoned sword and its enchanted lyrium contours tucked between her fangs, glowing the brightest shade of silver-blue.

Tail wagging hard enough for takeoff.]

Oh!

[It's a bright burst of an exclamation, a shocked cry as he reaches to take Ataashi's present from her jaws with hands that can't quite believe what they're holding. For a moment his bewildered mind struggles to reassign it: a sword she'd stolen from someone in the tavern, maybe, or in the marketplace, only to realize that such a thing would be impossible. Lyrium does not exist in this world, not even within him— and even if it did, there's no mistaking that uniquely familiar pattern. The inlay blazes blue as he pulls the sword from her sheathe slowly, delighted to discover the edge is just as sharp as it was in Thedas.]

How did you—

[But she must have brought it with her. Or perhaps . . . oh, but he cannot think about if she has just gone back to Thedas, for the implications there are staggering. On a whim, he leans forward, sniffing at her fur as one hand scrubs insistently against her neck, but no, she only smells of herself, not the damp wood of their mansion in Thedas. Later, he promises himself. Later he and Astarion will talk about this, but for now:]

Good girl, [he rumbles in Tevene over and over, the sword falling in his lap as he devotes both hands to scrubbing her at her cheeks and neck and body. With a pleased wuff she careens forward, paws bracing on his thighs as she leaps up and licks at him joyfully, chuffing all the while.

And as for the little sausages in his lap— oh, they don't like this sudden intrusion at all. With a fearful little yip they race to the other side of his body, cowering behind his back with distressed little whines. He'll pay them mind soon, soothing them softly, but gods, he can't not right now.

It's his sword.

Never tested. Never used, for Astarion had wanted that gift to special— and oh, it is, it is. His hands keep up their frantic praise, scrubbing and scritching, even as Leto dodges that lapping tongue so he can peer around Ataashi's bulk and catch his darling's eye.]

Come here.

Come here so that I can offer you all the gratitude I was never able to before. I have mourned—

[He hesitates. Mourned the loss of this gift sounds silly and childish, but he truly had. It wasn't just about the blade, but the loss of such a magnificently thoughtful gift, and all the time and effort and coin Astarion had spent on his behalf.]

I have mourned its loss. The loss of something you gave me, and so therefore the loss of something I treasured.

[Oh, it's so hard to say, especially when so many other emotions are ricocheting through him. Joy and elation and shock and adoration, and none of it helped by the overly affectionate wolf determined to try and fit his face in her mouth. With a little aht he dodges her mouth and adds, a little more exasperatedly:]

Come here and save me from one of these beasts, at least— and so that I might tell you how grateful I am for this. For you.

[For him. Him. His sole beloved....

....sprawled out in an illustriously flattened heap. The-vampire-known-as-Astarion even more of a mess than he'd already been at the start of their conversation thanks to one notably excited wolf— a handful of mangled (tangled) curls sprouting up from the ruins of his sleepshirt's rucked-up silhouette and awkwardly angled legs, complimented by limp claws, twitching fingers. If he can see Leto from the wreck of himself at half-past noon (he can't), he's certainly not any more inclined to move to take stock of the situation, no matter how utterly lambent it might be.

It's too bloody early for this shit, thank you very much.

(Or too late??)

Look. Whichever it is, all he knows is that he was barely awake having deep conversations about animal cantrips, childish parties, bruised reputations, love and longing and the red-hot flare of hope itself— and then their mongrel wolf (affectionate; thinly) came home, loved on him for less than forty seconds total, and then trampled him alive.]

No.

[No, as in absolutely not.]

No, that's it— I'm done! [No, as in absolutely-very-much-over-this not.] No more slobber, no more paws, no more dirt and teeth and mangy, smelly claws; no more interplanar ramifications, in fact! No more gods or magic or nonsense or Fade-bound-rotheshite or ANYTHING that isn't my damned bed, and my damned sleep and a little peace and quiet in your naked, filthy, undistracted arms [he's going to turn into a bloody bat and hide in the rafters and—

....]

[....]

Is that....

[The sword?

His sword?

Hold on. Hold on.

Hair still in his face. Entire mien still rife with dishevelment. Crawling up onto his knees and palms before he's upright, moving over. Pushing the worst of the morning out of his line of view in a secondary reprise just as soft-mouthed as the first.

Particularly when he exhales.

(Oh, there it is: that otherwordly scent. That same, unnatural glow....)]

Fuck, I never thought I'd see it again.

[In a mind where survival and practicality are an unchallenged, total monarchy:] I'd all but forgotten about it.

I hadn't.

[And he doesn't mean it as a rude counter to Astarion's statement, nor indeed an argument of superiority. It isn't I hadn't in the sense of I remembered something you didn't, but meant only as a statement of awe: I longed for this gift that you spent so long having made for me. And yet it's hard not to interpret it as the former, Leto realizes in the next moment, and his poor disheveled lover has been through enough already. Hastily, he adds:]

I simply— it meant a great deal to me. It was difficult to forget.

[But ah, ah . . . his poor Astarion, and though Leto is internally grinning, he knows better than to say so. Even if the mental image of him sprawled out in an ungainly, utterly undignified heap of pale limbs and errant claws will amuse him for months to come. Even if he looks utterly precious like this, his hair rucked up and his sleepshirt with more than a few nicks in it, scrambling forward on his hands and knees so he might crawl up and join Leto, oh, it's such a far cry from the picture of superior dignity he tries to emit at all times.

And maybe some of that amusement is visible in his gaze, but still, Leto tries to bite it back. He reaches up, gently smoothing back a stray curl in a vague attempt to soothe his belabored darling. There, there, poor neglected thing.]

Are you all right?

[His scoff is disbelieving, the corners of his mouth curved upright. Altogether lighter than a feather— or at least lighter than all the thoughts that are running through his mind when he tentatively moves to touch that blade instead.]

Better than all right.

[He sits down on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder once slow pressure settles in, Ataashi and the little runts having been ushered off into space that better suits them, making it a sort of ebbing-fade compared to the calm inside their shared bubble right now. Pale fingers skirting over pale blue light.] ....scratches and mud included.

[Wistfulness borders on absence; he's not less of himself, just....

Less here.

Less aware of himself, rare a treat as it is.]

Funny, it's been so long since I smelled you again. [Leto— and lyrium. Thedas and Toril, now. Less the imprint of Danarius rather than an anchor, at least to the creature that hadn't been born into screaming over the scent of molten magic. Privileged like that, yes, but he supposes it's no different than his eyes. His fangs.

Whatever he looked like before Cazador laid hands on him, Leto wouldn't recognize.]

[His mouth cocks up in a rueful sort of smile as as Astarion says that. It has never been their way to shy from truths, no matter how potentially hurtful— and honestly, Leto doesn't disagree. The smell of lyrium fills the air, and it smells like him, like home, the familiar scent of lightning nostalgic.]

I have never smelled it like this— without my own as a buffer, I mean. I did not realize how sharp a scent it was . . .

[But scent isn't quite the right word. It's the lightning-static-shock of it, a feeling that makes his teeth buzz as he skims his fingers against the handle.]

And it is strange not to feel my own react.

[Strange not to feel the familiar bumpy texture he'd long since gotten used to: divots in his skin filled by lyrium making it so every touch was a lesson in sensory patterns. There's a thought in his mind, quiet but insistent, that wonders what it would be like to apply his own magic to the blade— and yet he knows even as he thinks it that he isn't ready for such a thing yet. Not yet. Not here and now, when he's so happy and things are so peaceful.

So ask a different question. One he'd been meaning to ask for a while now:]

Have you missed it?

I do not mean it as a trick question, and I will not take offense if the answer is yes. But . . . in the same way I would miss the bite of your fangs or the glow of your gaze in the darkness . . . have you missed my lyrium?

Naturellement. [Orlesian— what scant little of it he'd learned for the odd mission here or there— sliding through his overlong teeth before he even has a chance to think about it, inadvertently making tonight the unexpected den of honesty itself: what started off as teasing over cantrips ends (or is it starts) with the weight of them set side by side, gaunt chin already needling its way in against the curve of Leto's shoulder while they both stare at bright contours.

He's not ashamed to say it.

Any of it.

What he felt before. What he feels— or thinks— now. And over the scuffling of little pup claws on wood and the agitated growling of the wolf already ambling away from her successors at an irritable rate, he oddly finds he's not really afraid of anything. Not numb, exactly, but....maybe free is the better word. Free of all that static dread. The pettiness of opinion or secondhand discovery all wrapped up in what he lost. Kept. Fights to have a hold on still. The little gaps in all his broken thoughts that usually remind him he's not whole.

But honestly, being whole is overrated.

What he lacks in himself, he gets to find in Leto.]

You made the most stunning nightlight, you know.

[A little pause, index claw picking at his thumb in thought, before:]

Took me a long time to get used to just how dark the backs of my eyelids felt without it around to sleep to.

[He huffs a laugh, though he knows Astarion isn't joking. Teasing, maybe, but with the truth interwoven.]

I know the feeling.

[They're pressed too closely together for Leto to catch Astarion's eye; instead, he reaches up with one hand, fingers blindly combing through silver curls once or twice in affectionate greeting. Hello, as they stare down at the vibrant blade in his lap. Hello, my darling, and it's important right now to feel Astarion beneath his fingertips.]

The first few days after I came here are a blur. I was so focused on finding you I did not think about my lack of lyrium, save cursing the fact I was hindered in fighting. But there were . . . moments, I suppose, of strangeness. The darkness of the night. The lack of pain. Even how I felt things . . . I have never known what it was to touch something without my lyrium cutting through the sensation.

[It's more interesting than anything worth mourning. Wryly, then, he adds:]

And I miss, too, the ability to rip hearts out of people's chests. As pleasing a gift as it was in Thedas, I cannot imagine how much more you might enjoy it here.

[He lifts the blade up, holding it out before him with one steady hand. The lyrium fades and glows in rhythmic patterns steady as breathing (and that's another interesting thing, for Leto had always thought it was him who set that pace). Power radiates from it, faint but unmistakable— and to his surprise, Leto realizes that he can feel it call to him. Not as it used to (lyrium ore vibrating in time with his own embedded scars, a sweet song that set his teeth on edge; its scarlet counterpart a jarring dissonant note that called all the stronger). Not as if he still carries it in him, but rather . . .

As a mage. A sorcerer. It sings to his magic, eager to taste it and empower it; the sword thrums against his palm.]

Perhaps it is time I relearned how to fight here. Not just as a warrior, but . . .

[Mmph.]

Talindra told me . . .

Do you know the term bladesinger?

Bladesingers?

[Hello, and it's a turn— a tilt— a press that returns fire by way of rising pressure: first drifting into the pull of Leto's crawling fingers (neck craning, back arching high as it'll go), then outright pushing his lover down across the mattress via extension of said selfsame lean— two pallid palms placed flat on either shoulder around the roughage of that moon elf's clothes, his nearest leg hitching slightly as it slips beneath Leto's thigh in trade, working him onto his back first. Hello, my darling.

Sword left part of this coaxingly slow equation so long as Leto deigns to hold it. It doesn't bother him. In fact, just the opposite is true.

Like nothing else, it flatters.]

Now....[Small hiss of suction close to skin. Small intake of breath, hot as hearthstone in his chest despite the coldness that it wears once it finally leaves his lips. He's thinking about gifted hearts; he's thinking what a gift it is to be so loved that they spit on docile habits hand-in-hand, exchanging gore like loving vows, its brief distraction only pleasantly short-lived.] why in the Realms are you asking about an old myth like that?

[(Oh, he knows why. Or at the very least he suspects he does, fascinating development that it might very well be. The lead-in was so purposefully telling he'd have to be struck dead not to have caught on.

Well—

Dead-er, anyway.

But foreplay's half the fun in everything, and there's something not to be overlooked in the novelty of hearing it straight from the achingly pretty source.)]

Edited 2024-02-02 21:54 (UTC)

[Years later, there's still something so novel about the slow, subtle way Astarion seduces him. He doesn't know why it takes him by surprise each time, save that perhaps so much of his experience with sex up until Astarion had been bluntly unsubtle; his experience with intimacy all but nil. To be so gently but firmly guided onto his back, his thighs urged into happily spreading as they breathe out intimacies and talk about . . . it's novel, even now.

Novel, too, to have a partner that combines intimacy and adoration and sensuality all at once. One arm stays stretched out, the sword kept in his open palm as he keeps it firmly away from their bodies; his other hand cups Astarion's cheek fondly, his thumb brushing over the curve. Hello, sweetheart, and he will gift him a heart soon, even if it must be carved out instead of torn.]

They combine magic and swordplay, she said. And I remembered . . .

[Mph, and let him pretend his own hesitation is due solely to the rumble of Astarion's voice so close to his ear and the way his legs are kept parted. It's not a lie, not completely, and he can live with that. His head turns, his nose bumping up against a cold cheek as he nuzzles at him.]

You mentioned something similar. Long, long ago, when we first met . . . when you told me stories of this world, and the wonders therein.

[Eladrin was the word that stuck out most in Leto's mind, his own subsequent fluster and confusion making the memory linger.]

If I am a, a sorcerer, [and he uses the term deliberately, replacing mage just as Gods had replaced Maker,] then it would be foolish not to learn how to combine it with my fighting. I no longer have my lyrium, but with this sword . . . I might amplify my own magic, and become all the more deadly in the process.

[And I will need every advantage when it comes to Cazador, he does not add. Trust he wants to pursue it for other reasons (he will never forget those first few weeks, hounded by feral spawn and running up against creatures he had no name for nor defenses against). But it's Cazador that's the eternal threat lurking in the back of his mind. If he can hone his magic to the point where this blade can ripple with fire or sunlight . . .

But one thing at a time. His fingers drift, caressing the long line of Astarion's ear. More teasing, then:]

But she did not elaborate much, merely mentioned it in passing. And I thought: who better to learn it from than my favorite teacher?

[Listening, he turns his wrist. Hooks his fingerpads low against the junction of pliant ass and thigh— all clothed— gaunt expression gone soft as molten sugar for the truth of that admission; how it resonates in him with fond memories that feel like an intermingling sense of perfect friction, just like the scuff across his cheek. And he doesn't mind it (as in: he doesn't pay it mind— embracing it for all its richness while it does nothing to distract him from his pending plans, how) in a flash he's flipped Leto over onto his belly through that anchored hold, claws first slithering up that bowed-out spine—

And then raking down its middle, rending clothing into peeled-up sheaves of linen fabric; careful not to do much as leave a reddened mark on adolescent skin. Legs spread, back arched, shoulders drawn tight enough to snap for all their tension— that shirt a pallid wrapper quickly parted with no effort, revealing richly tanned contours laced with dark, dark tattoos.]

Oho....[he whispers, leaning close around the pantherine humming in his throat: thumbs pushed into thick muscle on either side of Leto's spine for balance. All pressure pinned on both those shoulders, hunkered over him in sync.

Teasing begets teasing, after all.

And his love is both the altar and athame when it's been stoked.]

Does that make me your favorite teacher?

Ah—

[Will he ever get used to the way Astarion manhandles him? Not likely, Leto thinks as he finds himself blinking at the headboard. After forty-odd years of thinking himself as a bulky thing (for an elf, anyway), it's such a bewildering thing— and yet all the more thrilling for it. Leto shivers as cold air hits bare skin, his back instinctively arching as he half-glances behind him. Emerald eyes peek out from behind silver strands and slender braids, his mouth curved up something quietly amused.

And it's so much easier this way. To treat it not as a joke nor an inconsequential matter, but rather like this: with little touches. With the steady weight of Astarion atop him and his voice a toe-curling purr, oh, it's so much easier to resist sinking into that age-old anxiety. Sorcerer, and just because he has made some progress in his acceptance of his magic does not mean the concept doesn't frighten him still. So better, then, talk about it like this: tangled together, acting as if this is nothing more dramatic than a bit of foreplay.

So despite the flutter of nerves in his stomach, Leto allows himself to sink into the myriad of sensations his lover offers. The sturdy weight of his hands against his back; the brush of cool air against an ear that involuntarily flicks in response. The way Astarion's words sear themselves in Leto's mind, leaving him biting back a shiver even as he melts beneath him.]

Oh, yes . . .

[His voice is rougher than before.]

Though do note I said favorite, not best. I cannot award you both titles, not when I find myself distracted more often than not by your lessons . . .

[A moment, and then, wryly:]

Though I will admit: you manage to drill them home memorably. Learning how to be your consort has been, mmph, educational, to say the least.

[And then, because he's a nosy thing sometimes:]

What are you up to . . .?

[His scoff is so soundlessly sharp when it rises in his throat that it could clip the daring wings from that assertion— and yet there's a telltale hiss to his ensuing intake of perpetually false breath that might tattle on him first.]

Up to?

Me?

[The smallest little half-puff of a chuckle that even the gods themselves couldn't sell to save Elysium.]

What, just because I stripped you down, drove your legs open with barely any effort, climbed on top of you and pinned you down like a handsome beast waiting to be ridden, suddenly I have to be up to something?

[Oh, shamelessness lives in how Astarion straddles his counterpart even as he describes it all in spared detail, step by step and smug as ever throughout, which translates to a kind of give-and-take momentum: movements featherlight before the whole of his weight deliberately sinks into bracketing conformity below the small of Leto's back. Inclined to preen like the bird he is— whether bird of prey or songbird, either suits (both suit).

And there he meets those gold-green eyes with a grin of his own, electric. Curling forwards till they're well within the outline of each other even in silhouetted space, loose nightshirt wafting over moonstone shoulders. Stretching out an arm and letting it passively paw within their bedside table: planting a kiss— ah, make that two— on one tamely downturned ear whilst rummaging around for just a beat, something brassy and glinting drawn back along with him.

(The flick of an enchanted lighter click— click—

The subtle smell of smoke, the weight of perfumed drug slow to seep in.

If Leto hasn't figured it out by now....well, that just means they're making a game out of it).]

You're always up to something.

[He retorts it just as teasingly, an irresistible smile still tugging at his lips. He can't help it. It's rare he smiles for a prolonged time, even now (and that isn't a marker of happiness, just personal preference). But Astarion inspires it in him. The slow intimacy they've cultivated here; the sweet scent of smoke drifting through the air (and in the distance, one wolfish sneeze of protest before Ataashi settles again). The weight of Astarion atop him and all the world kept at bay . . . moments like these come rare enough, he has learned, and it is no bad thing to enjoy them while they last.

So: he tips his head up, lips parted in expectant demand for the push of a metal pipe. So: he inhales slowly and deeply, letting smoke fill his lungs and leave him pleasantly buzzed, drifting gently through dazed relief. So: he tips his head up, one arm reaching blindly behind him, a little clumsy in his desire to nuzzle or stroke whatever bits of Astarion he can reach. Hello, hello, silly and simple, until at last he settles down on the pillow, his cheek sinking against soft feathers.]

And you missed drugged me to lull me into a false sense of security when listing your misdeeds, amatus. Though you may have a hard time riding me if you're keeping me pinned on my stomach . . .

[He knows, or at least suspects, what Astarion is up to. It's not hard to guess, not when they've spoken of it before; not when his back feels so bare without twin fangmarks gleaming white just outside of his spine. But with anticipation brings tension, and though they play with pain so often, well. It's hard not to instinctively flinch if you know you're going to be hurt.

So better to play it like this: with soft-mouthed flirtations and a slow easing into it.]

Mph. Take that off. If I am to be shirtless, so should you. It's only fair.

[And maybe he's very fond of the way Astarion looks clad in pants and little else. Little matter he can only half-see him like this, it still counts.]

Cheeky.

[The first time they fought, it was raw. Stupid. Wild. Gods help them that they didn't know what they were chasing in the moment— cutting their teeth on the madness of affection by way of competitive instinct: where it was always easier for two hunter-killers supped on copper to plunge their daggers into one another, than to admit they were both snared by the headiness of contact; the adrenal beat of both their hearts (oh, how alive his body was back then, gods)— and the vibrant realization that two long-caged things still remembered how to thrill at all.

A few years older (younger, he corrects in sly amusement to himself watching bared tattoos ripple over flexing muscle while Leto turns his head to sip from the mouthpiece of that pipe), and recreation swears it isn't lightning in a bottle. That they don't have to snap and snarl and challenge one another to draw up that first sip of ozone any more than they'd need lightning itself to drum up scorch marks over stone.

They're different now.

Changed and unchanged and changing and all the more glorious for it, considering the static nothingness of use that molded them first for so damned long. And so with that still in mind— armed to the teeth with contentment and the comfortable shifting underneath him (all met, all scuffed back at in sips as languid as that pipesmoke and the sweet kiss it plants deep within his senses)— reprisal means ritual, this go around. Deliberate, meandering, wholly present ritual, and the irony's not lost on him; he wonders at the notion of elven tales he's never heard of, picturing Eladrin and Dalish creatures both pulling steady inhales from carved pipes and tapping branded ink to skin through slender needles.

(Fanciful, maybe. But isn't there divinity in that? Imagining a connection for once, rather than a dividing wall between themselves and the culture that they bleed, but never got to know.

Well. That, he thinks— amused as his own sleep shirt hits the floor— or he's just high as bloody hell and feeling far too much to be coherent.

The latter's probably it.)]

I'm the one marking you so you won't forget me, [he snorts with a slanting of his lip around one canine— punctuated by yet another craning nip against soft skin] that hardly makes it fair, when at this point I'm just effectively removing clothes to satisfy your demands.

[And maybe he's a little fond of being admired by those tsavorite eyes, clad in pants and little else.]

Ah, but how well you satisfy them . . .

[He purrs it out as he squirms, trying to glance behind him more fully. Astarion is a sight worth savoring, after all. It doesn't matter how many times he's seen it, for each new glance delights him all the same. It doesn't even matter how many times they've rut, for though that unto itself is a form of appreciation, still: there's something to be said for taking a moment to simply admire him.

A lithe form. Pale skin that all but gleams in the soft light of their room. A tapering waistline that ends in a subtle swell of well-defined hips; strong thighs that straddle him with ease, and between them, the telltale bulge that Leto has long since grow addicted to mouthing at. Strong arms that end in long, tapering fingers; white curls that tumble softly around a face as familiar to him as his own. Scarlet eyes that can go puppyishly soft or sharply predatory depending on Astarion's mood; arched cheekbones and a narrow nose that Leto still can't help but think of as exotic, and that's to say nothing of those sweetly upturned ears . . .

Pretty, Leto thinks, and then amends to: beautiful.

And the truth is, it doesn't matter what Astarion looks like. He could have missing teeth or shave his head bald; he could be as ugly as a bootheel, his facial features all out of proportion and his body nowhere near what some might call ideal. Leto is not so dishonest as to say he would not notice such things; he cannot even say they would not affect him, not at first.

But he loves him. He loves him no matter what he looks like; he loves him as a vampire or an elf or a damned devil. And he does not love him for his looks nor his prowess in bed; those are pleasant bonuses, but they do not form the basis of his love.

He doesn't know how to articulate it. I would love you even if you didn't attract me is a clumsy statement, and it's not what he means anyway. I would love you no matter what you looked like, for it is you I love— and I would learn to love your looks, too, and that's closer, but it still isn't right. Someday, Leto thinks, he'll be able to say it. To assure Astarion that their love is not conditional; that he never needs to look a certain way to keep his Leto near.

And Astarion knows. Surely he knows. But it never hurts to repeat.

But not, Leto thinks drowsily, while they're high. And not when he's meant to be objectifying his lover. Who is very attractive, thank you very much, and deserves to know that too.]

You're beautiful.

[He says it directly, honest in the way he always is.]

I do not think I will ever tire of the sight of you, no matter what you wear . . . though I do admit a certain fondness to you sans shirt and nothing else. You cut a fine figure when you're still half-dressed.

[And then, as he settles back down:]

I ought to demand you dress up for me more.

[It's flirtatious, but he means it.]

For a party, perhaps, or simply bedsport . . . but if we're speaking of fairness, it seems only fair I get to savor the sight of you in stockings. Or a harem outfit. Or the other outfit, [they have a lot of harem outfits, he's realizing. Gods bless a sex shop with variety.]

[Dizzy with the slow drag of intimate play, fingertips wound as loosely as his mind around the pipe he's snuffed out and the dagger he's kept close, there are things Astarion expects to come knocking in the minutes before he starts to slide his blade against tattooed skin— a process that isn't at all new for him, considering the snapshot flicker of a thousand gruesome memories kept tamped down in his skull, slowly replaced by the better acts of hunting slavers and venatori and all gruesome refuse therein: where peeled-up flesh becomes play rather than torture; blood becomes a byproduct of freedom rather than something he watches pool limply on an open floor, untouched. And with said freedom came Leto. Came the thrilling high of sporting violence and tenderness alike, capable of slipping through rib bones as surely as any blade. Theirs. All theirs.

And so really, he expects raw coyness. Same as it ever is when they're like this.

Something involving more grins. More teady hands and bracing fingers and a joke here or there about petty things like payback. Possibly the addition of sly conversation, or jokes about what's to come, or even quips about the crassness of initials hacked into muscle rather than tree bark, like the childish things they are.

He doesn't expect that turn towards him.

He doesn't expect beautiful.

The rest is deflecting, resigned. Playful and sweet and entirely on point— charming through chatter over costumes— as if all of what was said before it was just as commonly conversational as simple fact: the sky is blue— you're beautiful; water is wet— I'll never tire of the sight of you. And while vanity undoubtedly has a home in Astarion, it's still an empty shelf inside him: picked over well before he laid eyes on Fenris, robbed again and again and again over two centuries. Worn woodgrain scraped away into featureless gouges.

All he can do is stare. And then recover— smiling. Scoffing. Doeishness cut off when he shuts his eyes and shakes his head with all the fondness of listening to some young, precocious thing tell him something he hadn't been expecting, this fearsome monster with sharp teeth made for eating. This spurred-on creature who loves wickedness for its ability to soothe, lifting a knife between its claws in lieu of a wedding band. And how many times have they kissed with copper on their tongues? How often has he torn into this bared back— this beautiful bared back beneath him— with talons or teeth for the sake of wild-eyed rutting?

Again. Again. Just one more time, then. Don't be distracted. Pressing the hilt more securely in the gap between his thumb and palm, using his spare hand to press Leto down into the mattress, pinning him at the junction between neck and shoulder. Firm, but only protectively so. He's practiced enough to know how to ride that razor thin line.]

Stay still enough for me to get any of this done and I'll wear anything you like, you ceaseless little menace.

[He remembers those scars. His only undeniable balm in the depths of paranoia, his namesake— the comfort of knowing that if he was nothing more than a lie, a dream, like everyone in Riftwatch swore— that they would at least outlive him. That if Leto ever forgot again, they'd be there. I made those the next introduction shared as strangers on a street in Orlais or Antiva, you have two notch marks on your spine, and I can tell you how they happened. And it wouldn't be so nightmarish that next time around, having to sit down and share a bottle and murmur his consolations over a mind that had forgotten where it was or who it was beside.

They're important.

They mattered.

They were what Leto chose to keep, and it isn't just the selfish need to exist somewhere beyond himself that has his own blade hovering above softly breathing contours: the elf beneath him comfortably resigned— silver hair tussled against thick pillows, lithe body laid out at smooth angles, musculature visible from the potency of age, not flexing. Not afraid.

It's a simple thing, to lift his dagger over them again. It's a simple thing, to bear down and feel that tissue give way without resistance— only the sudden well of blood bubbling bright around sharp silver; his blades are kept pristine, he spares nothing for their fineness, honed like wicked razors. His second set of teeth. His secondary set of claws. It's easy to cut. to draw two lines. To etch his name by way of that parallel pair of cuts, pushing deep through tissue towards bone— it's easy. It's so easy.

It's always been easy for him.

Everything is finally in place.]

[So why doesn't his hand move?

Why is it that when he blinks, the paging processes of his mind stay exactly where they are, just like his wrist and fingers. His arm is still hovering uselessly over Leto's unmarred spine. His dagger's blade still clean, left exactly where it was without so much as twitching closer by a centimeter.

All this ceremony, all this necessity, all this violent inclination— ]

Astarion?

[In reality, only a few seconds have passed. Astarion's hand still lingers against the back of his neck, a familiar weight cool against overheated skin. The memory of that doeish stare and startled smile lingers in his mind's eye, but so does Astarion's teasing scold. Leto expects the bite of cold steel; he expects to hear a shuddering inhale behind him as the scent of blood fills the air—

But there's nothing.

And they have been together for too long for Leto not to understand.

After all: there's such a difference between a scrappish fight and deliberate slices. There's such a difference between fighting and flirting all in one breath, skidding about on a rooftop at dusk as you feel something like joy for the first time in forever— giving as good as you get, blood pumping and hearts racing, until at last there's a burst of pain that lasts only a moment . . . and this. Lying on a bed, waiting blindly for the first slow slice that parts skin and muscle. Barely daring to breathe, knowing that even the slightest movement will ruin things; that it will hurt, and it will hurt again and again, over and over for gods only know how long, for it takes a deep wound for scars to form . . .

And it's not the same. The associations are so different in Leto's mind, for one was an act of selfish cruelty and petty spite, and the other a show of adoration and love. And likely, Leto thinks, they're different in Astarion's mind too— but sometimes it's so hard not to see the similarities. Sometimes it's so hard to not think of the past, no matter that you want only to see the future.

He arches his back, rising up against that steadying hand so he can brace on his forearms and glance behind him. The urge is there to roll over entirely (to tug that knife out of Astarion's pale hands and set it next to his sword; to gather up his vampire in his arms and run his hands over his scarred back in soothing strokes), but he doesn't want to overreact.]

. . . we need not do this tonight.

[No. That's not right. Gentler, then:]

We need not do this at all.

[So much is audible when he isn't.

In a space void of sound when the pups and their tormented sibling-to-be have slipped into a different section of their rented tavern room, there's only the rustling of fabric when his arms slacken. The dull shuffle from their sheets as broad shoulders drop.

It doesn't matter that Leto doesn't move to uproot their arrangement; Astarion does it for him when his fingers slip across corded leather, the rest of his body following in slumped pursuit of that mattress just like the knife in his palm.

And then: the dagger isn't really in his hand.

And then: he's curled around him— the only other figure in that room— meeting whatever angles he can no matter how messily just to wrap his arms around his mate. The hows and logistical aches of it less important than the desperation driving all his joints into awkwardly patterend lines. Lashes pinched shut. Brows pulled tight.]

I can't—

[And then, gritted, not angrily, but— ]

Why the in hells can't I? What's wrong with me—

[It's no different. Or it shouldn't be. Or— he doesn't know. None of it makes sense. Not to fingers like his, so comfortably stained through habit.]

[There he is. There he is, and Leto rolls onto his side, his arms wrapping tight around his vampire's shuddering frame. They're all elbows and angles right now, Astarion's nose burying itself against his throat, one of Leto's legs slung protectively over Astarion's own. Come here, come here, and it's the meaningless details that the mind absorbs in times like these. The press of sleepshirt fabric pinned awkwardly between them, his buckle rubbing roughly against Leto's bare skin . . . things that don't matter. Things that he would endure for a lifetime if it meant getting to hold his vampire a little longer like this.

He buries his face against the top of his head, nuzzling against silver curls. It's a slow action, every bump of his nose timed to the slow, steady way he runs his palms against Astarion's back. Knotted scars meet his fingertips, every twist and bump hinting at a story only two people in this world fully know. When did Astarion writhe? When did he scream? When did the sobs burst out of him despite his best efforts? He can almost picture it: candlelight burning low, casting shadows that creep up the walls of an ancient study . . . Astarion sprawled out on a table, shirtless and unbound, kept still only by sheer force of will and a nominal hand planted just along his spawn's neck (Leto's neck is still so cold, his skin remembering the span of slender fingers). Black hair swept back from his face, his expression still and yet his eyes so wide with excitement as he sliced the creature beneath him to ribbons, thrilling in every whimper and sob.]

There's nothing wrong with you.

[It comes out a little gruffer than he means it to. His hands keep up their slow work, rubbing soothing circles as he holds him close. His voice softer, then:]

It's different this time. We have never tried this so deliberately before . . . we have never played with knives in this world before. We have never tried to deliberately scar one another . . . it makes a difference, amatus.

[He hesitates, and then:]

And it is hard, sometimes, to forget the past. Even if you wish to. Even if the situation is different . . . some part of you remembers.

Edited 2024-02-14 00:01 (UTC)

[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.

[It was a fight last time.

The memory lingers in his mind in bits and pieces, snapshot photographs inundated with sensation. His heart thundering and something like joy filling his body; his cheeks aching from how hard he was grinning and the grit of dust and pebbles digging into his bare feet as he'd stood on that rooftop. The scent of lyrium thick in the air; Astarion a merciless blur darting to and fro, his blades flashing in the setting sun. The giddying feeling of throwing his all into a scrap (cheater cried out with equal parts indignance and amusement), and then the sharp searing slice of pain reverberating as twin blades sank into his skin and emerged bloody—

It was a fight.

And Astarion hadn't realized he'd kept those scars until far later. Until Rialto. Until he'd felt them blindly, raised markings upon slick skin, and Leto had told him with total honesty: I wanted proof of you. Proof that Astarion had existed; proof that would linger past his own faulty memory, and any vengeful force that might try to separate them. It wasn't a mutual choice; it wasn't even shrouded in kindness, not really. Adoration, yes, and fierce love, but there was nothing particularly soft about Leto's decision. He will not call it selfish, but it was as much for him as it was Astarion. Not you're mine, brutal and mean carved into his lover's back; not even I'm yours, soft and submissive. Rather: you are important to me. You matter enough I will not risk forgetting you.

You've earned this.

One hand shoots up, gripping Astarion's bicep mercilessly tight. Their arms snap into parallel with one another, stiff and straight; he yanks them to the side (that blade scratching over his heart, skin red and raised in telltale little marks). At the same time he surges up, his other hand wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck, yanking him forward so that he can crush their lips together in a searing kiss. It's a messy thing, hard and hot and mean, teeth clicking as their mouths move, Leto's head ducking as he takes and takes, one pulse, two, three—

And then pulls back with a soft gasp. His lips ache from the pressure, his emerald eyes harsh.]

Then earn it.

[All at once he's throwing Astarion off him, bucking up and striking out; the bed creaks and jostles as he fights to pin him to the bed. But sheer strength isn't enough, not anymore, and for a moment Leto teeters—

But no. No, he will not (cannot) use his magic. No matter that he feels it surging within him, singing out for him to tap into power as instinctive as breathing; no matter that he can feel power thrumming in his palm, fire at his fingertips or a burst of mana at his beck and call, he won't, he can't—

Which means he needs to get that knife. One hand darts out, grabbing for it; the other struggles to keep Astarion pinned down, fingers gripping one narrow shoulder painfully tightly. And all the while he feels the magic build in his chest, rising up in his throat; why won't you use this, as bewildered as if he'd suddenly decided to only use his left hand to fight. Use it, use it, . . . and he has always approached every fight with the basic thought that there were no rules save survive. That you used any and every tool available to win, for it was never a game.

Fight (and he is no match for a vampire, not when it comes to strength alone). Fight (and he has used magic before, dark energy bursting out of him in a stunning show of warding, back, get back, his lyrium as defensive as it was aggressive). Fight (and the scent of magic is in the air, his sword not three feet away reverberating in sympathetic attunement).

Fight, Bladesinger—

As mana bursts forward from his palm, blazing brilliant bright, a sharp shock of it that shoves Astarion down against the mattress: not a spell but rather manifestation of intent, struggling to keep his mate pinned as he gropes for that dagger.]

[He smells blood first; his senses don't even let him register the pressure that'd caused it, deliberately attuned as they ever are— his arms whipped to the side, their mouths crushed into a kiss that catches spark in the space beneath his lungs— blood blood blood the copper sweet echo as all of him runs low, sinking forwards, sinking deeper: elongated spine arched into an exaggerated bow just to gift Leto (just to taste, for oh, what isn't linked to scent), a little more, a little more— the click of their teeth humming in his bones like his own lifeless exhales.

And then the fight.

(The fight, the fight) The shove. The wildly electric surge of something more than just mortal willpower swallowing up dead air and bringing Astarion down with it, nearby lyrium faintly whining like a tuning fork somehow— oh, fight, bladesinger— their bodies stamped by the primitive urge to war and win, disturbing and displacing the whole room and its sense of maintained order.

Welcome. So bloody welcome. So damned perfect.

It takes everything to break that enhanced strength; they grab the knife together, and for a moment it's only momentum that drives it— one swinging slash pulled back into the space between them, messily aimed— more red, gouged deep into a line from Leto's inner shoulder down to that first mark, and if order by way of collars and shackling magic was the whole of their wretched pasts, let chaos be the ritual that breaks it in their name: another struggle catching Astarion through his shirt this time, another kiss taking its cost from Leto in fair trade through a bitten, bleeding lip, ambrosial on his tongue.]

They're going to throw us out—

[He manages to whisper(? Mutter? Pant? Mouth?) somewhere along the way when they're close enough to grazing teeth across each other's skin, grinning like a godsdamned fool.]

Now he worries about that— after all the times you've fucked me and thrilled over them hearing me, now you worry about us being thrown out—

[He's half-laughing as he whispers it against Astarion's mouth, his eyes gleaming in conspiratorial glee. There's blood smeared on his lips and his heart is pounding like a drum in his ears, percussive and steady; their hips knock together, grinding roughly as they struggle for control. Astarion's fingers overlap his own along the knife's handle, their arms trembling as Leto fights to keep it extended, knowing that sooner or later they'll buckle—

And when it does, they twist again: the knife flashing between them (a deep scratch along Astarion's chest, a glancing slash that tears through skin along Leto's arm) and the two of them scrambling for position once more. Tumbling over the bed, writhing over the mattress— a loud thump denotes the moment they find the bed isn't big enough and end up toppling over right onto the floor, and it's painful and stupid and funny, and Leto laughs even as they fight.

And just for this moment, he forgets that his lover is a vampire. He forgets that they're anything but two lovers playing with one another, roughhousing for no other reason than it's fun. Forget scars. Forget the past. Forget all that awaits them in this world and the next, Cazador and Mephistopheles, magic and the other spawn— forget even the hounds lurking next door, Ataashi tiredly herding two endlessly curious pups away from the door.

Right now, this is only for them.

They kiss and fight and kiss again, magic flaring between them again and again in static bursts of blue light. They twist and writhe, neither of them winning, until at last they end up like this: with Astarion flat on his back once more, bands of mana wrapping around his wrists and pinning them to the floor. The magic is a flickering thing, there and gone (the magic is terrifying and thrilling all at once, a natural extension of his own desires and a manifestation of all his nightmares, and if he just doesn't think about it, it almost works). Leto straddles his darling, panting in exertion as he tries to maintain the spell and keep his focus all at once. Sweat beads on his forehead and his cheeks are flushed with excitement and effort both; it's been a long time since they've fought properly, but his body still remembers how much he adores it.]

Perhaps I should have told you to beg me for permission.

[Taunting. Teasing. The knife held loosely in his right hand while the other rakes through mussed-up curls, gripping them tightly as he tips Astarion's head back. Blood is smeared between them, little cuts half-clotted scattered along both their torsos. Droplets of blood still eke out of the bite wound on his lip, though in truth Leto doesn't notice.]

Give in. Say I won, little bat, and I'll let you mark me as consolatory prize.

[He leans down, murmuring against Astarion's lips as he adds:]

Or are you going to claim I'm cheating again?

[His shoulders sting from impact.

This is how it goes.

He's breathing like he needs to.

This is how it's meant to go; an overarching sense of rightness asserted in their scuffle long before the fall when he lies flat across his back with his arms pinned, and— oh for just a second he sees stars. Nothing like split vision or ringing ears or besotted worship, but real stars. Fenrir. Equinor. Draconis. The ones cast overhead the first time he'd dropped to dusty stone thanks to a pair of taloned hands, impact rattling up to his ears. Wishful thinking, maybe. Coming home. Memory or longing or whatever one might call it— it doesn't change the fact that he's up to his neck in something more than just nostalgia for the second time in all his malformed years, watching rivulets of vivid red trail down the front of Leto's chest.

Astarion doesn’t realize he’s smiling in the gaps between breaths. All teeth. All lopsided flashes of jagged white.

He never forgot his lines.]

You've won, little pup.

We're even.

[That's how it goes.

Fingers flexing in small twitches of minuscule impatience, mostly wound up in the fine bones of his wrists as a telltale marker as he tests the limits of those arcane bonds, feeling out the thread of just how exhausted Leto might be by now. A flicker in his gaze catching brightly in the light, refractive. Thrilled in the shadow of the grip that holds him by his scalp first....and his claws second.

Waiting like he'd never once stopped looking for an opening. Practically licking his chops even while he tips his own throat back by degrees, the gesture docile like nothing in him truly is at this moment: tensed beneath that scruffing grasp.

Mark me. Mark me first.

(This is how it goes.)

Make me yours.]

[You've won, little pup, and Leto's expression softens in an instant. The fierce excitement still vibrates through him, adrenaline thundering through his veins and his fingers still knotted tight in Astarion's hair— but oh, he can't help how he warms for that line.

That was the first time, wasn't it? The very first time Astarion called him that. He'd protested back then, flustered and pleased but uncertain as to the other elf's intentions. Only later, when Astarion's tongue slipped so sweetly into Tevene, did he learn to accept it. Catulus, little pup, and now Leto knows how to read the adoration and love layered beneath each syllable.

But ah, ah— his opponent will take advantage any way he can get, and Leto is too comfortable right now to give up the lead so easily. Sweat drips down his temple, his magical stamina all but nonexistent, but he need only hold him a few moments longer.]

We are not near even.

[This is how it goes, his own heart singing in time with Astarion's own. This is how it's meant to be, and he didn't realize how much he missed this until now. The thrill of being in power; the fierce delight that comes of truly and honestly fighting. It's been months of retraining this body, building up muscle and stamina all over again, practicing endlessly for hours on end, honing his skills and testing his reflexes, and all of it has led to here and now.

He isn't the same elf who was nearly eaten by spawn all those months ago. He isn't tripping over his own feet as he tries to get used to boots nor staring in awe at the rights elves are granted here. He knows who he is. He knows this body; he knows it as well as he ever knew his old one.

You're mine.]

Hold still.

[I'm yours.

It's twice he stabs him: each wound no more than an inch across, each laid lovingly just beneath the long lines of Astarion's collarbone. The blade sinks in just deep enough to be felt, no more than an inch or two, sliding effortlessly through skin and blood and muscle, before he draws it back. Blood drips down the blade; blood wells up from those cuts, scarlet and hot as it soaks into Astarion's shirt.

(And he'll do it again if he has to. Over and over until it scars, and perhaps they'll be more methodical about it next time around— but right now it's about the symbol. The echo of his own long-gone scars and the mirror opposite of them all at once, both tangled endlessly with notions of love and adoration and possessiveness. Even if we forget each other, we have a connection. A way to prove it.

I won't lose you.]

[He won't lose him.

The blade plunges in under his skin, and with it, every memory— every sweet (and achingly bittersweet) sensation that they've shared embeds itself in place of the blood welling up to leave more room for it to take. Frigid patters dripping over silver. Over skin— Leto's and his own. His body arches towards momentum when it leaves him (even vampires feel pain), nothing else mattering but the dizzy thrill that follows, coiling hot in its ascension, pinned against his breastbone. He doesn't take the knife so much as grab it. He doesn't think so much as collide with the elf above him in a kiss defined by frenzy, fine features laced with sweat.

This is how it goes. This is how it's meant to be. And if there's anything to be said for wrongness, it's that it has a way of coming to those who can't speak to it. Can't translate it. Enslaved husks that felt ill even when they could glut themselves on praise or affirmation, unable to remember a thing about what they deserved. What they really wanted. What it was to want— but still, it was there.

(The wings are only wax if you fall, and gods above, the only thing they fell into was this.)

And everything feels right at last.

The pommel of the blade as it scrapes against his palm when he takes it. The slow dance of their tongues and dagger-teeth as they kiss and bite and drink in more than love. The aching in his chest— for good things always hurt— letting him bleed and bleed when he pins one hand hard along the base of Leto's spine and snaps that dagger in through thickset tissue, dragging it down to form a gouging line like the bite of his substituted fangs once did in those years when he was closer to mortality. (What are they now?

Transcendent. Peripheral. Marginal. Unconfined. Undefined.

Free.)

And when Leto jerks against him for the first mark, he holds him in the second: making it quick. Kissing his cheek. His temple. Not a razor blade or crude bindings to be seen. Not an order of compulsion, but a choice. Their choice.

Their marks.

Theirs, all of it at last.]

This tavern has no idea what we truly are, does it....?

[Exhale let out slow across the arch of Leto's closest cheek, quill-et-bloodied-dagger already pulled free and dropped off over soft bedsheets. Both hands now fully committed to applying pressure to those wounds: centerlines squared across the gashes, fingertips anchored like stitches, pushing on both sides— mortal things take longer to heal than vampires (and these days he's beginning to consider the merits of learning how to heal, just a little).

And in case you thought the answer to his question was 'a vampire and a world traversing god-killer-slash-conduit-for-magic-itself':]

A couple of absolute freaks.

[Who else would go around brandishing scars like wedding bands?]

[He barks a soft laugh against the side of Astarion's head, not expecting such a blunt (but not inaccurate) answer.]

They have their suspicions, I expect. And none of them close to reality.

[Oh, yes. A set of sex-crazed bounty-hunting elves madly in love and giddily enjoying a decade-long honeymoon . . . there are worse reputations to cultivate. For all that he had such a sulky attitude earlier this week when it came to being overheard, there's something quite nice about having such benign rumors floating around them. It's nice, Leto thinks, to be regarded as amusingly ordinary.

Unseen, his eyes flutter shut. His fingers curl absently against the curve of one shoulder, all of him so utterly content in this moment. Pain is a flickering thing, sharp bites of it smoothed out and soothed by the press of cold fingers around each of his wounds. Astarion is a steady weight beneath him, protective and adoring both. Sweat beads against Leto's bare skin, each droplet felt as it slowly evaporates; he turns his head just slightly and noses at the sharp line of one upturned ear, buried contentedly in Astarion's familiar scent.

Peaceful. Warm and content and together, and it matters little what unconventional rituals they enact, for the end result is just the same. I love you, you're mine, I'm yours, always, always, always, and their love language has always been rough around the edges, preferring blades and blood over flowers and chocolates.

And it works. For them, it works. And that's all that matters.]

It feels good to have them back.

[The phrasing deliberate. Not just I'm glad, for that's only a fraction of what he feels. But ah, perhaps better said:]

It feels . . . right in a way I did not expect. Not just a return to my old body, but . . . I don't know. As if something lost has been found again. I did not realize how much I missed them until now.

[His fingers stroke absently against his shoulder in lieu of touching Astarion's scars.]

Though I am glad you have a matching set. That, too, feels right.

[Laughter. What a stupid thing it is to feel marrow-deep relief at the right sound to close out the ritual of their courtship, just like the first time, in fact: both of them bleeding, sliced open, bruised and caked in so much dust— misery flocking them like a hound, or at the very least a looming threat of still more agony to come. More pain they can't escape, more anguish. What are they if not broken, homeless, pointless things? What are they if not waiting on the leash for that strong hand across their shoulders, pushing them back into their place? The world is too wide, too dangerous, too complex. They'll never make it. They weren't meant to.

Cut clean through with a set of daggers and one reckless bout of laughter— enough to make the whole world shift back into sunlight. (The wings are only wax if you fall, and gods above, the only thing they fell into was this.)

Three years, he mouths out loosely; a puff of cool, false breath sliding over Leto's cheek in place of the fingers that he can't— not for the moment, at least— remove from their triaging efforts in order to smooth across arch features the way he'd like.

He really should brush up on his cantrips. Another set of hands could have its uses.]

I don't think I've ever been thanked for stabbing someone before. [Mild, particularly when one oversharp pair of canines pull at tender lips, kissing like punctuation. Like gratitude. Like contentment, raw and unrefined.]

No?

[His voice is slow and drowsy with contentment, deep and rich in the way it gets only when he's particularly soothed. Safe, warm, happy, content, and it isn't that he's unaware of the future. It gnaws at him nightly, his mind constantly forming plans and practicing defenses; his days are spent learning all the spells that might work against a vampire, sunlight and fire and water all ready to be wielded with the flash of his blade. He knows what they will soon leave to face; he knows how high the stakes are.

But they have always overcome whatever challenges have been set before them. Riftwatch. Corypheus. Memory loss and mutilation; the separation of worlds and the terror of never seeing one another again. Monsters and starvation and fights; the shock of the loss of his lyrium and Astarion's newfound species, coupled with all the personality changes that wracked them both. Cazador . . . Cazador is so many things, and Leto will not ever make the mistake of underestimating him— but nor will he allow him to terrify him to the point of incompetence.

For Leto knows himself now as he didn't before. He can feel it within himself; he can feel it thrumming between them, their spirits vibrating in attunement as they hadn't before. They can do it. They will do it. Cazador might be a terror, but he can die just as easily as any god.

But right now, he isn't allowing himself to think of all that. There's just the here and now; there's just fingers pressed dotingly against his back and cool breath against his cheek, and the simple but unerring joy of knowing that he's loved. That he has changed today, growing in a way he hadn't realized he was aching for until it came upon him.

Three years . . . and three hundred more after it.]

Mph, well, it seems only fair.

[He mouths gently at the line of one ear, smiling as he does.]

You have witnessed countless firsts of mine. It is far past time I was allowed to see one of yours, kadan.

You are my first.

[He asserts with no small amount of wryness, giving amusement free reign over one half-submerged expression, turning it into a light push of absent pressure over the slope of Leto's neck— his own ear twitching for attention he returns in kind (and with interest, no less, given the sharpness of overlong teeth.] In so many more ways than you realize, you have been all along.

And besides, I do like my new set of marks. [Pleasing for a great number of reasons, though they're a throbbing, screaming ache under his knitting skin right now, it still feels good. Still feels like everything he'd wanted (and everything he was scared of enacting when that dagger was wildly quaking in his trembling hands). And in light of that, he—

All right, yes, fine. He knows it can't possibly feel exactly the same on Leto's end of this for healing speeds, but stubbornly he wonders if it's similar in nature, the welling spring of heat smothered hard beneath his grasp.]

Though we might need to do a little housekeeping from time to time, just until they take. I'd commit to letting you use a stake for it but erm....I'll be honest, that's a little more unsettling to have just lying around than I'd prefer. [Oh, Leto he trusts. It's the rest of the populace having access to any amount of sharpened wood that gives him pause. And the last thing either of them really wants is a couple of nosy people asking questions as to why they have a thing like that lying around, if it comes to light by way of accidents or rummaging pups.]

No stakes.

[It's a swift agreement, the question of trust nonexistent in Leto's mind. It wouldn't be the worst idea, perhaps, to procure one before facing Cazador, but not in the house. There's too many ways that could go wrong and too few benefits for them to even consider it. Perhaps if they lived in a larger space . . . but ah, it doesn't matter. No stakes, and he shakes his head minutely, affirming that.]

But housekeeping would be . . . pleasing, I think, in its intimacy. I have missed sparring like this with you.

[Foreplay and fighting all at once: it satisfies an urge Leto had almost forgotten he enjoyed indulging. It's been too long since he's gotten to go all out; longer still that they have been able to fight without Astarion simply letting him win.

But oh: he hadn't missed what Astarion had murmured at first. That quiet bit of sentiment that left Leto's heart pattering in startled joy, unexpected and yet all the more pleasing for it. Again he turns his head, nuzzling and nosing against Astarion in quiet response.]

Tell me.

[Softer than before, his voice gentle as he rumbles against his ear.]

I believe I know what you mean when you say that I am your first, but . . . I would hear it from you. All the ways in which I realize— and all the ways in which I don't.

[Whatever Leto believes, he's wrong. And he's right. There is no middle ground, only an ocean of experience formed in the suddenness of freedom. Starting at the beginning might indeed make it easier to list, but not to quantify by any means, and yet still: Astarion has to set in somewhere. Has to try to put it into words, when for all the world he's certain he'd stand a better chance of bottling the Hells themselves with a cork and empty phial. (Laying entire worlds away from the ground he'd been born to know, bleeding hot through pallid fingertips in a body not his own, Fenris is owed that much.

Even if Astarion's never been any good at sincerity laid bare.)

Outside, there's the clattering of shuttered windows. Baying dogs. Rising voices— muffled by thin walls and heavy drapes— all loud to vampiric ears, making it difficult to find the quiet beat of one nearby, submerged pulse. So (just as always, no less), Astarion does what he can with the deck he's been given: slim fingers readjusting over the injuries they hold until pressure reveals the steady thud thud thudding that he needs to quiet all his thoughts into something resembling sanity. Cohesion.

Chin still pushed against one shoulder, eyes still thinly lidded.

And then, with the smallest intake of false breath:]

The first person I laid eyes on entirely of my own volition. [It comes with a twisting of his lips, that murmur.] I still can't think of my first few moments of freedom without smelling that odd magic of yours. [And more than that:] The first person to ever extend their hand, let alone rescue me throughout two centuries of silent pleading.

[(Real. All of it real. And for a single, overwhelming moment, Astarion thinks he can feel his heart stop once more: the drop of it as it plummets to a standstill, so very much like the night he died in Cazador's arms.)]

The first to listen. The first to understand. The first I trusted, willingly. No lies, no safeguards.

The first creature I grew protective of. Beautiful boy that you were. Shining thing. Little light— I thought— for so long I was afraid you'd leave if you knew the truth of what I was. Not just a bloodsucking monster when blood magic had been your terror, but the anchor shard. Demonic accusations. [But you never did goes unspoken.]

The first to....

[To—

Like a snag in pristine threadwork, his confession finally hitches. A certain catching of his voice that brings it lower across tanned skin. Makes it stumble as it stalls....albeit briefly.]

I bedded others before you. Even amongst Riftwatch, it was a habit. Like the informants I kept.

But after Rialto, I turned them all away. I know it broke their hearts, but what I gave them wasn't real. I made that clear before I took them.

With you....there was never a question.

[Another first. Not the grandest or most damning, just....]

Edited 2024-03-21 23:34 (UTC)

....ghh—

[With a buried noise of overwound restraint brought to its damning limit, Astarion's feigned control gives way— fangs set against skin through a flexing of his jaw; sharpness gripping at its prey, rather than puncturing it, though the drive that led him here sees his instincts attempting to bite once— twice— and again, for good measure, leaving behind a host of superficial scuffs in the places where he isn't actively anchoring his mouth at the moment.

An exhale.

A line of crinkled agitation spanning the bridge of his nose, still grimacing in a silent snarl laid across nothing but the junction of Leto's throat into his shoulder, turning into roughened nuzzle after yet another beat.

....and then a groan.

Bloody vampiric emotions.

Bloody aggression, stirred up by affection he can't control.]

Bloody sentiment.

[It is so hard to be a vampire in love.]

[It's nothing he didn't know— and yet then again it's nothing he truly knew, not on a bone-deep level. Not in the way Astarion describes it, his voice soft and his words so raw that it almost hurts to hear them, like alcohol stinging sharp on a raw wound. And though he has thought about it countless times before, it feels different now as he tries to imagine each first from Astarion's perspective.

How young Leto must have seemed to Astarion's eyes during those first few minutes (and hours, and days, and weeks). How unbelievably, earnestly unreal after two centuries of pleading in the darkness, hoping against hope over and over that the world was not as cruel as it seemed. That this was not all there was to life, endless misery and torment and grief. I begged, you know. For two hundred years, I begged for salvation, and three years later, Leto has not forgotten a moment of that conversation after the crossroads. As they'd held hands and spoken about the eternal wariness that this might be some trick of Cazador's, gods, no, he hasn't forgotten a single word. No one— not even the ones who watched me suffer— lifted a hand to save me.

Two centuries of learning that nothing was real. That emotions were things to be played with, not believed in; that the way of the world was hard and cruel and wicked, and only fools believed in things like fairy tales and happy endings. Two centuries of silently begging (this’ll be the one to see it. the one that'll glimpse, finally, between the lines), and nothing ever changed. No one ever tried. No one cared, no one bothered—

Until Leto.

Until Thedas, and oh, what a miracle it must have seemed. And what was Thedas in all her flaws compared to freedom? What were the catcalls and knife-ear compared to bloody fingers clawing at the walls and a soul long shattered and broken? Beautiful boy that you were. Shining thing. Little light, and here and now, Leto doesn't squirm beneath those petnames. He understands they aren't offered in subtle patronization, but awed wonder. Little miracle, beautiful darling, and his heart hurts to imagine it. The fear that he might have lost him (and brutally honest as he is, Leto thinks privately that it was not an unfounded fear, not entirely). The terror of not knowing how long this would last, and oh, what a leap of faith it must have been—

You're the first, you know. The roar of the sea and the distant boom of fireworks, and giddy off of love as he'd been, Leto hadn't fully realized the implication of those words then. We are in love for the first time, and he hadn't understood. He'd seen the surface, but not the depths.

He does now.

First in love. First in affection. First in honesty and joy and desire, wanting Astarion because of who he is, not in spite of it. First to reach a hand out and say I will keep you safe as best I can without any thought of reward, lecherous or otherwise. The first person in his entire life (and two centuries seems so long to Leto right now) to look at him, really look at him, and see him for who he is. It does not surprise Leto to hear that whatever he gave to those members of Riftwatch wasn't real, because how could it be? They never understood him. They never wanted to try. They dug and grasped and took and took and took, and sometimes that can pass for companionship under dim lighting, but it is nothing compared to what they have. Even then, when their love was still new, it outshone them by miles.

There was never a question, and it does not shock Leto, for he knew— but he didn't know, all at once.

And he's grateful for that disruption when it happens. That scuffing and scraping that Leto instinctively bucks up against, the two of them working against one another like the pups on an agitating day, for it gives him time to gather himself. To blink away the welling wetness in his eyes (silly, soppy, unnecessary, and yet his arms wrap tight around Astarion's frame, awkward and protective all at once). A break so they can reset— and so Leto can figure out how he wants to respond.

Bloody sentiment, and perhaps it suits that he exhales a laugh in reply, for sincerity can be so hard. And yet all the more worthwhile, for in this moment Leto feels as though their souls are aligned utterly once more, their hearts beating as one.]

It feels sometimes as though it happened a lifetime ago.

[Three years won't do that, but leaping from world to world, body to body certainly will.]

You act differently here. I act differently here, I know . . . but you have flourished here. You carry yourself more proudly, and seem more your age than you did in Thedas. And I . . . I did not forget. I will never forget, [his head turning, nuzzling fiercely against the side of Astarion's head again and again.] But I forget how short a time three years has been . . . and how terrifying it must have been to give me those firsts.

[His nuzzling slows, gentle pushes with his nose as he speaks.]

I have never felt the way I feel with you.

[Soft. A little hesitant, truthfully, for he doesn't want to make this about him— but perhaps it will help to hear the comparison.]

I was teasing when I said firsts before, thinking only of sex— and I will not deny you have been my first for most of that, too, [he adds with a rumbling chuckle. But then, more seriously:] But I have never trusted the way I trust you. I have had friends, companions, that I trusted with my life— but never fully blindly. Never without thinking of all the ways in which that trust might be betrayed, or circumstances that might occur where they'd sell me out.

I never think of those things with you.

I have never given my heart to someone the way I have given it to you: wholly and without restraint. Trusting you even when I cannot trust myself; knowing that there is no set of circumstances that would lead you to betray me. [Never say never— but Astarion is no idiotic hero, and would not pull a pointless break-his-heart-to-save-him gambit. They have too much respect for one another for that.]

I am sorry it took me so long to find you.

[Sorry in the sense that his heart grieves for it, not in the sense of taking blame. And now, finally, he rises up just far enough to catch Astarion's gaze, his eyes blazing fiercely with protective adoration.]

But I am glad I did, even if I was two centuries late. And more glad than I know how to say that I could be those firsts for you.

[But oh, those emotions. That heartache, and though it is ultimately a good thing, gods, but it hurts his heart to feel. His hand rises, his palm catching Astarion's cheek, his thumb running over the curve, as he adds:]

What was that? The biting . . .

[Not that he minds. He can guess, but sometimes it's nice to have an easy way out of a heartfelt conversation— or not. To linger in sentiment or move on to lighter things, but either way, Leto isn't going anywhere. And now that he's guaranteed he's trapped a bit longer (drops of blood welling fresh now that he's jostled those wounds, clotting still mostly intact), he might as well ask.]

[It was a lifetime ago.

A thousand lifetimes. Every minute, every second— every reset in the dark, every time their memories went cold and brittle. Broke. Growing in again like splintered bone each time the past would circle back to find them, monster and mercy unrefined. Every time their bodies changed. Their worlds shifted.

A thousand lifetimes.

A thousand firsts.

And Astarion laughs a little round the borders of his anchored heart, albeit low, not fully having left the groaning exasperation from before when there's such a thing as shame left in him.]

You've no idea how hard you make it. [The smell of copper in the air, nauseatingly sweet and overwhelming. The flicker of a pulse and its gushing floes. The feeling of tacky, dampened fingers— and the knowledge that soon he'll untangle to bandage those wounds properly. Take his mate to a healer that'll know just what sort of gauze to use and where to lay it down, unlike Dalyria's embittered once-apprentice, who only ever listened enough to staunch the worst of all their bleeding.

Just....not yet.]

Vampires—

[No. No, that won't explain it.]

Think of your anger. [His stunning, radiant anger (Astarion left breathless from its beauty so many times, watching the internal become external on some quiet Lowtown street).] How it overwhelms.

Now imagine if everything you felt was like that at a minimum. All the time.

[You have no idea how hard you make it, and his ears flick down as his eyes search Astarion's face, trying to understand. It's not that the concept is so difficult to grasp, at least in theory— but there's a gap of miles when it comes to theory and truly understanding, Leto knows. And this is important. Understand what it is to be a vampire is a never-ending lesson, and he will not pass up this chance to learn.

So: start with anger.

He knows that anger. He knows how pervasive it can be, sneaking in to rear its head at the first opportunity, overwhelming him until it bursts free all at once— and only in the aftermath is he able to settle. To go back and offer and apology or clarify what he had snarled . . . yes, he knows what it is to have something overwhelm you.

And he thinks he can see the shape of it. Everything, Astarion says, and it takes Leto some thought— but gods, what is being an adolescent if not feeling everything so intensely all the time? Forget anger (though gods, he's a moody thing some days); Leto swears some days he's felt more joy and grief and excitement in the past few months than he has in his lifetime. And it's not that the experiences are so very new, no, nor do they triumph what he's gone through— but gods, he feels everything so intensely now.

So multiply that. Take it and expand it by ten, by a hundred, by a thousand percent: all his emotions filling him so fiercely that he can't possibly be expected to contain them. To feel anger or grief or joy or passion so fiercely that there is no ebb and flow, only an endless outpour. You could drown in it if you weren't careful, Leto thinks. You could lose yourself in that rage (oh, how easily Astarion could, and who could ever blame him for it?). You could lose yourself to your worst emotions, bitter anger or searing lust, and never once have to pull yourself away from it—

And suddenly the tales Astarion has told him of other vampires (not just Szarr, but the horror stories that creep out of the plains and slip into the ears of even the most housebound pets) make more sense. Orgies that last for days on end and violence so nauseatingly vicious that it would turn even the most jaded patriar's stomach . . . unless, perhaps, you had an anchor. A goal. All your energy and emotions devoted towards the slow but inevitable trickle of power . . .

Or a consort, Leto thinks, and brushes his fingers against the curve of Astarion's cheek. Someone whom you loved so dearly that you fought, every single day and night, to keep yourself in check. Your hunger. Your morals. Your emotions, felt so strongly that you couldn't help but let them burst free—

And he thinks of his own heart right now. How exhausting it is to feel so deeply; how overwhelmed he was not a moment ago, lost in his own memories.]

How often do you . . .

[No. What is he trying to say?]

Does it help? Biting at me like that?

I would not mind it if it happened more often.

Hah! Little moonstone. I imagine you wouldn't.

[Wink and also wink.]

Come up. Here. Careful now. [Disregard only temporary (Leto's already moved and reopened his injuries once, so what harm is there in twice—) when it's for the sake of sliding out from underneath him, pulling open the nightstand drawer. The very same (infamous) drawer where they keep salves, ointments, bandages, binds— and the clink of what scarce few phials of lilac oil remain from his once-abundant stores.

Lean lines. Strong muscle. Corded contours over an athletic, lithe young frame. That's what Leto is reduced to in his lap while sharp claws winnow through his hair.

Opposite hand taking deft turns pulling strips of gauze from the roll and tearing it between his teeth.]

It does help, in a way. [His performative amusement might be pristine, but the longer time ticks on repeating the subtle back and forth of shredding gauze in preparation, the more true it all becomes: overstimulation washing away bit by steady bit.] Probably why my kind favors action above all else. [Like those skirmishes of theirs. Like the fights they found in Kirkwall. Like scuffling instead of grieving. Like—

Ah, like drinking into numbness. Like rutting. Like bleeding till you can't see straight.]

When self-control shatters, anything is better than stillness.

[One exhale through his nose, resting the first salve-soaked bandage against a deep-gouged line.]

And anything is better than mangling you....

[Well.]

....more.

[He faces forward as they speak, though some part of him wants to glance back over his shoulder. It's not just so he doesn't disrupt Astarion's process (his vampire can and will scoldingly nip if Leto pushes too much with an injury), but because perhaps it's a little easier to speak of such a topic like this. It's not a matter of trust or intimacy, nor even about shying away from vulnerability, for they have been far more raw in front of one another before.

But then again: it's one thing to compare similar scars and familiar battlewounds (did he ever starve you, how often did he call you to his bed, and they can turn old nightmares into a joke in an instant). It's another to talk about something that so starkly highlights their differences. And perhaps that's why Leto himself is a little put out at not facing Astarion: it's strange to be removed from him, and all the more so when they're speaking of something he cannot fully understand. My kind, his lover says. My kind, his laugh performative and not quite real. And though Leto knows what he means, knows that their bond is too strong to ever shatter, knows that Astarion means nothing by using such a term—

Gods. He still isn't used to there being such a divide between them. Mortal and vampire. Elf and undead. He tries never to think of them in such a way, but nor will he shy away from the truth when he has to face it. My kind, Astarion says, and he is not wrong.

But it's a small discomfort, a discordant note during an intimate symphony. This unease is not new, and it ebbs and falls from day to day. And so though some quiet part of Leto squirms in discomfort, it's equally easy to settle back and enjoy this for what it is: intimacy and caretaking all at once. He settles in his lover's lap, his spine relaxing as he submits to those gentle ministrations. Talons carding dotingly through his hair, and he waits patiently as he hears the gauze behind him rip.]

I know the feeling.

[Craving action instead of stillness . . . oh, yes. He tips his head forward, ignoring the urge to hiss as salve first stings and then soothes against his wounds.]

It is— frankly, it is not dissimilar to how I sometimes feel in this body. [Wry, that. But then:]

My first year in Kirkwall, I would go out near nightly in search of a fight. It mattered little who I found: so long as they gave me even half a reason to fight, I would happily set my blade upon them. And I was vicious . . . more than some of them deserved, I suspect.

[He speaks without guilt or self-pity; it happened, and he's long since moved on from it.]

It was a poor way to cope with my rage and terror. But I found that anything was better than simply staring at the walls for hours on end, stewing in paranoia and feeling that restless energy crawl beneath my skin. If I could find no victims, I would train— and if I could not stand doing something so ritualized, I ran. Up and down the city, over the rooftops . . .

[A pause, and then he exhales.]

Mangle me if that is what you need. Bite at me. Fight me if it all becomes too much, for I can defend myself against you, Astarion.

[He says it calmly and confidently: a fact, not a boast.]

I have learned this body, I know what it can do— and I would not see you constantly fight for self-control if you need relief instead.

[No guilt. No self-pity. The words carry imagery of cold bodies in even colder streets, stilled viscera over stone standing as an all-too-familiar picture once it hits attentively priced ears. As known as either dawn or dusk. Past and present motives intertwined, if not for one whispered ultimatum: no innocents.

Because Astarion was mangled by his curse. (But then again— maybe he was mangled before it, and made all the worse for every nightmare that followed, crawling from the wreckage of his life into Cazador's waiting shadow.) He's always been a master of giving himself too much credit. Too little credit.

It'd be easy to take that offer. Three years ago he would have, rest assured: readily. Greedily. Hungrily. A place to bed his rampant savagery alongside pain. Both a thrill in their own right— feeling the split of tender skin under his teeth and the fevered tang of blood tearing free of its restrictive veins— claws and blades and blunt-force bruising.

Power.

By any name. Every name.

He sees it for what it is, and oh, still, he loves it. Power synonymous with control. With safety. Certainty. The inverse of fear, outlined and his, no one else's.

But much like Leto, he isn't starving anymore. And what lies beneath his fingers is— ]

Strewth.

[Throatiness swimming in his voice like nothing else belongs there: a tone shared solely between them.]

Sometimes I wonder if you're real.

[It's a compliment. A show of awe, laid down with every last placed strip of bandaging. For the hunger and hatred as much as the handsomeness in moonstone skin.]

Or if this is all just one more laugh at my expense, gifting me something like you.

[Tenderness, warm and bright, fills him as Astarion speaks. It's the complete antithesis of his discomfort: a soothing answer to all the ways his fears gnaw at him. Insecurities that have long since been addressed but never fully quashed; the difference in their species a point for Leto to make up for instead of simply a fact. I am not strong enough, fast enough, I am not who I was, and it doesn't quite add up to I am not good enough, but the pieces are there.

But here and now, Astarion puts those to rest.

For Leto can hear the awe in his voice. He knows what Astarion sounds like at his most honest, and oh, every syllable aches with it. Sometimes I wonder if you're real, and Leto strains to memorize this moment, knowing he will need it later. There will be times when these fears rise again, prompted by some doting bit of patronization or his own stamina and strength lapsing before Astarion's does.]

You awe me just as much in return, you know.

[He reaches back blindly til he can smooth his palm over Astarion's thigh: a suitable substitute while he stays facing forward.]

I am not always good at articulating it . . . but never in my life did I think someone like you could exist. Someone who understood my past and my present both . . . who did not condemn me for my ways, nor scolded me for my fits of temper or my grief. Who fit me in ways I did not know I was aching for until they were fulfilled. Someone who knew of my past, and did not treat it tentatively or with clumsy enthusiasm, but rather . . . who understood it. Who knew what it was to survive the things I had, and understood all the ways in which I had learned to cope with them.

[A pause, and then:]

I know we are different now. I understand. I know that you are a different species than me, and there are things about your existence I am still learning. But . . . I am not who I was a few months ago, new to this world and this body both. And though I know it a mistake to ignore our differences . . . nor would I have us forget our similarities, nor let those differences outweigh them.

Allow me the joy of helping you as I once did. As you once did for me, and continue to this day. You will not hurt me— not to the point of no return. I promise you, Astarion. I could not survive it before, but now . . .

Now, I am ready.

[Breathless. Bewitched. Staring down the barrel of the beauty in his lap, Astarion doesn't shy away from roaming fingers (even if they do tax the very same wounds he's been trying stalwartly to patch). They meet his leg, and he sinks deeper. Into this— this nameless, formless equation stitched between their divided existences— narrowing the seam lines till it's nothing. Nothing at all.

Matching scars on their bodies in different places. Matching lives lived in separate worlds.

(I love you. I have always loved you. I was born and killed and born again to love you.

I will find you.

Always.)

Danarius thought he could bind a living creature to him through the flow of channeled lyrium. Years of torment. Erasure. Agony. Control. Astarion does it with a single kiss, planted just beneath grown-out silver hair along the transition between nape and shoulders, bowed forward through his spine.

(Alchemy defined it first: equivalent exchange.)]

I believe you.

if you dont stop waking me up with that stupid cucumber im going to train myself into biting

[Oh dear oh dear— be still his lifeless mess of an unbeating heart. Is someone cranky today?

Because if so: hot.]

You are so precious, acting like you don't try to already. [One might imagine it's the vampire or the wolf in bed that's prone to being sharp between the sheets compared to one adolescent moon elf, but oh, they'd be so wrong.]

You're slow to wake up, dearest little catulus.

Why do you think I started using cucumbers in the first place?

there are methods of waking a person up that do not involve you putting something phallic by my mouth

[The problem is: it's objectively a hilarious joke, just not when it's him. At least today. At least now, when yes, he is, in fact, a little cranky, thank you very much.]

the pups do it by licking me

you might learn from them

Is this a formal request, or an I-woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-coffin-and-now-I'm-going-to-grouse-about-the-first-thing-that-comes—literally—to-mind sort?

im not

[Mmph. A pause, and then:]

can it not be both?

[. . .]

i do not mind it sometimes. but it's embarrassing. especially if others can hear.

[Moody pup. Let him get this straight— and outside of text format, for he can tell when his adolescent heart is in a mood, and better favors the context of intonation on those shores:]

Sooooo....[Long so. Tailing so.] You don't mind them hearing you moaning your little heart out— except for when you do mind it. And the metric for this is....

Sometimes.

[Also: here's hoping you're not anywhere this'll be overheard.]

Venhedis—

[The good news: their stones of far speech are still in peak working order, every syllable crystal-clear and easily heard even in a crowd. The bad news: their stones of far speech are still in peak working order, every syllable crystal-clear and easily heard even in a crowd.

At least it's easy enough to duck down a side-alley. And the laughter that had followed him was exceedingly familiar.]

I mind it, I simply have accepted the realities of living communally once more, and try not to descend downstairs too quickly after we rut. But it is one thing to know what I'm doing in the moment. It is another to not realize it until it's already happened.

[The words are right, but the tone is clipped, as is so often the case when he's in a mood like this.]

It matters little. Forget it.

Aht—

[Tepidly endeared click that it is— tongue hitting the jagged backs of all his fangs— it's a temporary stay as well; something to keep his precious little heart on the line while he knows he's half a second away from being hung up on.

In other, tactfully unused words: I didn't say I'm forgetting anything. Least of all your fuss.

Your abundant, genuine....probably hormonal fuss.

~~....not at all exacerbated by the fact that Astarion chose now to unexpectedly air their lingerie.~~]

I'm only trying to help, you know.

[Says local instigator.]

Edited 2024-03-03 08:39 (UTC)

No, you’re having fun at my expense and patronizing me while you do.

[It’s an instant retort, snapped out and unfair both, Leto knows. It isn’t really Astarion’s fault that little tongue click agitates today when it normally settles him. It’s certainly not his fault Leto’s temper is flaring, but here they are.]

Twice over now.

And yet is that or is that not what I do, my fussy little darling? [Beckoning to the borders of his temper: come now. Come on, come nip instead of showing teeth, fierce thing.]

Shall I change my stripes for anything less than your adolescent whims?

It is not a whim, do not act as though this is some new preference— and don't call me that. Acting even more patronizing is not helping your case.

[It's too sharp, too snarly . . . like Ataashi nowadays when the pups play too rowdily near her, her upper lip peeling back and her warning growl rumbling low in her throat. Far past the point of knock it off and entering into the territory of or else.

In the distance, the faintest hint of voices; Leto's own becomes quieter, though no less snappish.]

I am in no mood to be treated as though I am a damned child simply because I do not want an entire city to know what we get up to.

[He sees the warning for what it is. Hears the coarseness in that tone, a promise of trouble brewing with the opportunity to back away from it through deferred capitulation.

But that won't help either of them right now.]

Maybe I don't want to help my case half as much as I want to figure out yours.

There is nothing to figure out.

[Gods, he knows he’s being an asshole at this point. Objecting to Astarion’s patronizing diminutives is one thing, but it’s never a good sign when he’s throwing someone’s words back at them. He glances away, collecting himself for a moment. Then, his tone a little more tempered:

Is it so hard to understand I do not like being treated like a child when I tell you I dislike something?

[But that’s a symptom, not a cause.]

[He should probably be paying attention to those growls instead of cooing over Leto like he does when Ataashi's threatening to tear her knitted-and-inanimate-and-sock-shaped prey to shreds.] Not particularly, no. Not in theory, anyway. But when it comes to tetchy little outbursts like this, I've found logic doesn't factor in half as much as it should.

Not that I mind them: it's such a thrilling tease to— even figuratively— see those pretty little milkfangs of yours come out.

[He's batting his lashes oh so sweetly, and you know what? Somehow: it actually carries. Something in his songbird tone; the old familiar lilt of it, not often used these days.] A treat I do always savor.

Astarion.

[It's sterner now. Older, strange as that sounds. Perhaps it's a response to that familiar lilt: an echo of who they used to be. Stop fussing so much, stop lingering in the past, that pretty voice urging him gently and genuinely, spoken as they'd huddled together in the middle of the night or lingered in the sun in his study. Come now, it isn't so bad, not dismissing his hurt so much as gently nudging at his tendency to linger in bitterness.

And this is not then, but now. He is no longer middle-aged, and Astarion no longer an elf. But he hears it, and something in him responds.

So: no more fussing. No more petulantly stomping his foot and flashing his fangs, seething rage so easily rising up within him— an overreaction for what ought to be mere irritation. And really: he is picking a fight. He knows he is. He doesn't like the patronization when it comes like this, doting and saccharinely sweet, but this began with his snapping randomly at his amatus.]

Enough.

[Not a dismissal so much as a firm line in the sand: enough with this petty squabble that isn't a squabble at all.]

I am aware it was an unfair outburst, my own dislike of our sex life being overheard notwithstanding— but do not make it worse like this. Answer me as an adult or wait until I return home.

[Oh there he is, the fighter from Thedas with a glare that could cut sinew and a voice to make even the surliest slavers shiver. A little long-buried, perhaps, but not long-lost; the call and response of habitual language, beautiful as music to his careworn ears.]

Awake at last, thank the gods.

[Hello again, sweetheart.]

I really didn't want to have to keep that up forever— it is exhausting turning back to old tricks.

[Playful as a fox through intonation (and utterly rapacious, thank you very much), and most importantly: not at all about to acknowledge the fact that Leto is absolutely right on all counts in his scolding.

Less fun, that part.]

[He exhales slowly in something that isn't quite a sigh— and trust that whatever notes of aggravation thread within it are mutually shared. He's as displeased with himself as anyone, annoyed by his own uncontrollable irritation and sudden habit of nipping at anyone who gets too close (and too often, that's Astarion).

Still. The patronizing does need to be addressed sooner or later.]

You—

[Mm, nope, try again. Another breath, gods, it is so hard to keep a lid on his temper sometimes. And trust he'll get to that patronizing conversation in a moment, but first, gruffly (ruefully):]

Tell me when this period of adolescence ends again?

[If one exuberantly charming resident vampire was afraid of being bitten over something like proximal closeness— well, he wouldn't be here to begin with. And that goes twice over for every scolding, too, even if he is doing his damndest to turn it into a crowish game of keep-away.

(Although that sigh from Leto's end....

....hm.)]

Oh, not long. Not long at all, my darling—

[A tepid beat, and then:]

Only until you reach one hundred.

[And really, he's not teasing him for once: it's just the naked truth.]

[It's really a show of maturity and self-control that he doesn't whine the way he wants to when he hears that.]

Gods. Sixty more years of this . . .

[Ah, and here, now, he remembers who he is— for any adolescent elf would surely view six decades as little more than the blink of an eye, not an entire lifetime.]

How does anyone stand it? It's only a handful of years for humans, and that alone is nightmare enough. [And it's stupid to compare, but he can't help it.] I do not know how elves manage to endure.

[And then, with an unseen twist of his mouth, he adds:]

I do not know how you will endure.

[He's joking, sort of. Kind of. It's not that he thinks Astarion is at risk of leaving, no, but . . . gods, he gets so impatient with himself some days, and he cannot imagine it's any easier on the other side.]

[His laugh is warm. Fond. It comes on easily, not a glimpse of an act in sight. Sound bottled with the brightness of play, rather than the extension of it.]

You say that like you're not one of us. [Trust he knows there is a difference, he'd felt the brunt of it in Thedas, but the truth of it is— ]

You make it so damned easy to bear.

Edited 2024-03-15 22:42 (UTC)

[Gods, and despite himself, his face softens into a smile. He would have been fine without assurance, for he knows their love is far stronger than a few prickly moods— but still, there's something lovely about getting it.

And in turn, it makes it easier for him to settle, some of those hackles lowering as his voice warms.]

Te amo.

[It's easier to say in Tevene than Common sometimes. But ah, on the subject of being one of them . . .]

Does it feel . . .

[Mm, no. What is he trying to say?]

What does sixty years feel like to you? I cannot . . . truthfully, I cannot even fathom such a span. I know I will continue to age, and that I will hit not just one, but two, three, four centuries, but in truth, it doesn't feel real. Sixty years . . . that seems a lifetime to me.

Does it . . . is it a long span for you?

Tsk.

[Te amo te amo, and it's only because his ears are red and ringing with a frankly adolescent amount of adoration of his own that he doesn't start grumbling about lifetimes and what it really means to be old. Hells' teeth. If he didn't already feel as if he were robbing the cradle thanks to all those rowdy cubs his lover likes to run with....

Though then again.]

Te amo, you impatient little sweetheart. [Sharper than the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, wryness is a present player in their chat.

(Ten years with Cazador was horror itself, to say nothing of the approximal two hundred more that followed, too many of them missing. It felt endless. Muddy. Crushing. Three years in freedom, though? A blink. A sip— and there's some part of him that fears if things go wrong, that'll be all he gets. Three years of perfect freedom traded for one more unending promise of enslavement.

He can't talk about this, not directly— his perceptions are as mangled as his thoroughly broken mind. He's not the right source.

But he's not the wrong one either.)]

Huffing about sixty years. A hundred years. You think adolescence for half a century is a nightmare? Some of us have been stuck this way for an eternity and counting, thank you very much, and you don't hear us complaining about it day in and day out.

Oh?

[Interested oh. Surprised oh. Somewhat amused oh, in truth, and Leto notes that emotion as it fills him for no other reason than it would be so damned easy to go the opposite way. To flinch back, remembering revelations about siblings and long-kept secrets— and it's not that his mind doesn't go there, understand. Just that he trusts in his amatus enough to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume this more a vague guess than a long-held secret.]

You have a guess when you were turned . . . is that based on something you remember, or general level of maturity?

[He's teasing.]

—ah, you brat!

[He's delighted to be conversationally cuffed about the ears.

It shows.]

You're one to talk about maturity, anyway, even if we are two peas in a pod on a good day.

But you could call it an educated guess, I suppose. A hunch I want to confirm when we get back to Baldur's Gate. Because ever since you told me my name— well, I wouldn't say the memories have come flooding back by any stretch, but there is....mm. I think I remember more about who I used to be.

I think I was a lot more like you than I realized.

[A beat, and then, with an abrupt little turn into all due henning fuss:]

And I saw myself in the mirror in Thedas, by the way, so this is not your invitation to go about commenting on how I may have happened to quite handsomely age in my decades of confined torment. I dare you to find any young elf that's been flayed alive that happens to look twice as good.

[Oh, what a dearth of information is packed into those sentences. I think I remember more about who I used to be, I think I was a lot more like you than I realized, and there are a thousand ways to interpret those facts. But though Leto's heart is leaping in his chest, his knuckles white for how tight he's suddenly gripped the notebook, he bites his lip until he knows he'll answer calmly.

For there's nothing worse for fragile memories than a rush of excitement. Demanding questions of who and where and why all crowd around, shattering whatever spiderweb-thin grip you have on that collection of sensations that might or might not be real . . . oh, yes, he knows.

So: keep it light. Keep up that teasing, toothless and vague, and let Astarion tell him as he will.]

I dare any elf to look half as good as you do, regardless of anything else.

[Lightly said, though sincerely meant.]

But you fuss too much about nonexistent wrinkles and flaws. You did age handsomely, my adolescent darling, but that only means you look an adult, not a teenager. And I vastly prefer to see one over the other in my bed.

[A breath, and then, gently:]

What do you mean, you were more like me?

[There's an age-old Waterdavian joke about what it takes to make a prostitute blush. Astarion can't remember the actual punchline anymore— picked up in the Flophouse over ale that reeked enough to turn his stomach— but all that pales in the face of the fact that he apparently is the punchline. Two— three hundred odd years or so old, and he can't help feeling his dead pulse stutter like machinery sputtering to start; phantom warmth pushing the tips of his ears down into a twitching pin behind his curls. None of it visible, some of it heard: sound in the back of Astarion's throat not unlike something being strangled. Or more accurately: strangling itself.

Hells' teeth. He's too bloody old to go about fluttering like a schoolboy in love.]

I—

Edited 2024-03-17 23:21 (UTC)

[But then the rest comes. And just like that the fluster's gone. Just like that, he's shifting on his end of the line (audibly by way of tread worn floorboards that groan beneath his weight in place of softer sighs), trading out one form of muteness with another.

He's fumbling. The words won't come. For someone with a heap of supposition attached to his own eroded name, suddenly it doesn't feel like enough. Like every confession he could utter's too concrete for its theoretical framework, all built up on half-recollections and a handful of weeks spent letting old nightmares wash back in with the tide, for once.

And then he pivots on instinct: comparison a language he can lean on.]

I don't believe Danarius made his tournament and then up and decided to ask you to join.

I think it was the other way round.

[There's a pause there, formed by held breath and the curl of his tongue against one fang. Subtle question lodged, and yet unspoken: (do you understand?)]

I suspect he saw a creature yet to rise to either age or potential, and knew it couldn't say no to an offer of salvation.

[Oh. Oh, oh, oh, and dazedly, beneath the rising rage and grief that roar in his ears and reverberate down to his aching fingers, he hears the question beneath those words. Fragile and unspoken, yes, I understand, yes, I know what you mean— yes, I understand why you say it the way you do.

Because the truth is such a fragile thing. Because words have power; you can endure a hundred thousand agonies and still shy away from having to ever articulate it. It makes it too real, makes it so that you can't take it back— and no matter that Leto wouldn't care if this hunch proved to be false, gods, it isn't about him. Not really. It's about Astarion. About having to face that awful truth; about having to realize and process and endure another horrific crime centuries after it was committed.

Volunteered, Leto had called it once. And it was not until Astarion had gently questioned the use of that word that Leto realized just how twisted the truth had become, even in his own mind. I think, I suspect, and it's so much easier to put it on someone else than to allow it to touch yourself . . .

But he cannot dive deeper into that thought just yet. Not when he's suddenly so angry he can barely see, breathe, function, never mind speak. I suspect he saw a creature yet to rise to either age or potential, and he has imagined that night a thousand times ever since Astarion first told him of it, but now the picture changes. Now it's not a noble in the prime of his adulthood, a magister drunk on power and foolish vanity; it's a boy. An adolescent. An elf no older than a century at most, flawed only in the way everyone else is flawed, his silver eyes bright and his fangs fledgling things, wandering innocuously home at night. Not knowing that his footsteps are stalked; not understanding that the catcalls and jeers from a block away are meant for him.

Not knowing for centuries that his fate had been sealed weeks before.

And it makes sense, you know. It's far, far more likely than Cazador happening to stumble upon a particularly pretty and clever elf that he happened to decide he wanted to turn. Such flights of fancy are for fools who glut themselves on indulgence and die too early; even Danarius wasn't so haphazard as that. Far better to arrange a scenario in which you become your victim's hero, even for a little while . . .

(Scarlet blood soaking into cobblestones, Astarion's voice broken as he begs for a savior who won't come; scarlet blood stark against the snow, a retching shivering creature crawling on all fours before his distant savior. If I do this, you set my family free? Stumbling through the streets, weeping for the pain and the shock of his lack of heartbeat, clinging to a figure that never quite returns the warmth and adoration you want so badly for him to display to you. My precious pet, show me just how grateful you are to your master— on your knees, boy. The ecstasy of being the master's favorite for weeks on end, not knowing you're being set up for a fall all over again. Training for weeks on end, his muscles screaming and sweat dripping down his face, his collar searing against his neck, all for the soft-spoken praise of good boy to leave him trembling in desperate adoration.

And then: the fall. The torment. The agony you never knew was possible (his throat bloody from screaming as he claws at his own lyrium), the horror you think you can't possibly endure (how long was he locked away, how long was he kept in one of those coffins, in the wall, moaning and weeping and screaming for forgiveness, knowing that you might never be let out). Adapting. Overcoming. Erasing your past not just because the pain wiped it all out, but because it hurts too much to remember what you were. What you lost. What you might have been, if only, if only, if only—)

[He's been quiet for too long.]

Yes.

[His voice is tight, grief and rage barely restrained. The book trembles before him, his hands shaking as he stares at nothing. Focus. Focus.]

I suspect . . .yes, I suspect you're correct. It would make more sense. He could find an elf he particularly enjoyed the look and sound of, [and all the while his mind screams and screams, killhimkillhimkillhim find him now hunt him down make him scream make him bleed make him suffer] and mold it to be his own.

[Deflection is Astarion's way, but blunt directness is Leto's— and he struggles for a moment, trying to find a way to be what his amatus needs instead of what he's instinctively inclined to do.]

I was eighteen, more or less.

[Gods. Gods.]

How old were you, do you suspect?

Edited 2024-03-18 20:15 (UTC)

[~~Vampires can't read minds.~~

What do you call it, then, when a knife slides hot between your ribs from half a day's distance away, panging in fractured resonance for something neither said nor seen? There for just a blink, then gone? I knew where to find you meeting I found you again echoed in the brackets of their chapters over and over again, and for a split-second he glances down over that book to find his thumb pressed deep (white as bone) against the midline of his palm, checking for a slice of sickly green arcana. Probing to see if it's still there.

Still linking them to one another.

To their home after all this time.]

[But all he feels is flesh. The knotted jut of bone just lurking underneath.

(Maybe they just know each other too well, that's all, and nothing more in the realm of possibility could be half as pleasant as that.)]

Older than that.

[And, no— he isn't thanking the Maker or Andraste for the less-than-hairline boon of Danarius not condemning his chosen pet to an eternity of eighteen. There's no gratitude there. No bliss. But all the same, the point stands true: knowing what he does of monstrosity, if he's glad of anything aside from broken bonds, it's that he met his lover with crease-marks on his brow and rough lines at the corners of his eyes before the rest played out.

Fenris could never be a normal elf. But for what, twenty years or so— including a little more or little less, depending— he got to live (focus on that, Astarion).

He drags his knuckles along his own jaw when he exhales, the sound whittling between sharp incisors.

It's not hesitation. Only the hissing catch of anger he can't place when its genesis is dead and long, long gone.]

But I might've had sixty or so more on my buckish dance card before he scratched his name into it. [Mild, despite its acidity. Light enough to border on playful joking if not for the gravity that holds it, keeping the corners of his mouth curled only by a scant few degrees.] I wasn't young for a magistrate in a human city, that much I know for certain. It made sense to serve, and gods, I don't doubt I must've wanted it—

Let alone took pride in it. [(Those flashes of memory that keep crawling in these last few months in dreams aren't laced with pleasant sentiment. And there's always the question of which came first in the figurative tale: the monster or the prince.)

Pulling away from it, he snorts.]

I imagine you were a much more tolerable youth.

I— yes, perhaps.

[It's a nothing-answer, a vague attempt at returning the joke withering in his throat. He can't tease right now. He can't banter back and forth about who was brattiest, not when his heart feels like ice and his mind roars with an inferno of hatred, seething simmering snarling for the murder of a creature miles and miles away.

Sixty, and it might as well be eighteen. No matter how the humans count it, Astarion wasn't grown, not really. Not as he should have been. There's a difference, and gods, doesn't Leto know it now. Sixty, and the word echoes in his mind in time with his thundering heart, a percussive beat that won't end.

In the distance, his friends call to him. He makes a vague noise, waving them off; then there's the sound of footsteps, short and sharp.]

I'm coming home.

[Of course he is. Of course he is, for they need to be together for this conversation. And yet Leto (or is it Fenris right now?) will not make Astarion wait in nauseating anticipation while he stalks there.]

What makes you certain you were sixty? I do not doubt you, [he adds hastily, feeling like a fool for how clumsily that came out. He can barely think right now, but gods, he needs to try.] But you seem certain of that age. Is it a full memory you can recall, or simply that certainty . . .?

Mmh. Just that I was young. ['Just that', Astarion says, as if that's not enough entirely on its own. And yet to his credit, he's not blind in his irreverence: only someone that didn't know Leto all that well would miss the meaning behind that fumbled banter. The surging promise that he's coming home.

And Astarion knows Leto very well.]

Impatient, I think. That's the sensation I feel most whenever I find myself blindsided by an odd pang of what must be half-formed memories trying their utter damndest to cram their way into the forefront of my mind post-sleep. Probably something to do with the apparent difference between what passes for a nice, respectable age for a proper magistrate in Baldur's Gate, and the 'lifetime'— as you so eloquently put it— that forestalls Elvish naming ceremonies.

[He squints at nothing for one beat longer, trying to make sense of something from the mess inside his skull, but it was never really there to begin with.

And then, sans any segue:]

You didn't just pass up all those friends of yours just now, did you?

Edited 2024-03-21 20:17 (UTC)

[Impatient, and what an apt word, for that's what he feels thrumming through him right now. Impatience at every obstacle that forces him to halt (the crowds thick, a particularly slow woman meandering ahead of him, a line of horses tied together and led one-by-one through the streets); impatience as all his soul screams that he isn't where he ought to be. Now I need to be near him now the clamoring cry of his heart, and it's almost as loud as the echoing shriek of his mind.

Sixty.

Sixty years old, and he cannot stop picturing it. Sixty, he hears the word with every swift step. Sixty, sixty, sixty, his face softer and less lined, his eyes bright and irreverent, sipping wine and giggling as he sat among his peers at a party . . . and it doesn't matter what he used to be like. Leto knows his lover well enough to guess that he was every bit the perfect noble, irreverent and selfish, thrilling in the power he held as a magistrate and caring little for those he sentenced, yes, he knows. But it doesn't matter, see? It doesn't matter if Astarion was someone Leto might have once loathed; it doesn't matter in the same way the color of his eyes or his inclination towards spice doesn't matter. They're important details because they make up who Astarion was, and he is owed them after so long— but whatever those details are, they don't change who he is now.

Perhaps Leto (and it is Leto) was the more tolerable youth. But perhaps not. Perhaps it matters and perhaps it doesn't, but they'll figure it out once he finally gets there.

But oh, that question. Leto blinks just once, dragged out of his intent focus on what came before.]

What? Yes. Of course I did. I will meet them tomorrow.

[The number of days he has left with them is growing ever-shorter, but they still have a few weeks left. And though his heart will be sore to leave them, though he mourns any lost time already, still. This is so much more important that it doesn't compare, not in the slightest. Besides: they're available so often. Rare is the day Leto doesn't end up running around with them regardless, stray pups with limited responsibilities and too much energy so eager to get into mischief as often as they can.]

But I can well imagine that impatience, especially among humans. Especially if they matched your age.

[Tell me more, and he doesn't know why it's so important, save that he fears if they stop speaking of it, they never will again.]

I—

[But no. No, he should save this. Fasta vass, and the curse is audible beneath his breath, his irritation with himself rising. I remember more about who I used to be, and he will not let them move on from it.]

Edited 2024-03-22 02:35 (UTC)

[And the thing is, he's probably right.

(How often have they picked at the worst of their own knotted scar tissue, pricking it open to ease off fenowed rot that never really wanes— only builds into a swollen sense of passive pressure, struggling for its chance at freedom? How often has it lasted, that same dedication to excising their wounds once they've exhaled and set back in along the lines of utter comfort or sheer, blissfully upending sex? They're good at diving in. Good at grasping. Gripping. Holding—

And most of all: forgetting. Never lingering too long, lest it starts to really sting.)

So even catching the winded quality of Leto's voice over the clopping of hooves in busy streets, he's struck headlong by the mercy of care that catches him off guard. By the fact that he wants him home, too, making it a mutual affair.

And there are times and places where astarion surrenders his guard, sinking into fragile marrow. Softened shapes. Knee pulled to his chest along the edge of their bed, knuckles pushed across his lips— back to front, ridge-first. Resigned.

This is one of them.]

Tsk— you might not be wrong.

[Like a laugh, but wan. Amused and moved, and aimless in the eye of that waiting consideration that asks and truly cares to hear him speak without leashing their attention on that pause (and more miracle that it runs both ways, for:)] I do believe I remember one or two fêtes, if I'm honest. Long nights. Possibly as rowdy as the one you and those friends of yours share.

[—Ah. On second thought.]

Mm. Maybe not.

At least not unless you end your scuffles swimming naked in champagne, in which case— I'd be quite jealous. [He wouldn't.

One foot propped on the edge of the mattress, Ataashi underneath his other heel like an ottoman. Her and the pups dozing in a circle round him as he works to keep his young kadan at ease through conversation until—

Is that the sound of naked footfalls that he hears?]

[Half as many footfalls as there ought to be, for Leto takes the stairs two at a time, skipping up them and opening their door so hastily he ends up stumbling in. There's a faint flush to his cheeks and a hint of sweat along his hairline, visible as he kicks off the hated chanclas (the closest he can come to wandering around barefooted). He'd run here just as quick as he could. And you could argue it was silly to do so when they were talking to one another the whole time, for what difference does a few minutes make— but the moment that Leto sees how his kadan is positioned, oh, he only wishes he'd gotten here sooner.

For it makes every difference. Not just because the topic might be lost, but because such things matter. Because after two centuries of torment, his vampire deserves to be taken care of, and shown that his pain and his memories matter more than anything.

He closes the door firmly behind him and crosses the room, picking his way carefully across slumbering pups and a sedate wolf until he can climb in on Astarion's other side. From there he settles his back against the headboard, one arm extending out in silent offer: curl up into me if you wish, easily given and easily ignored if it isn't wanted.

And all the while, Leto keeps his eyes on his mate, refusing to let this pause be broken by anything save what really matters.]

Tell me what fêtes you remember.

[Perhaps Astarion wants to start another way. To talk about the memory of gnawing impatience and arrogant superiority; to linger on the horror and grief of he saw a creature yet to rise in age or potential, and all the nauseating implications that carries. But sometimes, Leto knows, it's easier to start with irreverence. To start with there was a party instead of I remember the first time I was thrown to the wolves.]

[What Astarion wants is his mate. And it's a miracle all its own that the transition between arrival and the sprawl across their bed doesn't do anything to disturb the muzziness of their pack's sleep (though in all fairness, routine— the one they've settled into in Evereska— dictates that Leto would never be returning at this hour in the first place: whatever those tiny ears must pick up in the full depths of their treat-filled slumber, surely it isn't real). Quiet movement heralding the slow fall into his counterpart's side, cheek tucked under chin, contentment a slow, spreading sense of warmth to wash away the dark.

Their sleep schedules are going to be so fucked.]

It's—

[Hm.]

Do you remember that night you and I got utterly stupid drunk in Lowtown?

[The blur of nonsense they enacted on each other as much as anyone else in that place. Little whirring flashes of memory more imaginary than real without the rest to go along with it. Spilled drinks. Stolen coin.

Oh so many bruises.]

[Their sleep schedules are going to be fucked and Leto doesn't care, not when everything suddenly feels so right. A sharp contrast to his harried haste a moment before, every cultivated instinct whispering that he wasn't where he ought to be now swiftly silenced. Astarion curls up into his arms, small and contained and protected, yes, this is where they both belong.

It's been so long since he's gotten to do this, but that only means he tends to his duty more vigilantly, determined to offer Astarion a comforting space and steady ground to stand upon both. His chin lifts, making room for his mate to curl into, his fingers combing slowly through loose curls as his other arm settles heavily against his form, keeping him close. I will keep you safe, I will help you as best I can, all of him so intimately aware of how hard it is to recall bits and pieces of one's past.

And soon enough, there is an answer to his question. Puffs of tepid air against his neck as Astarion speaks in a tone that's reserved only for them, intimate and vulnerable.]

Oh, yes.

[Snapshots of sensation more than a clear start-to-finish: the sour scent of ale and unwashed bodies filling his nose as he'd peered over the edge of his tankard, grinning as Astarion showed off how easily he could pick a pocket. Gold glimmering between his fingers before being safely stowed away; it's a kind of magic, see? drawled out in Fenris' ear, and the teasing swat Astarion had received for such a joke was received with a barking laugh. Liquor so potent it stung his tongue as they'd egged one another on with bets over— oh, who could even remember? Sexual favors and teasing kinks drawled out as potential rewards, and by the end they'd gotten so worked up they'd left the bar just so they could rut in the alley nearby— only to encounter a few members of the Undercuts who wanted to lighten their purses. And so they'd fought (clumsily, drunkenly, and yet still far outclassing their foolish attackers), and fucked, and drank some more . . .

It's all blurred. He can remember snatches of the night, sentences picked out without context, smears of color and sound woven with a general feeling of happiness. Joy. Love, warm and content and delighted by how well the night was going.

And here and now, Leto suspects he knows where Astarion is going with this, and so adds:]

Bits of it, anyway.

[Diligent little heart, beating with more years than he looks from the outside in. Moments like this, they'd have to seem absurd to any uninformed observers (scarcely any wonder the buckish herd his amatus runs with can't seem to figure it out in any sense): watching a lanky moon elf barely grown into his ears and limbs comforting a full-fledged vampire with a worldly show of care— the streaks of silver in that hair companion to the laugh lines dappling his cheeks. Track marks for exhaustion beyond exhaustion.

(Laugh lines. Gods. What an ironic name, considering how Astarion earned his doing anything but that.)

But it wasn't long ago that the tables were reversed in their arrangement, and it was Leto who stood unshackled and prodigious in his ultimacy against a tapestry of horror that would swear it was a front. A lie. A game. No one could be that kind. No one would be that gentle, that fierce, that knowing, not without another motive— and yet he was: Astarion could barely keep up in his shadow, and Hells if he didn't know whether he wanted to be like him back then in those first few strides of buckling freedom, or with him.

Laid out like this, purring like an overgrown cat for all the attention that he's getting against soft skin and softer curls, he still isn't quite sure the answer isn't both.]

Oh—

Well that's more than I expected, at the very least. [Playful, the canting of his voice. The tipping of his chin, his lips— angling to kiss (to nip) the underside of Leto's jaw.] You could barely stand by the end of the night....

Though that gorgeous cock of yours certainly didn't have the same problem in my hands. [Hand, accurately: after a certain point all Astarion remembers is pinning Leto to a wall with his wrist aching for the angle of his buried strokes beneath rucked trousers. Breathing hot across pale markings that tasted like glass to his tongue, and almost seemed to buzz each time he tasted them.

He has to change the subject to keep from losing himself to homesickness, a sudden dead drop in his gut.]

Best parts of our adventures aside, it was....well, no. It wasn't like that, but— [His eyes dart upwards towards the ceiling, exhaling once. Twice. (Each puff of air cold as the corners of their sheets.)] My recollection is.

The patriar I danced with were young. In dreams, their faces blur, and I have no idea whether it's masks they don or my own failing recollection, but I know that I was happy. Thrilled. Eager to prove myself, and everything smelled like it did in Thedas, still: no copper tang polluting everything around me, no pricking myself when I laughed.

There was still ambition in me, whatever that was worth.

[Another pull of air, and then:]

After Cazador....not so much.

[He can imagine it so easily.

Astarion young and proud and bright: lips wet with droplets of champagne that glimmer gold in the enchanted candlelight, his eyes gleaming as he'd danced with some strapping younger son or pretty elven girl. Hands meeting hands as gossip is exchanged behind veiled pleasantries; flirtations gliding off slick tongues for no other reason than fun. Or perhaps it had been more daring: Astarion's face half-hidden behind a mask, the only thing visible a wicked smirk as he'd slipped his fingers beneath a hem or palmed pointedly up one thigh. Perfume brushed through his hair and his clothes so perfectly tailored, nothing on his mind save having fun and showing himself off to the world all at once.

It's familiar. Not just because Leto is used to such parties (albeit from a vastly different viewpoint, though Rialto gave him a taste), but because he knows the flaws in those recollections so well. Blurred faces and snatches of emotion disconnected from any larger backdrop . . . and how strange it is to recall. To have a snapshot portrait of who you were and how you acted, what you thought and felt and were, and yet to have no greater context to which to apply it . . . oh, it's disorienting. Nauseating. Overwhelming, and yet not so much so that you wish to never have remembered at all— gods, no. No, he held on (Astarion will hold on) to those memories with white knuckles, going over every detail again and again until he has gleaned every bit of information possible from them.

Leto knows the feeling. Gods, does he ever.]

No, I imagine not.

[He murmurs it gently, sympathetic acknowledgement without lingering for too long on it. For it would be so easy to get lost in bitterness of all that came afterwards (he knows), but that isn't the point right now. His hands keep up their steady motions, his heart warming as he feels more than hears the contented purr rumbling low in his lover's throat.]

Ambition to succeed as a magistrate? Or ambition to prove yourself regardless?

[A few seconds pass, and then Leto adds softly:]

I'm glad you were happy.

[Gods, he is. More than he can properly say.]

And perhaps some of those details will sharpen in time. Perhaps not who you danced with, but . . . I have found some come and go. What color you wore, maybe, or what you drank that night . . . such things have a strange way of cropping up.

[Leto's voice rings with it, understanding.

It strips Astarion to the marrow in an instant, unintentionally on either end of their array. Has him tight-lipped around the flexion catch of his softly clenched jaw, dry heat bubbling in his nose, swimming angrily around the backs of his eyes. He wasn't ready for it. For the heavy lay of sentiment like that, one foot wedged in past and present.

He feels like a bloody fumarole.

Ashamed even in absolute privacy— with the only person he'd ever trust with secrets this fragile to begin with— and the sheer absurdity of that comprehension somehow makes it worse. The words I'm glad you were happy having already hooked hard under fractured ribs, leaving him unguarded for a promise so sweet it scalds his tongue. His throat. His fingers. He doesn't know why.

(He should be warm. He should be kindled, burning from the inside out with that feeling of appeasement always shared to know his only lover understands. Not this. This wet, sick knot of rote taxation, upset at the promise that Leto heard some half-muttered story about a spoiled magistrate while his family and their hollow stomachs waited in the wings to play their written part, and offered, still— )]

Don't—

[Astarion cuts hotly.]

Don't. Say that.

[The words leave him wrong; that isn't what he meant. He's sat up somewhere along the way, though he can't remember when.

Something loitering on the tip of his tongue when he looks back.

It doesn't come unstuck.]

[It's like triggering a trap on Sundermount.

One wrong step, a click, and then that awful split-second where you have just enough time to realize how fucked you truly are before the flames begin. A singular misstep that might lead to disaster if it isn't handled correctly— and gods, but he does not want to misstep here. Not when this is such a vitally important conversation.]

What is it?

[His voice is low and unassuming, his body still as he forces himself not to leap after Astarion. For it reminds him, too, of those early days— gods, it was the first week they'd known each other, wasn't it? When their trust was still so tentative, and it was a daring thing to sleep on Astarion's floor instead of returning to that lonely mansion. Astarion had woken in a terror, so panicked and overwhelmed that any move Leto would have made would have set him off further—

And so he'd gone still. Quiet. No sudden movements, no abrupt cries or demanding questions . . . like how you'd treat a spooked animal, not wanting to make everything worse. He keeps his eyes locked up on his amatus— and unlike that nightmarish first night, he does not hide away his own emotions. Worry and surprise and concern above all, hungry to help and utterly unsure of what had gone wrong.]

What's wrong?

[It sounds so agonizingly stupid. So bloody trite. So—

Strewth, he doesn't damned well know what it sounds like, other than nothing Leto needs hounding him from the rabid maw of luxury itself, even if it did fall from grace nearly two centuries ago. Purgatory thereafter might've stripped away his skin, his bromidic sense of scepterdom, his sense, his hope, his very life— even the crude color of his eyes (which can't have been crimson; no high elves sport that shade)— but it didn't undo it, either.

And now what?

A kind gesture— the sweetness of conversation gifted to him by someone with the scent of sunlight still on his skin— yanked back to swim inside a handful of inches of empty air. Knees folded over, back hunched in a sullen arch. Leto's body language gone to stone, alerted to a catalyst he can't possibly know.]

You—

[Oh come on, Astarion. Come on. Think straight. Say something. Say anything. Don't leave him laying there like this.]

You should've been happy. If either of us deserved that before— everything, it was you.

[To mouth out something as absurd as 'I'm flinching because you tried to be kind to me' is about as reasonable or fair as spitting on closeness. On comfort. On love.

He doesn't want to be that.

Doesn't want to do that.]

[His eyes dart about Astarion's frame, drinking in the way he's curled in on himself.

And it really is just like that first night, isn't it?

Take your pick as to which he means, for two memories clamor for attention all at once. The first time (and he will always count it as the first time) they met. When he'd followed Astarion home and revealed the depths of his bitterness and his rage; when his kadan, in turn, had shared the details of his enslavement. I did better on my back than my heels; two hundred years, that's how long I was leashed to his side, and Leto can still remember the nauseating way his stomach had dropped to hear those facts. So much worse than anything he'd gone through, he'd thought but hadn't said, for comparison would only have been taken as pitying, not sympathetic.

And then again, Leto thinks of the first time in Rialto. Once the sweat had cooled and they were more interested in exploring other kinds of intimacy; when revelations about the web of scars adoring Astarion's back had come to light, and the topic had turned once again to their respective pasts. I always thought I knew just how bad it could get, Astarion had said hoarsely, and Leto had all but panicked in how vehemently his soul rejected such a notion. Two decades and a handful of memories were nothing compared to two centuries, he'd thought, and it had taken no small amount of soothing from Astarion to convince him that it was not a competition. That neither of them had it worse; that they were both such miserable, broken creatures, and that to compare would be foolish.

And it was.

And it is.

But perhaps, Leto thinks now, it's more difficult when you feel instinctively as though you did get the better deal. When you have woken your beloved from so many screaming nightmares; when you have heard him sob for the bitterness and grief of all the years stolen from him . . . oh, it feels the height of selfishness to insist I hurt, too.

Slowly, the tension eases out of Leto's frame. He makes no sudden movements, but nor does he keep that rigid posture of before. Instead: he uncurls. One leg drifting out, stretching along the bed until it rests beside Astarion. Not touching, not yet— but there all the same, and easy to lean into should Astarion want it.]

Well, yes.

[He says it so mildly it might almost come across as a joke, save for the quiet but fierce sincerity in his expression.]

I will not argue. I did deserve to be happy. And while I will not say I have no joyful memories of my early childhood, I suspect you're right: they don't compare to the luxury of parties or dancing. And I deserved better than what I had.

[His head cocks. And then, gently:]

But two mere decades of being my master's adored favorite doesn't compare to two centuries of competing among six siblings just so you could survive another day. Having your skin flayed from your body over and over might well compare against having lyrium forcibly grafted into your marrow and muscle— but then again, I only went through that process once, and I cannot imagine how many times you were left to shiver in agony. Getting to don pretty clothes as you went out to seduce victims does not compare to an iron collar in Tevinter's heat— and having to rut each victim, enduring their hands and mouths and vulgar desires, is far, far worse than the days when my master would force me to run behind his carriage.

I could compare every horror we have ever suffered against one another, Astarion, and who knows who would win? Neither of us, I suspect. For we have never compared. We have never played the game of who had it worse, for the answer is that we both did in our own ways. And the horrors you suffered were no greater or lesser than my own, not when it comes to how much we have both suffered.

[He takes in a shallow breath, and then, softer still:]

We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.

I am happy that you were happy, not because I do not wish the same for my own life— but because it would bring me no joy to know that you were miserable. You deserve that happiness just as much as I did, and do. And just as you would not begrudge me what few happy memories I have with Varania or my mother . . . so too do I not begrudge you the simple joy of a mere party, kadan.

[Understand, and he does not know why he suddenly feels a hint of a lump in his throat. His eyes aren't wet, he isn't about to cry, but desperation thrums through him. Understand, please understand, because he cannot allow this memory to be lost under a crashing wave of self-loathing and snarling defeat.]

[There's a moment of hesitation. A moment where Astarion is deathly still at the center of Leto's focus, pinned less by the heat burning behind his ears and more by every waking word he struggles just to drink in— their perfect inflow all he wants to drown beneath, no matter that his chin is barely above darker water. The noxious wash of history he never conquered so much beat back and shut away without once imagining it'd catch him so off guard as this (how— how is it that he forgets so easily, when picking out the thorns always leads to splinters underneath their skin for days), when contentment's so far given them a chance at bliss beyond bliss provided that they stick to the routine: the cues were so predictable till now, the warning signs were there. If Leto has nightmares where he's shrieking, don't press in the next day; if Astarion's too restless to stand still, he needs to go— to kill— to hunt until the burning boil of his thoughts subsides; let your consort chase monsters, shut the door if need be on those nights when you still think that you should breathe; be patient, be trusting, have faith.

You've never steered each other wrong before, if not a few degrees off course when falling between worlds.

And so there's that moment of hesitation. There's Astarion deathly still, drinking in whatever he can take of those words and this scene and the way Leto looks so ridiculously beautiful trying to untangle the threading they're caught up in. And while not comparing the nightmares is— not necessarily easy, only easier in practice: soot to ash, blood to bone, it's too stark— too potent— compared to macarons and molding handfuls of passed-off millet. Processing that, coming to terms with it....

(It never bothered him before.)

Full years away from the first time he felt the divide stretch out like a chasm driving them apart, but the first time he's noticed it before twisting like a cat to set it straight: thumbs pushing over Leto's face as if pantomiming wiping away the tears that aren't there.

That don't come.

(They try to keep forging ahead. Keep opening doors within themselves. Is it any wonder that what stumbles out from the other side aches and maddens when it finds them?)]

Maker and Adraste damn it. [His thumbs press a few degrees too hard without him noticing as he strokes along sharp cheekbones, leaving faintly reddened track marks in their wake. His voice, on the other hand, is sober. Sane.

Mournful, maybe, even as the corner of his mouth pulls higher on one side.] Stop being so clever.

[Warm. Warm. Fond as the heat of sunlight that clings to moonstone skin, kissing the pads of all his fingers.] You make me look an utter fool.

[He huffs out a laugh that isn't a laugh at all, mingled grief and relief both flooding through im as he turns his head into one palm. The drag of his thumbs is a little too rough and Leto doesn't care, not when every fitful press serves as evidence that he was heard. His eyes soften, his expression just as mournfully warm as he stares up at his amatus; it's hard, I know it's hard, and it is. It will always be hard, and they will always hit snags, guilt (and, be honest, perhaps some quiet resentment) flaring in both of them for any moment in which the other suffered marginally less. But the clarification matters. The fact that they both of them deserved whatever happiness they could eke out before or after their masters is worth affirming. And they will do it again and again for as long as they need to, until perhaps centuries from now the message will finally sink in.

But oh . . . some of that mingled relief and grief, too, is for the deliberate oath that slips past Astarion's lips. Maker and Andraste, unexpected and yet relished all the more for it. Of all the things he's given up when coming to this world, his old religion is the least of them— but it's like a sudden breeze on a hot day to hear those words now. And it suits, doesn't it? As they think about their pasts and their futures . . . oh, it fits. Even if it's only ever in this room, even if it's only for now, he savors it.]

You can repay the favor when next we discuss my past, hm?

[For make no mistake: there will be a time when their positions reverse once more. It's always the way with them. He presses his hand over Astarion's own, fingers gently sliding over his wrist. Gently, then:]

Come tell me more.

Details you can recall, or other memories . . . but it is important, kadan. And on a more selfish note . . .

[He meets Astarion's eyes, trying to ensure that his vampire knows how sincerely he means this.]

I enjoy hearing about you being happy. At a party or anywhere else, but it brings me joy to know you were happy.

[A laugh that isn't a laugh at all, sweet and sliding from his tongue like the hollow chuffing of a big cat who's far too long forgotten how to purr (though Astarion can manage both, in all fairness, speaking purely from experience).]

I'll do better than that, you troublesome little sliver of starlight. [It feathers once it slithers past his lips in what passes for both a promise and nod of acceptance all at once, something like reflex taking him over in a way he doesn't have strength left to fight despite the easy smile prying at his knife-edged cheeks: yes, they'll talk again; yes, the scales will tip— for as is so often the way of conversations centered around any breed of sanity, Leto is right. Vetted equilibrium proves there's little more worth trusting in than a bottom line still coiled underneath their knuckles. Sealed there by a reckless pair of former slaves clutching hands so fiercely their skin went purple for days after staving off the Crossroads' worst accumulating magics. And just like it had before, the moment Fenris speaks with a voice well past his fragile years, rote madness quickly slithers back into its narrow excuse for a den, barely able to serve as a distraction. Hardly a detour.

They're on a new path, now.

One that leaves Astarion winding into Leto's outline, weaving back together what his rabbiting mind tore open. Knees under hips— thighs pushed overtop their heavy brace— straddling one leg as he keeps his contact fixed across those cheeks in circling passes of ivory-pale talons.

This isn't a placating game.]

Go.

Fetch the book of arcane spells Talindra gave you. [A kiss that turns into a bite, a nuzzle, a push—

He needs a second to recover from being overcome by something more stunning than rampant acerbity. (And more than that:) they've talked enough:]

It's time for something new.

Edited 2024-04-09 19:18 (UTC)

Oh, is it?

[His tone doesn't quite manage to hit playful the way he wants it to, but it's genuine all the same. There's a difference, Leto has learned in the past three years, between moving on from a topic naturally and shoving past it in a fit of fear. And while some part of him whines nervously, fretful of Astarion losing any minute detail of this memory, he ignores it. This isn't for him to dictate, nor is it his memory to covet. I was sixty, I danced, I was happy, and those details alone are enough.

So he gives himself over to that roughened affection: bucking up into every touch, nuzzling back with such intense adoration that they nearly end up knocking foreheads. Lips brushing against one another, Astarion's weight pleasantly heavy against his thigh, and it takes him a few extra seconds to find the willpower to tear away. One more kiss (his hands settling atop lithe hips, fingertips digging into firm muscle), and another (their teeth clicking as he nips roughly at his vampire's bottom lip once, twice), until with a little groan he pulls away.

At least he doesn't have to go far. The book is just on the edge of his nightstand; with a soft grunt and a little lunge he manages to reach for it without actually having to move. And give Talindra credit: when she gives gifts, she gives them well. The book is a beautifully bound thing, a red cover with gold thread gently stitching featherlight pages together. Each spell is carefully typed out, but it's the little handwritten notes that Leto loves most: Talindra's spidery scrawl appearing the margins of most spells, offering tips and notes for her reluctant student.]

If you wish for magic, Astarion, ask first.

[He says it as he goes and gets the book anyway, but, like, still. And yet he still runs one hand affectionately up the line of Astarion's thigh, so what is the truth, Leto.]

[Nothing folds easily— least of all them. Resilient framework their only saving grace, even when they buckle (slipping forwards into each other; into the games they play and the comforts they know with an almost ritualistic familiarity), it's never as simple a transaction as it appears on the surface: what someone else would see as two elves teasing— talking— nosing at each other with a few muted swipes here or there, is the footpath of a hundred little voiceless conversations.

The way they communicate runs deeper than blood, and gods above, there's such a balance to it.

Astarion grins to feel his lover's lean weight shift. Sharper still to what then follows.]

Mother may I?

[Oh he's a misbehaving thing, though there's something said for the fact that he would never refuse to ask in the first place.]

[Brat, and Leto scoffs out a laugh, amused and (falsely) indignant all at once. Impertinent little brat, and he eases into the familiar back-and-forth like he sinks into a hot bath, soothed by it and all that it represents. Yes, I know, coming out in the way their eyes meet and the firm press of Leto's fingers against Astarion's thigh. We're all right, this is all right, and while they'll inevitably circle back again later, it's no bad thing to sink into distraction.]

Mm, better.

[He leans back, flashing a sharp grin of his own to match the one Astarion sports. Opening the book, he idly thumbs through the pages (his own scrawl evident here or there, indignant notations and exasperated explanations).]

Though I still haven't heard please.

May I is better than please, in terms of politesse. [Astarion puffs back, sly as the fox he mimics through a grin that's all fangs and pale, bone white— one finger hooked along the book's seam to yank it free of Fenris' hold.

Provided the moon elf actually lets go.]

But if I must....

[The book's already in his palm (Leto's hand still a pleasantly crawling weight across his thigh, warm and wanton both); he's already thumbing through in search of something in the midst of all that scrawl, tactile claws leading the way.

A flash of crimson as reddened eyes lift under dark lashes, before:]

Pretty please.

And don't you sound so sweet saying it?

[A drawl as sincere as Astarion's own voice, Leto's mouth quirked up in an irrepressible grin. Bratty thing . . . and yet he cannot help but reward him for it. Both hands now freed, he devotes himself to touching his mate: both palms sliding slowly up the line of Astarion's thighs, thumb digging into lean muscle as he keeps up a steady pattern. It's an oddly soothing action, not unlike a cat kneading a favorite owner; he likes to touch him for the simple sake of touch alone.

Curiosity wins out over patience, however, and he leans up to peer over the edge of the book as he adds:]

What are you looking for, exactly? She organized it by spell name, not magic type.

[And he's nosy.]

Only the best for my favorite tormentor. [Chuckle a slow-rolling thing, washing through him while he course corrects with the new information he's been given (and tries desperately not to shudder underneath the well of that attention, perfect as it is— hells, he's not a child or a lapcat— he can control himself....

But it feels so bloody good.)

And then comes the peering shadow over that book, and Astarion can't help but laugh again, forgetting everything that came before it. Precious thing.]

Here. [Alphabetical: that makes it easier to snap back towards the near-middle of the tome in hand, dragging his claw towards— ]

Detect thoughts.

[Shallow, the tapping of his talon over bored-in ink.] That's what you'll need to use.

On me, if you please.

[Leto's stomach drops, his smile not so much fading as draining as he realizes abruptly what it is Astarion's after. Not a bad idea, at least not in theory— why tell someone when you can show them, after all? And perhaps it would help. Perhaps it would offer more clues to Astarion's past, or at least guarantee that someone else can recall what scant memories he has.

But it's one thing to consider that in theory. Quite another to contemplate it when it means having to cast magic upon Astarion. And not just any magic, no, but something intimate. Something that sinks beneath his skin and seeps into his core, drawing out his memories as though they're little more than pages for Leto to thumb through and gawk at as he sees fit. Not a violation, exactly, not when Astarion is the one asking for it— but gods, that's what it feels like. A violation of his privacy and autonomy all at once, and that's to say nothing of how wary Leto is of casting magic at all.]

You . . .

[He licks his lips, his eyes darting away for a moment as he tries to think of what he wants to say. Not no, but then again not yes, either.]

Has it been cast upon you before?

[He knows the spell, at least in theory. But let him buy a little time with meaningless chatter before he has to dissect what it is he feels.]

[Oh, that's a look he's not seen in—

It's been a while, hasn't it? And for all the comfort of growth and adjustment, it's always a different beast that inevitably comes home to roost on a tail end of a stutter like that (irony far from lost on him, considering why they've wound up here like this). Ebb and flow. Tide and echo. Astarion's not unsympathetic. Least of all for his sole chosen companion and beating heart. Least of all when he still feels the fall line of his prior distress, aligned now with Leto's own.

But he's not one to belittle him, either. And he's no desire to lie.]

Not insomuch, no. Not for a very long time, anyway, and the last time it was, it was just some perceptive little gambler in the Flophouse hoping to catch my hand.

[His smile is sly and practiced, his eyes are soft and entirely sincere; he lifts one knuckle just to brush it along the edge of Leto's own akin to rapping on a door.]

You're nervous?

You are not that difficult to read at cards.

[He mumbles it, an inane statement that isn't even true (for Astarion is a deft hand at cheating, it's just that Leto knows his tricks by now). But he's listening, and gods, does he appreciate Astarion for not lying. No, not really, but he knows what he's asking for. He knows what he's inviting Leto to do. And in all likelihood, Leto thinks, he'll know what it feels like if it goes right— or not.

The gently brush of cool skin against his own makes him glance up, catching Astarion's eye ruefully.]

I . . . yes.

[Yes, he is. And yet the word doesn't quite fit. What is he nervous about, anyway? That it will go wrong? Perhaps. That's always a vague worry, though it's lessened as he's learned more and more. Talindra has shown him time and again what it means for a spell to fail— there are consequences, yes, and they have the potential to be catastrophic, but only if he's working with enormous spells. Low-level ones like conjuring flames or, indeed, even detect thoughts, ought to have minimal backlash. Likely the only thing he risks is giving himself a migraine, and even then, perhaps not.

So if not that . . . what? He keeps up the steady rhythm of his hands, comforted by the routine, and takes his time in answering. Until finally:]

Apprehensive, perhaps, suits more. I . . . it makes me uneasy to cast magic, still. Especially upon you. I know you will not be harmed— indeed, I know I am capable of the spell. I simply . . .

[Mm.]

I suppose it just . . . it reminds me of Tevinter, still.

[All of it. All the countless years spent watching fledgling apprentices and aged masters cast their spells and weave their charms, the world changing at a twist of their fingertips. It didn't matter if what they did caused harm or not, for it repulsed him all the same. And magic is different in this world, he knows; Talindra has taught him more than enough control to keep himself safe, he knows. But . . .

The association is there. And each time he lifts his hand up and calls magic to his fingertips, he cannot help but taste turmeric on the back of his tongue.

But he wants to see this. He wants to share this with Astarion, even if it pains him a little to do so. Leto takes in a breath, slow and steady, and nods just once: all right.]

You're—

[No, he won't ask him again. Astarion knows what he wants. Leto lifts his hand, watching as the fat sparks of azure light roll lazily up his tattoos. And with a low murmur, he casts the spell.

And it's so easy. As easy as standing up to get a glass of water; far easier than it has any right to be, and yet there they are. In an instant Leto feels himself become more, mmph, aware, for lack of a better word. Like listening to a noise at the very edge of hearing; like seeing a hair glinting in sunlight— it's a deft trick and yet not to turn his thoughts towards Astarion's own, slipping beneath the surface and gliding uneasily there.]

Show me . . .

[The first step is the hardest. That moment prior to action when everything is at a standstill in the jaws of dread.

And then it ebbs.

Maybe Leto still feels that apprehension. Maybe he's still afraid of something here twisting into old horror— or new ones, unintended. Either way, what seeps into his mind when that magic finally takes hold is warm. Bright. The warbling of attending crowds in golden halls. The vibrant echo of their voices— consonants sharp— as they patter off of painted plaster and smoothly polished stone. Perhaps in some ways it is like Tevinter: the food is rich in its arrangement, the tannin smell of wine is strong (but sweet). Only something else overshadows the setting, doing more to distort old echoes than either fashion or half-blurred focus.

A sense of belonging.

Deep. Unshakably deep. So concrete he could walk on it and never fall, carrying him through a haze of conversations had with younger shades. Excitement framed by hushed gossip, eager invites. Something like a fraction of a dance or the press of a palm against his own, silk-on-silk and laced with praise. Words he might recognize. Some he won't.

And when it ends in a minute or so, it's a quiet bleed that carries Leto back into the present, away from Astarion's mind. Severing the bond, but not the weight of those pale fingers still nesting along the edge of suntanned knuckles.]

Welcome back.

[Oh, he wants to know what Leto thought— how it felt— but first: the moon elf needs to breathe.]

Thank you.

[The thing is: it doesn't feel like he thought it would.

He'd thought it would be like . . . oh, like rising from the water, perhaps. A gasp of air, a sudden shock as his environment changed— this is who I am, this is what the present is, a lurching dissonance as he went from Astarion's own memories to reality. Instead: it's like reading a sentence from a book. Yes, he went somewhere else for a moment, and yes, you can argue that might he need some reorientation, but it would be strange if he did.

It's so easy.

It's too easy, to his mind. Too easy to slip in and out of someone's memories; too easy to blink and glance up and say yes, I saw that, I heard that, and with no one the wiser. And Leto doesn't really know what to do with that feeling save push it away, adding it to the pile of uncertainty and distrust he has when it comes to magic.

Better to focus on the memory itself. For that . . . oh, that was well worth the effort. The details do remind him of Tevinter, familiar in the strangest way: countless parties served standing dutifully behind Danarius' seat, and they weren't all torturous. He will never say he recalls them fondly, but not every single moment in enslavement was a misery, either. His own memories amalgam: he can almost feel the marble beneath his bare feet, smell the sharp scent of wine and listen to the idle gossip of who was caught dallying with who and what it all means . . . and all the while, the endless glide of dancers fixed in their waltzing patterns stretched out before him. Pretty and pleasant and a little dull, but all the more welcome for it.

But that sense of belonging, that sense of rightness, so firm and unyielding that you could build an empire upon it— that, he has not ever felt. Not once. Perhaps he had a shadow of it with the Fog Warriors, but even then, it was a feeling build on shifting sand. And it's nothing to do with misery, understand; it's nothing to do with feeling as though he doesn't fit in. But there is such a difference between finding kinship with a group of individuals (with a vampire, Leto amends warmly, and turns his hand to catch Astarion's fingers and stroke them with his thumb) and that. That sense of belonging not just in this party, but in this society. This role. This world, where all the rules are laid out and all you ever have to do is play along.

Gods, who would ever want to give it up?

And Leto tries so hard to hold onto that thought, for it is not often he understands why nobles are the way they are.]

It felt wonderful, Astarion.

[Start there, warmly and sincerely, for it did. And then:]

Is it a bittersweet thing to recall? Or merely happy?

[For frankly, both could apply to his own memories of his past. And he has further thoughts, you know. Questions he wants to ask, details he wants to point out— but start there. Start with the tone of it, for that will dictate how this conversation goes.]

Your guess is as good as mine. [Astarion chuckles smoothly somewhere along the borders of awareness, letting relief sweep him from one sense of present insight to the next: focused on himself first as he reattunes to three hundred or so years later in the span of a few blinks, and then to Leto— and the brush of those roaming fingers.

It isn't hard to remember that he likes the here and now better for its benefits— even with his fangs and wicked eyes.]

Some days I swear I've forgotten what it is to be happy or to grieve. For anything. There was—

[Hm.

He pauses, angled up at nothing. Blinking as he squints only to think.]

When you return, I know I'm better than I was. When you're here, I don't feel saddled with inanition in any sense. But dreams? Hells, it's like being out of my own skin when I wake up, for a little while, at least.

I don't know that I feel anything, other than not wanting to go back.

[One slow beat, before:]

But you felt it, didn't you? [Wonderful, he'd said. The nightmare of Tevinter; the bane of nobility that forgets its own keen frailty; Blue Wraith; cruel wolf.]

Purpose. Belonging. Acceptance.

[He nods with each of those words, confirming Astarion's question. Purpose, belonging, acceptance, and with each one, the memory of it only sharpens: that sense of rightness. Of being so utterly and completely at ease within his own skin, knowing he was precisely where he ought to be, knowing that everyone in the room wanted to either be him or be with him, and that everything was assured. Nothing could go drastically wrong, not really, because that's just how life was.]

I did. And I admit, the feeling is . . . I would not give it up. Not willingly.

[Gods, who would? He keeps up his slow stroke, thumb pressing pleasantly firmly against the muscles of his palm.]

It must have been like living a dream. I have never . . . such a feeling is strange to me. But it seems comforting to the extreme, to know you are exactly where you belong. To know that your purpose is laid out— indeed, that your life is laid out only in the best of ways.

[So utterly opposite from the horror of their doomed lives within enslavement stretching out before them . . . gods. Little wonder Astarion doesn't know quite how to respond, for Leto cannot imagine the grief and rage and bittersweet joy that recalling such a thing must bring. To know you had something so wonderful can be a boon and a curse both (and perhaps it wasn't merely wariness that had him delaying meeting Varania for so many years).]

. . . tell me what you mean, when you speak of dreams. Of not knowing how you feel . . .

[His eyes flick up, searching Astarion's face.]

Because of vampirism? Or enslavement?

[He can see the shift, he thinks. Lurking underneath Leto's strikingly unmarred surface— a sort of lengthening of the spine. A rounded positioning that leaves him leaning into the pressure on his thigh, ending with them both a little magnetized: angled in towards each other more than either of them had been. Astarion arched upwards through his shoulders, down across his relaxed hips.

It isn't wanton or alluring. Or at least— not intentionally so.

There's no helping being attracted to one another (something Astarion damned well hopes still holds true even on the worst of days between them), but for the moment, they're only talking. Only circling the idea of a shared past that's now a link, despite the fact that it might as well be oil slick across a dampened canvas. Mostly a blurry smear of color and sensation and whatever feeling it evokes.

But at least in that, they're on the same page there.]

I spent....a long time pretending that I wasn't capable of feeling. [His own fingers rise and flex, if only briefly— gesturing alongside expression before dropping back across his chest, laced.] Self-preservation, I suppose. It wasn't a conscious choice, though I know I don't need to tell you much about those.

[Pot, kettle. No accusations here.]

The point is, do anything long enough and the mind starts to follow suit. Hells, even when I was with Riftwatch, I still behaved for so bloody long like Cazador was right there, perched over my shoulder. Some days I could almost see him. Smell him. Waited for his voice to see me through one direction to the next.

You changed that.

[Old habits.]

But they die hard, don't they? And when I snap back out of dreams of a life and place I can't for the life of me recognize in a body that's no better, it feels....like I need to protect myself again. Something in me just gives in to it— I don't know. [Tsk.] Couldn't put a voice to it if I tried. It just....

It's like a trap, I think.

[There's attraction and attraction, the same word for two different forces.

Understand: there's never a time when he isn't drawn to Astarion for sheer physical thrill alone. Even when they're snarling at one another, it's so easy to admire the curve of his mouth or the hang of his cock— and after three years, he doubts very much that physical allure will ever fade. So in that sense, yes, he is attracted to him, and he will likely always be attracted to him.

But there's another way to think about it. One Leto thinks of now as they draw inexorably towards one another by unspoken command, his hands on Astarion's thighs and his vampire's breath cool against his lips. It's attraction in the sense of inexorable force: attraction in the way a magnet loves metal, the two of them drawn together no matter the outlying circumstances. Let me help, let me be near you, and it's something in their souls, perhaps. Some bit of them that whimpers it's you, it's only ever been you. It's what leaves them scuffing and nuzzling so fiercely late at night, butting foreheads and noses as if they might somehow manage to find a way to grow even closer than they are; it's what drew Leto to the right door when he was lost in the Fade.

And it's what draws them together now: his hands on Astarion's thighs and Astarion's breath cool against his face, Leto arching up as Astarion leans down, the two of them in slow, unspoken synchronization. Their bond made deeper still by the ghosts of Astarion's past lingering in his mind, dancing their endless waltz as Leto tries so hard to commit that feeling of belonging to memory. ]

Mm.

[A small hum to show he was listening as Leto digests that. It isn't such a strange feeling, not when Astarion puts it that way. Not at all.]

I know what you mean, I think. Or at least: I know what it is to fall back into that behavior. To protect yourself first, using the things you knew kept you safe . . . [His palms slide smoothly against soft fabric.] It took me a long time, when I first met Marian, to understand why she would always come calling. For orders and mercenary work, yes, I understood that— but she and Isabela made a habit of dropping by at least once a week. To share a bottle of wine, or to get away from their usual bolts . . . I was unpleasant company at first, I will admit. There were times— not always, but after a bad nightmare— where I treated them as I had treated the other slaves, cold and indifferent. Or I would refuse them, sure that they meant only to lower my guard for . . . I don't know. I do not think I knew back then, either. But I was so afraid, and I knew what had kept me alive those past few decades.

[Another pause, and then:]

But I will always be here to bring you back. To remind you of what it is to feel and think and be on your own, without his influence.

[Another pause. Another slow pass with his palms, his eyes soft as he stares up at his amatus.]

When we return to the city soon . . . let us find things about you. I know we planned to visit your grave, and indeed, I would like to that soon. But even finding dates, or details about old parties . . . guests or families or anything. I— understand: I do not mean to force you, and I will abide by your limitations. But . . . perhaps it will help you find some of that feeling again. Not because you will become who you were— but because you will have a surer sense of what you are now, and how you arrived there.

[Does that make sense? Does that ring true? He isn't certain and his voice betrays that, his eyes darting to the side for a moment. It's just that all Leto can think of is his own past, and how precious few fragments remain: no one records the birth or death of a slave, or which elf whelped another. And he's spent years and years telling himself it wouldn't make a difference either way; that not knowing who his father was or whether his mother was Dalish doesn't affect him, but—

It does make a difference. And there's so much more they might uncover— memories included.]

[It's a beautiful dream. One Astarion wants to believe in— oh not the idea of healing the way Leto says it (a pill too grand to swallow in one breath for a throat as atrophied as his own), but the sheer time to. The opportunity, the chance, the freedom (twice over).

He's no idea if it will ever come.

He's no idea how this will end when they return, other than the fact that he's willing to fight. To risk so much— and conversely: that there is one thing he is unwilling to risk, it if comes to that (the precipice he comes back to again and again after the bitter creep of sulfur into their seclusion; part and parcel of claiming anything for himself, that Cazador always follows. A throughline he can track from Thedas, to Toril, to here). It's etched into the fine lines of his face under thin swaths of pearl-pale curls. His past. His present train of thought, immersed solely in listening. One intersecting the other somewhere just between his brows. But considering all of that....

Perhaps there's only one way this next section of their conversation could go.

A glint of garnet eyes, uplifted. Flickering. Lashes darker than a shade in close quarters. He doesn't know why his tongue pins in tight across his fangs before he manages to pull it loose.]

The magic— [err. ] My darling, the spell you—

[No, wait, he's sliding headlong past this gentle offering. This fragile balm. This moment, perfect as it is. Stop, Astarion. Refocus, Astarion.

He leans closer. Chances a single scrape along the slope between their bridges in slow gratitude to let sentiment show through even in segue. A clearer head, albeit not a cavalier one.]

Would you cast it again, I mean. With cause.

[Before he agrees. Signs his glass heart over to a dream he might not touch, alluring as it is, there's something he needs to know first.]

Edited 2024-04-23 00:33 (UTC)

[There's no real answer Astarion could give, Leto knows. Enthusiastic agreement or snarling denial don't suit in equal measure, and likely Leto won't get an answer until they're within the city itself. It's too hard, he knows, to plan so far ahead and hope against hope that it will work out. It's too hard to face so many things from your past when they aren't certain; it's far, far too difficult to overcome that rising wall of doubt and fear that erects in both their minds whenever something feels too good to be true.

The touch is enough. The press of their foreheads and noses together in adoring language all their own is enough. I hear you, I understand, I'll think about it, thank you for saying so, and words too often feel inadequate. Better to combine that all into one gentle gesture, understanding returned with every slow nudge of Leto's own.

But oh, that request . . . and yet though Leto braces for the inevitable internal backlash, it never comes. Perhaps because Astarion shared his own mind first; perhaps because it's asked instead of demanded, the words fumbled so sweetly that it's confirmation Astarion knows the weight of what he asks. And to that end . . . yes, and he answers with action rather than words: magic glinting once more at his fingertips and his eyes fluttering closed as he focuses on the memory of—

Oh, but it's jumbled, you see? He's torn in too many directions. For a moment Astarion sees himself (doused in adoration and worried affection, his every feature lovingly committed to memory, safe warm loved darling protect perfect, each word an impulse of emotion); then it shifts, blurring until it's Kirkwall. The Hanged Man (Astarion might know the interior from his own explorations, for Leto had refused to step foot in it from the moment he returned to the city). Isabela (brown skin and ample curves, gold glinting in the low light as she throws her head back and laughs at some joke Varric is making) on his left, her body warm and comforting as it presses against his own. Soothing. There's something so soothing about any kind of touch, an acknowledgement that you are here and so am I and I trust you with this—

Which jolts him into fainter memories of the past. And whereas the picture of Isabela was a painting, this is more of a sketch, sensations and colors smeared. A woman whose face Leto can never recall cupping his cheeks and stroking them with her thumbs; Varania still a baby, rotund and with only a scrap of red hair, her little body surprisingly dense as he holds her with both arms. Flagstones cold against his bare feet, her body a small bundle of heat, and all of Leto melting for how much he adores the woman before him. And then again it blurs once more, so that he is older now, sitting in the sunlight in Danarius' courtyard, his hands busy with work he can't recall, watching with amusement as Varania races around endlessly, dizzying in her energy. And then again—]

Err.

[Hang on, hang on.]

Perhaps . . . tell me what you wish to see, and that will make it easier.

[He's overwhelmed before he remembers that to speak, he has to breathe in first. That his lungs don't just fill themselves with air on instinct, void of life the way they are. A scattered tapestry of memories buzzing before his eyes— between his ears— each one pulling out the inlay of himself (as he is. Or as he's learned himself to be, perhaps, considering how much underneath his skin is held together with cheap thread and bitter drink and avarice alone), replaced in these strange seconds with something bright and unmistakable and almost searing to the touch.

Foreign loses meaning in familiarity. Secondhand only, but not the way it dances on his tongue with every taste.

Surrendering himself to that comes more naturally than his own existence.

Dingy tavern rooms and the acrid smell of iron supplanted by names he commits readily to every scattered image: out of order and yet perfectly aligned. Isabela. Varania. Sunlight fasta vass but he's missed sunlight), threaded with the sensation of a flickering pulse— pain, if just the sweetest kind— by any other context: love.

And he sees himself at its center. And—

They're both fumbling things, under their own specific circumstances. Astarion's is naked vulnerability. Honesty. And it has its hooks in him already (and in that divide: touch— thank the gods themselves for that. Slim fingers wrapped around one fine-boned, tattooed wrist, though he can't remember when it was that happened.)]

I—

[Should he deflect? Try to apologize by way of explanation? His eyes scan Leto's— Fenris' (oh memories have him)— no, Leto's face]

Just wanted to see what it was like, as it so happens. Your friends. The way you'd described it. The way you described them.

[He didn't mean to drive a hundred private sensations out of Leto's head. He didn't mean to pry (and coming from him, well....) which is saying something. Something too important to overlook. His head is swimming. He feels unstrung.]

The things you were offering, to me, I couldn't comprehend it— not abstractly. Not truly. Not in any sense.

[And despite the fact that he's reeling enough to feel like a voyeur crossed with a thief (crossed with someone pining for a wondrous loss he never understood, and grips Leto all the more deeply for it) apologetic and appreciative both:]

I suppose I might possess an inkling, now.

[He blinks up at Astarion, bewildered and off-kilter as the spell wanes. It's a dizzying encounter regardless of what direction the spell goes, and perhaps that's why he catches on only belatedly to what his packmate is trying to say. He'd been foolish, he realizes, or at the very least unprepared, for the thoughts he'd shown Astarion were blurred things: his mind leaping naturally from encounter to encounter as he'd wandered down the lane of recovered memories. Nothing coherent, nothing comprehensible— just a blur, and of course that wasn't what he'd meant.

But already Astarion is retreating. Not in body (oh, thank the gods for that grip, and he twists in it only to return it, his fingers squeezing tightly around Astarion's wrist), but in speech. I just and I might, his ears twitching down and his eyes darting about Leto's face— oh, he realizes belatedly, he thinks he's done something wrong.

And he hasn't. Not at all. It was no violation, not when there are so few memories that Leto would mind sharing— and not when it was Leto's magic that prompted it in the first place.]

I— wait.

[For there's a flutter of fretfulness in the pit of his stomach: the sensation of a chance slipping out of his fingertips.]

Simply . . . wait.

[For him to have a moment to allow his sluggish thoughts to gather. For him to breathe, slowly and clearly, and hush the tangle of anxiety rising within him, incomprehensible and bizarre. He runs his thumb against the inside of Astarion's wrist, quiet for a moment.]

I did not realize . . . I was thinking of lost memories, and the things I had recovered. But I would show you my companions. The things I felt, good and bad— and all the ways in which I felt their companionship.

Let me show you more than an inkling.

[Please, the word softly invoked as he stares up at his mate.

But he won't cast until he knows that Astarion is all right with it. That he wants it. Perhaps this was too much; perhaps he has spoiled this moment, fumbling in his own anxiety (and why hasn't that faded? Why is he still so jittery? Magic shouldn't be an issue, not anymore, not here and now— but oh, he'll figure it out later).]

[His hands brace first. Not reflex: properly. A squaring of his shoulders, pressing the flat of his hands on either side of Leto (he has to repeat it in his mind for those few tepid beats; moor himself fully in the present first for just a moment— Leto Leto Leto), along the slope of his arms, bearing down. From the outside in, it might seem harsh. Unkind. And from the outside in, Astarion himself seems harsh. Unkind.

And from the outside in, they might be right.

But not here.

Not like this.

Here, in the circle of slight silence and lowing traces of spent magic, it's a different breed of pressure he's employing: only enough to feel the flutter of his lover's pulse.

Astarion lacks a metronome, you see. Even the trickle of stolen blood in his veins is too weak to work for calmness in any sense or iteration. So if he wants to— needs to ground himself before stepping off the nearest ledge into an ocean of unknowns, the only recourse is to borrow one from someone else. Someone very dear, and very safe.]

Pergentes itinere, then. [He breathes, feeling the sharp tips of his fangs kiss his lips around the half-remembered shape of Leto's own.]

[This time, he waits for a few seconds before casting the spell. Calm, he tells himself, and tries to let his anxiety ebb with his next few slow, deep breaths. Focus, the thought fiercely repeated as his thumb continues to rub absent patterns against Astarion's forearm. He won't make the same mistake twice. Astarion wants to see his friends (and Leto wants him to see them); he wants to know what it felt like to let that wariness melt away, and have companions remind him of who and what he is. Not a slave. Not a runaway elf squatting in a forgotten mansion, snarling and snapping at the world if they got too close. But a person, a companion, a friend . . .

It's still a string of memories— but whereas his recollections earlier were chaotic things, voices layered atop emotion atop sensation all scrambled together into one confusing cacophony, this is smooth. One memory leads to another, each a rich, brief burst of sights and sounds and feelings all neatly stitched together.

If Astarion's memory began with warmth, Leto's begins with cold: there's an eternally present chill when you camp on the coastline in Kirkwall, even during high summer. Sand cold beneath his feet and the endlessly whipping wind colder as it bites through his clothes; the roar of the Waking Sea echoes in his ears as it crashes rhythmically against the jutting rocks. Anders looks pale and wan beneath a half-moon, his earring glittering as he turns to face Fenris. It's a rare moment of civility, Anders' voice low and sardonic as he drawls out a joke about Merrill and Marian sharing a tent; it's a rare moment of returned camaraderie as Fenris huffs out a laugh, amused despite himself. For a moment they exchange a wry expression, adolescent and amused, but he can see the warm surprise that fills him reflected back on the mage's face—

And then it shifts, night into day, the sea into the city: Lowtown as it was before the Qunari invasion and the Rifts, full of vendors and endless crowds eager to spend coin. Marian kneels in front of a dwarf, methodically unpacking all the useless junk she'd picked up on their last expedition. It adds up, her voice musical and her expression glittering (and for a moment the memory veers, Astarion's voice replacing Marion's, his home in Lowtown and all the glittering magpie heaps fondly recalled). Anders grousing on his left side and Sebastian on his right, his grin bright against his tanned face and his blue eyes piercing as he'd caught Fenris' own. There's plenty who'd admire all you've accomplished, his compliment so fiercely direct that it sparks an anxious fluster, Fenris' mind torn between scoffing disbelief and delighted surprise— and then, after that, a shock of realization and subsequent self-examination, am I that, am I so admirable, his mind whirling even as he awkwardly replies, I haven't accomplished anything, you're being kind, and he'd spent so long ruminating on those compliments in the aftermath.

Another shift, another memory: the mansion as it used to be, dilapidated but warm thanks to the fire roaring in the corner. The hand of cards Fenris holds isn't worth very much, but Isabela and Varric don't know that; with a false smirk he raises the bet, amused by Isabela's subsequent pout. Donnic's long since folded; he and Anders bet instead on who will win, goading and cheering their subsequent picks in turn. The world is blurred and soft in that way it gets when he's tipsy, and as he watches Isabela try and fail to distract Varric via a suggestive swig of her beer, something a little like joy flutters in his chest. Belonging, that's what this feeling means. Understanding all the jokes and knowing how to play with the others; knowing that they enjoy his company just as much as he enjoys theirs (yes, even Anders). Feeling as though he could say almost anything and be listened to, and what a relief that is after years and years speaking to no one at all—

And there's more. Snatches of memories of Merrill and Marian, Carver and Bethany, snippets fondly recalled if not lingered upon, and always, there is that longing ache. I miss them, I miss them, I miss them all, and time has made the mantra more sweet than bitter, though it will never stop hurting. Until at last the connection ebbs and Leto opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to stare up at his amatus.]

Like that?

[It's not a real question. Just a way to break the silence, his expression soft and a little unsure.]

[What a reunion by way of memory given breath.

'Beauty is always bittersweet, darling,' Astarion had confidently crowed to the delicate slant of Dalyria's upturned face, rigorously working a line of kohl beneath her eyes with his thumb to smear its cleanliness by degrees before they set in on their prey: a guarantee she'd look alluring. That spoken truth more real than ever now that he's wracked with a sense of belonging he'd never known before this moment. Will never know, in fact. And like the ballrooms and splendor he'd offered up to tattooed palms it isn't grief that swims in to fill the void left behind by Leto's past, per se. But he is—

Lacking. And he can see that now.

(The only thing he has to offer are those memories of her— and maybe on occasion the others in their forced flock, though scarcer still— like the smooth slip of kohl under his thumb or the feeling of her tending to the worst of him with every iteration of needle and thread. It isn't like beaches and moonlit silhouettes and compliments from striking eyes. Warm smiles. No, none of that. Only bickering and arguing and raw skin. The agitated wounds they were instructed to inflict, or self-imbibed regardless.

Monsters.

They, all of them. The closest thing he has, are monsters.)

But at least now there's this. Something to pretend that was his own, through Fenris. (For what have they ever not shared? And, with those words still clinging fiercely to the forefront of his mind:)

'We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.'

So:]

Like that. [Astarion mirrors back. Not a real answer, just a means to break the silence while the world spins hard on its own axis in the too bright in between. Trading echo for echo, and solidifying something for his thoughts to stand on. Like stitchwork, there has to be a foundation first— otherwise it falls apart. He falls apart, barely mended creature that he is. And he feels so thin right now, bottled up with too much he wants to cling to. Wishes he could keep a little longer.

Embarrassing, the way his own eyes twitch under closed lids. Jerking like the spell might just keep going if he asks for it.

That way lies danger, clinging hard to wan illusions. He knows it all too well. (Oh, put it aside, Astarion. Pull yourself together, Astarion.)]

It must have been like living a dream.

[He can still smell it. Home.

His eyes stay shut. Like that, he can't tell if they're hotter. Wetter.]

For what it's worth, I'm glad it wasn't one.

It felt that way sometimes.

[Soft. Gentle. And it's not that he doesn't mean it (oh, he does, oh, it did feel like that, so unbelievable that he fears he might never find it again), but sometimes words are the least of ways in which they communicate. For he cannot say they would have loved you (but oh, they would have, Isabela would have adored him, two birds of the same flock that they are). He cannot say I wish you had this too (for they don't compare and wishing does nothing). He cannot even say that he feels the same crashing wave of guilt and grief that Astarion must have felt a few moments ago, for of course his vampire must know that already.

No, no words, not yet. Instead:

His lips brush gently over first one eyelid, then the other. A kiss to the soft span of Astarion's cheek, the line of his jaw, until at last their lips ghost against one another. Not a kiss meant to incite, but soothe: I know. It hurts, I know. His hands itch to roam over Astarion's body, palms broad and warm, but he bites the urge back; right now, they're both a little fragile. Words are too much; even a touch might teeter them over the edge, rendering his gesture into unintended pity.

Better to stay like this. Better to press together, warm breath against cool skin and gentle nuzzles. Not urging Astarion to move past this, for he will do that on his own, in his own time— and until he does, Leto does not mind waiting.

It takes time for him to speak again— and when he does, it's soft. Easily ignored if needed, but meant all the same.]

Tell me?

[Whatever it is he's thinking. Whatever ghosts haunt his memory or bitterness clashes against desire— tell me, for though he can guess, he wants to hear it.]

My sweet, [and it echoes with the ring of so many times spent alone like this together: the breathless ones and miserable, all. Possessed of pet names enough to put Lorroakan's libraries to shame, sweet was never one he used until it was given to him first by way of a pair of rough-edged lips still caked shallowly with salt. And when it came to him again and again, Astarion started to turn to it warmly without realizing— the slight embarrassment of becoming a bit like a potted plant pressing forward towards the sun rather than some all-powerful monstrosity or fascinatingly befanged elf, not a match for the slow burn that always hit to hear it, until one day it just fit inside his mouth as well (like qunlat; like Tevene; like Maker and Andraste). Vocabulary shifting one last time to prove— regardless of what comes— that he was loved.

So when those same sweet lips find him in ways that make him want to shatter (—gods, he's never been like this before— ) and come apart within those arms with wracking sobs for warmth and life and—

Maker.

He exhales against that mouth. Against that pretty, fringe-flocked profile. The answer's right there, isn't it? Pushed slow and steady against his skin; swimming softly in his skull.

He's homesick.

He's so bloody, stupidly homesick. For Leto. For adopted visions of small fingers clasped around his own and the smell of Seheron or the cramped decay of Lowtown heat funneled into cheap ale and rotted decks of cards. For life, all of it.

Everything that was theirs.

My sweet, he starts again after seconds (or: forever), their profiles kept flush.]

You know I really wish I could.

[The twist of cold fingers around warmth, matched knuckle for knuckle.]

How does—

[Hm.]

How do you stand it? [Astarion asks around the soft set of his throat, trying and failing to perceive more of what's behind his lover's lidded stare. Nothing to be gleaned without effort, apparently, now that the magic has up and faded.] I thought parties and fine wealth was the epitome of comfort to be longed for. So much so that I— [or perhaps Cazador] —cut it out to save myself.

You didn't.

I did.

[The softest demure as he stares up at Astarion, his expression as unguarded as he can make it. There's nothing he won't share with his mate, nothing he'll ever deny him— but that's different than the two of them being able to understand each other without a single word. Grief lines Astarion's face, misery making his eyes overbright and his mouth soft, but Leto cannot fully guess the source. Not yet, anyway.]

Come here, sweet . . .

[Petname intentionally echoed as he gathers him up more fully: leaning back against the bed and urging Astarion to fall further in his arms, so that the vampire isn't straddling him so much as sitting in his lap. Leto wraps his arms around him, kissing his forehead, his cheek, each motion gravely doting. He won't patronize, not now of all times— but gods, Astarion deserves some comfort.

Only once they're settled does he resume with a sigh.]

I did cut it out. All of it. After Kirkwall . . .

[A beat, and ruefully:]

I forget often that you did not know me back then, for at times it feels as though you have known me forever. But after Kirkwall's destruction . . . Astarion, you are more remarkable than you understand, for until you, I did not let a single person close to me.

[His mind drifts back. He does not like to think about those years, not if he can help it; they were long and lonely and hard, and the only good thing he can say about them is that he was at least useful during them.]

I was so hurt, and in my rage and confusion and grief, I became bitter. I wandered the wilds endlessly, desperate to find anyone and anything I could take my emotions out upon. I refused to go back to Kirkwall; I refused to allow myself the pleasure of any kind of company. Eventually, I found bitter satisfaction at killing slavers . . . and I will not say I did not get pleasure out of freeing their captives, but it was no altruism that motivated me. I was bloody and vicious and mean, and what allies I gained I kept at an arm's length, treating them like subordinates and little else.

[For the first time in a long, long time, his mind flashes to Shirallas. Perhaps if he had . . . but he has long since learned not to ask what if. What if I had been more to him, what if I had taught him better, what if, what if, what if, but who can say? For a moment Leto's eyes dart away, his brow furrowing— but though it is a painful story to relate, perhaps it will help.]

There was . . . an elf I knew once. A Dalish, believe it or not. Shirallas was his name . . . we worked together for some time freeing elves who had been captured and were heading to the slave markets. He was full of rage, just as I was, and that suited us both. I saw a great deal of myself within him, but he was young and inexperienced with magisters and their ilk.

There was a night by the fire . . .

[How do these things go? A touch, a glance, words unspoken and questions unasked. Roughened fingertips brushing curiously against his thigh, and Fenris—]

He made an overture, and I rejected him. I did not just demure, but warned him off so sharply he did not dare try it again. What might have been friendship or, indeed, even something more became a tense working relationship. And it was not long after that he disobeyed my commands and followed his own mad plan to take down a magister.

[A few moments pass, and then Fenris sighs heavily.]

He tried to go undercover. We knew there was a magister who was training slaves to become mage-killers; he wanted to pose as a captured Dalish and learn their secrets. But the magister saw through him in an instant, and I could not free him. I thought him lost, until years and years later . . .

[Another pause.]

The magister had found Danarius' notes. The sarcophagus he used to sear my flesh and prepare it for lyrium. And when I found Shirallas, trying to rescue him, he told me that he was close. That he wanted that power for himself. He deluded himself into thinking that his master wasn't pulling his strings, and that he was still undercover.

He got his wish, in a way. But whereas Danarius had used pure lyrium for me . . . he used red lyrium for Shirallas. And it drove him mad.

[Gods. Leto's face has gone grim, his eyes distant. Then, abruptly:]

I put him down. [Friend, he whimpered questioningly up at Leto, and years later, it still hurts to recall.] Beheaded him and buried his corpse . . . and I was all the more closed off for years after that.

[But gods, what a story. What a long, roundabout story to illustrate his point:]

That only changed with you.

Even then . . . I feared losing you for so long. I feared my feelings would repulse you; that you would think of me as no different than those in your past. And I feared for myself. I feared you would leave; I feared that I was acting a fool and it would all end in heartbreak all over again.

Kirkwall and all my companions . . . I cut out any notion of companionship for nearly a decade because it hurt too much to let it in again. But I could not resist you, despite my heart screaming out warnings each time we met. Even now, with that idiot pack I run with, I fear losing them.

I stand it by remembering you. And, admittedly, by letting no one save you close to me. Whether that means I have recovered or not . . . mph. I don't know.

I— is what you meant?

[He realizes abruptly that they've veered off the topic, and gods, he does not want to make this about him. He tips his head, nuzzling faintly against Astarion's forehead again.]

My point in all of this is merely that . . . it is not so easy as I make it sound. And it is a loss that hurts and affects me even to this day.

[He doesn't need the arcane to see it with abhorrent clarity. Every word twists in his mind, painting a harsh map of the sort of story Baldur's Gate would lap up like fine wine: touting praise over its tragedy for years. Decades. Longer, even, given the lives of those elves who love both theater and practiced pining.

For Leto— for them— it's only real. Worn in sunken swaths of his expression. Etched into the way he can't sit still, even in retelling. It swims beneath Astarion through the muscle he's laid against. The places of Leto that he's folded into or over, and it rattles in that voiced washed out in sips against his curls. Making it one set of memories Astarion is glad he didn't see.

(How childish is that, some aspect of him hisses like the sickly reflex it is. All the nightmares he watched. All the gruesomeness he swore to never look away from, only to make certain the lesson of it always came home: beauty is so fleeting. So pointlessly fleeting. Three years of only one set of hands later and now suddenly he's too spoiled to handle a beheading in weathered retrospect.)

Dull it. Clip it down to the quick. The shape of this exchange is too tender— too wanted— to deserve to bear the weight of bitterness too. Astarion's hand slides instead towards the center of Leto's chest, slow and meandering through the borders of his palm. Cool to warm. Warm to hot. Cheek along one shoulder, and it's nice to remember that he can here— do this, that is. No glassy lines to avoid. No agony in his lover's face each time the weather changes.

I am sorry about your—

About all of them.

He'd say in another life. But sorry never fits well in his mouth. ]

Does anyone ever really recover?

[Nestled in the low end of his chest, it's a gentle observation. A toothless sort of wryness that seeps through to coax them out into the figurative light after they've both burned down to the wick.

He turns their fingers over one another. Kisses the border of marked knuckles, off center.

An old habit.]

[An old habit, but a beloved one. Has Leto ever told him that? How much it touches him even now (perhaps especially now) that his mate takes such care to never hurt him. Always he has minded his markings; always he has tended to them, whether that meant stoking the fire during the worst of winter or simply making sure he always took his arm instead of grabbing his hand. It's no mean feat, not especially when so much of his body is covered in those markings, and yet Astarion has never once erred. Leto's fingers curl, his body shifting as he makes room for Astarion to rest more fully against him: come here, his other arm wrapping tight around his shoulder, his thumb stroking gently against the curve.

It helps. To feel familiar weight against his chest, the two of them fitting together as naturally as anything; to hear that steady voice, no matter what words slip out. It keeps him grounded in the present instead of lingering in the miserable past— and it means that he can huff out a wry laugh in response to that observation.]

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

[Another kiss to silver curls, and this time Leto lingers there, comforted by the familiar scent.]

Recover in the sense of going back to how one used to be . . . no, I think not. I will never be the person I was before Kirkwall— nor, indeed, the person I was before Shirallas. Or the Fog Warriors.

[A breath, and then:]

But recover in the sense of learning how to become something more than just a scarred creature reeling from his hurts . . . yes, I think so. It may take time, but . . . it took me seven years to recover from Danarius and all the effects fleeing had on me, and even then, I was not fully healed. But in the past three years . . . I have watched both of us grow and recover. I have seen you become so much more than you were . . . so much more than Cazador or Riftwatch ever gave you credit for.

You are kind, Astarion. To me you are, [he insists, knowing what protest Astarion will offer.] Thoughtful. Devoted in ways that I did not ever dream I was capable of having. You are clever in ways I am not, [and there's a little smile for the memory of the day that Astarion had tried and failed to teach Leto even the basics of picking locks.] You face your fears rather than flee from them, and that is more than I could ever accomplish when I was only three years out of freedom.

I told you once that I was in awe of how well you functioned only a year free. I still stand by it.

I will not say that our enslavement hasn't left scars. [He catches Astarion's cheek with his palm, tipping his head up and drawing back so their eyes can meet.] And I will not dare pretend that it is not a deeply embittering thing to look back at recovered memories, wondering what might have happened if you had not been broken and suffered the way you did.

It hurts. It hurts to see what you might have had, whether via my memories or yours. But do not mistake that for thinking you are broken irreparably.

You cut those things out to save yourself. And yet now, slowly, you are allowing them back in. Piece by piece . . . and there is no rush.

Edited 2024-05-04 20:54 (UTC)

I'm an overachiever. [Astarion fires back slyly— a bulwark against the slow rise of something much like heat in the basin of his chest.] I love rushing.

[Well.]

In most things, anyway.

[Not all.

But he can't keep the rest at bay forever. And when it settles back in his expression stays sober this time. Somber, more accurately: fragile as a narrow pane of glass and caught in the vice grip of his own slow-breathing, and it isn't fair, he thinks, that to endure the beauty of dear kindness, he has to train his body down the same way he did for the knife.

And yet.

Avoidance never lasts.

(If it had, where would they be now? Not here. Not like this. Shelved up and cornered by worser fates— pass. Pass, and no thank you, and not ever again, if Astarion gets to have his say. Which: gods favor them for once, he does.)]

Come closer, little menace. You know I hate it when you're far. [Groused as if he isn't already pressed in like the bloody tide at dusk: somehow managing to wind himself further in over his mate's own relaxed form. Mostly in the angles of their hips and shoulders; most of all in the way his profile— his mouth— stubbornly squeezes itself in flush along the slant of Leto's neck beneath the frenzy of that grown-out fringe.

Like this, at least, he can talk without looking.]

I won't fight you on that. Not a word of it, provided you find it in yourself to grasp that I'm only kind to you because I'm smitten— and always have been when it comes to you.

But you can't go blinding yourself with your love for me, either.

[Slow, the onset of his breathing. Just a way to bridge one sentiment to the next without running out of air, and still, he takes his time. Enough weight in it to carry everything he wishes he knew how to properly say.

Everything he's been trying to say for three years now.]

I would've run. I would've kept running on and on, right into the arms of ruin if it wasn't for the miracle of finding you in freedom.

If it wasn't for you.

[A beat, tentative. He leaves his eyes shut.]

You didn't fail Shirallas.

He didn't listen.

[Funny how that undoes him.

The rest of it is, if not easy, at least bearable. He nods faintly as cool breath hits his neck, agreeing gently with every word: yes, he knows that his lover has flaws. That he would have kept on running if he hadn't run into Leto— and there is no disagreement there, no matter how highly he thinks of Astarion. Leto himself would never have stopped running if it hadn't been for the Fog Warriors, for Hawke, for Kirkwall; they neither of them exist in a vacuum. He does not miss the significance of what Astarion says, nor how tentative his lover's voice has gone as he whispers that sentiment, but oh, he understands it too well not to take it in attentive, adoring stride.

But it evokes emotion. It makes his heart ache in ways that he still isn't used to, even years later. And those last two sentences slip between his ribs like a knife.

Not like a wound deliberately inflicted, cruel and callous; not even like the shuddering statements of forgiveness that they offer one another, it wasn't your fault, you aren't to blame, the balm so sweet it stings. Rather: it reaches into his soul so deftly, slicing through skin and muscle to find the quick of him and brush against it with cool, kind fingers. You didn't fail him, and it's nothing Leto didn't know; it's nothing he hadn't told himself in the aftermath. There's no disagreement there, so why does it hurt?

Friend? he thinks again. Shirallas' bloodshot eyes and the teeth-aching wrongness of both their lyrium clashing against one another, red meeting blue, corrupt meeting pure. And what had his crime been? Devotion. Fanaticism. Desperation. An aching desire to see all magisters torn down, their sins exposed and their horrors repaid . . .]

He did not listen.

[Echoed softly after a long moment of quiet.]

And I will always wish that he had.

[But he didn't. He didn't and he's dead now, his corpse long buried and his spirit gone, and who knows what comes after? Vaguely, he hopes without hope at all that the elf found the peace he was denied in life, and knows even as he does that he doesn't believe it.

But there are more important things to focus on. Astarion's nose brushes against his neck, his eyelashes a faint tickle as he closes his eyes. He feels so small in Leto's arms right now, narrow shoulders and slender limbs. And he thinks about it: about Astarion finding him. About that first meeting that he cannot recall, that he is always so bitter over not remembering. Painful in a way that leaves a lump in his throat, I would have run right into the arms of ruin if it wasn't for you, so pivotal and yet not shared.]

. . . . will you show me?

[Soft. More tentative than he can ever truly say.]

How we met. How . . . how I helped you stop running. The first time . . . the first meeting, and all that came after before I left.

[It hits harder than a kick to the chest. The shock of it– not suggestion: realization. That for so bloody long he'd viewed what was lost as something still lost: never to be reclaimed because for years and years it was.

And it was fine, you know.

It would always be fine.

One more thing they paved over with the promise that it was a step forwards and little else. Unimportant. And everything.

So somewhere in the middle of holding his amatus and processing every word, Astarion runs still. Forgets to suck in air. Corrects that.]

I—

—yes.

I suppose I actually could, couldn't I....?

[Hells' teeth.]

Is that what you want?

[Are you certain? -being the part of that unspoken: like all of this thus far, there's no going back once done. No putting the lid back on the tin or the cork back in its bottle, and forever staining Leto's own impression of himself through a set of blood red eyes.

It could be wonderful.

It could make him feel so small.]

Edited 2024-05-07 20:47 (UTC)

[Is he? The idea sprung from mind to lips without a moment's contemplation, his tentativeness far more about the magic itself than the idea. Leto hesitates, his eyes darting down as he tries to probe the idea swiftly for all the potential downsides. And yet even as he does, his mind draws a blank, too eager to see that which was lost.]

You think it a poor idea.

[It's a question and a statement all in one.]

Why?

Edited 2024-05-07 20:55 (UTC)

No— [Astarion asserts in that too-swift way of his, coming as a sort of verbal hand upheld rather than obtuse (or acute) objection or rejection, quickly mellowed down into his private laid-back tenor:] —no, not a poor idea.

[Singular skipped beat slid somewhere in in-between that thought and the next.]

But a large one. Yes. That I do believe.

[It doesn't surprise him that there's a stark difference in perspective to be had there between them, either. Not when they were always as divided as they were aligned in their beliefs and wants and needs— one step in perfect stride and then the next entirely out of sync— because as this conversation so defines, it was never a perfect mirror.

Nor should it be, he thinks, catching a wayward tuft of hair curled just in front of Leto's ear and rolling it between his claws before it's laid soft with its fellows.]

Swear on all the gods and nightmares that I've known, I am grateful for this, my Leto. All these memories. These exchanges. Things I never knew existed— [strewth—] things that'll take ages to process properly, if I ever manage it without falling right back into the bliss of knowing your extraordinary thoughts just the way they are.

But— those were our memories. Mine relayed to you. Yours relayed to me.

[Maybe it goes without saying. Maybe all of this does, but still:]

I can't give you an artificial pulse. I can't restore what isn't there on your end, and what exists in mine is....very, very bright. That is to say: you were bright. And wondrous. And unsurpassed to this day, even as I know you better.

Because I know you better.

[And so, with a false breath that's worn for some feigned sense of mortal comfort than for air, Astarion underscores his bottom line.]

I don't want to ruin you with a tainted surrogate.

[One you won't be able to forget.]

[My Leto. Strange that that's what sticks out to him as he sorts this out in his mind. My darling, my kadan, catulus, amatus, precious thing, little songbird, and it's so rare his lover calls him by his proper name anymore. It makes him pay all the more attention, rapt as he listens to his lover's warning.

And he understands. He almost doesn't want to, but he does, for even as Astarion speaks some strange shadow of jealousy rises within him. A mixture of bitterness from his own lack of memories combining with the knowledge of brightness unsurpassed (and he knows what Astarion means, he has memories like that himself, but oh, it twists something within him all the same, too faint to be called hurt). It's the strangest mixture of emotions.

Finally, he glances up to meet Astarion's eye again.]

Tell me what happened first.

[They're so tangled up together already, and yet still Leto feels the urge to squirm in impossibly closer. Instead he focuses on those fingers playing with his hair, letting his own fretfulness be soothed by the steady action.]

Before anything else . . . I know the broad overview, but . . . I would hear the story itself first. And then I will decide.

[There's no real rhyme or reason behind when the messages appear. Sometimes they're close together; sometimes there's the span of minutes between each one. For today it's Leto, not Astarion, who's stuck at home. Because of a cold or a twisted ankle or because his little gang of friends are all busy today— who can say?]

they're fighting again. over montressor's stick. fortunato won't stop gnawing on it.

ataashi is still annoyed with their existance. she continues to inform me as such each time they tussle too close to her spot by the fire.

they've made up in favor of trying to investigate the pants you wore yesterday. or play with it, i suspect— they keep trying to engage with it

you were not wrong: they beg for treats at least once an hour

ataashi speaks in an antivan accent

fortunato keeps attempting to imitate it

montressor is endlessly baffled by the sight of herself in a mirror. she keeps asking about it.

fortunato will not stop asking when you're coming home

[Astarion. Astarion can say.]

my love i know you're sick. I know it's agony. I know you must, in all your endless energy, be feeling saddled by madness and impatience and I am nothing if not sympathetic.

I just also don't damned well care to know what those little creatures have to say.

because it's nothing.

they have nothing to say.

Look at them. They can barely process eating let alone breathing.

can't you find something else to tell me about? like

I don't know, what you're wearing? how much you long for me to return to ravish you as I should?

im wearing your shirt— or i was, anyway, before i soaked it in sweat. and i don't long for you to ravish me, i long for you to come home with medicine. and soup. and alcohol.

[Petulant little thing.]

[. . .]

fortunato calls me papa

montressor refers to you as "curly dad"

One of those things will dehydrate you.

[. . .]

oh for the love of

Does biting you count as putting you out of your misery?

you biting me will also dehydrate me

and if you intend to put me out of my misery, i might as well be drunk while you do

where have you wandered to?

(ataashi keeps trying to lecture them on how to act. she thinks they're pathetic, so your firstborn takes after you, at least)

My firstborn? Did you have a litter when I wasn't looking? Fussy thing.

And I wasn't wandering, so you can put away those fangs of yours thank you very much. I've gone to consult the local healers about what to do when you've a sick, irritable, snarly wolf who can't exhale without coughing up a lung or two

your first adopted

your first that followed you home

your firstadopted pet, is that better? she still takes after you regardless of title— she even sounds like you a bit

[But oh . . . it's not the scolding that softens his ire, but the reminder that Astarion is out there for him. Leto pauses for a few seconds, then adds:]

what do they say?

it's terminal, I'm afraid.

[:>]

Edited (dw be nice) 2024-05-03 03:52 (UTC)

oh, good

i will get to see you fight a god of death, that will be novel

did they say if i could speed the process up? if i am to cough up my lungs, i'd rather do it tonight and be done with it all by morning

[Hah!

Touché]

Well they'd have to see you for that one, precious pup, and I'm afraid on assumption, they still insist on bed rest.

Lots and lots of bed rest.

....and maybe less dog watching.

[Thank god Astarion can't hear the groan he emits at that. Bed rest is so dull after the first few hours.]

i have little else to entertain me at the moment

the pups i can understand, but do you really not care to hear what ataashi thinks? she has more than two brain cells to rub together, and plenty of opinions to share, i assure you

i will cease, if you truly hate it. but she, at least, is interesting.

[Even Leto can admit the pups aren't all that fascinating, just funny. And charming. And so, so stupid that it's a delight to listen to them mutter to themselves.]

Hate is such a strong word.

Much as I adore her I'm not certain I should give much consideration to the world views of a beloved thing that still finds herself utterly terrified of bins when they're not put away properly.

Are they really so entertaining to you?

[That does make him laugh, admittedly. Their poor cowardly wolf . . . so put upon by the pups alone, never mind Leto and Astarion accidentally changing her environment again.]

yes

for now

I am sure it will not last forever— they are repetitive after a point— but it's charming, especially when i have little else to do.

and there is a fascination with seeing what they're thinking. dull or no, it's something i have never heard before. it's charming to see how developed they are — fortunato is far smarter than her sister, and her speech reflects that.

ataashi is cleverest of all, cowardly thing though she may be— she knows whenever you're coming down the street, never mind enter the inn

Well she does rightfully love me most.

[That's not true at all.]

How are you feeling by the way? Not sneezing out flowers or arcane sparks or cats and

[err....]

more dogs

are you?

feverish

snotty

dazed, a bit, and somehow both tired and not all at once

if i sneezed out a puppy, it would be an improvement— though conversely, i haven't coughed up blood, so i suppose i will take what i can get in terms of victories.

[A beat, and then, mindful of his doting, fretful, immortal lover, adds:]

it will pass. with or without medicine, it will pass, i promise you. i have endured worse.

I wouldn't know who you were if you hadn't, Blue Wraith.

[It's fine at least for now; Astarion saves the doting fretfulness for when he's there. Endlessly scolding his mate for so much as thinking of sitting up without assistance or reaching for a glass to drink from.

Though it's vexing as all getout trying to locate a healer still awake and competent at this hour. Much less one they can afford.]

But for the record please don't sneeze out any pups. Improvement or not they'd absolutely throw us out into the street if we filled that shuttered little room with endlessly wagging tails.

And since you won't let me eat any....

simply because they look like sausages does not mean they're remotely suitable for eating

and you would miss fortunato. deny it all you like, you would.

[. . .]

i can manage without a healer. i have before. come home. i would not see you spend all your night on this.

Luckily for your lungs I don't damned well care what it is you want.

the pups I'll spare despite their shape for the joy they bring you. And because they're fine.

[Just!!! Fine!!!!!!]

I'll be home when I've a surefire cure for that wretched cough at the very least.

buy me whiskey. a healer told me once that would work as substitute in a pinch.

[Okay, one, that's to rub on babies' gums when they're teething, which you shouldn't do because it's alcohol and it doesn't actually numb anything so much as sends them to sleep because it's alcohol— but also, two, no Anders absolutely did fucking not, thank you very much.]

will you at least be home in time to lie with me before i sleep?

I can't tell if you're being smart and banking on how little I remember about being alive, or if that's actually how it works.

[The logic is fairly sound.

~~No it isn't, Astarion. NO IT ISNT—~~ ]

And yes darling I promise you I will. It's not as if I like leaving you after all.

If it wasn't for the sun and stars, I'd never be far from your side.

[ . . . ]

well.

Except for when it's one of those days. The ones when you're. You know.

In one of Those Moods.

Edited 2024-05-07 20:44 (UTC)

[He is CHANGING THE LOCKS— or, well, no, because that would require actually getting up, but still. He's thinking about it very strongly.]

bold words for a man who is out buying me tissues and has left all his pretty silk at home for me to use in the meantime

[Oh like a LOCK is going to keep him out.]

What are you going to do? Throw on everything I own and sweat in it?

You. can't. even. get. yourself. out. of. bed.

[There's a defiant little pause, and then:]

yes i can

thats' two clothes of yours down

several more to go

though at the rate im sweating it will not take long

[Ugh, the fever's getting worse, and so is his handwriting.]

and now the pups are riled again, they get confused about the mixed scents

moresstro fell off the bed

[Well, it's an attempt at her name. Don't @ him.]

Edited 2024-05-09 05:04 (UTC)

You're lying.

about the

not

[Hang on he's distracted trying to hard swap between waking up his next unfortunate ~~target~~ healer and actually processing the possibility that Leto might very much be doing precisely what he says he is.]

you're not actually out of bed are you

[There is

a pause.]

just to pace around

get back in that godsforsaken bed before I kill you myself

ive been in bed all day

i will not die just because i wanted to walk around a bit and get some fresh air

and its so boring

[There's a pause, and then, hastily:]

by opening the shutters not walking around outside, do not come running back, i am not walking about

gods above you and that wild little beast truly are one and the same.

can you not study? sleep? daydream about riding my cock?? create elaborate scenarios in your head involving my sweeping you off your feet in princely regalia???

~~ive s~~

you think fantasizing about riding your cock is going to make me less restless

i cannot decide if that's more insulting to you or me

Edited 2024-05-11 04:29 (UTC)

[And then, after a pause:]

you forget i used to be friends with a prince

there is a lot of gilt-laden braiding involved in their regalia

and, in his case, a metal picture of andraste on his crotch

neither of which is particularly charming to think of when it comes to you

Correction: their regalia. We Baldurians have a little thing called taste. Though I__

[One dragging line of ink marks his altered train of thought.]

Did he put her face there because that's his only taken lover? You know

Chantry

everything

[Oh, god, did he? Forget the petty squabble, Leto has to pause to think about this.]

no

i think

wait

no

andraste is the maker's bride— yes, because varric [Anders, actually,] once wondered on the wisdom of shoving a god's bride between one's thighs each morning

it was meant to honor her

[How to wear Andraste-Based Crotch Armor in a Maker-honoring way, etc etc.]

[um.]

Was it.

Was. It.

w a s. i t.

[Baby. Baby. Baby. B A B Y.

LOOK HIM IN THE NONEXISTENT BOOK EYES. AND TELL HIM. THAT IT WAS MEANT TO HONOR HER.]

[He barks out a loud enough laugh that poor Montressor wakes up with a start, growling and barking at nothing at all.]

MEANT to honor her, you notice i wrote

I didn't wear the damn thing

nor do i claim to believe it

what, don't you wish for a set of your own? you'd look so dashing

Well then I'd have to get a cast of your face made for my codpiece. So

Why not?

[Darling menace.]

because i would never be seen in public with you again

because i think you would rather die than wear something so unfashionable

because you would walk around sporting an erection 24/7 and that would kill even you

just ask me to settle between your thighs for a full day and call it even

[Tsk.]

you know I would look all the more dashing with your face pushed down flush and hot where it belongs.

But then you'd need to rest and get better to reach that particular outcome instead of stubbornly ruining the rest of my wardrobe alongside anything that isn't that

tight

feverish

coughing, sore, tired, had-best-be-drinking the honeyed tea I left behind for it, throat.

[There's a momentary pause, for Astarion is distracting even via text.]

i can rest and ruin your wardrobe all at once

i'll bet i could still rest and get you off, too. you're fond enough of letting me sit on your cock for hours at a time.

[. . .]

you're too tempting for someone who won't let me put even my hands on you

you might well make up for it by telling me more about what you'll let me do when i'm rested

and yes i drank it

you've grown better at making it, it was good

Edited 2024-05-13 00:59 (UTC)

[:)]

I'm choosing to take that compliment as a constant due to the fact that I distinctly remember you saying, and I quote

"this is delicious"

the first time I made it for you.

[Did Leto actually ever say that?]

and do be careful: what you say next will decide whether or not I elaborate more on what I'll permit you to do once you're all hale and whole

[See, the problem with being both sick and stuck in a teenage body is that his initial instinct is, in fact, to be a little brat about it. So it takes a moment (and a very large ink blot) before he manages to write out a reply.]

"it's even better and more delicious than it used to be", ~~does that soo~~ is that better?

you've learned to add honey. it is an improvement. i like the sweetness. take the compliment as it was intended.

what you'll permit me?

[Ah, brattiness can't always be fully quelled.]

[And yet the thing about being Astarion is that his initial instinct is to hunker down and be a brat about it, too.

A two centuries old brat.]

what

I'll

permit

you

apologies, was I unclear?

this from the vampire who will, i have no doubt, be begging me to let him fuck me the moment i'm healed, for he's gone without for so long

needy thing, don't act as if you won't— or need i remind you that it was you, not i, that was so insatiable he fucked me for a full 24 hours once?

besides: you do not PERMIT me to do anything

i don't know why you think you'll start now

begging????

b e g g i n g?

excuse me for being the bearer of overwhelming truths but I have never once begged for it from you.

[LIES, Astarion. ]

and need I also remind you love of my bloody little life that it was you who was still sighing for it after those twenty four hours?

i make no apologies for being attracted to you - and there is a difference between wanting something and begging for it

wanting it is my craving your touch even after a full 24 hours, and getting rewarded for it with cockwarming

begging for it is what you did a full week ago, when i was cooking lunch and you slithered out of your coffin to tempt me into bending over the counter, muttering threats against my friends all the while because you hadn't seen me in one full day

you dressed it up in pretty language, but it was begging all the same

[THAT.

Oh....that's cheating.]

I thought being ill was meant to addle all your senses

common and memory included

how in the__ how in the name of Andraste's fitted sheathe did you even remember how any of that went?

Five minutes ago you couldn't spell montressor!

[Oh, Astarion, you should know this one. It's so easy.

You both run on spite.]

[Spite and a lot, a lot, of Baldur's Gate Nyquil.]

i notice you aren't denying it

shall i recount all the ways in which you whined for me, or will you?

(and i didnt bother spelling it, i didnt forget. theres a difference. you knew who i meant.)

by your own sweaty little admission I refute that insinuation on the grounds that I was making threats. Fanged. Livid threats. Promising to devour those little beasts you call friends for keeping you from me far longer than they should have.

And if it's technicalities you want to wade in on then let me be the first to 'recount' that all of the above was only barely audible over the noise of your panting and gasping for more beside the lunch you never consumed, thus proving you couldn't get enough to fill your only relevant appetite at that particular point in time.

And another thing, since you feel well enough to go combing over all my mannerisms for the sake of your defense: I do not, and never once, have slithered from my coffin!!

aren't you defensive

what emotion fueled you, then, if not desperation? to the point where you could do nothing but pin me to the counter and snarl and seethe at everyone who dared keep me away . . . since you're defining so much, tell me: what was that, if not desperate hunger?

and you're right. it wasn't slithering.

more like stalking, predator that you are.

You "refute the insinuation on the grounds"?

i will not even mention "thus proving".

are you my kadan or a hightown lawyer?

well I happen to be both if you must know.

technically.

but that's not the point I was making don't you dare change the subject and think you're clever!

A predator stalks prey. P R E Y. thematically? prey whines. it begs. it whimpers. it gasps in the dying throes of ecstasy with its nails dug in and its mouth open, panting sweet nothings in Tevene.

[Hold the fucking phone.]

what do you mean both

exactly what I said

I was a magistrate by trade before my death, and an adept one at that

[Editor's note: he does not actually know if he was good at it or not.]

when were you going to bring this up?

have you always known??

~~what the hell do~~

REALLY?

you??

what

WHAT DO YOU MEAN

'REALLY? YOU??'

[PRIORITIES.]

you promised to teach me how to pick a lock and break into a place undetected on the move back home

you kill people

routinely

a not insignificant portion of our income comes from your theft and our murdering bandits, and that's to say nothing of our turning in bounties

do not take it as critique, but you have to admit, none of that is particularly lawful, and none of it inspires me to think that "ah yes I know what he must have done in his past"

i assumed you were just a noble

i didn't know you worked

I___

[Err.

Well.

Actually that is a very fair point.]

Look. IF it was up to me in life I'm sure I would've skirted by eternally on wine and pomegranate seeds for about as long as it lasted.

I

assume, anyway. Considering I can't really remember. But that's not the point. The point is holding title in Baldur's Gate is tantamount to doing nothing.

It was only after my death I learned the art of subterfuge.

Thankfully, that won't be your lot.

Also come on now my love you've seen the law in every iteration.

Despite the etymology, there's nothing lawful about it.

[Does he faintly underline my love? He does. It's assuring, oddly enough, and sweet besides.]

i never doubt that it will not be my lot. you care for me too well for that.

and you say that, but you did not have to sit through 7 years of aveline complaining anytime hawke so much as thought about stealing from even the most ill-reputed merchant

when did you remember this? or have you always known?

[Gods, perhaps it's because he's ill, but this is so strange to discover. Not bad, necessarily. But it feels like a bigger deal than it likely is, given it happened two lifetimes ago.]

would you want the title back, if you could?

I care for you too well and yet you sabotage my efforts just as effectively with all your rolling and fussing and yowling for release.

[It's toothless, though, this time. More posturing than true performance; he's content. At ease. Smiling to himself in his patrols.]

Mm? The redhead? Oh gods. I don't even know how she ever rose to her position anyways. Nobility in Baldur's Gate would've had her embarrassed and deposed within a day for being oh-so-diligent.

I a

I wore it for a long time, actually. The title. I think it was convenient, in case some trace of me turned up inside the city, someone that might've known would've thought ah well there goes yet another thief or wretch impersonating a dead lord with a little bit of spellwork. Highblood gone and squandered for the sake of crude slumming in disgrace.

I suppose in that same vein, it's possible that that sense of rightness was manufactured by Cazador, but I don't think he'd be so sloppy.

[~~No matter what fandom insists thanks to cut storyline technicalities.~~]

[It doesn't hurt, exactly, to hear, for Astarion's gone through so much worse, and he won't thank him for pity. But call the small ache in Leto's heart a byproduct of how weak he is right now, bedridden and shivering up a storm as he reads and rereads those words.]

nor do i, if that means anything. it does not seem his style. though i am sorry he used it. that kind of cruelty does seem to be his style.

~~you~~

[No, don't be soppy. Leto frowns, annoyed with himself, and then:]

tell me what a magistrate is meant to do, anyway

for such a leisurely position you still have a remarkable grasp on how to argue in formal terms

do you actually go to school for it?

[He doesn't draw attention to it, neither of them are of a mind to entertain old ghosts alongside banter or wicked play, but gods know he's softer than silk for that admission. That consolation.

It does, admittedly, indeed seem his style.]

knowing the laws well enough to weigh in on them in terms of judging guilt or innocence at trial is a must. There are undoubtedly some who flunk out or take decades upon decades to pass the exams required, let alone (clever thing) the schooling itself. But honestly if humans can finish the whole course by the childish age of twenty five, it can't be that bloody hard, can it?

Hells. Bunches of toddlers in frocks.

[They are rather good at moving on, aren't they? And banter is so easy for it. Though Leto's handwriting is a fair bit messier right now; call that the result of having two fat pups sprawled inelegantly over his stomach and chest.]

and you, the gawky elven teen that presided over them all, all of sixty years old and so very dignified among them

I will not ask if you accepted bribes. I will ask if you still know any of those laws offhand, though. I should make you look at the contract for procuring the horse and wagon; you might have a better eye for it than I.

Insofar as Baldur's Gate goes? I remember all of them. [Fairly damning evidence against the Cazador as the sole catalyst, come to think of it.]

oh but see here now that doesn't make me your contract mule.

[Says the vampire who 1: actually does know enough to comfortably ensure any contract drafted is ironclad on their end and 2: happens to not want anyone else to do it.

But it's the principle of the thing. One can't make it easy. Or obvious for that matter: a songbird doesn't sing because it's told.

—it wants praise.

Lots and lots of praise.]

[After three years, oh, of course Leto knows what his beloved is after. He all but melts beneath praise, preening and strutting around with his chest puffed out, so starved for it that it's all he can do not to revel in it each and every time it's offered. And for Leto's part, he greatly enjoys giving it, for there's little he loves more than making his amatus happy.

So the praise will come, oh, yes. He'll listen to Astarion rattle off all the laws he knows and crow about all the ways in which he'll save them money when taxes come around (oh, that will be such a boon, and Leto will tell him over and over as many ways as he knows how). Even having him look the silly contract over now will be praiseworthy, for if nothing else, he can insure they aren't getting scammed; literacy is a long-conquered foe, but too much legalese leaves his eyes glazing over.

But he does so love to banter.]

oh yes it does

i share your bed, and that comes with consequences, up to and including your using your skills to aid me.

though if you'd prefer for me to take it elsewhere, one of the regulars at the bar offered to take a look at it. he's studying law.

[After three years, it is so easy to warm to their equilibrium in the language of a plant crawling eagerly towards sunlight: bickering and claws are about as fun as they are fine, but fasta vass, nothing ever quite hits in the tender little stitches of silence quite like the slow slithering of syncopatic rhythm. Push and pull. Give and take. Praise and price.

(But they do so love to banter.)]

hah!

when did you get so clever, anyway? I'm starting to feel as if the scrappy little fighter that I grew startlingly close to is somehow growing up far too fast.

[In other words:]

don't you dare take that backwater understudy's offer.

Edited 2024-05-18 02:53 (UTC)

i won't

not just because i wish to hear you explain contracts to me— but because he can barely remember his own name after two drinks. not exactly inspiring in confidence, unlike some

and i have always been this clever, patronizing thing. or is it my prowess in bed alone that's kept you mine and only mine these past three years?

[Oh he's preening already. Don't mind him.]

true. I always was capable of holding my liquor and my dignity all at the same time.

[There are tavernkeeps in Kirkwall that might remember differently, but they're not here.]

but you have always been uniquely smart, I'll give you that. Prowess and wits and all.

It's just that you don't tend to

m

hm

let me put it this way, your tongue is about as agile as your mind, but I can't quite remember you finding your way into manipulation quite so readily as this. And don't take that as a complaint. I like it very very much.

It just makes me think I'm rubbing off a little bit, perhaps.

That some part of me's become a part of you.

I would not mind that.

I would like it a great deal, actually. You have more than a few traits I would not mind learning or obtaining, whether deliberately or not. Whether it be your deftness with words or your ability to flirt, your cleverness or your manipulation . . .

They say couples become more like one another as they grow together. And if that's so, I am lucky indeed, to have you to emulate and learn from.

[And sometimes he likes to give Astarion something to not just preen about, but melt over.]

Flatterer.

I'll warn you, it won't make me abandon my search to find a healer worth their salt.

[The prickliest, most stubborn way to say 'I love you too much to let you suffer, no matter how much I want to be by your side.' That, and 'I love you.' 'I want more dearly than life itself to be there— not just tonight but always.' 'I've become more like you, despite my glaring flaws.'

And 'I'd be there in a heartbeat if not for this.']

Are you really wearing my silks?

well, never mind, then, I take it all back if you aren't going to take the compliment

[He's smiling as he writes it, for he can hear all those unspoken undertones. The whispers of longing and adoration, love not overpowered by devotion, but fueled by it. Everything they've whispered to one another deep in the dead of night, and it makes his heart ache to be reminded.

And that last question makes him laugh (even if it is a rasping thing).]

but no. i am wearing your clothes, but it's the cotton shirt you wear when you're feeling lazy. i did sweat through the first one, though. and the sheets are less than ideal, unfortunately.

Edited 2024-05-20 02:32 (UTC)

No no no I took them

I just also happen to be looking out for your best interests for some yet unknown and likely dastardly reason only waiting to be revealed in the third act.

[Oh.

Oh but that thought is....

Don't mind him, he'll just be here daydreaming about his amatus sweating and wearing nothing but a blouse while he waits for this clinic to open.]

Can't you kick off the sheets at least?

i have

i keep getting complaints about it

the pups have settled atop me and its' helpful at times but less so when i grow hot

[Stop, he keeps hearing grunted. Ugh, petulant and yet not particularly upset each time he forcibly relocates one fat sausage or another.]

fevers fluctuate

cold and then hot and back again

so i kick them off only to want them back soon enough

it's why i kept pushing you away and then clinging

Hot and then cold?

That doesn't sound right at all.

If you're not hot, then why would you be sweating?

Then again if you weren't cold why would you be shaking

ugh

mortal bodies are so particular

are you sure you don't just want me to bite you and be done with it? Bring you into the eternal night to be young and beautiful and feast on blood forever?

im sweating because

[No, hang on, cold again. And sweaty. And cold. And now the pups are whining at him, and it just takes a while, okay.]

yes

come change me

we'll save on money and i wont have to deal with this

could you change me if you wished to?

[They both know he's joking. There's not a world in which he steals away the gift of life a second before it's doomed to drop anyway. The difference between theft and salvation thin as narrow seconds.

But still.]

I

don't know.

Maybe? Possibly? By all knowledge I have the powers of a full vampire, but I've not tested my prowess on the real thing, either. Without that, I could be

I don't know

some sort of misaligned spawn. Tapped into ability rather than raw power without restraint. World-hopping seems a complicated mess for physiology, after all.

But if it comes to that, I promise I'll make certain that it takes. Even if that means finding someone else to bite you.

perhaps

But it seems to have been thorough enough when it comes changing my own body— and yours, from Thedas to Toril and back again. I would not want to test it out like that, perhaps, but if I had to guess . . . yes, I would imagine you are more full vampire than misaligned spawn.

[A pause, and then:]

would it be strange for you to have someone else bite me?

[Not that he thinks Astarion would care, really, so long as Leto was safe and whole and still alive (for a certain sense of the word). But he's never thought about this before.]

I would want it to be you.

But you need not promise - I know you will see me through it. There is no one I trust more with my life or death.

[Oh.

Oh. Just...give him a moment to recover from that sudden pang of sentiment.]

gods no. I'd hate it with everything I am, were I to resort to that.

Doesn't mean I wouldn't go through with it, but

There's just more risk that way. Harder to force a vampire to willingly turn someone without them just keeping them enslaved to the last out of spite. And what's more

well

it wouldn't be me.

it wouldn't be you

[And yes, there would be risk, of course. There'd be so many more complications that way. But that's the reason Leto hates most right now, especially when he's sick and they're apart.]

Tell me

[He hesitates, but:]

Tell me how you would do it

If we were to. If you could have your choice in how it was done.

[His heart can't skip a beat. Can't startle; it's too slow. Too close to the seeming nothingness it exudes for a pulse to offer up even a paltry facsimile for the sake of going through the motions.

And yet what that truly means is that whatever it is Astarion is feeling isn't physical. It can't be. But it's there all the same: stark as daylight itself and twice as scalding— a jolting stillness that hooks itself hard under his ribs, crawling through him while the rest of him struggles to keep up.

Struggles and fails as it so happens.

Taking a quiet eternity to study (and check again) after that clinic's closed front door before he finally gives in long enough to put his pen nib to paper.] Such a question.

[Ask someone what sort of wedding they'd like when caught completely unawares for a rough estimation of the Pale Elf's face at this exact moment.]

Well.

It'd depend.

[He isn't stalling. It would.]

Something premature like having your vitals severed by one of those owlbears you and those friends of yours keep chasing would be a great deal more bromidic than what I have planned otherwise. I imagine a record outpouring of cursing and scolding and possibly a few more juvenile deaths before I set in to take your wrist gently between my teeth, making certain that you know I'm there as comfort before I drain you dry.

It is peaceful, you should know. More soothing than you'd think.

Nothing to fear of it provided you've a sire worth his fangs— which, of course, you always will.

It was just the one owlbear. We chase far more fascinating prey nowadays.

[Which is really just something to fill the pause as Leto, absurdly and stupidly, smiles at nothing.

It's such a strange topic. Such a loaded one, too, for he knows too well how much his lover misses life. And it's not that Leto is so eager to be a vampire, and indeed, he'll be happy if that day doesn't come for centuries (for he has no intention of ever dying, you see; he has no intention of ever losing his Astarion, not to old age or death or a stake).

But there's something uniquely wonderful about thinking about this. The pressure of docile fangs at his wrist; the utter devotion in his lover's eyes as he drank and drank and drank, offering his lover the peaceful transition he never had.]

I can think of few more peaceful deaths than to be at your side . . . at your hands and your teeth. Owlbear or no . . . you would make it something worth dying for. And I would not mind waking as your spawn. I would not fear such a thing, knowing you as I do. Knowing that if you delayed my evolution, it would only ever be so I could get my bearings first.

[A moment, and then:]

You have something planned?

Tell me that, too.

From the moment I came to care for you.

[Calling it an offer would be a lie. Selfishness pervades in theory, when he can't divorce himself from the thought of his sole mate (or perhaps soulmate)'s life slipping away— what difference is it really from using a healing spell or a scroll? (A great deal's worth of difference, oh, denial can't overlook that in full no matter how he glosses over it right now.) If it came down to it— he tells himself— if it comes down to it, he'll find a way to undo it, should Leto grow resentful of the changes. Or—

Well.

First things first. And first above all else: ensuring the only thing that's ever mattered survives.

Everything.]

But

it is no evolution, amatus. You won't

[Ah. No. A dull pause threads him back into the present train of thought; no crossing the lines.]

You will be yourself, still. That much I swear, it won't be some grand shedding of your mien or memories— but once your life has spent itself down to the last flickering grain, regardless of what we are by then, though I will always desire it unchanged, I will be there.

And we will watch the sun sink into the horizon at one another's sides. And we will talk of all the plans you've yet to make, and the places you wish to see while your limbs grow heavy, and your vision tires like it never has before.

You'll want sleep, my darling. And I will, of course, grant you that. But only for a little while.

When you wake, it'll be in a bed— not a coffin. To the sound of music, or the rustling of paper, or the slow sound of whatever myriad animals you've collected by then padding around in idle laxness. You'll feel strong again. Bright. Beautiful. Whole. [He'll cough up no dirt with his own blood. He'll claw through nothing. Scream and wail, perhaps, yes, but it'll be short lived:] I'll be there beside you.

Waiting to greet you in that first new night when your senses race and your mind runs wilder than Montressor in her fiercest little frenzy.

You won't leave this world or any other on any terms but your own, if you ever leave at all.

[Oh . . . and for what feels a very long while, he doesn't know what to write.

He has to say something, he knows, for Astarion is likely waiting on tenterhooks after such an intimate confession. And yet all that he can think to say sounds clumsy and childish in the wake of such a beautiful gift— and anyway, it's so hard to understand what he's even feeling, so full is his heart. Emotions nearly overwhelm him, staggering him, and it's joy and grief and adoration and an aching sort of bittersweetness whose origin he doesn't understand— but perhaps what it all boils down to is love.

Love, so fierce and so overwhelming that he can barely articulate it. Love for a vampire who has planned out his lover's death in such doting, meticulous detail, and it does not escape Leto's notice that such a fantasy only comes at the end of a long life. That his Astarion wants him to experience all the centuries as he himself has never had the chance to, his heart thundering in his chest and air in his lungs, soaking up the sun until the last possible moment.

And we will watch the sun sink into the horizon at one another's sides. And we will talk of all the plans you've yet to make, and the places you wish to see while your limbs grow heavy, and your vision tires like it never has before . . . He actually has to look away for a few moments. It's because he's sick that his vision blurs, he tells himself, and knows it to be a lie.

And what can he say? The seconds tick past, and all of it too much to jot down into words.]

come home to me

[And he doesn't take it back, though he knows Astarion won't obey just yet.]

I would like that more than I can say, amatus. To die in your arms after centuries together would be bliss . . . and to be granted the chance of centuries more with you, thanks to you, sounds more wonderful than anything.

[A pause, and then:]

I have never feared death. I once even welcomed the thought of it, but never since I met you. And yet now it sounds the sweetest thing, whenever it may come. And though I do not wish it to be anytime soon . . . I am eager for that to happen. For you, and only you, to change me.

[And then:]

I have always despised my body being altered. You know this. But what I have loathed is how it has never once been with my consent nor my permission. And I am no fool, I know that it will be different than the life I am used to now . . . but this time, I welcome the change. I welcome being at your side, undead that we will both be. So long as we are together . . . I do not just grant my consent, but give it to you wholeheartedly.

Change me, when the time comes. And we will live out all our years together.

[There's no answer.

And unlike Leto's own pause, it truly is a matching gap of fuller minutes. Some sprawling span where the silence in the wake of those tender written words implies— ah, but it could be anything, could it not? Perhaps the clinic opened after all, and Astarion, rapt with a swell of care and concern for his bedsick mate after a full night of drawn out bickering (and love, and both are one and the same when the line between snapping and sweetness is— the thinnest band of threadbound intensity beyond intensity itself)— fled inside before the poor healer could so much as hang her weathered sign; perhaps it's simply still more proof they're both fumbling things for longing, unable to string together words while drowning deep beneath the tide of sensation overblown.

Perhaps it's rougher round the edges.

Perhaps he's overwhelmed, and wasn't ready. Bleeding as the scars that they both bear.

Either way, it's silence.

Before every last damn pup and wolf within those walls startles out of sleep and leaps up, barking, yapping, struggling in a fit to pull free of the covers.

Their front door opens, and Astarion— breathless as death itself— stands with his hand wound tight over its frame. Disheveled curls and mussed-up coat a promise of just how far he'd traveled in less than a handful of minutes.]

[It takes less than a breath for him to cross the room and kiss his consort with more devotion than all the Chantry ever knew— savage fanaticisms and sacrifice included, all.]

[They kiss—

And it's a kiss Leto will remember for the rest of his life.

(For the rest of every life, living and undead both).

He forgets how to breathe. He forgets that he's sick. He forgets everything right now, all his worried thoughts knocked to pieces and sweetly washed away by the wave of love that overtakes him. I love you, and he echoes it silently in the way his trembling fingers knot in Astarion's wrinkled coat, desperate for him to stay close; in the way he surges up, returning that kiss with every ounce of devotion and adoration he can pour into it. Yes, yes, I love you, yes, a thousand words whispered between them with every push and pull of their lips. It's you, it's you, it's always been you, there is no world in which I would not follow you, there is no state of existence I would not share with you, let me only be at your side, let me only be near you, my love, my friend, my heart—]

Marry me.

[Rasped out against Astarion's lips the moment they part for air, for if he doesn't say it now he never will. And it's the worst time to propose (his skin is clammy and he reeks of sweat and sickness; Ataashi and the pups won't shut up, barking wildly in their glee at seeing their father). And it's the best time to propose, when his heart feels so full that it might well burst from his chest, singing out so happily that it's a wonder the whole world doesn't hear it. And only later will Leto chuckle at his own joy— for it says something about them (about Astarion, and how much he has grown to trust him, seven-year mark or no) that there is no doubt in his mind. There is no whispering shadow in his heart, hissing that he needs to be careful, no.

He'd known it in Rialto. And here, now, a world and a lifetime away, he affirms it to himself once more.

It's you. It's always been you.

Kadan.

Amatus.]

[Kadan.

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.

[The response (not answer, not yet, and the difference matters) startles a laugh out of him, breathless and fond. In the next moment he tips his head up, returning that warm nuzzle with a little push, their noses bumping together as their foreheads butt in familiar greeting. He can hear the warmth layered beneath that toothless tease, the adoration and love and wonderment— and he can hear, too, the fear. The tiny tendril of awe and shock that indicate no disbelief nor disagreement— but gods, what a thing for them. For either of them, but perhaps especially Astarion.

His fingers slide gently against the line of his jaw, a faint smile playing on Leto's lips as his gaze softens further.]

If I was delirious, Astarion, I would be in no fit state to tell you.

Now come here.

[Leto moves where he's bidden, gladly offering himself up for Astarion to pick up and rearrange as his vampire sees fit— so long as he follows Leto's quiet urging to climb into bed with him. Stay close to me, and he settles in his lap or tucked beneath his arm, it barely matters, just so long as they're close.

And when they're together— truly and properly, limbs tangled and breath warm against one another's lips— Leto cups his cheek more fully, turning his vampire to face him. His thumb smooths down over cold skin, and he says more sincerely:]

Will you marry me?

[He wants to hear it.]

Edited (ah html) 2024-05-28 05:00 (UTC)

[He has that.

A thousand times over, overlapping in a flooding affirmation pressed across tanned skin by frigid lips: he has that. And it bears no repeating all the ways Leto— Fenris has had that from the very beginning to start with, given the way his steps were always shadowed by shadow itself, so when Astarion tucks his nose against his lover's sweat-steeped cheek to inhale, it's only the culmination of it. The punctuation, of it. Third act. No— encore. Inevitable, and waiting in the wings for its demanded rise.]

I will.

[I will— no quips. No deflection. No games or trembling shows of shirking from the light; the thing he wants is the thing he's always wanted. An alembic stretch of time boiling raw affection down into its distillate marrow, yes, more concentrated, but not greater. Definition swearing as a rule that even compressed across worlds like a binding anchor, Astarion could never love him more.

Because he never loved him less.]

As many times as you want, my Leto.

[The broad splay of his fingers wrapped from the outer edge of Leto's jaw (damp and clammy and hotter than a forge underneath a set of unliving prints) all the way back around the nape of his neck and the tangle of pale hair laid there.] In this world, and every other— any other— there's no taking it back, now.

I will.

[I will . . . and for a precious few seconds, Leto does nothing but beam up at him. Joy (and it is joy, so rarely felt and so all the brighter for it) suffuses through him, the strangest (and sweetest) tempered excitement thundering in time with his pounding heart— for of course he'd expected no other answer, but it's one thing to know and another to hear it articulated. I will, in this world and every other, and he doesn't have to urge himself to remember, for he knows he always will. Every word. Every cadence. The way Astarion's eyes look, softened crimson eyes framed by dark lashes; the way his hand feels cupping his cheek, cold and delicate and perfect.

You're mine and I'm yours, and they have denoted it a thousand different ways. Through tokens (oh, he misses that bloody cloth so much) and possessive monikers, vows of devotion and promises of adoration. They have sworn it through actions and words both, intimacy and adoration growing stronger by the day— stretching back even before Rialto, all the way to when Astarion had first fallen into Thedas, for their intimacy is marked by so much more than mere sex.

But there's something so satisfyingly inevitable about a ring. It's you. It's always been you, of course they were destined to be bound together in every way that they can, through blood and vows both. The weight of a ring on his finger was as inevitable as his chasing Astarion through the Fade: it could not have gone any other way.

And when he speaks, he can't help but still smile: his lips irrepressibly curled up in the most foolish grin, his gaze full of stars as he stares up at his vampire. His beloved. His everything, and soon all the world will know it.]

Good.

[Murmured as he tips his head up, butting their foreheads together in a fond nuzzle once more. Good, a laugh in his voice and so much adoration in his heart that it aches, his nuzzling fierce and insistent.

And somewhere in there, he murmurs:]

I have never had a last name before. But Leto Ancunín has a nice ring to it.

[And afterwards . . . oh, but one thing at a time, for he has not forgotten Astarion's own proposal.]

It suits you. [Is a promise that isn't embellished for the sake of sentiment. Or— if it is, it's only that way because it happens to also be the truth, with no other facets whatsoever at stake.

And sometime in the future he'll scoff critically (in all usual, acidic fashion) before asking about elves having no other names at all— Dalish or city elf or otherwise, all. No excuse enough to stop Astarion from subsequently crooning about how that sets Leto himself apart in yet one more gloriously defiant way. Another notch against his origin, save for what parts of it he loved. Master of two worlds as a thing astride in both, worth envy beyond envy by everyone that'd ever laid eyes on him.

And everyone that hasn't let.

Astarion, as things are, can't tear his own away. Thief that he is, warmth always calls to him before he has the chance to resist its waiting lure; joy brighter than moonlight too beautiful to keep from setting his fingertips to. The little creases— the narrow divots— where Leto's contentment wrinkles in fine lines across his skin regardless of his age.

He doesn't realize that he's smiling, too.

Fooled into thinking it's only Leto that's bumping their foreheads together in that moment, time and time again.]

....but what of mine doesn't?

[He puffs out a laugh, the noise far more about pure joy than anything approach mirth. What indeed, and he nips at his bottom lip, nuzzling insistently against his mate, each motion and movement only leaving him giddier still. Their lips brush together in something that isn't quite a kiss and it leaves him soaring all the higher, thrilled beyond thrill and yet so sedate in Astarion's arms. This is where he belongs. This is where he feels safe. Forget the mansion. Forget the apartment in Baldur's Gate; forget anywhere and everywhere, for the only thing that has ever truly felt like home is right here in front of him.

Astarion. My Astarion, and foolishly, Leto hopes that his mate never lets him go.]

You suit me, [he says gently: not a correction, but an addition. His fingers slide against marble skin, tracing down the line of his neck and carding through his hair, content to relearn every inch of him in this new light.]

Your name. Your home. Your life, shared and tangled eternally with mine.

[Leto Ancunín, he thinks again. The name does not quite sound real, not yet, but it will. Just as he slowly went from Fenris to Leto, so too will this new addition become part of himself, until one day he'll no longer have to think about it before it slides naturally off his tongue.

A few moments pass . . . and then, so softly, he murmurs:]

And one day: my death. And my resurrection at your hands.

[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, he has not forgotten what led them here. He says the words so carefully, his eyes soft and upturned as he whispers that vow against cold lips. I am yours, and they will prove it with every show of devotion they can come up with. Life and death and back again, their love destined to last for centuries beyond comprehension.]

You will teach me all there is to know about being a vampire, husband of mine. And we will stalk the nights together, and know contentment for centuries to come. This I promise you.

It does sound rather romantic when you put it like that, doesn't it? [Oh, it shakes loose like a purr under the steady bid of those fingerprints. Trackmarks slid along his spine until he slides upwards along with them, twisting in what little room he has just to lend them further purchase wherever they might roam. Knees against thighs; lips against lips; ankles under shins or snared tightly within sheets and dampened silk; hot breath intermingling with cool air in the sloping narrow of their contours, a ravaging intoxicant.] Your death.

[Leto Ancunín's death.

Nothing but satisfaction wreathes around the thought of it, even in the lightless cavern of his skull. If he's been drunk before, it's never been like this. If he's been besotted before, it was a weaker thing. Finding himself possessive now in a way that only a fanged thing ever could be: where the cruelest endpoint life has to offer is the most mouth-wateringly ambrosial treat dangling just within his promised reach. Mine, all mine. The soft skin sprawled underneath his fingers— mine. The whimper of young life still beating hot in untapped veins— mine. Greedy and devoted by an ouroborosian mile, and aching to hoard everything like the addict that he is before he's swallowed up by love's greater, darker designs. Addiction, after all, would only kill Leto. It's love that brings him back and brands him as its own.

The perfect labyrinth for vampiric urges in a loveworn chest.]

But first....

[Ah, there he is. Astarion Ancunín, not Astarion the vampire. Heralding his own interjection with the catch of clawed fingers over branded knuckles just before they're brought up towards his lips.

A formality for marriage.]

You've a great deal more life to learn about as the kept bride of a vampire, you know. And if you don't perish before morning from that sniffling wreck you call a body, a sprawling number of centuries left before I go teaching you all the intricacies of the night.

[Don't dream too eagerly of your fangs just yet, my darling.]

Starting with a set of rings is a challenge more your tempo.

[His expression melts by soften degrees as Astarion kisses the back of his hand. It's such a charmingly doting action, chaste and sweet in a way they normally never are. A way of kissing more suited to courting than two elves that rut so eagerly day and night . . . it leaves him pleasantly flustered, just a touch, his lips curling up into a sweet smile as his ears twitch once or twice.

Though that vanishes swiftly enough as his vampire speaks, replaced with a sardonically amused little stare.]

More your tempo, he says to a god-killer . . . you speak patronizingly for someone in imminent danger of being sneezed upon.

[He sniffs it out as he curls in closer, content to snuggle in now that some of the emotions of the moment are starting to settle. He's no less happy, understand, but it's a more suffused sort of feeling now: warm and bundled and content as he tucks his head beneath Astarion's chin, overwarm cheek pressed to cold skin. There is so much snot going on right now, and the pile of tissues scattered around their sheets only proves it.]

Tell me what kind of ring you desire. And if what you desire is to see me dress in white lace for our, mm, third? wedding night, amatus, ask instead of assuming.

And I happen to get off on having a godkiller in my bed— but that doesn't make him any less adorable when he's barely grown into those twitching, oversized ears of his, [Astarion purrs, letting consonants carry the weight of his wolfishly sly affections. A sort of lilting through his overlong teeth] or his precious little canines.

[Oh, he's stopping now, he promises.

Cross his heart, he knows when to behave....somewhat. At least enough to toe the line between crowing playfulness and true annoyance, the latter of which he'd rather not invoke at the moment when they've just bound their hearts together.

It's slow, and obediently tame, the smoothing path his fingers trace as they comb back fever-saturated locks.]

Mm. Is it our third already? [Asks the creature that's kept track just as avidly all this time.] I suppose something simple will do, given our funding and the three— correction: four ever-hungry mouths we have to feed.

A couple dozen or so diamonds, a mithril band.

Small things.

[It's a testament to just how sick he is that those (utterly adorably oversized) ears twitch once or twice in muzzy confusion after that corrective statement. Four, and it takes him too long to understand what his mate means, some part of him bewildered as he wonders if there's somehow a third pup waddling about.

By the time those blissfully cool fingers work through his hair, he understands— and oh, it's such a sweet action he can't be roused into nipping for that bit of teasing. Nor for the (quietly and not-as-secretly-as-he'd-like adored) bit of patronizing playfulness his lover had crooned down at him. With a pleased little sigh, Leto's eyes flutter closed, his fingers sliding aimlessly against Astarion's frame as his lips turn up in a smile for that extravagant request.]

And you complain I'm expensive to keep . . . what of a silver band? With three diamond lookalikes, since no one will ever be able to spot the difference. You can't, [he adds preemptively.] Not really. I have seen the glass ones wizards conjure up, they look just the same as any natural-mined diamond. Perhaps we can inscribe it with something particularly sentimental . . . the year of when we met? Though that might grow confusing . . .

How about that?

Edited 2024-06-03 01:15 (UTC)

I was talking about your wedding night ensemble. [Astarion crows out with a devilish flash of white fangs— chin tucked down against his chest to exaggerate their daggered sharpness. Not to mention the even more knifing slant of his own lips.

He knows he's being clever.]

But— conjured glass? Really? [Tsk.] I'm all for the idea of an inscription, it'd be our own eternal secret— damning only to those who could possibly understand and also somehow know about your home world, but glass?

Couldn't we rob someone disgustingly wealthy instead and call it a honeymoon gift to ourselves?

I— mmm.

[It's a grumbling groan, wry and distracted both. A noise that starts with oh, very clever, wry and delighted both, and tangles midway with a flirtatious grumbling (because oh, his vampire chose his words well, and now Leto can all too well imagine what kind of ensemble he means), all combined with I can't, not now, not when I'm so sick, demonstrated in the way he glances away from that grin with a wry smirk of his own.]

We could, [he eventually says, his voice growing more thoughtful.] So long as there are no ways to track a diamond . . . are there? Some kind of magic tracer, perhaps? I would not spend our third honeymoon in prison.

And you cannot be picky if we rob them, fussing over the size or shape.

[It's the glance away that has two cool fingertips tucked under his striped chin, drawing him back to that look of docile affection, utterly besotted—

And at odds with the playfully smooth catch of Astarion's voice.] Sensible spending habits? Aversion to serial larceny? No fussing about what we dig up? What sort of teenager are you?

The middle-aged kind.

[His retort is tart, though his eyes are as besotted as Astarion's own. They must look a pair of fools, Leto thinks, mooning over one another like idiots in love— but gods, if ever there was a moment for it, now would be the time. And anyway, he likes feeling like this. He'd spent so many decades sunken within his own loneliness; it does them both good to remember those days are at an end.

So: he relishes the two fingers that have him caught, tipping his head forward to press against them fondly. So: he smiles even as he speaks, his wry smile turned sweeter. So: he ignores the feverish chills that are beginning to wrack his body, preferring to cling close to his mate as long as he can.]

The kind that remember what forty-five really means— and that have spent too many hours dodging the Hightown guards to ever want to repeat that here.

Though if it helps your sense of decorum, amatus, you can set a curfew so I might ignore it and and break it.

[They started out like this, as far as Rialto is concerned. Benchmarks and old, reflected memories by way of bloodstained sills, dropped bodies, and the overharsh pop of cracking fireworks outside.

He'd looked at him then the way he looks at him now: soft across knifishly-angled features, hazy in his blood-colored eyes with the avid gloss of something more than love alone, and yet made that much brighter by it.

Indescribable, the way it finds him. What he feels. What he's always felt, solidified in this very second by the pressure against his hold that's about as fragile as a pup shivering in cold rain. That Astarion takes a moment of time out to wrap those sheets a little tighter round them both, well, it's just a sign of his priorities.

The reoccurring theme tonight.]

Scandalous.

[His right canine a quick flare of blinding white, lengthening the angle of his smirk.]

I'll pick something appropriate for an elf of the very respectable forty-fifth birthday range, then, shall I?

A quaint nine o'clock, perhaps.

[Gods, but he loves him for the way he wraps the sheets around him, tucking them in so carefully so that no part of Leto is exposed. It's such a minor thing in the face of everything else tonight, but as his shivers grow worse (oh, he hates this, his body trembling and his jaw clenching as he fights off the urge to chatter his teeth), it's that which stands out the most.]

Hah.

[It takes him a few more moments before he can say anything more. It's not a lack of ability so much as he doesn't want to shudder and shiver his way through a sentence; bad enough he's already shaking against Astarion's frame.]

You would pick something around then, old man.

[His own teeth flash in echo of Astarion's gleaming smirk, fledgling fangs peeking out as he adds in a drawl:]

Though is that my nine o'clock or yours?

Old—

[Oh, play (or sick) or not, Astarion almost nips him for that one. Longer fangs eager to challenge the measure of their lesser counterparts just to remind them of their place in the pecking order, brought on by a competitive streak that won't be quelled even in the circle of those arms.

He finds a way to silence it regardless.

(Love. Stupid, entirely obstinate love, that's how.)] Old man??

You're far too unwell to be testing me like this, you know.

[When his resolve finally breaks, it's with a kiss that only scrapes across the bow of Leto's lips— canines (lightly) asserting their part in this arrangement.]

[Gods, Astarion's sensitivity to that never fails to amuse him. Call it the inverse of his own toothless bristling whenever Astarion teases him about his youth, perhaps— though Leto plays that card far less than his mate.]

Old man, [he affirms with a dazed grin, his lip throbbing from that teasing scrape. Or perhaps he's aching from that kiss, his body aching no matter how light a touch is bestowed upon it— or maybe he's just sore, so much so that anything and everything sets him off, aches in his joints as he has not felt since Thedas thundering with every pulse of his heart.

It doesn't matter. He'll get over it. He always has before.]

Centuries older than me, is that not correct . . .? O-or is that only true when you want to score a cheap point?

[And then, as he gives up on dignity and burrows in close, snuggling as pitifully as Ataashi on a lonely day:]

Save your punishments for later, and cash in on them when I'm well.

It's not a cheap point if it works. You should know that from our dockside escapades and nights of wicked grace well enough.

[But he's already curling in closer, sinking in along the edge of Leto's side and slipping an arm underneath the sickly thing (whose tacky, vibrantly sweatsoaked back drags a clammy little line down the length of Astarion's forearm in the process) before he's folded into the crook of it properly. Able to drape across the whole of Astarion's cool body, or fold the covers up higher as he needs.

The pups take their cue soon after, crawling up across the sheets while Ataashi minds her distance at their feet, already knowing sickbed routines after so many years of it by now (not too close, never far).]

How bad is it now, my bride to be?

[Asked as he wraps two fingers around the breadth of Leto's ring finger, pinching playfully.]

[It's strange marker for how happy he is (and just how much he loves Astarion) that Leto answers the way he does: by emitting one soft, utterly pathetic groan. Whiny and dissatisfied, and yet in the same breath assuring— for he wouldn't have it in him to whine if he were truly unhappy.

Besides: having Astarion near helps. Feeling cool hands against his sweat-soaked skin is blissful— but so is the feeling of being tucked in, snuggled close against a soft chest and strong arms that will hold him just as long as he likes. And the pups help, little lumps of nestling heat that they are; he can feel their little bodies rise and fall as they breathe, unusually patient as they learn this new routine. And oh, Ataashi helps immensely, her steady bulk endlessly assuring to the elf who still thinks himself protector after all these years.

So he groans, yes, and he is a miserable thing as he shivers beneath the sheets— but he also smiles at that moniker, his heart still so full. With a little sigh, he tips his head, pressing his face against Astarion's shoulder for a long moment. Then, muffled:]

It will be easier in the morning. And the pain still does not compare to winter in Thedas.

[So there's that. Raising his head again (and alas, leaving behind a small damp spot), he adds curiously:]

I realize I may know the answer before I ask, but . . . do vampires have an equivalent to getting sick? It seems something I should know before we're wed.

[Gods, he's never going to get over saying that.]

[At about three in the afternoon:]

1) Do you care for cats more than dogs?

2) Would you want a cat?

2a) Would you want it to be one of those furless pretentious ones that look like raw chicken that nobles favor here?

[A pause, and then:]

I have a present for you when I come home (not a cat, that is unrelated).

dearest darling love treasure mine heart and sunlight eternal why~ am I getting the distinct feeling that

1: you are drunk
2: you've been contemplating this for a while
(2a: no preference: all felines are acceptable companionship with or without fur)
3: it is a cat actually

1. I am not drunk, I am tipsy, and there is a difference. I may never be drunk if this bar keeps serving watered down ale. I would LIKE to be drunk after this last job, but here we are.

2. yes

Does that mean you want one? Or simply that they're preferable over dogs if you had to pick?

It's NOT a cat. I do not know how to care for cats, but there's three in front of me and they will not stop staring at me

You're up late. Could you not get to sleep?

1: Last job? What last job?

2: They're clean, clever, sharp of claw and wit and undoubtedly apex hunters who prefer to choose the company they keep rather than drool on every creature in a ten mile radius. I would share room with one if given the chance. Or two, perhaps.

what do you mean there's three in front of you? where are you? three cats in a bar??

Also: no.

just a job. It was a stupid thing but the money was good and it was only for an afternoon.

and yes three cats in a bar. there's a wizard arguing they're his familiars. he's losing the battle, but he's adamant and business is slow.

they keep staring at me. it's not unlike montressor.

if we get a bigger apartment we can get a cat or two, if it would make you happy

Edited 2024-08-10 06:02 (UTC)

1: Yes that would be what 'just a job' implies. What did they have you doing? Killing, hunting, brawling, intimidating, stripping off your clothes and dusting yourself with gold

2: does the wizard have nice clothes or tatty?

3: You make me happy.

Besides, how can we be sure those mongrels won't try to devour the first cat we cart home?

[Just beneath that first point:]

i don't want to talk about it.

[And then, in a much more rapid and larger script:]

You make me happy too

and I enjoy making you ~~happyer~~ happier if I can. hence the present. and the cats.

(the clothes are fine. you would not consider them nice. Not a particularly successful wizard, I think.)

the pups attempt to gnaw on us all the time withotu even breaking skin. They can barely handle their food. they'd cower from a cat more likely.

[Ohoho, tipsy finds itself possibly bordering on drunk after all.]

Sweet thing.

If his clothes aren't gilt, then trust me: those aren't all his beasts. Honestly I'm not the one to care one way or another what happens to a flock of strays, but this might be a fine opportunity to flex that little incantation of yours and ask the creatures if they need a helping paw.

Anyone can put on a faux beard and an overly large hat, after all.

you took fortunato on a spa day last week. you care immensely what happens to animals. and strays. and me.

[But there is an obligatory pause (aha, a pawse, do you get it). He's still not particularly keen on magic, but it's easier when he's drunk. Still, it takes a little longer than it strictly ought to.]

apparently they follow him willingly

he drops cheese often, which seems accurate enough to look at him.

And now they will not quiet down about how I reek of hounds and how distasteful that is, so perhaps I shall steal you one. you have so much in common already.

Always you.

[Is penned with a saccharine flow whilst his dear moon elf is so apparently preoccupied. But when he returns (and after one swift round of conceptual appawse):]

Ha!

You could scarcely handle more than one of me already. Ergo if we're to take in another wayward cub, it should be one with the good sense not to turn up its nose at my favorite little treat.

But they do have you pegged, don't they? My adorable hounding thing, always scented like wolf fur and gamish iron underneath the rest.

[Oh . . . and tipsy-drunk as he is, that first part makes him beam so foolishly down at his notebook. It's nothing he didn't already know, nothing he wouldn't have sworn up and down to be true, but there's something to be said for being told anyway. Love-starved creatures that they both are, perhaps there's something to be said for being spoiled with it now.]

is that truly what I smell like here? it used to be lyrium and blood in thedas, was it not?

[A beat, and then:]

please. i have proven multiple times I can easily handle several of you all at once. fearsome predator, you are not half so difficult to manage as you try to pass off.

[And then, if Astarion doesn't instantly reply, his thoughts drift in another direction. Namely:]

if I ask you something filthy, are you going to be able to control yourself? I will not be home until late tonight, i suspect.

Some days you still do. The transplanted blade helps restore a little whiff of lyrium here and there, but the Weave's moonstone cling is a lovely note in and of itself; I've grown quite fond if I do say so myself.

[2: he's not fool enough to go starting that war of doppelgängers thank you very much.

3:]

no

promises

on your head be it. coming home to you loose-limbed with sweat on your brow and come on your belly will be a welcome sight. you're eager on the best of days, but that's far different than you needy— and after today, i deserve both.

if you had to pick one— and you do, now— do you have a particular favorite time we've fucked? be it kink or location or emotion . . . or perhaps all three.

[....hm.]

Fun answer, or the honest one?

Both. But begin with fun.

Such a choice you foist upon my shoulders. [Serves as both tease and penned confession; letters curling like the adopted richness that'd no doubt drip from his own tongue were speech a present participant in their conversation.

Truth is easy for Astarion, only one answer stands to ever possibly be given, but when it comes to fun— ]

Tutelage is eternally desirous rush that I'll never find it in me to say no to, owing to the memory of inkstains and murmured bouts of the words good boy gladly usurping so many restless days when I've been left alone. Ah but the woods. And those hands. And your breasts that fit all too perfectly between my teeth. The supple details of your lingerie, your moans, your sighs and tender little flushpoints, all peaked. And piqued. A hard champion to oust in terms of its supremacy, and yet

I think quite often of that fight of ours in Kirkwall, on such a miserable night as the one we trounced together through avid bitemarks. Wicked bruises. Rutting on the floor across our knees, gasping desperately for breath.

I might not be able to sit in running water anymore, but I still hold crisp memories of the bath we took together afterwards as well.

That's playing unfairly.

[As if he minds. As if he isn't preening over each and every word, smirking down at his notebook as heat flares in the pit of his stomach. Each incident flits through his mind in a hazy amalgam of keen sensation and disjointed memory: Astarion sprawled out beneath him, pale and perfect, trembling in overstimulated desire and mewling out Leto's name between pleas for mercy, his eyes rolling back each time he was teased and edged and forced to be good. Or: Astarion with his arms folded behind his head, a reckless grin stretched over his face and his eyes gleaming white in the darkness, watching as those hands fucked every inch of Fenris. Fingers in her mouth, her ass, thrusting and diving and stretching as all the while, she was impaled upon his cock— bounced and rut and claimed, come dripping down her face and staining her thighs, her voice hoarse and muffled as he forced her to take more and more, a brutal gangbang all his own—]

Bad dog.

[And that's to say nothing of their fight. The inglorious humiliation of Astarion coming on his face; the vengeful glee of watching him rut and rock against Fenris' shin, only to be forced into his lap and onto the floor . . . oh, he lingers on that memory for far too long. Long enough that ink soaks into the parchment; long enough that when his mind flits to the bath, warm skin and slick fingers and endless intimacy tucked into soft words, he's long since had to cross one leg over the other for the sake of his own dignity.]

I said one, little cheater. Now what am I meant to do with you?

[Oh, gods, he wants to be home so badly. He deserves to be home; they both deserve to be able to pounce on each other after this. And yet he is not so comfortable with his own magic that he'll risk even an unguarded flame, never mind teleportation— so the long way it is. He'll start walking home just as soon as he can get himself under control.]

But if you're going to be so clever, my vampire, then continue to put it to good use. Tell me the real one now.

Edited 2024-08-15 03:52 (UTC)

[Ah see this is where play and reality collide— and divide. No waffling or wistful rumination takes over once crimson eyes fall across the bottom of that page and its punctuating inquiry. As with all things Astarion it's only the performative that comes on with a grand amount of hemming and hawing and sleight-of-hand adjacent noise. The mask. The masquerade— like eyespots feathering a tiger's ears.

The truth, on the other hand, has no such herald.]

Rialto.

[Of course it's Rialto. What else would it be? Leto's answer is the very same, without pause for thought or reflection. And that's not to say there haven't been other nights that were special— of course there were. Not just fun or thrilling, but intimate in a way that Leto hadn't known you could have, full of whispered words of devotion and touches that soothed his very soul. Nights where it felt like their souls tangled together as much as their bodies, endlessly intimate and achingly adoring.

And yet Rialto still stands out: a shining beacon of a night whose mere mention has Leto smiling warmly, endeared and in love.]

I have few treasured memories, but that is one of them. It will always be one of them. The way you looked as you stood in the sea, fireworks around us . . . the way you sounded the first time you told me you loved me.

[How I have loved you for so long, menace that you are, and the words seared themselves onto his soul, as permanent as any scar.]

And I think often, too, of the night that followed. All of it, from the things you showed me to the ways in which we talked . . . there is not a detail that does not remain clear in my mind. That was the first time

[Well, for a lot of things, actually. There's a pause, and then he scribbles beneath that unfinished sentence:]

I should not have asked you such a question when I am still so far away. You have me longing for you despite the fact I may die in these endless backalleys and dead-ends.

I suppose your vampiric repertoire doesn't include a way to shorten the distance between the Upper City and home, hm?

[Strewth— ]

Spoken as if we aren't in a constant state of pining, my little love.

[Hells and Maker both have mercy, he wracks his brain to scour in search of anything— anything at all— that might prove useful in capacity enough to ferry either himself to Leto, or Leto to him in reverse with the sort of urgency reserved for dire circumstance alone. It isn't that he can't regulate his own overspooled intensity (or, at the very least, this particular instance of it), but that eyes on the outside looking in could never understand what it feels like to be so thoroughly inflamed over memory alone. And it hardly matters whether he'd meant the vulgarity of entanglement in a Rialtan brothel's sheets or the way shore water (terryfing at first blush for a creature prone to hadal dread) reflected its bright touch over a set of handsome, sharp-edged features— bisected by gleaming stripes of silvered lyrium— because both are entangled past the point of borders holding weight. All he wants is to be close. To brook conversation in person rather than across the penned-in distance until nightfall overtakes.

Wolves? No— there's only one in Baldur's Gate aside from himself. Bats? He could better avoid sunlight in smaller guise, but that hardly minimizes said journey. And as for magic? Teleportation is out, thieving byways are more likely to invoke trouble rather than ward it, and as for the sewers?

Gods, no.

Still, he tries. Again and again, for far longer than he should, and the stretch where nothing else lies written is sole witness to it.]

Alas.

Scant little comes to mind at present, but sit tight, sober your pretty little self up— or better yet, don't— and I'll continue seeing what I can do.

Yet in the meanwhile, as I think fondly on how you looked with the blood of a would-be assassin still flecked across your throat and shoulders, panting at the thought of sinking underneath my jaws and oil slickened prick at both ends....

You still have a story to tell regarding what your earlier job entailed.

[Do you hear that, Astarion? A groan loud enough that perhaps it manages to cross miles, rumbled petulantly with no thought nor care for the amused stares it nets him. Leto grumbles loudly at his notebook and redoubles his pace, which doesn't really mean a whole lot when he keeps getting turned around.

But he can do this. Even while drunk, he can probably do this. And if he can't, the sun is closer to setting than rising, so either way, he'll be home soon enough.]

we shall what you can manage before I make my way home on foot. I am not sitting tight after you write about filling me at both ends. you owe me for telling you this, and I aim to collect when i see you next.

[And honestly? He does consider dodging the question again, if only because he'd much rather continue down this filthy line of thought. But this is the second time Astarion's asked, and he'll get concerned if Leto keeps avoiding it.

So, with a heavy (and unheard) sigh, his hand a little sloppier thanks to walking faster and writing all at once:]

if you need to know: i was hired as a temporary bodyguard for the week for a half-elf merchant princess who wished to attend varying events. what I was not told was that today was for her own pleasure. I have functioned as glorified bag holder for the past six hours as we went from varying boutiques and stores, buying outfits and jewels and perfumes and makeup and anything else you can think of. my opinions were consulted and promptly ignored, which is for the best, as I began to agree with anything she said just to shut her up.

Be told: apparently earthen tones are passé, and "cutout chic" is fashionable now. i don't know what that means, but she apparently did. now you know.

[She wasn't, honestly, a terrible person. Spoiled, but sweetly so; it's just that Leto isn't a damn servant.]

and i still have four days before i'm done. [Whiny little pup, but he's drunk, leave him be.] at least she means to attend a party later this week, so i can actually do my damned job.

[Oh if he doesn't laugh at first, in part because it's needed when he's so kept on the ropes of his own willpower at present, still pacing with intent to leave— and in part because it's utterly darling, that keen distress. Drunken and sincere and pampered and (rightly) expecting so-much-more for hired trouble.

But then:]

Cutout chic?????? Fashionable????

Is she a child? Is she delusional? [Wait— ] Just how much is she paying you for this?

not enough

[No, no, that's not true. That's very much the opposite of true, actually.]

a hundred gold coins a day, with traveling expenses included. which is why i could get you a present.

what's wrong with cutout chic?

what is cutout chic??

and she is not a child, but still young enough she and her friends giggle a great deal, so take that as you will. i will not call what they did making a pass at me, but it was unpleasant.

Edited (OH MY GOD TAG PELASE) 2024-08-17 04:58 (UTC)

[You know, there was a great deal more Astarion intended to say. Well— write, if semantics are involved, but yet again, his own reactive nature takes hold, and already he considers the merits of draining that creature dry.

Her and all her friends, in fact.]

Hollyphantshite is what it is. Untailored faff with holes punched into it in a crude imitation of class- why not just quit this, darling? She's obviously beneath you.

a HUNDRED GOLD COINS a day

i would not mind seeing YOU in clothes with holes in them

you would make them look good

she did not

i do not think a woman's form is flattered by the addition of cut out holes where her breasts should be, undershirt or no

[It's not cute!]

a hu

[ —OKAY. OKAY NO. NO NO NO, FINE. FINE, nothing is worth the price of his amatus' dear dignity, but—

Oh all things considered, it is far more tempting than it ought to be. If the job itself were finished, that alone would cover the cost of their rent for the next month at the very least. The temptation's there, but the will to concede overrides.

For now.]

Counterpoint: that woman.

Because in turn I'd also pay a great deal to see you sporting that particular raiment regardless of any and all fashion trends.

[Oh, see, now, this is a far more agreeable subject.]

Oh? You still need to go first. I have yet to see you transformed, and I would like very much to remedy that. If you're wearing something filthy, all the better.

But tell me: how much? Or, if it's more agreeable to you: tell me what you'd be willing to do to see it.

Naturally. I still owe you a great deal in that regard already, as I recall.

Is this your way of telling me you have a negotiable price?

you do.

and yes.

i like the thought of you having to earn a treat for once. any treat, cutout outfit or otherwise, but you get your way without earning it far too often.

besides: i have miles to go before i'm home. unless you want to play a more mundane game, entertain me. tell me what you'd pay for your prized diamond, hm?

[Uhf— ]

Nonsense. If there was ever a tally of which of us proves most spoiled, my darling, you would top with ease.

But then what don't you top with ease? Must be so hard for you right now, still at such a distance with your mind and sobriety in the gutter, dreaming of what I might surrender just to see you in a filthy little ensemble.

oh, i need not dream it

i can remember it with ease

you offer me anything and everything when you have the least little resistance. my fierce vampiric lord turned mewling slut the moment i demonstrate i can still pin you with ease whenever i wish . . . perhaps even easier now [the slightest pause, the slightest hesitation] with my magic.

[Move on, move on:]

and if it is hard for me to walk to you, it must be even worse for you: left home alone with too many toys and so much free time . . .

why don't you use one now for me? if i am truly more spoiled, then indulge me in my request.

[Hells damn it all, there's a certain blood-in-the-water quality to those moments when Leto truly gets worked up into a vulgar froth, and as keenly (happily, in fact) as Astarion does indeed bend to its grip, he always manages to forget just how crippling it can be. How decisively weak in the knees it leaves him.

Probably something to do with thousands upon thousands of festering attempts at courtship over the years, convincing him he's somehow well immune to a few whispered words.

And he is. He very, very much is.

But not from Leto.]

When there's no guarantee you'll actually make it home without a fanged intervention, you'll forgive me for not sinking to my knees atop the thickest thing we own the second that you ask. [Oh it isn't true: Astarion can damn well picture his rough-edged moon elf consort crawling home if need be— though given his penmanship Astarion also suspects that Leto isn't that far gone. It's just fun to play.]

Arrogant little beast that I'm beholden to, tell me first how long you think you'll be if I do give in and can't rescue you before sunset. Tell me just how far hunger will carry you. Tell me what you hope I'll greet you with—

or perhaps entrap you with the second you walk right through that door. And I'll tell you if you're right.

Edited 2024-08-20 01:55 (UTC)

bossy thing. you ask while not bothering to even elaborate what kind of ensemble you might want to see

[But no, no, he's into this now.]

you make it tempting to say "the thickest thing we own", you know— but i think i'd rather see you atop that one toy you tormented me with in the sex shop. the one that vibrates and changes temperature.

the thought of walking into the apartment just to see you with your legs splayed and your back arched, fucking yourself with that toy and begging me from the moment i cross the threshold to touch you, tend to you, fuck you and mount you in earnest . . . it's an alluring fantasy, amatus.

but if it's entrapment you're in the mood for, i would not say no to those ropes we bought that day too. you're vicious when you think you have me helpless, and all the more sadistic if you've been baited first.

an hour. perhaps less. that's how long it will take me.

am i right?

[That makes two of them that are deeply into this now.]

No—~

that's not the route I took almost

oh from the moment we were discussing fashion.

you what

[Scrawled more than anything, for in the next moment Leto's head is craning, glancing rapidfire up at the rooftops and all around him as he tries to spot— what? But it's so hard to say when the sun is still glimmering and his lover can turn so many things.]

[There is, after a time, not sound but a flicker of movement in the borders of those crowded streets: a shifting of shadow within shadow, only able to exist in the places where a low-hanging sun can't seem to fully reach— and within that obscurity, two hollow eyes, red around reflective pupils that shine brighter depending on where they flick. Easily waved off as a stray cat if not for height and starkness, let alone the visible lifting of a heavy cloak should Leto's eyes adjust.

Astarion. It must be. His lying con artist of a kadan, come to bring him home.

—only underneath that hooded cloak is a woman instead. White curls slung low across her eyes and around the borders of her face, offsetting kohl-kissed lashes that sit hooded once he's near. Her fangs glint white when she smiles, pulling high to one side.

And most of all, she smells of their wolf. Their home. Lilac and leather oil, bergamot and brandy, and the faintest whiff of transplanted lyrium.]

Took you long enough.

[Never mind she only just managed to track him down, and with only a few trace scorchmarks for her trouble.]

I— uh—

[Honest to gods, he forgets how to talk.

His brain is brought to a screeching halt from the mere sight of her, this ethereal creature that is his kadan and yet not all at once. His tongue is suddenly thick, his eyes darting about her face frantically as he realizes what she's done. Somehow he manages not to trip over himself as he heads from the street to the alley, dodging people in a daze as his eyes stay locked on Astarion.]

You—

[And he can't explain it. He can't understand why he's suddenly so flustered, the tips of his ears reddened and his eyes as wide as saucers, looking every inch the adolescent he appears to be as he stands in front of his mate— save maybe that she's so beautiful.

Stunning. Breathtaking. Astarion is always attractive, Leto swears, but this is so new. The sleek lines of her face are softened just slightly, her scarlet eyes more doeish than normal as she glances up at him through dark lashes. It's so hard to see the shape of her beneath her cloak (and trust he looks, eager to see all of her); Leto's eyes flick down, up, down, and then finally up again, his expression nothing short of delightedly bewildered.]

It's . . . when did you—?

[Murmured in Tevene, and the undercurrent is: it is you, isn't it? It must be. It has to be. She smells the same, looks the same down to the arrangement of freckles and moles, her hair longer but with the same curl pattern and her lips curved in the most familiar smirk— oh, it must be Astarion, and yet Leto's hand hesitates just once before cupping her cheek.

Small, he thinks in unconscious echo as he turns her head up to face him. Not absurdly so, but there's a difference there, and it thrills him to realize it. Small, their height difference suddenly widened by a matter of inches, her frame slighter and softer than he's used to. His thumb strokes gently over the curve of her cheek again and again, his body already angling to stand between her and the street in unconscious bid at protectiveness.]

How did you— when did you— how did you get here?

[Oh, gods, he sounds inane, but he can't help it, not when his mind is still struggling to play catchup with current events. He wants to kiss her and doesn't dare, not just yet, gripped with a shyness he still struggles to understand.

He also can't help the way he keeps trying to get a glimpse of her beneath that cloak: not crudely so much as avidly (and drunkenly) curious about how this potion treated his lover. More to the point: what bits of her it emphasized, and where, and how much. He wants to know, but . . . oh, to hell with it, he'll find out soon enough, he thinks, and focuses back up on her face once more.

Sincerely, then:]

You're so . . . you're beautiful.

[If she had anything but the crude mimicry of cool breath to give in those moments bridging his approach to the soft, circling slide of his thumb across her cheek, it'd be gone by the time her jaw crooks higher in his hold. This exact fantasy just a stray concept until now, when the present views and sensations twist together to drive reality home with all the potency of a perched knife in steady hands. Stolen by it all.

He's tall. He's flustered. It strikes like flint.]

You always know just how to flatter. [Comes through in a voice she doesn't recognize. In a purr she does. Cadence overriding a hightened lilt that actually fits her characteristic delivery for once, though it doesn't make it any less of a shellburst shock each time she hears it, marveling at everything. Drinking herself in through all present disbelief; the strangest mirror, when she's had none to check herself within. Only the weightlessness in her limbs and legs. Only the heaviness across her chest, and the arresting lightness between her thighs— ] Maker's Breath.

[There it is. Just once while she still can. An acclimatizing exhale. A quickened reset. As much for his sake as her own, left hot along the high tips of her ears. The back of her slim neck, held high to meet his knuckles.]

I take it that this means you've no complaints about my choice in pursued play? [Into his touch, then, a partial press forwards onto the balls of her feet, until the sinking outline of her hood threatens to swallow his hand whole— to say nothing of the rest of that cloak, and the layered clothing underneath: she swims in stolen clothing. Hers. His. A pair of taloned gloves strung looser than a second skin around her fingertips, and she fits one set of them against his elbow. His blocking frame keeps the sun at bay, but she's careful not to let too much of herself show for the risk stray sunlight poses, ashen burn a lingering prickle at her heels. Hello, little love.

Ah— correction. Large love. Very, very large love.]

Edited 2024-08-23 04:25 (UTC)

[It's her, it's her, it's her, the thought echoing in time with his thundering pulse and sweetly underscored by the lilting cadence of her voice. It's her, Astarion, my Astarion, and yet still, he might have spent minutes gaping at her in if not for that sweet reset. He exhales softly in delight, his ears flicking to hear that echoed Tevene—

And with it comes a shift, slow and subtle and yet undeniable for how it changes his countenance. His eyes go dark as his chin tips down, his eyes slow as he drinks her in inch by unsubtle inch. Hot exhales come slower now, his posture stilling as his muscles tense in anticipation— and then, with heavy deliberation, Fenris takes a step forward. And then another, his hand slipping into her cloak to wrap around her waist, pushing her until he crowds her against the wall. One leg slips forward, wedging mercilessly between her own, the line of his thigh pressing firm against welling heat. Soft and plush even through layers of clothes, and with a little grin he nudges his thigh up, grinding experimentally against her.]

Just the opposite.

[His voice has dipped down low, rumbling in the base of his throat. She's so pretty like this, her skin all but glowing in the near-sunlight and her lips curled up in such a coy smirk. His thumb strokes against her hip as his other hand slides down to catch catch her chin, keeping her face upturned.]

Beautiful thing . . . did you risk the sun just to find me?

[His thumb rubs slowly against the swell of her bottom lip once, twice, before he ducks down to brush his lips against her deadened pulsepoint, his words pooling hot against her skin.]

And now that you have . . . what do you suggest, hm? That I carry you to a brothel so that I can pin you to the bed and tease you with my tongue until you beg me to fuck you? Or that we stay out here and ru—

['Leto!' a girl's voice cries, and all at once his expression drops.]

Fasta vass—

[There's a pretty little thing across the street, waving to try and catch his attention. A blonde half-elf, her arm straight up in the air and her fingers wiggling in an obnoxiously cutesy way. She wears a green dress with, indeed, cut-outs in particularly strategic areas, her breasts and hips peeking out to reveal a white slip. She's accompanied by a little posse of similarly dressed girls, all of them with similarly styled hair, all of them decked out in an assortment of subtle golden jewelry and carefully applied makeup.

She leads her pack across the street, and with a low groan Leto straightens up from his conquest.]

My employer . . . I will be rid of them.

[But the moment she reaches the alley, she's chattering brightly, her eyes darting from Astarion to Leto and back again. 'Is this your girlfriend?' she cries, sounding for all the world as though she's delightedly interested. And yet there's something just a little calculating behind her eyes as she adds, her gaze flicking to Astarion: 'Why didn't you ever say you had one? Don't tell me you're embarrassed! And she's so pretty . . . you could have mentioned her today, you know!']

I was not—

['He's so shy,' she says at Astarion with a little giggle. 'And so gruff! How do you get anything out of him? Oh! But I'm being silly— my name is Arlynn Silverhand, of the Silverhand clan. And you must not be from around here . . . I've never seen clothes that . . . interesting before. Did you just come in from the countryside?']

[A gesture Astarion is careful not to return, if only for the fact that reaching out would stretch too close to direct light. (Also, because she doesn't damned well want to, but in the grand scheme of self-preservation and resentment, it's mostly the first that drives her present reasoning:) borrowed gauntlet lifting only two of its fingers in casual salute while enmity makes its way up onto her shoulder, crosses the back of her neck beneath collar and cloak, and dens down into the edges of a sharper smile.

What luck.]

Astarion [slinks its way out of the shadows in her stead] and so charmed to make your acquaintance. After all, I've heard so much about you my dear Silversong— though I'm ashamed that you've caught me in such a disheveled state after an earlier mishap with a visiting merchant prince.

[Alas, comes with a smile. A canting feint of her chin towards her shoulder, hood dipping morosely over her eyes.]

Oh but look at you that dress. Where in all the realms themselves did you ever find it? I've never seen anything of the sort in all my years.

Are you starting a new trend?

[On the one hand, Leto is impatient. He's tipsy bordering on drunk and his libido is roaring, his teenage body sitting up and howling for the sight of his suddenly curvaceous amatus. He wants to kiss her, touch her, spread her thighs open and lap at her little cunt until she wails in eye-rolling pleasure— and for every word that slips past Arylnn's lips, his temper rises, his impatience sharpening like a knife.

On the other hand: it is a treat to see Astarion sharpen her claws.

She so outstrips the little princess that it's more akin to a cat playing with a mouse than a real competition. Her opening remarks are barely swats at all, and yet even as Leto watches, Arylnn's mouth thins. It's a subtle tell, but a tell all the same.

'It's Silverhand, she corrects with a thin smile. 'You obviously don't know much about fashion,'

Her eyes flick lazily from the gauntlets to the varying layers Astarion wears, all of it hidden beneath a cloak. 'But it's not your fault. Believe me: in a year, you'll find plenty of knockoffs and you can enjoy it too. Maybe even wear it to . . . what was it you said? Some kind of entanglement with a merchant prince? Which one?']

[Clever girl. And if Astarion weren't so much as half as practiced at this dance as she is after two full centuries of it, that final question would prove disastrously sharp-edged.

As things are, however, dear little Arlynn's left herself an unintended opening. A chance to parry (not to mention insult) and dare the poor creature to tip her hand by demanding that desired story a second time, once Astarion sets her cloaked back against the shadowed wall behind her— and grins.]

Ah, it is so hard to keep track of all the minor houses these days. I'm afraid I've lost the stomach for committing my memory to everything that doesn't last....

[And with a glance towards the group— ] Oh but it's almost dusk, isn't it? You lot must be in the midst of a sea of terribly important business here in the Upper City before nightfall, tsk— and here I am shamelessly keeping you preoccupied.

[One of her little friends does gasp at that: a tell for that slight on how swiftly houses rise and fall, and one that's swiftly hushed by the rest of the group. But it's another point scored, and Leto doesn't bother to bite back his own smirk.

'Actually,' Arlynn says, staring sharply between the two of them, 'that's exactly why we came over. We're off to a party at the Vanthampur estates— he's a nobleman,' she adds patronizingly to Astarion. 'But we need a chaperone, my father says. So—']

I am not available.

[He answers swiftly, though for sake of employment, he tries to keep his tone from utter flatness.

'You're not busy,' Arlynn counters with another little glance at Astarion. 'I know you aren't. Anyway, I thought you might say that. But Father says he'll pay you a day's salary per every hour you accompany us. Maybe even double that, if I say you did a good job.'

And that— that isn't fair. It isn't fair because to make three hundred gold coins an hour will set them up for the rest of the year; it isn't fair because they are poor enough that such an offer does make Leto hesitate, albeit momentarily. One hand tightens on Astarion's hip, his expression conflicted for all of a second—

Before it hardens.]

My answer is still no.

[Oh, it's sore to give that up. It's so hard, but it's worth it for the elf next to him. You are worth more than that, you are worth more than anything, and she is, she is, and no amount of money will change that.

There's a teetering moment where Arlynn clearly tries to decide if she can order Leto into it before realizing it isn't worth the effort. With a scoffing little laugh, she rolls her eyes. 'Fine,' she says, all that sweet prettiness gone from her tone. 'Have it your way. But don't forget you're paid to make me happy— and whether or not you get any kind of bonus is up to me. Oh: and I want you at the mansion at seven tomorrow. I have plans.']

Fine.

[It's cold, now. Cold and sullen, his expression flat as he watches flounce off. It's stupid to be riled by such a child, but it reminds him too much of Hadriana and her ilk— and gods, but he has never liked being ordered around.

But there are better things to focus on.

With a sharp exhale, Leto turns back to his mate, his hands tentative as they slip into her cloak and glide along her torso.]

Idiot. But she need not trouble us anymore. And you . . .

[Oh, her. Beautiful and soft and seductive, and Leto's eyes soften by measures as he drinks her in once more.]

You deserve all my attention, pretty thing that you are. Clever thing, to come out so far and see me. And to wear these . . .

[He catches one hand, his thumb stroking over familiar clawed gauntlets.]

They suit you.

Perhaps we'll trade outfits before the night is done, for it has been a long, long time since I used these on you.

[Twice his day's salary per hour. Double that. Maker have bloody mercy, she could buy Astarion's honeyed flattery with that if she wanted to— her hood-masked eyes turned wide in those seconds that it takes for conversation (the term loosely used, in this particular instance) to depart on the heels of Arlynn's gathered flock.

Forgotten in the next breath when palpably strong fingers hook in flush around her ribs, displacing thinner silk; proving in the gliding ease of contact that there's nothing— nothing at all, in fact— underneath its darkened shape.

Like that, it's easy to bend to it. Easy to forget her ire, or the hungry, childish glint that noble's gaze each time she turned it Leto's way. Easier still to press those gauntlets up along the meridian of Leto's chest in shadow, more than relieved to see dusky cloud cover rolling in against an orange-colored sky somewhere behind him, looming through the scarce breaks from buildings overhead.]

You'll have to win them from me first. [Proves itself an all too familiar tease, wrinkling the delicate tip of Astarion's nose.

And then, a touch more soberly:]

Are you all right?

Edited 2024-08-28 03:02 (UTC)

Yes.

[No, that isn't honest. Leto's eyes dart away even as he arches into that touch, drawing closer physically even as some part of him squirms fussily beneath emotional honesty. An old reaction, and one he is learning to get past. That is to say: his hesitance lasts only half a second before he focuses on her once more.]

I will be, anyway. She didn't get her way, after all— and annoyance or not, it's still pleasing to be able to say no. Whatever comes tomorrow will be its own challenge, and besides . . .

[He smiles faintly and slides one hand into her hood, gently pulling it back as dusk settles around them.]

I have something far better to focus on than her and her foolishness. Like how easily you tore her apart, vicious thing . . . and how much I would pay to watch you truly at work. Watching you prowl among socialites and tear them down to size makes attending one of those gatherings sound suddenly appealing.

[He takes another step forward, ducking his head down to nuzzle against her, bumping noses and brushing their lips together in something a little less than a kiss.]

Especially if you look like this while you're doing it . . .

[Hm. Leto's head ducks down, his teeth nipping gently at the line of Astarion's jaw.]

Mm, but why don't you make me feel better, hm?

Tell me how you'd humiliate her.

She'd never get her way. [Isn't a platitude, though it slips out with ease under the restless edges of those teeth; chilled breath worked against his ear for both the angle he's set in on, and the strange difference in his comparative measure when he's stooped over her like this— her lips pulled upwards around an elongated fang, grinning and gasping all at once. Careful with those gauntlets, and with her effort to only take in as much air as she needs to speak so as not to draw attention, and— ]

You don't need me rushing to your defense to make it so, but.... Ah— [Is a quickened hiss, one that weaves its way in closer. More flush than all the rest. Some paltry bid at staying silent when her stomach's drawn in tight enough to choke beneath her lungs, and her knees feel selfishly inclined to forfeit.] mind yourself, wicked little thing.

[Said the vampire that punctuates that sentiment via fanged chastisement.]

I'd turn into a wolf if need be just to keep watch over you at her side. [It's the first image that came to mind. She's no idea why— just distracted, most likely. Pleasantly, dangerously distracted.] But given a soirée worth its imported Waterdavian salt, oh, darling, it'd be so easy to steal something enviable. Wear it in a way that makes it enviable, all her precious cutouts included.

And after my fashionably late arrival does everything its meant to when it comes to garnering attention, I'll spend the rest of the evening sniping every last favorable mark right out from underneath her powdered nose. [Another nip. Another scoring kiss.] Anyone that looks fondly on her will find themselves snubbed, and those who convert—

[There's a quickened gasp.

A sudden exhaled noise in the aftermath (that's as much to do with his attention as it does her own incited thoughts), palm-pressure doubling itself as she presses him back by a forearm's length at most: curls a tangle across her gleaming, all-too-transparently elated eyes. Accompanied by perhaps the most devilishly elated expression to date.]

—she said she has plans tomorrow.

What plans? Do you know?

Edited 2024-08-29 00:45 (UTC)

[Single-minded little wolf, he whines as he's pushed back. It's an instinctive cry, a split-second protest as his growing fantasy is abruptly interrupted. He doesn't want to linger on the thought of that brat; he wants to sink to his knees. He wants to pry open those trouser laces with his teeth and drag her panties down to her knees just to reveal her cunt: flushed with heat and slick with arousal, swollen and eager and in desperate need of a clever tongue. And he'll give her that, oh, yes: he'll wedge himself between her thighs and eat her out until she's begging him to stop— her fingers fit between fierce fangs and her thighs shaking as she tries to keep some semblance of propriety, that cloak the only thing that keeps her from total debauchery— panting, mewling for him as she drips onto his waiting tongue, alternating between frantic pleas to stop and begging him for two thick fingers to spear her and spread her open as he suckles on her needy little clit—

He's salivating.

And so it takes him a moment to reorient. One bewildering blink down at her before he manages to understand what she's asking— and what that gleam in her eye means.]

Ah—

[Gods, give him a few seconds . . . it isn't just that he has to pull himself out of his fantasies, but actually remember all the inane chatter of today. His hands fall down to grip her hips, his thumbs playing unsubtely at their hem as he thinks.]

It's a birthday party.

[Oh, that's right . . .]

For one of the Gist daughters. A masquerade. It doesn't begin until that night, but she and her friends want to spend all day getting ready. Or paying other people to get them ready, more likely. I believe she's going as some kind of gilded cat.

[But oh, he knows what Astarion is getting at . . . and gods, but he wants to see it. He wants to watch her at work, swanning around and viciously undercutting every coy remark, stealing Arylnn's friends and making her miserable. It's petty and mean and he doesn't care, not right now. A sharp grin flashes over his face, his back arching as he pushes tentatively against Astarion's hands, feeling the pinprick bites of his own talons against his chest.]

Will I see you there, vicious thing?

I should make you wait and find out.

[Lays pressure on those claws, this time more direct. More controlling. A match for the savage show of jagged incisors revealed more fully by the second.]

About everything.

[Careful, the prickling pressure she applies as it latches onto thin leather. Thinner cloth. A tiger sharpening its whetted touch.]

Whether you'll see me there. Whether I'll find my way to you— possibly even in the middle of my hunt. How we might steal away for minutes at a time. Little glimpses in unwatched corridors: your knuckles slid beneath my dress.

[Her purr nearly echoes when it slips its noose, drawing closer to his throat.]

....what I might taste like.

Feel like.

[Oh. Oh, and two things happen at once: his ears flush as his eyes go dark, emerald swiftly replaced by onyx even as frustration crosses his expression. Gods don't and yes please twisting together all at once, his salivating eagerness only stoked by this new game of keep-away. The thrill of stealing away with her after a full day of starved longing, half-hidden behind a pillar with her skirt rucked up and her thighs parted, her cunt dripping onto his tongue as she grips his hair and grinds against him—]

Fasta vass, Astarion—

[And yet he still wants her now. Badly enough that he leans his weight forward, ignoring the pinprick pain of his own claws biting into his skin (little droplets of blood welling and soaking into his clothes) in favor of crowding her as much as he can. His head ducks down, his teeth worrying at one upturned ear as his hand splays along her hip.]

You did not come all this way just to tease.

[Asserted as his hand slide behind her, fingers groping eagerly at one satisfyingly full cheek. Just as pliant and eager as he remembers, and yet with a softer swell that he savors as he squeezes. It's half to tease and half to test the boundaries, seeing how much she means to keep him on a leash.

His voice lowers, his breath hot against her ear as he continues:]

You wish to make me wait? But you're such a ravenous thing on the best of days, and now . . . I remember what it is to be like this, amatus. So aware of how empty you are, your cunt slick and aching for for anything thick and hot to fill it . . . and all the while, your body's become a virginal thing again. Every sensation is new and all the more electrifying for it— did you play with yourself beforehand? But you always want me more than you ever want to touch yourself.

[Gods, and he arches his back, hips inching forward without ever once touching her.]

Make me wait if you wish— but you'll be craving me as much as I am you. It's my hands you'll long to feel spreading your thighs. It's my tongue you'll fantasize about lapping at your cunt, coaxing you into as many orgasms as you can bear before you beg me to stop.

[Virginal. Virginal. Oh what a shameless damned cheat he is for that galvanizing truth, as it if might yet be palpable. Tangible. That if she clenches her thighs shut tight enough (she isn't), she might just sense that part of her that unlike her other self, doesn't know the map of curtained rooms that reek of perfume, or the countless blunted fingers that never did. All in ways she never considered before now given the impulsive urge to drive a shiver up his spine and force his cock to go thick against the inseam of his slacks.

It's dangerous. Electric. Rattles with an intimate hunger that has fabric clinging to the inner junction of her thighs....]

You're right.

[She gives him what he hunts for when she hitches into his palming grip. Into the line of his hips and the not-quite present shape of stirring promise. How it nestles tight and warm and right against changed contours.That's the cruelty of it— the fun of it. What she expects, right down to the simplest of touches (it should be their cocks meeting. A heady stirring that works up into a swell. And yet instead, he moves in closer to pull flush. To offer friction that crawls inward like an invitation before it coils. Cinches.) Every inch he takes, she melts around it. Surrenders to it. Letting him in to feel what he can't see when she's dressed in everything that doesn't fit her, swaddled in a sun resistant cloak (even his leggings she'd stolen and tied off across her hips, and when none of her shoes fit well enough to wear, it's why the soles of her feet are scalded— why they snarl under pressure— but ask her if she cares). She's living without drawing breath. riding this to the very brink. He can buck and froth all he likes, and ruck his spine into a bow between her hips, impatient, but the reins are in her hands. Her grip the one that leads.]

I didn't come here for anything but you.

[The gauntlets don't fit her well; it's the pads of her fingertips that push in when she tries to wedge them closer.]

And believe me, I am certain that the next few hours will be torture when all I crave is the knowledge of what it might feel like to hike my leg and slip you in beneath my smallclothes— or to melt around you as you mount me in three places, rather than two....

[Gods. Gods her next exhale is a sharp one— a keening whine for how her belly's taut with urgency. A scathing need to drive him to the ground and take what's squeezed against her.]

But when I think about tomorrow, and how you might salivate to see me and stay silent as I meet your eyes— waiting for your chance to slip off and be paid solely to wet your tongue and sow chaos amongst a herd that thinks you on collared leash without lifting so much as a single [—snap— and her teeth click at his ear] finger [—click— and she's courting at his throat] of your own. [And the last move that assails him is her body crowding his: grip parting to leave room for the unbridled pillow of her chest.]

I want you to be good for me. To be well-behaved and swallow down all those urges knowing that the end reward will be that much sweeter.

[It's her mouth at his chin, craning up to reach it. Her eyes chasing his, no matter where his focus rests, red eyes darker and deeper than a lurid flood.]

Do you think you can manage it, my darling catulus?

Edited 2024-09-01 21:16 (UTC)

[Of course he can. Of course he will. Yes the only answer that could exist no matter the question (get on your knees for me, show me your tongue, beg for me, bark for me). Yes, he'll temper himself, he'll wait— for just as she always does, Astarion manages to make the promise of later sound so much sweeter than now.

He wants that too, you see. Tomorrow promises to be a humiliating affair, but to be able to turn it all on its head and spite Arylnn and all her little friends suddenly makes it all so much easier. Tomorrow night, Leto thinks distantly, he'll steal away. He'll chase after a masked figure with silver hair and (her breasts are so soft against his chest) a curvy figure, hunting her down and pinning her in place in some forgotten hallway, her skirts hiked up around her hips and her thighs shaking as she squeals from the lapping of his tongue. He'll debauch her. Debase her. He'll eat her out until her shaking thighs can't support her anymore and then hoist her up just to fuck her in both her dripping holes, plunging his cock in deep and making her learn the shape of him (only him, only him, his pretty little quarry virginal and oversensitive despite all her bold talk).

It'll be worth it.

But that doesn't mean he has to be on his best behavior right now.]

Oh, yes.

[He rumbles it out— and then quick as a flash, shoves his thigh forward to wedge between hers, hard muscle pressing upward so insistently. He snares her hands at the same time, gauntlets rattling as he forces her wrists together and pins them above her head, watching with no small amount of interest as her breasts lift and bounce against his chest as he does.]

But I want the promise of something more.

[Now he catches her eye, his gaze just as dark and ravenous as her own are. Heat burns in the pit of his stomach, desire for her making his next exhales more labored than strictly necessary. He nudges his thigh up, grinding slowly and steadily against her cunt.]

I want to watch you flit about and play the coy seductress, knowing all the while that you're growing more eager by the second for me.

[He needs only one hand to keep her pinned; the other catches her chin again, his thumb stroking first at her bottom lip, then pressing inwards, feeling out the shape of her fangs.]

Wear a toy in one of those pretty holes. Plug yourself in anticipation or keep yourself on edge all night with one that vibrates. Wear something lacy beneath your clothes— or wear nothing at all. I'll let you pick, since you're the one in charge here.

[And she is, oh, yes, but that doesn't stop a lazy grin from stealing over his lips. Are you, pretty thing?]

Do that, and I'll be as good a boy for you as you wish.

[His eagerness is the kindling that invites fantasies of what the future might bring (whether an hour for now, or weeks, it hardly matters)— trampled by a starburst pop of dazzling synaptic fireworks that shatter the whole of her vision as she hits the wall— feeling the hardened weight of a pinning grip across her wrists in wicked contrast to the places where air seeps in across bare skin through a loose shirt. The front of its criss-cross lacing having been forced slack and open, now incapable of clinging at that severely obtuse angle to anything but the stiffened tips of her breasts. The ones that pant. That well against him when they heave, rucking lacework and clothing caught between them in the crossfire. Sharp fangs nipping at tattooed fingertips. Viperishly quick.

The back of her neck is sweltering. Pinprick trickles of sweat lapping at pale curls in unseen places, masked by that clinging hood.

(And still she thinks of him on his knees with fire in his eyes and scorching heat inside his belly. Lust slung thick and twitching between his thighs as she directs his chin this way or that with gilded heels. Honeyed words. A waiting hound, salivating and breathing through an open mouth with a hunger for his next command, thinking this might be it. Oh in the next beat, surely she'll tell him to up and use his tongue. His aching cock. His teeth. Please, Astarion.)

But it's his urge to bargain that excites. Opens up her own jaws to fit his heavy thumb into dark, damp space. Breathing on it. Suckling it. Biting, scraping—

Above them, a pair of shutters rattle violently as they're snapped open in pursuit of what counts as fresh air in cluttered streets like these. She's grinning when her eyes twitch up to meet their shadows, measuring— oh, it's high overhead. Far enough they're not likely to be noticed or shooed off.

Yet.

So when she bites down this time, she bites down hard with the blunt corners of her teeth. Tugs on it like one of those mischievous pups before breaking away, and writhing harsh across his thigh. Locking in her legs around it, though her feet can't find the floor.]

You expect me to charm and sabotage with a toy stuffed underneath slim lace? Do you imagine I'll resurrect the dead as well?

Oh.

[His tongue clicks against the back of his teeth as he breathes the word out, a disappointed little tsk even as he watches her writhe for him. She's so hot wedged against him, her feet dangling in the air and gravity doing half the work as she grinds and ruts and rocks against the hard line of his thigh. Again and again his hips roll forward, his leg pressing up steadily with every pass, a tempered reaction to her wriggling: up and down, up and down,, every pass maddeningly steady. Positioned like this he can even feel the shape of her through thin fabric inclined to cling, soft and plush and growing wetter by the second, eager thing that she is.

(A window slams open above them, and though some part of Leto instinctively recoils, oh, what does he care for who might overhear right now? When he has Astarion squirming and eager beneath him, her crimson eyes bright with excitement and a new game to rile them both up, oh, the whole world could watch for all he cares. She imagines him a hound on a leash, and he will not deny the comparison, not when he heels for her so easily— but he's a hound starved. And right now, Astarion thinks it fine sport to play keep-away with an entire feast).]

My apologies.

[His tone mockingly sincere if not drifting absently towards the end, for now his eyes have slid inexorably downwards. Leto stares with salivating starvation at the soft curves pushed up just for him, overspilling their laces so much they’re merely suggestions of fabric, there to preserve a semblance of modesty and not much more.

What he wouldn't give to duck his head down right now. One swift flick of his teeth and that shirt would fly free; one lap of his tongue and he’d show her just how sensitive she’s become. Lapping and licking and nipping eagerly at her until she begs him for more, for mercy, for his cock, for anything oh gods Leto please—

Tomorrow, Leto thinks, and finally flicks his eyes back up to hers.]

If you aren't capable of it, that's another thing entirely. I would not dare ask you to embarrass yourself.

[He tips his head down, his teeth nibbling gently at the line of Astarion's ear.]

Put on a pair of black panties, then, if that's all you're capable of . . . you'll still out-scandalize every person there.

[But oh, there, and he bites down sharp before he adds in a throaty murmur:]

Just remember I wore a plug for a week for you once. But perhaps I simply have better control . . .

Edited 2024-09-04 19:21 (UTC)

[He has the shape of her, yes, but not the sight— which serves as leverage when she otherwise has none, has nothing canting up like this. Serves as something to cling to when he corners her in every sense, playfulness incapable of taming temptation or their own demanding fervor. Sensation left ragged and obeisant. Left riled. Competitive. Inflamed. There is nothing she can do to force him to his knees, even in foreplay; no chastisement she can lay down save for the snap of her teeth or the wetted squeeze of her legs around lithe contours. Distance shrinks whether she begs him close or scolds him, and with it, so atrophies what persists of her brittle-boned resolve.

Time slows.

Pretense ages.

If they stay here much longer, oh they won't be leaving this alleyway until she's laid him flat and rut him like a beast.]

And a grand total of many less precariously sharp socialites to charm in close quarters whi....

[Never mind the open shutters that drape their shade across hunched shoulders. Painted plaster. Strands of white fringe and downturned ears. She groans, the noise expanding in her throat, thinking of that blissful week when— ]

—fasta vass!

Fenris—

[Fuck. Fuck. One part pleasure two parts need. She squirms until her ankles and toes twist, her body wracked with urgency that's winning out. Crushing her. Smothering, and scented of the Weave and well-spiced brandy. Her mouth makes for his own, trying to reach him with that difference in height, and when she's close (close close close....)

Mist floods his throat. His nostrils. In the same second that she almost let him (and her) sink into streetbound subsumation, she's torn herself free of his grip as only a vampire can.

The sky's become a vivid violet streamed with darker grey, no more orange clinging to its belly where it meets the Sword Coast sea. And a few feet away, shaking her hind foot to stubbornly dislodge a clinging bit of clothing, a white wolf snorts with her nose proudly lifted and her ears pinned irritably back.

Bad boy, Leto.]

Control.

[Is a haughty snort. A flick of her tail. (And one more shake of her paw— get off, pants—)]

Unless you want your employer to circle back in the hopes of glimpsing you once more only to stumble upon us dry humping in an alleyway, you devourable menace of a beast— come. Return home with me first. We can finish drafting up your contractual demands there.

Preferably where I can bare much more for you than a fur coat.

Edited 2024-09-05 03:50 (UTC)

[He's not proud of the needy little whine that slips past his lips as he slumps against the wall, but it happens nonetheless. He's salivating and straining at his pants, so achingly desperate that he'd promise her anything if only she'd come back to his arms— and yet known even as he turns that she's absolutely right. Impatient pup, they'll enjoy themselves far more at home for more reasons than one, even if all he gets to do is look at her in all her glory— oh, it will be worth it a thousand times over.

But it's so hard when his cock is throbbing against his thigh, precome long since soaked into his underwear.]

Fasta vass . . .

[A mumble as he rubs one hand over his mouth, ruefully eying the white wolf currently trying (with as much dignity as she can muster) and failing to kick off his leggings. It's honestly fairly cute, if not exactly the sight he's longing to see just now. Leto exhales slowly, then lifts himself up off the wall.]

I am reminding you of this the next time you dare call me a tease.

[He says it pointedly as he reaches for her, tugging those leggings off (easy, easy, a moment's tricky work untangling her claws with thin fabric) and then subsequently gathering the rest of their discarded clothes. At least they'll hide me, he tells her with a little grin as they come out of the alley and turn towards home. It's a brisk pace he sets, his mind hastily counting down the blocks, the streets, the minutes— but even with his impatience, it's still nice to walk like this.

Admittedly, it isn't quite the same as when they stroll down the street hand-in-hand, but he's missed his Astarion all day. Getting to spend time with her, wolf or vampire or otherwise, is always a treat. He even feels some of his hunger ebb as they speak here and there, Leto telling her more about his day and hearing about her restless night.

But then they're home. They're home, and—

And there are pups to greet. Beloved, beloved pups, whom he loves very much. So much. So very, very much, and it's good to remind himself of that as he has to kneel down and soothe their overexcited barking. Their stumpy bodies wiggle furiously as they leap between Leto (always a thrill when he arrives), that pile of clothes on the floor (a delightful mixture of scents to explore), and this wolf-that-is-but-isn't-but-IS-curly-dad (which is so utterly bewildering that they can't seem to decide what to do). Which is all very cute, but not when he's so close to seeing his Astarion naked in all her glory.]

Settle— settle—

[Has anyone ever suffered more than he has today?]

[And yet there's no one so adored as he. No one so flooded with wriggling attention and lolling tongues, paws (small and large alike) clamoring at him in a greeting he can't easily escape. The gentle sounds of his commands having to vie for dominance when they're crammed into thin tavern walls beside scuffling footfalls that don't know how to stop. Won't stop. Can't stop. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Never will. Love you. Missed you. Love you, love you—

Though for what it's worth, Astarion isn't exempt from squalling affection, either— but bares her fangs and leans on a lowing growl to make her point, and the twins (for Ataashi knows her manners— ) scatter like bowled targets, whining as they excitedly careen back into their father's arms.

And yet when she shifts back onto her feet, sloughing fur and tail and muzzle in pursuit of the sleek, inviting lines of shamelessly uncovered skin at a moderate distance, Astarion decides to punctuate that bottom line with one raise of her arms overhead: stretching herself out experimentally till the soft hang of her breasts sways above tautpulled muscle. Comfortably letting cool air kiss at every inch of an unfamiliar frame, feeling larger than the room itself for how loud obscenity can be.

There is no one so adored as he.

And whilst his stories entertained on the way back to one boxy Lower City tavern (how many of these have they toured over the years? It's hard to count; creaky floorboards and straw-stuffed mattresses all blur together after a time, but the memories don't), Astarion finds herself inclined to pick up where she left off when both he and cold plaster bit into her on either side. Fitting him with a look run dark as daylight now, with a night sky clinging to this little room's lonely, cornered sill. It paints her white curls blue. Leaves her lashes shadowed around a pair of garnet eyes that glint oh-so-slavishly as they size up their next enticing meal.]

Does your prick still ache?

[Would be mean if it wasn't dripping with playful adulation, her arms folding as they sink back into slack tangles of wrists and fingers tucked in just behind her neck.

She doesn't move elsewise.]

[Fasta vass.

His mouth has gone dry. Everything suddenly comes at a distance now, from the still-snuffling twins (mouthing at his absently scrubbing fingers) to the noises of the inn all around them. His mind wiped blank, all the frustration and humiliation of the day gone in an instant, for none of it matters in face of her.

Stunning as she glows in the moonlight. Jaw-dropping in her breathtaking beauty. So ruinously desirable and utterly fuckable with swaying breasts and plush heat that Leto damned well forgets how to speak in those first few moments. His eyes keep drifting, soaking up every detail (the stiffened peak of her nipples and every sway and bounce of her breasts; the soft plush swell of her slit tucked between soft thighs, a coy tease even now). It's slow at first, his eyes hazy as he drinks her in—

And then darker as her words finally permeate.]

You, [he says, and rises slowly to his feet,] are playing a very dangerous game.

[His voice is low and gravely, his tone as sharply playful as her own. Leto heads for the foot of their bed, not taking his eyes off her for a second as he rummages blindly in his trunk, questing until he finds— ah. Something he swiftly hides in the palm of his hand and then behind his back.

In two swift strides he's closed the distance between them, one hand outstretched— not to grab and grope and take, but to keep her still as he glides swiftly around her. His fingers are searingly hot as they wrap around the front of her throat, his body fitting in tight behind her own; he tugs her close and bites back a shudder for the inevitable grind of his trapped prick against her ass.]

Yes, my prick still aches, little lupa. I cannot tell you how badly I want to bend you over that bed and impale you on my cock until you beg me not to stop, showing you all the ways in which this body can be pleasured . . . worshipping you, perhaps, if you manage to be good. Keeping you taut and trembling for hours on the tip of my tongue, bringing you to orgasm again and again until you've drenched the sheets and still beg me for more . . . yes, I want it.

[He rumbles the words against her ear, his voice dripping with barely smothered desire. Almost imperceptibly, his fingers tighten around her throat— and she feels it, he knows. His hands are hotter than a hearthfire compared to the chill of her skin, and naked as she is, she must be so aware of every point of contact between them. The broadness of his chest and the rough linen of his shirt, the cool press of metallic buckles and rough fabric only emphasizing every single difference between them.]

And I know I won't get it until tomorrow.

But.

[A sharp nip against the shell of her ear before he drags his mouth down, kissing and biting his way down her neck without a care for how rough he's being.]

You painted yourself into a corner. Are you going to pose for me all night? Perch on that bed and spread your legs, touching yourself just to taunt me with what you won't give me . . . I will not say I would mind it. But I suspect you'll grow bored of such a ploy.

[His other hand rises, something small and rectangular with a single button and a gleaming lens held in his palm.]

You wish to be on display? Then let us show you off, lupa.

[A sharp grin as he adds:]

Now close your eyes.

[Click—]

[Lupa.

Gods but she shivers at the sound of that. Loves it at her core the way she loves that hand against her throat and his body caught behind her forming a trifold sense of stacking compression. The anchor that lets the soft clicking of that camera's shutter roam in places that they can't. Places that if she shuts her eyes (and she does as she's told solely for the thrill of it) she can very well picture with ease in absolute reverse: glassy front mirroring the rise and fall of her tender chest, or the faint kiss of avid slick leashed between her inner thigh and the soft bead of her clit where it rests at the very crest of a faintly parted slit....

Her groan is tight where her throat (and her lungs) feel pliantly slack. Mouthwatering in the surest sense, there's no cap on the temptation to perform exactly as he implies, posing and stroking ( —is that still the term?) at herself till dawn with him laid rapt beyond her heels, unable to do anything but pant. Grit his blunted teeth. Whisper again and again what he'd do to her if given half a chance.

....Much like this, she supposes, rocking back into the full breadth of him.

Slipping her right leg to rest more openly for show, baring scalding contours in ways that let them shine....]

....how many of these are you going to take, my restless coniunx?

[Posed like this, he drinks in only tantalizing glimpses of her. Lurid previews told through the slow materialization of each portrait: one that's composed of soft curves pushed up and stiffened peaks jutting in the moonlight, the view broken only by a few stray fingers that coyly caress one nipple. Another as the camera drifts downwards: capturing the moment when she parts her thighs, drinking in shining, slick contours, wetness smeared on her thigh and a sudden stark shock of flushed red and pink coyly peeking out from pale skin.]

Oh, now she wishes to hear my opinion . . .

[Playfully growled as he mouths his way down the line of her neck. The truth is (and don't they both know it) no matter how he strains at his leash, he still relishes it wrapped around his throat, thrilling in how much slack he might gain through audacity alone. Again and again he nips at pale skin, suckling bruises up and down her neck that fade beneath his lips and biting all the harder to renew them.

And he lingers against her bitemarks. Each time he comes back to them, his teeth sinking in deeper, his tongue laving over ancient scars— mine, mine, and he has no hope of permanently replacing them, but there's something so satisfying about pulling back and seeing welling redness and slick saliva smeared over Cazador's claim.]

Until you stop me.

[Click, one bright flash before another portrait drifts out. Another view of her, her nakedness stark as it presses against his clothed frame, her body engulfed by his.]

Until you allow me to do more than just look.

[The hand wrapped around her throat slips down. Calloused fingertips caress their way slowly along the centerline of her torso, drinking in soft contours and newly mapped skin. He takes his time with it, fingers gliding between her breasts, certain not to touch what he hasn't been allowed— and yet there's so much of her that isn't off-limits, isn't there? He traces idle patterns against the coolness of her skin, teasing beneath the hollow of her ribs, the curve of her hips— not taking, not stealing, but simply appreciating her in all her facets. Pretty thing. Gorgeous thing. Untouchable, unknowable thing, hungry to be worshiped and longed for . . . his hand is so broad as he cups her hip, thumbing at the jutting line of her hip. Little kitten licks against the side of her throat as he feels the subtle swell of her belly and slides his palm down just beneath it, right above where her subtle mound swells—

And presses.]

Until you let my fingers slip between those thighs and finger you until you're shaking with unslaked hunger . . .

[Another doting kiss. Another subtle push with the heel of his palm as his cock rolls against her ass, grinding just once—

Before he steps back.]

But until then . . . why don't you pose for me, hm? Show me what I am missing with all those new curves of yours.

Edited (html) 2024-09-20 23:58 (UTC)

[What a mate he is, nosing at her with all the churlish insistence of his age: testing boundaries and borders and hoping he might find its iron gate nothing more than painted fenceposts— flimsy enough to expertly slip through. Not meanly. Not brutishly, or with no concern for the reason they'd been staked down in the first place, but rather draped with the sincerity of wolfish hunger. What the pups do with tins of treats wherein they stretch their paws high against shut lids and gently, gently press to see if it isn't well-secured, and appealing to the laws of physics that grander outside forces do the rest. Not a scrap of wickedness in sight, save for the growling of their bellies. Tightly locked muscle and fixated stares. All harmless.

Just hungry.

And Astarion can't blame anyone for that.

Deliberate in her own rise towards his fingers, unable to resist the pleasant pull of friction they provide. Fencing in her focus by pure, compulsive proxy, it funnels down like rain into the channels of her contours— the places where his fingerprints stick, run flush, run tight— where supple skin meets velvet slickness, and even lifelessness goes flush with fervent warmth. Its wordless confessions of interest speaking loud within each picture; the snap-click of that captive camera working like a maddened archivist-et-translator, pouring paper after slip of paper out onto the floor.

She groans.

She sighs.

Tilts her head towards him as her body cranes closer to his prick—

And then he's gone. Drawn back, away from the bliss of their entanglement, and her own hand swipes out low towards that camera in response.]

Don't you dare act coy after that, you filthy little tease— [drags from her a sharp-rimmed scoff, all teeth, that like the rest of her moves to hunt him down: crowding his larger form with her own diminutive silhouette against a nearby wall, so that he's nowhere left to run if he doesn't chance a swift withdrawal before then.]

[Oh, there's not a chance of him darting away, not when she's so unashamedly naked and eager to tease— Leto laughs as he willingly surrenders both the camera and his autonomy, trading both for the chance to sling his arms around her waist and drag her in close. Before she can protest, one strong thigh fits between her own, lean muscle pressing up just as insistently as it had in the alleyway. Crass, perhaps, to use the same move twice— but judging by the heated slick that gathers against his leg, Leto suspects Astarion won't mind.

Fingers splay against her lower back as his eyes flit down, fixating unashamedly on the sudden pillowing swell of her breasts against his chest. He's salivating, he realizes without an iota of surprise, and tips his head, his tongue flicking out to lick at his lips just once.]

I'm the tease?

[Gods, he can feel every place their bodies connect: stiff peaks straining against his shirt (his fingers ache to touch, to grope and fondle and pinch until she cries out in needy desire) and her lithe form aligned with his own. He pulls gently at her hips, guiding her into grinding against his thigh; his own hips roll at the same time, his cock straining and stiff as he ruts against her hip, every slow rock ravenous punctuation to what he's saying.]

Little vampire, remind me: who among us demanded we wait until tomorrow to rut, hm?

[He ducks his head, fledgling teeth sharp as he nips just beneath her jawline and noses at cool skin.]

You hold my leash between your fingers and collar me, put a muzzle on me, tell me to stay and be good— and now you claim I'm the one who withholds? Posturing as if I would not get to my knees in an instant and worship you if only you were to give me permission . . . my hypocritical amatus, you cannot have it both ways.

[And oh, he can't resist: his hands slide back, fingers smoothing over the swell of her ass in open appreciation— and then dig in eagerly, squeezing and groping soft, supple muscle, eager to take as much as he can before he's inevitably scolded away. He spreads her open, his cock twitching as he imagines the vulgar sight he cannot appreciate: Astarion with her back arched and all of her perfectly on display, spread open and slick and vulgar in all the ways he can't fully savor just yet.]

So pick, pretty thing.

[His voice low and rumbling, his breath so hot as he murmurs in her ear.]

Do you want me panting at your heels or on my knees? For I am at your command.

do you remember how we had two pups and a wolf

they love to make it hard to forget.

[Comes a long beat before a much more self aware:]

why?

it appears we now have two kittens and a panther

and may forever

talindra said wild magic ebbed after a few seconds, but it's been HOURS and they will not change back

they are unhappy about this

[They aren't the only ones.]

twœ

two k

a panther???

because of the weave? your spellwork?

and what of you?

it must be the weave

i was attempting to fuse spellwork into a spare blade as a test— i cast the spell and something happened, and when i looked around, they were changed

as was i

you can imagine the kind of chaos i am facing

sorry no hang on define 'as was I'

i

becameadogforatime

are you one still????

[The silence is deafening and lasts for far too long.]

yes

[t i n g]

are you writing with your magic?

yes

how many hours has it been exactly?? are you safely shut away indoors?

Edited 2024-09-16 06:24 (UTC)

im in our home, don't fret

and it's been 4 hours thusfar

which may make the indoors bit less of an assurance than you might hope, given the pup-kittens

oh thank the gods

now I can properly bask in the luxury of not having been there for your furry little mishap without thinking I might rush home only to find you being herded into a cage somewhere

your concern is touching.

anyway, you've turned into a bat AND a wolf frequently before, you have little room to tease

now come home and help me corral them before they end up expiring out of sheer panic, please

Edited 2024-09-16 06:49 (UTC)

that's not the only part of me prone to touch when you're around.

and on the contrary, I'd say that gives me a great deal more room to tease.

but oh come now sweetheart. is it truly so bad as that? The little beasts barely know how to blink their eyes on a good day, you can't tell me they have enough brainpower to parse the tips of their own whiskers.

i am not flirting with you while i am a DOG. though physical comforts will be accepted later.

we have a mirror and three pets who keep alternating between understanding their own form and assuming there are now six pets in this household.

ataashi will not stop whimpering and cowering and scaring herself with her own reflection; montressor is on the offensive, and there are few sadder sights than a kitten attempting to bark and scare herself— though perhaps the sight of fortunato continuously starting and shivering at her own paws and lack of ability to smell anything

[There's a long pause, and then:]

and none of them will stop making noise about it

Edited 2024-09-16 19:01 (UTC)

[Another pause.]

the only thing this has done is cement ataashi's belief that you and i somehow birthed the pups

i have attempted to dissuade her of this. she is unconvinced. she cannot decide who the mother is, though, so there's a blessing for both of us.

Edited 2024-09-16 19:02 (UTC)

you are so demanding you know.

perhaps I'll tell her that makes you the dam.

I always did fancy myself a sire.

[There is a pause.]

too late

too

LATE????

you were so patient during your pregnancy

how
DARE
YOU

I have never once been patient in my LIFE

my mistake, i'll amend it to constant cravings for treats and small butterflies

(the treats are somewhat decent)

[wait]

....how many did you eat?

and what did they taste like??

like steak and cheese and red wine and pumpkin all in one, somehow, but in a good way, and all satisfyingly crunchy

and i had three

i understand why montressor goes for them so eagerly

they linger on the tongue

I don't believe this

At this rate the four of you are going to be the size of the Swordcoast before I make it home. How in the devil did you manage to open the jar without

Right.

Magic.

Darling mine, I need you to be very very honest with your beloved vampire right now.

Are you going to be able to stop yourself from digging into more, or am I going to have to bring a muzzle and a phial full of sussur-laced stomach formula to keep you from vomiting all over everything we own?

it was 3 treats, not 30, you have seen me eat far more t

[. . . but he has a dog-sized stomach now, doesn't he? Hm.

Mistakes may have been made.]

beloved vampire, you tease a great deal for someone who can work his way through five corpses within a single evening. and i am not answering your question.

be grateful i've given them enough treats to settle everyone into a stupor. it was either that or watch them tear the room apart. ataashi was considerably harder to quell.

some vomit will be worth it.

[And incidentally, he can blame any and all of his own nauseated rumbling on the pups.]

They're only corpses when I'm done with them. Much like those snacks are due to be carnage at the mercy of your paws.

hm

How many hours did you say it was that you've been like this?

you can try one if you want the next time you're a wolf. i will not tell.

four hours, more or less. it feels far longer, but the candle has only burned down so far.

I'm not certain vampiric wolves are capable of taste much as I wish it was so. My jaws still find their way into slavering for you.

Perhaps we'll become a true pack at this rate. If you don't turn back, that is.

that isn't funny

[Not that he's all that truly riled, as evidenced by that immediately being followed by:]

a truly miserable pack, perhaps. is that you saying you'd spend the rest of your life as a wolf for me? you would to embrace chastity.

Well you don't need to rub it in darling.

Besides, I like to think it's rather obvious by now. The way I've no interest in touching anyone but you.

it's mutual, amatus. and you make it clear each and every day, possessive, doting, loving thing that you are.

(i was not rubbing it in, i just don't think we're ready to have a third child. think of your poor hips.)

I'm biting your wretched little snout when I get home.

[Love you.]

as long as you don't strain yourself while you do

where are you, anyway?

Oh prowling near the Bitch Queen's temple. Thematic adherence unintended, of course.

I'll need to wait until the tide rolls back out to slink properly home, though trust I'm already waiting for my opportunity.

aha

you're far from home, though. why do you need the tide out, are you stuck?

I am not "stuck".

But yes, I cannot leave without risking scalding myself to a complete and utter crisp even in bat form, and seeing as I'd rather that not be the case.

Well.

I wait.

you're stuck

do you wish me to come and rescue you?

A rescue from a bloody dog???

What are you going to do, stuff me in your gullet and keep your snout out of the waves?

you should be so lucky

i have a mage hand, i can put on a scarf or something. you can t uck in there and i'll bring us both home. and you can say "thank you, leto, that was so kind of you, i love you, let me reward you".

Hm.

[Well that's a sign that someone's inclined to say yes.]

And how would I reward you, exactly?

Belly rubs?

More treats?

and you call yourself a seductor

i can get those things for myself, and am, right now.

you can reward me by indulging in a specific kink once i turn back and everyone settles down

My my. Such a hunger you have in you, little pup.

What kink would that be, then? I'll acquiesce to my rescuer all the same as every fable attests, but at least grant me a hint or two. Curiosity demands.

i want you to wear your leather gloves and fuck my mouth with your fingers before you stroke me off

[Don't mind him, he's simply choking to death (a second time) on his own spit.]

you sly minx

how long have you had that in your back pocket???

since that night we went to the weaponry shop. you were inspiring as you fingered and inspected all those knives.

You know

if those blades between my fingers were enough to get your heart racing, I could find a way to defly slip one against that wicked little tongue of yours for good measure.

See how long it takes you to come untouched with a dagger slid so artfully back and forth. Knowing you'd be safe in my

Ah right. Talk like that is off limits. My mistake.

[Oh, the growl that fills the room for that.]

you can stay stuck if you're going to be a cocktease like that

Edited 2024-09-19 06:35 (UTC)

how are you writing as a bat??

You knew what you were getting into when you took me home in Thedas. Don't you dare start complaining now.

bats have

thumbs

[UvU+]

really??

really? what do you mean REALLY? you've held me in your arms you've cradled me against your chest

yes and in none of those scenarios did you have a tiny hand with a thumb jutting out

well next time look very

very

closely

at my wings.

you can show me yourself, ive set out

but tell me where on your wings, how are you holding a pen

or tell me more about how you'll get me off with a knife

i will take accept either topic

darling this is a very broad scope

also I thought I wasn't permitted to flirt when you've paws instead of legs.

[You won't fool him!!!!!! >:o]

that was before i knew you were a bat. that obviously changes things.

and you're welcome to take your choice within any scope, if you have something in mind. just keep me company.

Desperate times, chiropteric measures.

I'm simply shocked you haven't asked why I'm here.

Also quite easily: all it takes is hooking my wing round the bottom, then fastening it with my thumbclaw at the top. Et voila, as the Orlesians would say back home.

Now writing beautifully is another matter entirely, but we all do what we can.

hmm. show me, when i come find you. i want to see it in action. though i think you rank yourself too poorly; your handwriting among bats must be among the finest.

but i assumed you were out to eat, though how you can stand the scent of fish is your own business. why are you out so far, then?

A fair guess. My appetite is ravenous these days.

But alas no, not tonight. The stench of fish and seamuck is only made tolerable by the copious amounts of treasure the Bitch Queen's seafaring crew drags back from the depths with them.

[Oh.]

a FAR better venture, well done. we could use a boost in income— and i can bring you to a tailor so you can buy more clothes. it's been too long since you've had a treat.

though

how much treasure can we carry back as a dog and a bat?

Not as much as if I'd waited diligently for nightfall on my own, but a great deal more than you'd expect.

Most of her worshippers are in the lucrative trade of plunder, after all. Stolen jewelry. Necklaces. Silks.

Rings.

it gets better and better. though we can still wait for nightfall, especially since then you'll have to carry me home.

besides: your skinny bat legs can fit at least a dozen rings alone, never mind all the necklaces we can drape . . . you're going to clank quite a bit on the way home.

would it be unromantic if i suggested we find two rings for ourselves among the loot?

On the contrary: robbing a dangerous goddess known for exercising her venomously lethal wrath? That makes it a great deal more romantic.

Ah but then again, if we wait too long, you might change back.

[. . . hm.]

how realistic are gods' wrath here

is it more of a chantry-based, "the Maker will damn you after you die" which means that it's all human-made propaganda that will not have any real-world effects, or will this actually curse us?

Edited 2024-09-21 23:28 (UTC)

Don't be such a worrier. What harm is a little old curse or two in the grand scheme of things?

We're world traversing renegades - there's nothing we can't handle.

just because we can handle it does not mean i wish to

a quiet life sounds relaxing after our lives, and i do not wish to have to try and kill a god for a second time just to keep you safe when we can just steal from a noble

then again, it might disrupt the sea trade, which would mean less fish and more steakhouses in the city. so perhaps you're right.

(it reeks here even as a dog).

That's the ticket, love. Courageous as ever and awash in perfect taste.

Besides, I'd imagine a fickle goddess who favors plunderers and knaves would actually enjoy a pair of thieves daring to risk it all across her shores.

it does suit, i will admit. but if your curls start to lose their luster and it starts raining saltwater, we're getting a different set of rings

you never told me being an animal changes your perceptions

no wonder the pups go wild whenever the barkeep wears aftershave, everything smells so MUCH

Hah! A precious catulus in his truest form at last.

Trust me darling, it's all fun and games until you start smelling the worst this city has to offer. Even less so when your instincts find it fascinating. But perhaps the treat bin taught you that already.

Tell me something little hound. What sort of beast are you? Fluffy? Small? Primped and pressed with a precious curly tail and floppy ears?

you're teasing a great deal for an elf currently both fluffy and sausage-shaped. but now you owe me a story. what did your instincts lead you? it cannot be much better than the treat bin (and I do not regret that for a moment).

but i am medium-sized, with predominantly black fur with white accents. and my ears are floppy, so get your teasing out now. i'm simply grateful i don't look like the pups.

[Maybe (yes) he just wanted to goad you into giving away a description before you got here. ;>

It sounds adorable.]

No interest in carrying on the familial resemblance, oh grand illustrious sire?

i might be more invested in claiming them if they hadn't spent the afternoon hissing and spitting at a mirror over and over. have you ever tried to see a kitten bark? it's somehow both very loud and particularly pathetic.

but don't let that stop you. you can turn into a wolf; surely a Mabari-like dog cannot be that difficult.

I expect it's a great deal less aggravating than the usual shrill yips, but I look forward to being proven wrong.

Anyway you would think— and yet somehow vampiric ability still limits itself. I've tried for crows, cats, dazzlingly breathtaking cervids, and still

nothing.

A wolf or a bat is all that rests within my reach.

Well. All right. Due confession: I haven't yet attempted shifting into a hollyphant but I don't care if the power somehow ironically sits open in laid wait: I'd rather choke than be one.

i would divorce you without a second thought

fortunately, you have your head on correctly. you flatter any form you change into, but a hollyphant is an abomination, one not even your good looks could course correct

a pity about the cat, though. it would suit you. thought i do enjoy you as a bat; you're particularly adorable when you're tired and try to burrow into my chest.

(and it's aggravating in a different way. the same way salt and sweet are both flavors but distinct; it's less about shrillness and more about endless repetition).

And yet you'd come running right back once I was restored. Don't you dare try to outfox a

erm

flying fox.

Although puppish talk aside, you're making me long for that magic to actually wear. The temptation of huddling in close under your blouse, awash in the steady beat beat beating of your heart.

Then again, I bet your fur makes for a cozy den indeed.

we can tonight. i would like that, in fact. you speak sweetly when you're drowsy and unguarded, and i like getting to read to you that way. besides: i cannot imagine this magic will last for much longer.

but you can find out soon enough if my doggish [hey, that's the name of his journal!] form is a suitable substitute. i . . . suspect i am nearing where you lay.

[Maybe. Possibly. Baldur's Gate is large and sprawling and confusing even as an elf, never mind as a dog. It's hard to read posted signs when your eyesight is suddenly monochrome, and anyway, scent is easier to navigate by; it's just a matter of associating one with the other . . .

Which is why Leto is currently furiously investigating a pile of offal outside a butcher a few blocks away from one of the nearby piers, his nose telling him only that it smells delectable— and that it's near seawater. That must mean he's very close. Almost certainly it does. Add to the fact a small mammal was recently nearby . . . yes, he must be close.

(It's his first time as a dog, no one can blame his tracking skills).]

where ARE you?

[They wrote the thing!!]

Can you see the temple yet?

[It's part of this, he swears.]

i am, at best, three feet tall right now

everything looks the same from down here

but i . . .

[Oh, there is a long, long pause.]

yes. maybe. i see a temple, i think. it smells of the sea.

Ah! Well spotted my little bloodhound. Now, see the cliffs propping up the whole of Umberlee's Baldurian domain?

I'm under them.

[It still takes far longer than it should, he ends up padding in the wrong direction for a time— but sooner or later, a dog trots up towards the temple. He's a medium-sized thing, slender but strong, his fur black with the occasional white markings. There's a rather jaunty scarf tied haphazardly to his neck, the fabric just a little too large to really suit him, and maybe that's why he attracts the odd startled exclamation or delighted laugh.]

where under there?

[He sticks close to the wall outside the temple, trying to be as subtle as he can while still furiously sniffing the air. It's so briney, not to mention all the people and animals and everything that clammers at him for olfactory attention.]

i don't see you.

[Down comes the ~~claw~~ bat from ~~on high~~ beneath the temple cliffs, shaken loose out of the shadow of a shoreline cavern's mouth to flutter towards Leto in a blur of exceptionally fluffy white fur (and sporting the usual pair of wide garnet eyes), landing on his back at first, and then—

Oh.

Eugh. No. Wet. That's a wet dog, thanks to shoreline humidity.

—revised plan: he darts back over to a nearby rock to shake off and chitter his mild displeasure.]

Tell me that's you in there. [Comes with a pair of winged swipes over his foxlike nose, grooming.]

[The first thing that happens, the very first thing, is that his tail starts wagging. From the moment those tiny claws land atop him he's already wagging, slow to start but building with intensity each moment that passes— until by the time Astarion rests on that rock, his whole back half is shaking with effort, his excitement such that he has to tap from one paw to the other in momentary displacement. Oh, it's you, his heart sings, and he does not know why he's so overjoyed, save that this puppish body has instincts of its own. It's you, it's you, I missed you so, his green eyes bright and eager as he stares at his fussy mate.

The second thing that happens— and that lends credence to the theory that there is, in fact, a set of bodily instincts he cannot ignore— is that Leto feels that dampness settling in his fur. Wet dog indeed, and there's only one thing to do when you're wet, his instincts tell him—

So the second thing Leto does is give himself one brisk shake, ocean droplets spraying everywhere as he grumbles in satisfaction. Then he looks back at his mate, panting gently as he views him.]

Yes, it's me.

[And isn't he pleased with himself? With an audible grin Leto trots forward, absolutely unashamed about how he snuffles and noses at his mate— hello, hello, memorizing his scent and relishing the feel of familiar chilled fluff against his snout, hello you, hello, equal parts adoring and mercilessly teasing.]

[He's a precious thing. All teeth and a lolling tongue, wriggling hindquarters leading the charge after forepaws plod eagerly back and forth— alertness bathed in recognition like a banner, unmistakable at its height— and it only grows once close. Snuffling and snorting and happy, hot puffs of breath filling the whole of Astarion's vision.

His damp, fussy, squinted vision. Assailed by a snout the size of his head, hissing on matching reflex— albeit just the mouthy, affectionate protests all pack creatures have, regardless of species: a cub will squall at its mother, a kitten will wail, bats—
Well, bats have their own way.]

Yes yes hello— that's— [With slight effort, his wing-claws push up against the wet tip of leto's nose, signaling that his transformed mate's had enough of a smell. Honestly he'd normally be shrieking by now if either of the pups were the ones butting eagerly into his space, but as things are, he's tugging and reaching with his little talons trying to get a better look at him with half-blind vision.

His book still laid out flat on the nearby rocky shelf he'd been using as a perch beforehand, though it needn't have been so fastidiously obscured: there's no one else beneath the temple anyway. Only the lapping of the risen tide and whatever noises they both make.]

Selûne's tits, it truly is you, isn't it? What an adorable thing you are— the spitting image of your id.

....And the twins'.

[Oh, those precious little chirps. Those protesting little squeaks, not wholly new but all the more endearing with a new set of ears. Leto settles back on his hindquarters, his tail still wagging furiously and excitement thrumming through restrained muscles. Look at how good he's being. Look at how smart he is. Isn't he such a good boy? Such a good boy, if anyone wants to notice and/or comment on it.

Though some of that excitement dissipates as Astarion speaks; with a little bark of laughter Leto submits himself to that fussy attention.]

There is an unfortunate coloring resemblance, I will admit. And you are one to talk about adorable, squeaking as you are. You smell even better to this nose, do you know that? You smell good ordinarily, [he adds swiftly, just to cut off any protesting squawks.] But you're particularly distinct in this form.

[Drawing back a little further, he tips his head back, showing off the scarf clumsily (but securely) tied around his neck.]

Do you approve of your accommodations? I will admit, it was no easy task to tie this with a third hand, never mind check to ensure it was thick enough that no sunlight could penetrate.

Edited 2024-09-27 18:54 (UTC)

[Down here, no light can penetrate. What the temple doesn't cover, every rocky, cliffside formation— convex and concave alike— lies far, far below the past-noon sun's sprawling reach. And without its threatening glare in present play, it's easy for him to waddle up along his perch to get a better look at offered transport, craning his neck from left to right. Swiveling again (to check the thickness for himself) and again (to gauge its security. The thoroughness of it all.

It's a snort that says he's satisfied. A flick of his ears forwards, and then:]

I do wonder if anything doesn't smell good to that newfound nose you've plucked up from the Weave. Oh but my my my, what a grand conveyance— I expected no less of you.

[And yet his beady eyes sink lower, marking the sight of trembling haunches. Muscles vibrating with energy underneath layers of fur and skin.

Ah.

An addendum:]

Good boy.

[The noise he makes to that praise— and it is unintentional, a noise that bursts out of him immediately without a moment of hesitation or thought— is not, hm, something he's proud of. It's excited and overwhelmed and muscle-meltingly thrilled; it's not unlike the noise he makes when Astarion plays with his ears just so, threading the needle between tapering pressure and caressing touch.

It might be written out as hrhggggh.

And then it's out there and there's absolutely no taking it back. And of course dogs can't get embarrassed, not really, but still: there's a little bit of the look Fortunato gets when she knows she's done something she oughtn't beneath the bed. One paw pushes fitfully over his snout, his tail still whapping fiercely against the sand despite himself.

(He is a good boy).]

You're welcome.

[Let's just all move on from that, shall we? And just so they can hurry things along . . . one ghostly hand suddenly materializes, hovering helpfully near Astarion.]

Show me this treasure, that I might drape it around you so we can go.

[Instinct rules them both right now. His fur puffs up sharp around his ears when that hand materializes, flensing and flexing his teeth beneath a curled-back snout before— oh. Oh no, it's fine. Just Leto's summoned cohort for their own benefit. That, he can live with, he asserts, licking the tip of his nose as he smooths down in trusting comfort, shrugging off his own example of unexpected synapse.]

Around me? Oh no no no darling, [Comes as a coy little chirrup of amusement akin to a battish chuckle, taking flight to drift alongside hand and pup alike towards the rear of the cavernous space, where Umberlee's follower's keep their bedrolls. Waxen stalactites and stalagmites giving way to what looks like daylight at first: dangerous cast searing as they come around the bend— little sunspots scattered here and there across the floor.

Little drops of gold.

Literal gold. Coins the size of Astarion's chiropteric head beside heaps and heaps of jewelry, silk, fur and incense. Crowns that smell of saltwater and precious metals and freshwater pearl. A sprawling, unmapped hoard that Astarion alights to, folding his wings quite proudly where he lands. A little maned dictator atop his find.] Around us both.

[There is so much of it after all, that even were they to saddle bat and hound and hand with as much as they could bodily carry, none would be the wiser.]

I wouldn't risk another curse for nothing, you know.

[If he could whistle in awe, he would.

He's seen his fair share of loot before, gold heaped in little piles or jewels carefully laid out on pillows, but nothing like this. Nothing so vast, so utterly in excess that it would be impossible to begin to calculate its worth. So much so that it's a wonder to Leto's mind that no one has made off with any of it before— but perhaps no one is foolish enough to risk Umberlee's wrath.

Or perhaps they have, and it hasn't made much of a difference at all.

Astarion's right. There's no way they're leaving with anything less than what they can bodily carry, for this will set them up for . . . oh, gods, who even knows? At least a year or two, but likely so much further. They could get a better apartment, start to splurge on things— gods, Astarion can get the shopping trip in the Upper City he's always wanted. Leto can picture it now: his mate preening as he spends an obscene amount of gold on tailored silks and fine dyed linens for no other reason than he can . . . and you know, it's that thought above all that motivates him. Leto's eyes flick up, lingering fondly on the little dictator himself, his fur smoothed down and his ruby eyes gleaming in the dark.

He deserves this. And so long as they have no plans to travel by sea anytime soon, it's well worth the risk.]

You certainly didn't . . . gods, Astarion, this is incredible.

[There's such awe in his voice as, eyes wide and nose raised high, he snuffles his way in deeper. For a time there's nothing but the sharp iron scent of metal overloading his system, but soon he learns to distinguish between gold and silver, incense and fabric and jewels. The hand drifts behind him, slow and dutiful— though it does take a moment to playfully tweak one of those battish ears.

Adorable.

Then it's off to begin its duty: gently lifting a delicate silver bracelet inlaid with sapphires and drifting over to Astarion.]

I will not argue over carrying my fair share, not when it comes to this. But if Baldur's Mouth runs a story soon on a naked warrior dressed in naught but gold necklaces and a single bat suddenly appearing midway through the city, you are taking the blame.

Hold still, now— hold still, this is not easy—

[It's like trying to work while staring in a mirror, and do all that to a bat besides. He wants to try and drape it around his head like a miniature necklace, but whether or not he can get it past his ears is, hm, debatable, and not helped by the jerky motions of the hand.]

[He's not heard that tone on Fenris'— on Leto's lips in so long (long enough to have been Fenris at the time, awash in another life in Thedas, when it was gleeful exuberance— not just awe— that struck him), even if it's his canine muzzle that's parted in a grin and his tail still—

Aw. Still thumping. Gods that's cute.

So if his own facade breaks a little in favor of softening like palmed butter, well, fucking sue him for it he's having a moment here. A small one. Small and crammed into his stature alongside him, chittering a few more notes of pleasure without realizing it; the pressure of that warmth has nowhere else to go.

Interrupted when he bites those tweaking fingers— how dare you— and accepts his fair share of their score with scolded grace thereafter: going straight once told to hold still so that silver might slip about his pointed ears and drop down into a regal hang.]

Oh nonsense, kadan.

They'll— well they'll run the story, of course, but they'll think you an eccentric wizard or somesuch. Just one more magus amongst scores that imbibed too much of his own experimental brew, unexpectedly teleported into the middle of the city, and somehow managed to turn all his linen robes to strung-up pearls and diamonds. [There's a distinctive flop as one long ear gives way to yet another bracelet, springing straight once over.] Penned akin to a quirky, giggleworthy footnote. Probably censor your erm....jewels with a little hand drawn picture of a very cute bat.

Hm.

[Thoughtful. With the batty version of a smile.]

I'd save that paper clipping.

For a time, anyway, up until I found it and burned it.

[A cheerful retort, for none of the thrill has faded just yet. Already his mind is buzzing, leaping ahead to indulgences and responsibilities both (will they actually have enough to open a vault in the Counting House? There's all sorts of tricky things the rich do to make their money grow, Leto remembers from Danarius— and he's certain Astarion knows a few things too, legal magistrate that he once was. It's not that they'll be so rich they'll never have to work again, but at the same time—

Maker, has he ever had this amount of money? Have either of them? The more he thinks on it, the giddier he becomes, thoughts of spoiling his vampiric mate and indulging in his own desires twisting round in his mind.]

Though I might be persuaded to spare it for the particularly cute bat alone . . .

[And there's an odd little moment where, midway through draping another set of bracelets over Astarion's head, the hand hesitates, stilling with a lurch as Leto's form shivers. It's a restrained motion, an impulse jerking that's there and gone; in the next moment the hand resumes its task, and Leto laps at his own nose, trying to ignore that.

(A mystery, though one that's swiftly solved if Astarion has ever watched Fortunato struggling to restrain herself: it's hard not to want to barrel over and nuzzle at his mate whenever he feels a surge of adoration, nipping and licking and snuggling in the fiercest surge of love, but he knows better than that).]

Ask me, though, if what I mind most is being caught naked or being identified as a wizard, and I still will not have an answer for you.

[Another bracelet, and another, and another— they're up to about ten now, slender things that they are, when Leto adds:]

Astarion . . .

[A pause as he gathers his thoughts, and then:]

When all this is done, and we have resold all the treasure and put the money in our account, kadan . . . I want to take you out. To indulge, and shop, and let you try on whatever you desire— and then attend a party in the Upper City and dance with you until they shoo us home.

You have spent months keeping us safe and treating me as a consort, indulged and spoiled in whatever I asked for, and I will not deny I have enjoyed it. But now I want to do the same for you. I can plan it, if you wish to be surprised. Or I can defer to your judgement, as you know this city so much better than I. But let me indulge you the way you deserve.

[It's a bloody good thing that he's a scarf-forged transport waiting for him; the bracelets are thin and light (and glittering when they shine around the borders of his vision, casting everything in paler hues), and yet his tiny shoulders sag under the weight of his regality: a tired little ruler all too ready for his journey home, slinking lower in the crawl down towards the base of a nearby chest so that he can begin prying up necklaces and chokers strung together from pearl, ruby, sapphire and opal— and holding them out with miniscule claws to begin Leto's coronation.

Come here, sweet catulus. Come get your share while he's nearing the end of what his bedecked form can carry.

And a little, swiftly applied headbutt to the bridge of that snout. A lick to seal it once he's close. He might be overwhelmed. Might be deeply overwhelmed, as it so happens, for he can't seem to stop squeaking now— almost inhaling between animistic syllables.]

You— [His nose is wriggling. Crinkling. Scrunching hard. Energy so dreadfully kinetic and inspired that it's hard to know if he intends to fawn forever or bite down on canine skin, his little jerks and pulls suggesting both.

A pup, too, in his own way.] —tease.

[Apparently is what he settles on without control over the end result, still gripping pearl between his talons.]

You thoroughly despise each and every one of those things you've listed— [He's touched. He's touched and he believes in Leto's promise, and therefore all the more can't stop careening in his search for something less beautiful as an excuse. Something less blinding. More equalizing. More— ]

Are you ill? Did one of the pups eat my expensive blouses? Did Ataashi?

Did you?

[Oh, oh, those little squeaks. That overexcited, overeager wriggling and writhing and squeaking that can't stop, won't stop, that Leto never, ever wants to stop— they're precious. So sweet and earnest and excitable, and his tail wags all the faster in response, his puppish heart thundering giddily as he endures every bite and lick that his overstimulated darling needs to offer.]

Shh, shh— all your things are as you left them, and I am not ill. Nothing is wrong.

[There's an irrepressible grin woven into his voice, his rough tongue darting out to steal a quick, fond little lick.]

I despise all of those things, it's true. Just as you despise dive bars and fighting rings and pups that drool all over you in their sleep and refuse to share me when they've a mind to snuggle. And yet you give me those things anyway . . . it is far past time I indulged you in the same manner.

Besides, [he adds, lowering his head just far enough that Astarion might drape those pearls over his head whenever he sees fit, emerald eyes still locked on his chirping mate,] it makes me happy to make you happy. Not just in a day-to-day sense, but giving you the things you desire. Watching your face light up or listening to you chirp in your excitement— it is a gift unto itself to watch you melt. Darling thing, you are not the only one who likes making your mate happy.

You deserve this. My only mistake was not proposing this months ago.

It wasn't a mistake.

[Correction quicker than a flood when it wells up. When it stays.]

None of this was.

[Touched, and he's bristling again, pushing necklaces over Leto's listless ears and climbing up his snout to manage. Restlessness becoming his, but it's warm beneath the surface, fussing closer to the chest than anything outwardly arranged.

Someone's toddering old nan with fur.]

Hold still. You're shaking far too much and I don't intend to watch you choke yourself just because you've gotten all wound up. Stay seated. [This isn't your world, is what his mind is thinking truly in those margins. Accommodations made for an elf who can't go home solely because he followed a sinner into the dark— intrusively swearing that's the story of his life since Cazador: drawing brightness out an open tavern door until it's lost to kin and kith forever— put away, because at least now he's years enough removed from that old life to see it clearly: like the promises they'd made in the bustling heart of Evereska, they look after one another.

Calling it balanced might not be fair, but it is equal.

Astarion reminds himself each day that he can live with that. Each night even moreso.]

And— [He wraps his little wings around the corner of a crown on his next trip back, fighting to tug it loose from piled coin with next to no success, cutting short whatever his intended reply might've been. Replacing it with a chorus of snarls and grunts, and the endless jingling of bracelets.]

[He goes still, or at least as still as he can manage beyond the endless thump-thump of his tail. He bows his head and flattens his ears as best he can, patient to the last— for the mood Astarion is in, he needs room to fuss. To bristle. To squeak (adorably) and flap and huff and worry over Leto, so overwhelmed that he has to let it out somehow. Leto knows. He's seen it before, and now, after years together, he knows just how to smoothly counterbalance it.

But Astarion gets stuck on the next trip, and there's a difference between being calm and being passive. Leto pads over carefully, catching the crown between his teeth and tugging as gently as he can. It comes loose with a pretty jingle, coins cascading everywhere as a triumphant rumble sounds in the base of his throat.]

And what?

[Soft, as he sets the crown down. Let Astarion drape it over his head, for he's gone back to sitting still. His head cocks, his eyes locked on that small, fluffy shape, trying to read a body he's unfamiliar with. The mood is familiar, yes, but this particular version of it . . . perhaps it's still too much, even now. Perhaps he ought to have tempered it, softened it, made it more palatable— and yet even as he thinks it, Leto disagrees.

Better to suffer the preliminary sting of hot water before getting the reward of sinking into a hot bath than to endure a tepid one. Perhaps this is overwhelming, but what he promises is nothing less than Astarion deserves, and Leto aims to give it to him.]

Take a moment. We are in no rush . . . and I sprung this on you.

I would know what you're thinking.

Mmph. We will be if the priestesses return to find us helping ourselves. [Sees the crown fastened in place around Leto's now inordinately regal throat. Necklaces and chokers glittering beneath it in wild absurdity for contrast, compared to the ocean-slicked pup they lovingly adorn.] Existence as a dog and bat won't save us— I don't know if you're familiar with the Bitch Queen's devotees, but they'll off even their own kin for stepping out of line.

Hells, they celebrate just drowning— not even for a purpose, just the whole debacle itself like it's their mad-as-a-mepmhit's-tit of a goddess calling them home.

[He tucks rings around his ankles like anklets, and adds a few bangles onto Leto's own furry heels whilst muttering something along the lines of 'if anything severs in unpredictable transformation on our way home, we'll just pick up whatever pops off on our way to the nearest healer. Nothing to worry about.'

Before he's fighting to clamber into that cloth kerchief. wriggling and squirming to get in, and once unseen, answers:]

—and....I....was going to say I'd like it. To be a part of it, that is.

Your offer.

Seeing the places in this city that i can't remember, and can't scarcely forget in my own dreams.

[To see if I'm right.]

[Astarion's such a comforting weight nestled against his chest, Leto thinks as he begins the (jingling) trek up the coastal path. He sways gently with every step, bouncing so rhythmically that it's not unlike a heartbeat, and that's comforting right now. He cannot take Astarion into his arms as he wants to, nuzzling against his throat and soothing him with slow touches, but until he can, this is a decent substitute.]

Then we will plan it together. Start and finish wherever you please, for however long you please.

[His voice is low and warm. And though there's a hint of distraction woven within (how to get them home when he has minimal navigational prowess in this winding city), there's nothing more important right now than this conversation.]

We can even start now, if you wish.

[A little leap and his paws hit sun-warmed cobblestones, the scents and sounds of a city neatly drowning out their murmured conversation.]

Where would you like to go?

[He has a spot in mind, but he will not suggest it unless Astarion does. There's a headstone. A grave, and he has not forgotten in all the weeks since they spoke of it last, but it isn't his place to bring it up. This is meant to be a day to spoil Astarion, and while the gravesite is important, Leto will not judge him for not wanting to include that during a night on the town.]

[Though every step jostles and jingles, there's something to be said for snugness: every word huffed out in transit rumbles through him, and what confidence doesn't calm, the beat beat beat of Leto's hounding heart manages with little effort.

It's dark, and soft, and warm, and those three facets fit together spell out safe when all is said and done. Act as a steady balm for a shiftless, otherwise brittle soul.]

There are rumblings of an exclusive dining club in Manorborn, open to only the creme de la creme of this city's most notable patrons. A cabaret run by devilkin, a drinking club for those with magic in their veins— shopping near high hall and taking in the views of the city on high long before dawn steals its glittering splendor....

[Oh, he could go on for hours, he realizes; a catalog of long-held snippets of soirees and sorties amongst the higher echelons— no longer wholly out of reach.]

[He rumbles contentedly low in his throat, a sound meant to soothe the little bat nestled so close as much as it is encourage him. I like this, that's what that sound means. I like hearing this, tell me more, I want to make you happy . . . he does not know if it helps. Perhaps it doesn't. But Astarion is still so new in some ways to being indulged like this, and if he can encourage it in any way, he will.

Besides: he cannot deny those things sound intriguing. They aren't to his taste, no, and he wouldn't want to attend an endless circuit of them, but he cannot deny that there's something thrilling about being admitted to somewhere so exclusive. To indulge in the hedonism of the Upper City, watching a cabaret or drinking fine wine with Astarion at his side, thrilling in every second . . . yes, he can understand the appeal quite well.

This will be fun, he thinks to himself.]

We will have to stretch it out over the coming weeks, then. I would not mind trying more than one of those.

[And even if he did, he'd do it anyway.]

But the cabaret sounds intriguing— I have never seen one, not beyond the bawdy "plays" the Blooming Rose put on at times. As does the drinking club— though a room full of nothing but drunk mages sounds like a recipe for disaster.

[Another little leap as he reaches the streets proper, and then Leto hesitates. Pauses for just a moment in uncertainty— and then pads forward into the sunlight proper, his muscles tensed and ready to dash away the moment he hears a protesting cry.

But there's nothing. No smell of burning flesh, no agonized shriek— and so he continues forward, some part of him still ready to run if need be.]

Tell me of your shopping plans. I remember Rialto fondly for a thousand reasons, but you dressing us both is one of them. I will submit to whatever you feel is appropriate, so long as you thrill in it.

[And then, because he can't resist:]

Are you all right?

[Just making sure, as he darts from shadow to shadow as swiftly as he can.]

—you went to those plays too?

Tch— now I'm bitterly jealous we never went together. It'd have made A Midwinter Night's Cream moderately bearable. [Is a radiant chitter readily inclined to mimic the waves they soon leave behind, tucked between oppressive layers of cloth that blot the worst of the sun's glare (and yet, much like the carriage ride from Evereska, it's the heat that draws in tenderly against fur and skin alike; pressed in from the other side, if he closes he eyes, he might just manage to pretend— )]

Hm?

[All right?

—oh.

Oh.

Gods above, he'd been so preoccupied with the bulk of their plans and the mollifying inpress of Leto's presence (houndishness detracting nothing) that he'd completely forgotten the risk in play: his rampant paranoia laid low without a whimper.]

Yes.

Yes— of course. [Flustered. Or stumbling. Or elated. Or distracted. Or— ] Aside from the whole being-shaken-about-like-a-rodent-in-a-trap, it's practically sybaritic down here.

[Good. He has suspected as much, but the confirmation allows something in him to exhale. He's better than he was, but there is ever a part of Leto still grimacing at himself, remembering how foolish he has been with his lover's limitations before. Nothing has happened, nothing has ever happened, but still: Leto would never forgive himself if his own idiocy led to Astarion getting hurt.

But all is as it should be, and Leto's steps are a little lighter as he bounds his way down streets and alleys. Most don't notice him, or if they do, it's just long enough to earn a bewildered remark (is that a bloody dog?). It will take quite a while to make it halfway across the city, but he's making good time.]

You enjoy the shaking.

[It's a retort with no meaning, offered up as they head forward. He's moving as fast as he can, but there's few things that attract more attention than the gleam of gold— and though no one has made a move just yet, Leto can hear the murmurs of surprise and interest around him. Better, he thinks, to avoid detection by wandering deeper into the hidden alleys and half-forgotten byways of the city, trotting past derelict slums and bars that take the phrase hole-in-the-wall quite literally.

It works right up until it doesn't: when he finds himself frustratingly boxed into place by a petty squabble just up the street. Two drunken idiots are fighting over something with two members of the Flaming Fist trying to separate them— but one of them conjured a few devilkin, and now it's an all-out fight. And while Leto could risk sneaking past them, he doubts he wouldn't be spotted (or worse, singed).

So he hides them both behind a stack of boxes and heaves a doggish sigh, impatient as he settles in.]

[And out of one of those dingy bars, a voice floats out. Unknown to Leto, and thus utterly unremarkable at first— but his ears prick and swivel rapidly as he hears a familiar name.]

Where do you think Astarion went?

['Does it matter?' another voice answers sharply. It's a woman's voice, and it softens as she continues: 'I don't know. Somewhere far, if he had any sense. But Master would have heard if corpses started going missing in Waterdeep or Candlekeep . . . I don't know. More than likely he's dead somewhere.']

Master doesn't think so. He still refuses to believe it, and he would know . . . he must have some indication of how many of his spawn are still alive.

['Maybe. But—' Another sharp exhale, and the woman continues: 'As I said: it doesn't matter. And this is depressing me, Dalyria. Go check and see if the sun has gone down yet.'

Footsteps as a slim figure rises and sticks her head out of the shadowy doorway, only to scowl at the fight breaking out down the street, and all the gleaming daylight illuminating it.]

It hasn't, but there's a fight. Come see.

[Two sets of footsteps now, and neither tiefling nor drow (for that is what they are, no matter that they smell strangely familiar to his houndish nose) seems to notice Leto behind all those boxes.]

Edited 2024-10-10 00:48 (UTC)

[It takes no time at all for Astarion to go still as death itself; he doesn't need to hear his own name when the voice that utters it registers as quickly to long ears as if only yesterday he'd last heard it calling— three full years vanishing in a blink. A breath. For in that moment when he shrinks inside his cocooned safehaven, he feels himself again, not as he's become, but as he was: one lowly spawn cowering in gutterways, counting out precious minutes until dawn, and praying to the gods themselves he'd found a worthy mark by then— panicking already for the hour somewhere against the white-blank canvas of his mind.

Worse, those words that follow: he still refuses to believe it. And hells, of course Cazador does. Of course it'd never be so easy, never mind that it's been a handful of years where the whole of Toril was wiped clean of Astarion's existence, never mind his tracking efforts must've failed to that end for so long that it made the Szarr estate's once famed persistence sloppy, never mind that any other vampire could simply make another spawn, no— never mind all that, because it's clear now the devil had been right. Fenris had been right. And here they are perched close enough to smell, saved only by transfiguration and a knotted bit of cloth.

He feels sick.

Feels the compulsion— stupid as it is— to claw his way free from smothering oppression and bolt away to anywhere else. Fuck, it doesn't matter where, just not here. Not here. Not here. Insistence hammering like the heart he lacks, yet panic holds him deaf and blind and dumb, but still. Completely, breathlessly still, not even daring just to blink, save shivering beneath the thinnest measure of risen fur.

Apparently the stricken, screaming urge to flee combined with the desperate desire to remain unseen alchemically translates to rigor mortis.

Someone smarter might make sense of that.]

[How many times has he felt Astarion go rigid in his arms?

His body shaking for how stiff he's gone as they huddle beneath the sheets and he grips Leto's hand like a lifeline, white-knuckled and desperate, his voice haunted as he recounts tortures the likes of which Leto can scarcely imagine. His skin soaked in sweat as he wakes up screaming from a nightmare that he refuses to recount; his muscles coiled tight with terror and paranoia even as Leto works to soothe him, settle him, fingers in his hair and a strong arm wrapped around his frame, it's all right, he isn't here, I have you, I have you, it's all right (and the mantra is so important, even though it never once works). Late-night confessions whispered between kisses or idle facts offered up with seeming glibness, but always, always, there is that stiffness.

Leto feels it now.

The cold little form nestled against his chest becomes a dead weight, so silent and still that even Leto's enhanced hearing can't discern him. It's only the most minute of shivers that let him know that his mate is still with him, and even then, they're all but imperceptible. Astarion is terrified— and it does not take a genius to understand why.

So these are his siblings.

Master, Master, and Leto forgets all he's ever known about Cazador's indomitable power. Every time that title slips past their lips is another damning mark against them, deference both a pathetic show of loyalty and a blazing warning sign: they will not hesitate to turn him in. Cazador hunts his mate still, and it's nothing they didn't know, but it's so different to think it in the abstract and to have dizzying confirmation. They will take him, and it's a shrill warning, a piercing shriek as his heart thunders, they will steal him away, they will hurt him, they will torture him—

And then rising out of the abyss, a voice made of steel hisses: they will not touch him.

It isn't a declaration of intent but fact: he will not let it happen. He will not let anything come close to touching Astarion.

He's shifted without realizing it: his stance now alert and low, his ears pinned back against his skull and his teeth bared in silent, seething snarl. He knows better than to growl— to snarl— to bark and bite and tear, ripping into soft flesh and ravaging this threat until it's no more, scaring it off or killing it with one powerful bite— he knows better, he knows better—

But it's so hard to fight instinct.

For a long, sickly moment Leto teeters between his rational mind and his animalistic one, staring up at the two figures before him. But attacking won't help— and so though his every instinct screams to leap forward, Leto jerks one paw back, then another. And another, his movements jerky, his eyes locked on those figures. He's silent as the grave as he retreats, stepping so carefully to avoid jewelry clinking, and it's not that he makes a sound. It's not that he is trying to be seen. There's nothing that gives him away, nothing that should alert either of those figures—

But at the last possible second, the drow turns her head, her blazing eyes coolly intelligent as she stares at him. And though she does not make a sound to alert her companion, she sees him, he has no doubt. A beast that doesn't belong adorned in jewelry and with a heavy parcel slung around his neck, but there's nothing that might give Astarion away. There's nothing.

And just as her mouth opens (to say what? but what could she possibly say; doctor dalyria doesn't believe in such fanciful notions as like calling to like, and yet—) Leto turns tail and runs.

Dashing down alleyways and darting beneath passing carts, uncaring for being seen, uncaring for his own comfort or safety, running til his paws ache and his barrel chest heaves for air— for the more distance between them, the better.]

Edited 2024-10-11 03:26 (UTC)

[It's not enough. No. No, it'll never be enough. They could run across the whole of Faerûn and it wouldn't make a difference in the slightest. Tear open a portal from blood and bone and scrying glass down, down, down into the Hells— and it wouldn't damned well matter in the end: because it's real, now. And it'll never stop. Never end. Never let him be.

The moment his once-sibling's voice uttered his name not five full strides' distance from them, that hateful needle shifted irreversibly, he's sure of it. Feels it large and looming overhead like the sword of Damacles, twisting as if dragged into unnatural position by cold, forceful hands; unwilling and unable to return to the weightlessness present not half an hour before — blithely draped in pearled hope, decadent confidence— folly, in other words. Shaded hideous as a lover plucked from a dim tavern only to see hack-carved features exposed in brighter lights.

We'll dine and dance till morning. We'll mingle with the haunts of High Hall and watch the bawdiest of plays— no, we won't.

No we fucking won't.

Another vampire will get there first. (Correction: is there first.) Waiting like a spider in its web the way he's always been. Always done. Always wanted. Striking the second that they're spotted, greedy fangs plunged deep down to the bone. Astarion can see it clearly; masked against the backlit glow of leaded glass, there is no calculable limit to the black-eyed measure of his quickened hunger— the resentment— oh, it's been longer than a week. Much, much longer than a week. He's touched another. Sworn his heart to them. Bedded them. Bled them. Tsk tsk, Astarion.

He can't hear a thing over Cazador's imagined purr.

Long after Leto' stopped and brought them home, possibly kicking or nosing the door shut, he doesn't realize it. Stays put, curled up tighter than a locket in that kerchief, ready to bite down on anything that dares to agitate his sanctum.]

Edited 2024-10-12 19:34 (UTC)

[Their home is quiet, for whatever that's worth. The twins, pups once more, have fallen asleep snuggled up together, exhausted after their bewildering day. Ataashi lounges on the bed, her blazing eyes locked on Leto as he enters the room but otherwise motionless. Clever darling that she is, she can always sense when something is wrong. There's no desperate leaps for attention or panting exuberance; she watches silently as Leto transforms back, her posture attentive but not overwhelming.

Gingerly he lifts the small bundle from around his neck and places it on the bed. There's not a stir, not a sigh, but that doesn't surprise Leto. He makes short work of ridding himself of their treasure, fumbling only slightly in his haste, and slings on a pair of trousers. The entire process takes less than two minutes, and yet not once does he remove his gaze from that little bundle.

He climbs into bed. Scoops up the still, silent form of his lover and rests him against his bare chest, nestling him close to his beating heart. One hand lays gently but firmly atop the bundle, fingers close without becoming confining.

And Leto waits. Perhaps not forever, no, but he will wait a long time for Astarion to emerge. He has a book on hand, and there is nothing more important to him than his mate. There's a part of him that longs to tug him free, unwrapping that cloth and whispering assurances, but . . . no, it will not help to be forcibly torn from his shelter, Leto suspects. Better to let him come out in his own time, and they will take it from there.

Until then: it's quiet. The room fills with familiar noises: Ataashi's steady, slow breathing nearby (her eyes half-closed, her body pressed up against Leto's own), and in the distance, the twins snoring and snuffling in their sleep. The steady turn of a page here or there, and at a great distance, the sound of workers below lazily cleaning as they wait for the evening to come. And always, always, there is Leto's heartbeat: steady and sure, calm and unflagging no matter how long it takes.]

[He's waiting for the end.

Whether or not he believes it's truly coming hardly makes a difference when certainty's still breathing down his neck, choking out the inside of his den with its pervasive exhalations. And beyond the bubble that it forms— nothing.

Nothing.

Through branchwork, balled-up limbs and a buried snout, he's moved, but there's no sound. No real sensation, either, compared to the huff puff flow of paranoia. Gravity. Wet and dark and deep, with no end to sprawling bounds, that nothingness that reeks of iron rust. Evokes the memory of spent spittle burning in his throat— as close to true sensation as it gets when he's been shut in and forgotten. Albeit for what, he can't recall (but it's not unusual, is it?) he'd been dreaming. Is dreaming, perhaps. Like the snap of misaligned gears, his burned out brain keeps thinking with all the grace of a drowning figure: ugly reflex, quick in action yet sluggish in regards to reason, oscillating wildly in the hopes that something might connect. For Astarion, that's logic. He's curled up in the kennels, he thinks; he's dizzy and confused from steep starvation; it's then— it's now—

It's the crisp sound of a page turning, smearing against its kin before it pops like a stiffened joint, and settles.

The softer shoreline hiss of blood running in channels underneath him, and the bassy pulse that throttles it onwards, slowly shaking Astarion where he rests in ways that stone floors never would.

Well— not unless Cazador's constructed some sort of new and ultimately unseemly horror when it comes to architecture, but— no. No, that's not a possibility, not even for him. And for all his time spent underground, it'd been cold, and stiff, and lifeless, not at all like this.

One tufted ear drives its way out from darker cloth, flicking upright first, and then another. A wriggling muzzle with a wet, snuffling nose— and then two albinic ruby eyes, squinting sharply to adjust whilst they take in their surroundings. The slow start to a careful crawl down to Leto's chest, then up towards his chin. A place to shelter under that's familiar in its rediscovery— safe and steady and warm, and comfortably scented— little wings folding across the front of a tattoed throat.]

[And when he's finished (for Maker knows how long it's been since he first came to bundle underneath Leto's narrow chin), there's a quickened flood of movement that ushers him through the air— ending with an elven outline perched tall beside the very foot of their bed. Clawed fingers sheltering faint clicking (and clacking, no less) as he bundles his assortment of pilfered jewelry, pearlshine peeking through the gaps within his grip.

There's sobriety in his voice.

It sounds tired, if not level.]

What happened to them?

[He can't remember, but he assumes they weren't followed.]

[How long does it take? But it doesn't matter. Time never matters when they're tucked away in their home (the mansion in Thedas, the flat above the pub in Evereska, their roving apartments in Baldur's Gate). The minutes melt into hours melt into days unheeded, ignored in favor of sorrow or pleasure, joy or grief, for there is nothing more important than the two of them.

Thus: Astarion nestles beneath Leto's chin, his little body finding the places that feel safest, and lingers there for as long as he needs. Leto knows better than to say anything, but his hand comes up often: first for that wet little snout to snuffle at and recognize (you know me, you remember this scent), and then to gently pet when it seems he's wanted. His attention stays nominally focused on his book, for sometimes being perceived is too much to bear— even when most of your life has been spent begging for a scrap of attention.

Perhaps especially then.

There's no fanfare for when it ends. The only motion Leto makes is to sit up, watching Astarion as he finally comes back to himself.]

Nothing. The tiefling noticed me, I think, but she looked at me as much of the city did: with bemusement, not recognition or shock. I ran, and they neither of them followed.

[He checked. He made sure. Over and over, he made sure, circling endlessly in a wide perimeter around their home, using every bit of old training and newfound senses to make sure that no gleaming set of red eyes was involuntarily taking note of them.

(And the joke is: he did miss something, but Korrilla is so much more subtle than any spawn could ever hope to be).]

There was a drow, too.

[The question hangs silently in the air, but he won't utter it just yet. Better to let Astarion tell him their names, their stories, their views (if such things even exist; if they are anything more than fellow slaves— but they must be. Siblings, and Leto— Fenris— knows better than anyone how many memories such relations trigger).]

[I ran, and neither of them followed.

It isn't possible to love Leto more, but standing there in the shuttered darkness of a coming night, stripped bare of pretense alongside clothing, he'd swear himself as close to that margin as one could ever get. Both were enslaved creatures once; both understand the necessity of doggedly checking their own shadow to be certain that it matches— yet they are so far from Thedas, and Leto is so young. What was once familiar feels a full lifetime ago. Easily forgotten. (Never forgotten, no. He sees the truth of it lain across their mattress, in the fixated focus of autumnal eyes as they peer back in stoic earnest.

Young only in their form, not the wisdom held behind them.)

Astarion's expression relaxes, and the hang of his posture goes with it.]

Aurelia and Dalyria. [Sits suspended in midair for far too long before reason settles in, insisting that Leto will want to know what those names mean— who they are.

And rightfully he should.

There's a mulled flicker of sound as pale fingertips set gilded jewelry aside across a nearby table, moving no closer beyond that.]

....my siblings.

[So that was them. It's nothing he hadn't suspected, but the confirmation makes something lurch deep in the pit of his stomach. Aurelia and Dalyria, and he memorizes the names diligently, trying to remember the details of their faces and forms, matching each name up with its respective owner.

My siblings, Astarion says, and Leto silently changes it to: my sisters, for that is a grief he knows so much better. And what is it to have a sister? To be bound eternally to a person you simultaneously love and loathe, the only person in the world that knows exactly what you went through all those years . . . and the rest almost doesn't matter. He will never, ever trust Varania again— hells, he doesn't even know if he even ever wants to see her again. But there will always be a place in his heart for her, a strange mixture of resentment and longing that he has long since accepted will never go away.]

Do you remember what they spoke of?

[It's a gentle question. He wouldn't blame Astarion for being too petrified to recall a single thing; he also wouldn't blame him for memorizing every single word, devoting it to memory in the terrified false hope that such a minor thing might somehow help them evade Cazador a little longer.]

[A fair question.

What he thinks, what he feels in that moment, they're solely one and the same. A truth that solidified itself from the instant he heard his own name uttered, and a conversation whose participants were recognizable by sound, rather than sight— but memory beyond sensation? Beyond the palpable rise of fear and nausea, and the thunder of dread as a surrogate for his own pulse?

He has to look at Fenris peripherally. Keeps him there, but blurry in the borders of his own vision: taking care not to track the way he might be staring back. It doesn't matter that he knows Leto wouldn't stare at him with pity (or that Fenris most of all wouldn't, either).

The thought he might spot some unevolved glimpse of it is unbearable.]

Cazador. [And the name curdles on his tongue. A memory he's no desire to taste, but as much a guess as he can muster when the details still feel hazy.]

That your blasted devil was right.

Yes.

[He half-expects Raphael to appear in a burst of brimstone and smoke, but there's nothing. The dull murmur downstairs doesn't alter; their room stays silent and contained, the door barred and the windows shuttered (for all the good it will do them).

Leto watches Astarion so carefully: direct where his lover is elusive, steady where Astarion might feel overwhelmed. His role now is to be a rock, steady and strong: not without malleability, but something Astarion can dash himself upon again and again without fear of consequences or lingering resentment. Someone to help Astarion stay grounded when two centuries of terror and grief will inevitably overwhelm him again and again, rising up like bile in his throat and smothering him into incoherence.

A breath, and then:]

. . . but they do not know you are here. They wondered where you had gone, and marveled at the fact you have stayed hidden. Cazador still thinks you alive— but he has no evidence to prove it just yet.

[They're facts offered steadily, and Leto tries so hard to keep anything else out of his tone. Above all, he doesn't want to offer any kind of false optimism: see, it isn't so bad!, when of course, it is. It's terrifying and nauseating and so overwhelming that there's nothing but the clawing panic of a trapped animal hearing the hunter approach step by heavy step—

He knows. He remembers.

And yet inevitably, Leto thinks, Astarion will lash out. That's part of it too.]

He does not know anything more than he did a day ago, or a week ago, or since we returned here. Nothing has changed.

[That's not true. He knows that's not true and he regrets it the moment he says it, but it's too late now. Stupid.]

I mean simply that— that we are in no more or less danger than we were before.

Edited 2024-10-19 23:54 (UTC)

[Astarion's redirect is sharp. Agitated in the worst way and already rearing up to bite like a cornered animal: the warning wetness in red eyes that narrows to a gleaming point as it jerks Fenris' way—

Only to meet that amendment head-on.

(Only to soften at the seams, for it's the whirling lunge to bite that inevitably shows Ataashi that it's no assailant's hand across her nape, but the packmates she adores. No different than Leto startling awake in the dead of night, warm from the covers he'd been under and yet shivering out of his own skin, wide eyed and wild to the last heaving gasp; no different than the startled look Astarion wears now, only marking what's before him by the slow draw into focus half a moment too late to save composure.) Leto can't be so blind that he doesn't see right through it. Doesn't know, intimately, what's ticking underneath the surface.

It takes so long for Astarion to find his breath, false though it may be.]

For now.

[Thin as paper. Damp, small, limp within his emptied hands.]

If he thinks I'm not dead, it's only a matter of time. [Slow start, exhale thready when it leaves his throat.] Today was close enough.

For now.

[The answer accepted and echoed without amendment, Leto's head ducking down into a shallow nod in silent echo. But he watches him carefully as Astarion continues on. It's the farthest thing from hopeful, but nor is it utterly despairing, and that's good. That counts. Now that Cazador has become more real, it matters so much that while Astarion's knees might buckle and his terror might rear, his first impulse isn't to cower or ignore, but grimly face the threat head-on.]

What do you wish to do?

[For Leto has a thousand ideas born from a hundred plans plotted out in the dead of night. He has gone over how to best kill a vampire lord again and again in his mind, adding in details and drawbacks as Astarion has offered them. He's learned all the most deadly spells for vampires (sunlight a miracle of a one, but there are others); he's trained fiercely, throwing himself into combining his swordplay and his magic, honing himself to fight against a creature that, on paper, he's hopelessly outmatched by.

(But there's a reason vampires are so secretive. There's a reason they both mind their tongue when they're not alone, or take pains to ensure that Astarion is seen hanging around during the day, albeit indoors. Vampires aren't infallible. And though it would be a mistake to underestimate them, oh, they are far from immortal).

A beat, and he adds gently:]

It is a matter of time, yes. But not tonight. You need not have a plan just yet. You need not do anything tonight, save reel.

[His tongue sits shallow behind his fangs. His faintly glowing eyes are sunken under the shadows cast by listless curls; he stares at Leto for the longest second, framing it in his mind like something precious he could lose.

(More than the image. More than its constancy. When even the memory of it can be scrubbed clean and yanked away, it's hard to trust that it can stay.)]

Go back to Thedas....? [Is a hoarse-throated joke. Ultimately prying a degree or two of slant out of the corner of his mouth, but like everything else, it sinks after a beat, and his frown is that much deeper for it.]

....I don't know.

[Feels small. Tired. A lump in his throat where his tongue should be.

Appropriately weak, perhaps.]

All this time. [It's been weeks since the devil's warning in Evereska— what was he thinking? Did he ever have a plan? Did he forget it?] Wasted.

[He looks so small like that. No longer is he the proud, hedonistic vampire of the past year, his tongue curling wickedly and his prowess unmatched, but something smaller. Weaker. Broken, and yet stitched together over and over again, a shattered fracture of himself only held together through the most tenuous threads. His eyes are hollow and his head is bowed; exhaustion has stitched its way into every muscle. All of him so defeated already by the inevitability of Cazador Szarr.

All this time, his beloved says hollowly, wasted—

And before he realizes it, Leto is on his feet. He's closed the distance between them, one hand gripping Astarion's shoulder tightly as the other catches beneath his chin.]

No. Not wasted. None of it was a waste.

[His eyes dart about Astarion's face; after a moment, some of the urgency lessens in his voice. His thumb strokes against the curve of his shoulder, his expression softening.]

You do not know— but I do.

[He has to do this so carefully. Push too fast and terror will kick in; ease in too much and Astarion won't believe him.]

He is powerful, but he is not infallible. He is dangerous, but so was Danarius. So was Corypheus. And Astarion . . . I am built for this.

[Look at me. See past all the features that make him look like a pup only just grown into his paws; look past his ears, his eyes, his youth, the wrinkles that no longer line his eyes. Look at me and see me for who I am, Fenris thinks.]

For decades I was trained not just to fight, but in tactics. In control. [Do you understand? Do you realize? For his own days of enslavement were so relatively far behind him, and it's not that Astarion doesn't know his past— but there is such a difference between knowing and understanding.] I know how to subdue crowds and read the mood of a mob; I know how to plan for a battle, and what factors will aid or hinder it. I have studied magic and vampirism here, I have dedicated myself to it— not in the hopes of slaying him myself, but so I know how to offer you a plan.

[He hesitates for a moment, wondering if it's too much, but . . .]

One vampire lord. Six spawns who cannot help their compulsion. And an array of thralls and insane servants who are dedicated to him. I will not say the odds are in our favor just yet . . . but we have time to plan. To recruit.

Your friend Gale arrived today. I meant to tell you . . . his letter came. And with him are allies, are there not? Those who remember you, even if you do not remember them.

[Shadowheart, Wyll, Lae'zel, Jaheira, Karlach, and the names mean nothing to him right now, but if they can fight, if they will aid him . . . oh, that changes things indeed.]

We can lure him out, perhaps. Or prepare to siege upon his palace. We know the terrain, and that is more than some have before battle.

[But all of that is detail. What matters is what he says next, and to that extent, Fenris catches Astarion's eye, making sure he knows just how seriously he's taking this. That this is no hero playing at noble rescuer; that this will not end in terror.

Don't make me walk you to his table.

I won't, Fenris thinks fiercely. I won't, I won't, I won't.]

We have time. We have allies.

We can win this, Astarion. Believe in me, if you cannot believe in it yourself.

But if you wish to go back to Thedas . . .

[He doesn't, Leto thinks, but that isn't relevant here and now.]

I do not know what abilities I possess. I do not know how to open a door into the Planes— into the Fade. I do not even know if I can do it with Ataashi's help. But if you wish that . . .

We will run to Waterdeep with your mage friend, and task him with aiding me and protecting us until I learn. And I will try until I manage it.

Only say the word, and I will make it so.

No. [Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes if it keeps them safe. Second answer needling in so frantically past the whole of his defenses that it's hard to know which one he's said aloud— and so it's said again, ratcheted this time to drive the syllables between his fangs. A way to feel them out when he can't hear past the memory of ringing in his ears:]

No.

[Strong hands at either cheek, stroking the arch of them with enough pressure to feel bone beneath. The sort of desperation that leaves a precious ache.

For so long he had nothing to hold onto, whispers something close and ugly. For so long he was defined by it, that cruel, insipid emptiness that never let him forget its crushing weight. Not in the kennel, not in the dark, alone until he couldn't remember his own name. Not in a thousand different beds, or under Cazador's commandeering grip. Not on bruised knees, with skin stripped down to a memory over sinew, not screaming till his lungs ran hoarse, the only blood left on him a ruddy mask across his cheeks. It comes through again as if it(he)'d never left for distance, larger than hope itself could ever be. Crystal clear and fresh, oh wretchedly fresh.

He can't bear the thought of letting go.

Not even in the simplest of touches.

But he trusts in Fenris.

Like he's believed in no one else, himself included. God killer. Slaver hunter. Blue Wraith. Capable of crossing worlds because his heart refused to accept cold logic if it meant division neverending. The stray that found its way home with no memories intact, against all brutal odds. And if that wasn't enough to topple the grim effigy of a vampire lord unbeaten— if the handsome hart within his grasp (conquering an unfamiliar body, unfamiliar magic,) winds up having met his match at last within the Upper City's highest halls....

Astarion trusts that there's no limit to what he'd do to keep his Leto safe.

—but.]

I....

[His every train of thought hitches for a beat.]

....Gale?

[It's been veritable ages since that letter was sent out. He'd assumed it never found its mark— that, or the mage he'd met and bargained with in Kirkwall for scant less than a single evening never survived the trip back across the Veil. Anything else seems unfathomable at this point, crossing the line between unlikely and sheer fantasy with ease: Leto would never lie to him, would never steer him astray let alone at a moment such as this, when they've no odds left to speak of.

And yet his own mind whirs like a toy that can't quite manage to connect its inner makings. The click clack click of gears turning like they ought to out of desperation only to slip up over purchase— or more accurately, lack thereof, but still....]

Edited 2024-11-17 15:14 (UTC)

[Leto is no liar.

Pilfered jewelry lies within eyeshot just behind a pair of clasped hands, already gesticulating swiftly. Mapping with all the tenacity of a conductor the present conversation's highs and sweeping lows, ignoring everything beyond the pair of elves (one familiar, one not) seated before him.

'Goodness,' Gale exhales through a shake of his head. 'Now that is a monster of a master to contend with, a vampire lord with his own coven, right in the middle of Baldur's Gate?

But you're in quite good hands now. And once we finish honing in your magics after covering the bases, I daresay neither god nor bloodsucking vampire will find themselves prepared for the fury we shall unleash upon them in no time.'

Astarion's expression runs flatter than a punctured tire in sharp contrast. His arms are folded, his lip ever so slightly curled, as if he's looking at someone's musty old rag left on the floor out in the open.]

I want him gone.

['Oh come now, Astarion— ']

[He bites back a grin only semi-successfully, amused and (in truth) endeared by Astarion's behavior. Cattish, he might call it, except it reminds Leto of nothing so much as Ataashi whenever she's confronted with anything new: snout curled back and teeth bared, wary and standoffish about anything that upsets her delicate sensibilities.

And be fair: it's not as if Gale is endearing himself right now. He's very, mm, chirpy. Cheerful. Bustlingly endearing in a let's-all-get-along-lads sort of way, which might work well for the students in Waterdeep— but which grates when presented to two sarcastic, overly cynical elves.

Still: the attempt is sincere. Cloying, but sincere, and the wizard earned no small amount of respect for the words fury we shall unleash upon them, for Leto can appreciate anyone ready to murder for his beloved's sake. Besides: even if Gale had turned out to be utterly insufferable (and he isn't), Leto would still demand he stay, for they cannot afford to be so picky when it comes to Cazador.]

A good thing he is not meant to be your teacher, then.

[Gentle, for he will not scold his amatus in front of another— especially not when he himself feels the same. Leto cocks his head, refocusing his attention back onto Gale as the wizard speaks.

'Now! To start with, I'd like you to begin with some light reading on the theory of magic. We'll get to casting spells soon enough, but it's important you understand where you're drawing from—']

Ah— I already know how to cast.

['Do you!' Gale says, glancing between them. 'From Astarion's letters, I had the impression you were a novice.']

I was. I still am. But speed was more of the essence than technique, at least at first, and I have been taught the basics already by a tutor in Evereska.

She wrote up a guide. You may find it helpful.

[He offers up a packet of papers. Talindra had been both thorough and unflinchingly honest in her assessment of his growth, including his strengths (few) and his weak points (many), but honestly, Leto appreciates it. It may sting his pride to see the word novice or flinching written so many times, but it does his survivability no good to be lied to.

Gale takes it, glancing over it. His smile is a little strained now, annoyance at his lesson being interrupted somewhat badly hidden. 'Ah,' he says, one brow raising as his eyes flick over the first page. 'Well! and give him some credit for trying to rally, even as some part of him looks a bit put out. 'You'll forgive me if I want to do some testing of my own— not that I doubt your teacher, but I have my own scale for doing things, and I have more than a few points within my own lesson plans that I want to be sure your former tutor hit upon. Too many forget that the basics are necessary for a reason— it isn't all about control. There's articulation, diversification, aspects of basic elements . . . Still! We can move things a bit ahead, I think, if you're already so experienced.'

He begins shuffling through some of the bags at his side, drawing out papers and sorting through them with a few distracted mutters. And the funny thing is, the annoyance doesn't seem to be directed at Leto— not really, anyway. There's a certain fuss to the way he sorts through his papers, fluster and annoyance built into one. It reminds Leto of nothing so much as Anders of all people, denied his promised lecture and just a tad sulky over it— though Anders was never so stuffy.

'As for you, Astarion,' he finally adds, glancing up. 'Did you want to learn to hone your own innate abilities? I cannot say I'm overly familiar with vampiric magic, but there's few arenas I cannot conquer. I will say, though: Shadowheart wished to meet with you, too. She wants to discuss a few things related to vampiric weaknesses and how best a cleric might aid you. And,' he adds, and aims a friendly smile at him, 'I believe she simply misses you.

I know I have.']

Edited 2024-11-19 04:02 (UTC)

[Shadowheart. He's heard the name before— from Gale— but just as it was then nothing's conjured from its utterance: it prompts no thought of hair color, no age or race. She is as much context as he can muster in consideration, and that's only because Gale said it first. So ultimately? There it is: one blank silhouette with the words 'Shadowheart' and 'she' etched onto it, empty and unfamiliarly featureless.

He wonders if this is how Fenris might have felt returning to Kirkwall. Met by a story with his name in it, and not a single memory to go with it.

(And if he were objective— which mind you, he isn't— maybe he'd realize that's part of why he's brimming with tepid hostility. Like Ataashi when she squirms and growls and writhes within their arms come bath time, trying to force it along only makes things worse.)

And that's not including his bristling contrarianism by default.]

Eugh. [Sound acting as deflection. The uncomfortable made comfortable through a crinkled nose and the folding of his arms at distance.] You're useful.

Don't make it weird.

[Easy to forget it was Fenris that saved him from the Fade. Fenris that drew him up and gave him hope as something— someone freed. Fenris who protected him, cared for him, followed him. Leto, who he loves. And so it's Leto who warrants the soft mouth, the gentle glances as if they were second nature, sole nature. Leto who finds himself proudly doted on by a dagger of a creature, all sharp edges and sharp claws.

Everyone else, very much not so.

Still, he knows what he needs to tip the scales (or at the very least keep Leto safe), and what the cost may well prove to be in the end. It isn't sheepishness that makes his cattish dismissal start to sink down into tepid acceptance, just a realistic comprehension of that age old saying regarding flies and vinegar.

And if they're risking their lives, he should probably be grateful. Maybe.]

Just focus on getting all those schoolyard lessons of yours straightened out for our resident Bladesinger first, and if you get that far before we have an enthralled army on our doorstep, then I might consider taking protips on vampirism from a fangless mage. [Wizard? Whatever.]

Ah, but—

[His gesture's loose, index finger untucked just to sweep through nothing in midair, indicating sudden thought alongside a modicum of self-awareness.]

You can tell the cleric to visit.

[That's fine. She seems fine. (He hopes to bloody Andraste that she's fine. Someone with the name Shadowheart hardly seems the sort to go throwing arms about necks upon reunion, but then Violet doesn't shout 'murderous harlot with a penchant for making everyone else miserable' from the rooftops, either.)] Something to chip away at whilst you two conjure mephits and whatnot.

[He's checking his nails now. That's how you know he's only playing at indifference, dipping too far into theatrics in attempting to prove he doesn't care.]

Didn't you say there were others too? The last time we spoke I remember you mentioning— [Did Gale mention other allies? It's been an eternity since the man flickered in and out of Thedas like a spirit given form, swearing that he knew Astarion before evaporating into thin air not two days later.] —I was under the impression it wasn't just you and a cleric on our side.

Edited 2024-11-21 00:11 (UTC)

[Gods, it's so amusing to watch Astarion preen and huff and posture. He's almost forgotten what it looked like, for they spend so much time together, but he's missed it. It's endearing, sort of, and reminds him nothing so much as a cat that will pointedly groom itself in front of you and sneak glances to make sure you're paying attention.

'Oh, yes,' Gale agrees benignly. There's a similarly endeared sort of smile on his face now, his earlier waspishness forgotten in favor of amusement. He missed him, Leto thinks with surprise. He missed him and he knows him well enough not to push the sentiment, and that's . . . he does not know how he feels about that, save that it's a pleasing feeling. He likes the thought of Astarion having others who care for him; gods know he deserves it— and it would be good for him, just as the little elven pack was good for Leto.

Ah— Fenris, now.

'A few, in fact. Aside from myself and Shadowheart, Wyll and Karlach— two adventurers who now specialize in hunting down devils— in fact, Wyll actually stylizes himself as the Blade of Avernus now, but in any case, they're return from Avernus just as soon as they can find a portal out. Lae'zel, a gith warrior, is already in the city— in fact, she asked about you, Fenris. She has never sparred against a Bladesinger, but I told her that master of the blade you might be, but we would have a bit more training to get through before you could fulfill the singing portion of it all.'

He chuckles, and then, when Fenris stares at blankly, coughs and continues on. 'Right. In any case: Jaheira and Minsc are still working in Daggerford clearing out an infestation of goblins, but they promised to return within the month. Beyond that . . . we have a number of allies we can call upon. Zevlor, a former commander, is in the city and feels he owes us. A few others, too . . . '

Gale pauses for a few moments, looking thoughtful as he glances from Fenris to Astarion. Then, a little abruptly, he says to Astarion, 'Including a group of Gur. Though perhaps help isn't quite the right word for what they intend . . . they wish to work with us, for they feel you owe them, Astarion.'

There's no elaboration, and it doesn't take Fenris long to realize it's because of him. Gale keeps glancing between them: not furtively, but waiting for permission from Astarion to continue.]

Edited 2024-11-24 21:50 (UTC)

[It's permission Gale doesn't stand a chance of getting.]

That I owe them?

[Bile in the back of his throat curdles those words right from the start. What toothless bristling Gale had earned doesn't hold a candle to the anger Astarion finds now. A bright, inhuman flare around his irises.]

They think that I owe them?

[He's hunched forwards when he asks a second time, lips peeled back around his fangs. He's seeing red with all the avidity of a man that's forgotten his own sin and kept stock of the worst that've been done to him. It's been so long, after all. So much bliss imbibed that what he thinks of when reminded of their existence isn't one more unpalatable task given in the dead of night, but of bruises split wide open like cracked fruit. Bile in his throat, sour in the preset as the past bleeds out around his ears.

Fuck them.

Fuck them for the audacity.]

They should be grateful I'm not hunting them for sport after what they did to me. [Raptorish twisting. Anger hot, not cold.]

If any of their lot survive this ill-advised coup against Cazador Szarr, they can count themselves lucky to be alive. That can be my gift to them, in thanks for their....generous cooperation.

[It won't be until he sees their camp— or sees them— that he'll remember that secondary clan. Not until it's darker and quieter and safer, and the buzzing in his ears mercifully quietens down. Right now, he can't.

And it isn't fair, but anger isn't fair.

So few things are.]

[Gale's brow furrows, concern and a struggling hesitance clear in his expression. One hand lifts and reaches for Astarion before he seems to think better of it, and sets it down on his staff instead.

'That isn't the incident they have in mind, I believe, but a more recent one. One involving the settlement just outside of the city gates.' He watches Astarion for a few seconds, searching his face for something. Whether or not he finds it, he adds swiftly: 'But they can tell you themselves later, and you can decide what you will do with it later on.'

It isn't condemnation or a brush-off, but gentle defusion. Again Gale's gaze darts from Fenris to Astarion before he adds: 'In any case: they are determined to help either way, for the sake of killing Szarr if nothing else.'

There's more said, of course, but none of it particularly interesting. He arranges for a time to meet with Fenris (tomorrow at ten in the morning) so that an initial assessment might begin, and from there lesson plans and instructional spars. He gives them the names of all those companions that he had mentioned, along with a list of where to find them and what they can offer in terms of a fighting force, and then makes his goodbyes.

'It was good to see you,' he says to Astarion before he goes. 'Truly, Astarion. You've been missed.'

And then he's gone, and they're left in the aftermath.

There's so much to say, but none of it can be from him first. Fenris— Leto— knows that. Whatever Gale was hinting at is something that either happened during the course of Astarion's lost memories (if they can even be called that, but what other term is there?), or something else. Something that happened before, and was only a revelation made during the course of that adventure . . . and it must be the latter, Leto thinks, for Gale would not expect Astarion to know it otherwise.

So it's something from the past. Something involving the Gur, and gods know Cazador has a sadistic sense of humor. Leto can think of a thousand cruelties he might force his spawn to enact against his murderers, and who's to say if the intended victim was Astarion or the Gur— or both. But whatever it was, it must have happened recently. Call it within the past half-century, maybe, but something fresh enough that this encampment leapt upon the chance to join in.

And whatever it is, Leto knows already, he will stay by Astarion's side. That isn't a question.

But one thing at a time.

He sits heavily on the bed, watching Astarion whether he rants or paces or shuts down. But when there's a breath, a pause, Leto murmurs:]

Tell me.

[The rage. The grief. The resentment. Tell me.]

We need not use them if you despise the idea. We have forces enough that they are not vital.

[By the time Gale leaves, Astarion gets it. Remembers it, more accurately, the damning details leading up to his involuntary departure from this world.

That said, three years of freedom is such a long time in terms of iron trust: he's not the fretful thing he used to be when they first met, constantly looking towards his partner and seeking out approval (or assurance, whichever worked best), afraid to stray too far from what was always desirable for how it might divide them. They've grown close enough these days that they qualify as ingrown by design: irreversibly intertwined, almost grotesquely so— because where sweetness reigns, there are those days when Astarion can't bring himself to leave or sit alone. Can't stop thinking about where Leto is, or what he might be doing on his own. Not jealous, but restless. A true vampire would never be that soft.

They could confess anything. Ask anything. Do anything— and where love (never) ends devotion overtakes. Not a question. More than instinct. Deeper than the tightest bond.

Admitting the truth in that hadal bay of understanding is, by any stretch, easy.

....but the way Astarion moves to pull of his shirt and redress for bed rather than company is a telltale sign he's stalling. Putting it off by seconds. Keeping his hands and eyes and focus busy, though his voice is even enough to read as disinterested when he finally makes use of it.]

We don't, but you're sweet to offer. [Balls his shirt up between clawed fingers, tossing it into a satchel hung higher than the pups can reach— dirty laundry only. Threats of bite marks or piss on silk keep him tidier than he would be otherwise.]

They're monster hunters. The clan that Gale mentioned, that is. The ones that are willing to help us fight back, if I understood his hints correctly. [And he does think so, alludes the underscoring glance across his shoulder, catching Leto's eye.] Most are....

[Tsk.]

Vagrants, for lack of a more revolting term. The sort to take on odd jobs of any shade— much like the Gur that killed me. That's what sets this pack apart, and what set them in Cazador's sights as a nuisance, before Thedas was kind enough to offer my freedom from his rule.

[A plaintive pause; he isn't looking anymore. Only staring down into his clothing dresser, distant for that single, solitary beat.]

He took their children from them.

[He took, but it's no far reach for any slave to remember that it's never the master's own hands that commit to any work.]

[I took their children from them.

That's the underlying truth. Not the whole truth, for in this they are the same: there is not a single doubt in Leto's mind that their blood is on Cazador's hands. What slave can be blamed for his master's sins? None of them. It's so easy for others to claim otherwise— to condemn those in bondage for not rising up and breaking their chains, stopping those in power from evil acts . . . gods, he can remember that in Minrathous. Some disgraced laetan had been stupid enough to get caught using blood magic, and the magisterium was making a grand show of punishing him by stripping him of his title and his land. For morality's sake, they claimed. And the next day, all anyone had been able to talk about was how awful it was that none of those dead slaves had made a move to save their fellows, even if it was at the cost of their own life.

Those children aren't Astarion's fault, no matter what their kin thinks.

He watches Astarion carefully as he moves, caught somewhere between direct focus and distant reflection. Almost without realizing it he studies the lines of his bare back, tracing the scar tissue in all its jagged, vicious glory. Seven beloved vampire spawn and seven thousand souls, and even now, Leto fancies he can smell the ash and brimstone as Raphael's voice echoes in his mind. Seven spawn and seven thousand souls . . .

Seven thousand, the number so vast as to overwhelm, and how would you accrue that many? Mortals need upkeep. They need food and water and shelter, sleep and maintenance; gods know Leto remembers Danarius grousing over how much money it cost him to keep his slaves relatively healthy and hale. They need to be kept in a place where they can't kill themselves easily, either, and mortal bodies are so very good at dying, especially in despair. And the disappearance of seven thousand would alert anyone, even if all the souls you stole were vagrants and thieves . . .

But if you did it slowly— if you turned them all and kept them in walls, in cells, in dark, secret places where they could be stored away like silverware, their sanity optional so long as their soul was still intact . . . some were eaten, Leto has no doubt. Astarion fetching prey was no mere lie, but suddenly the scope of it begins to take form. A thousand souls per spawn, drawn out over the course of centuries . . . oh, yes. Oh, yes, you could do that easily, so long as you didn't mind being patient.]

Is it possible to turn a child?

[A beat, and then, almost to himself:]

I wonder if they expect revenge or a rescue . . .

[And it doesn't matter, not really. Not compared to the here and now. Leto's eyes flick up, focusing more on Astarion as he adds:]

Do you remember them?

[Does he remember them? Does he really? A question he daren't answer, and he knows this because even in his mind he won't consider it: shutting down the combing through his own memories by way of a blank canvas. An emptiness like a wall, impenetrable and hard, and there each time he delves too deep. It could be like everything else, that he's lost it. That the harline fractures from cruel torture grew and grew into chasms now backfilled by better days he won't regret.

It could be self preservation is a monster like none other, and it protects him with a fierceness that scarcely knows thin words like decency or fair.

His brows knit. He sets the edge of a thumbclaw beneath the underside of its twin, twisting. It's a glimpse of vulnerability.

It's gone in the next breath.]

I very much doubt there's anything in this world that can't be cursed, but even so that doesn't change the fact that there'd be nothing to rescue of their pups when it comes down to it: those creatures are long dead— [sounds harsher when it's held up like a shield.] even if they could be used for some absurd ritual, what good are children to a demon? No, Cazador wanted to punish them. Make it hurt.

[Leans on that nail. The sharp jab of springing pain in palest minor.]

There's nothing there, I'm sure of it.

[Their pups, not their children, Leto notes, and it ties into that glimmer of vulnerability that shines for just a few seconds before vanishing in a haze of flinty practicality. But whatever Leto might guess or suspect, this isn't the time to say so. Whether the children are alive or not isn't relevant; they'll see or they won't, and frankly, Leto knows better than to hope for anything good on that front.]

It will hurt either way, no matter what we find.

[He isn't talking about the Gur, not really.

For he saw that guilt, but what good will come of drawing too much attention to it? Do you feel bad, tell me how much, crucify yourself for my pleasure, and why should he ask Astarion that? Why should Astarion feel bad for the crime of forced obedience? There's sympathy in the way Leto speaks; there's also a wearied sort of knowledge there, forewarning Astarion to steel himself for what might be to come.

As if his mate needs that. Better, then, to rise up off the bed, crossing the room so he can rest one warm palm between Astarion's bare shoulderblades. I'm here, and he is, always.]

And it is not your fault.

[There. That's a little better. And he knows Astarion hates directness, especially when it comes to emotion— but sometimes he needs Leto to push, just as sometimes Leto needs his own bluntness softened.]

I know you are aware of that . . . but do you know it?

[In his heart, he means. In that place where guilt and grief and shame grow and fester and twist— and that's to say nothing of how vampirism amplifies such feelings.]

Edited 2024-12-29 21:36 (UTC)

[Leto's sweet voice shines so much brighter in entreatment. Softened for a moment through that question's focus, and the purpose that proximity lays down between hunched shoulder blades.

Haunted things can hardly outrun their own shadows. And like any haunting it will, habitually, loiter in the margins at times not so dissimilar as these, lancing like the sharpness he imbibes by way of tender fingertips.]

Even if I did, what difference would that make?

Those children won't come back. The other Gur won't stop themselves from their resentment or their blame: it was Cazador that wanted it, I'm still the one that did it.

[Bare skin upon bare skin; the warmth of Leto's touch smooths across the measure of his spine when he turns to glance behind him, trailing over countless scars. Numbness back to feeling; deadened nerves to shallow dips that shiver to be traced. There's naught but Leto in the mirror, and so the look he aims— resolute and beseeching— has to be leveled directly at its target.

For it means the world that Leto cares. Knows he'd endure, yet still thinks to coax him back to comfort just for comfort's sake just so that he won't keep gnawing himself raw like the animal that he once was when fear ruled him. It means the world— Thedas and Faerûn, both— that Leto won't just leave him to it, and that's what tips the scale the other way, heavy though it stays: amplified emotions mired in distress don't war with something muted, only the blazing flare of affection that enwreaths a lifeless heart. Saturates it, now.]

I don't care if the world hates me, my Leto.

That you don't is enough.

[It does matter, he wants to argue, and knows better than to say aloud. It does make a difference, and if the Gur cannot see that, Leto will insist upon it all the louder. He will not blame them for their anguish, but nor will he let them throw it around Astarion's neck like one more damning noose.

But that soft voice rises again, and there is no world in which Leto doesn't attune to it. His features soften in the mirror's glass as he takes a step forward, pressing their bodies together and sliding his hands down Astarion's bare arms in soothing echo: I'm not going anywhere. Never, ever. Not even when the gods themselves have worked to split them apart, oh, never, he'll never stop chasing after him, loving him every step of the way.]

I love you.

[He murmurs it against Astarion's neck, nuzzling behind one tapered ear as he does.]

And I will always love you, even if there are days you struggle to love yourself. Even if the world is blind, and cannot see who you are— and what you were forced to be.

[He kisses his head, bumping his nose gently against soft curls— and then hesitates. Something like guilt crosses his expression, and he adds:]

Astarion . . .

[No. Better to do this face to face, and he gently urges his mate around, his hands dropping as he does. There will be time for touch soon, but he doesn't get to bask in the comfort of it when he's doing this.]

There's something else.

[He hesitates, but then:]

I wanted to— [No.] Months ago, I asked you to limit your diet. I begged for you to hunt only those whose deaths would not hurt my morality, aiming for criminals and evildoers— and when you objected on the practical logistics of that, I ignored it, instead imploring you again.

[It isn't the worst sin in the world, he knows, but nor is it something he's proud of. It's why he needs to lay it all out, exorcising his guilt and his regret.]

I should not have.

It was cruel and foolish, and I asked too much of you— especially knowing that there is little you will not strive to give me. [His eyes flick up, something knowing in his gaze: you have such a soft heart when it comes to me, and he loves him so much for it.] I did not understand what I was asking . . . or perhaps I did not want to understand what it meant to be vampire. What you would need to survive . . . I acted as though it was an option, as if I take any kind of the same consideration over my meals.

It was cruel, [he says again, his eyes flicking away once more,] and you abided by it anyway. And I am sorry for that— and for demanding it of you at all.

[He forces his gaze upwards; he will not cower, not after all these years.]

Eat who you must, as often as you will, for I do not want to ever see you starved or lean. Not as we prepare to face Cazador— and not after, either.

[He dreads so much more when those hands relinquish their hold on him.

Theme of the hour, he supposes; he's never known what to do with too much freedom, and it takes a great deal more of his focus to resist the immediate temptation just to take them back. But confessions are distinct enough to recognize by their preludes: he doesn't miss the way Leto pauses before he swallows— or before he speaks— how his lips draw thin into a straightened line, drawn down like that handsome stare. Like the tips of those sweet ears. Down, down, down....

Grounding and braced for the plunge.]

I—

[Astarion blinks. Pauses.]

....I don't know what to say.

[There’s true concern in those forced out words, like tangled thread, they wind together to spell out the knotted heart of this: for my peace of mind, I starved you. And, well yes, for a little while, that had been true.

(He'd expected a cold dive; his ankles are scarcely in the water.)

It makes it simple, reaching out to close the narrow sliver of distance forced between them— pulling lifewarmed cheeks (the rigid edges of a set jaw)— right into his open palms.]

My darling, darling heart, it was a choice.

I'd even go so far as to name it a vital one, in fact.

[One hand rises to cover Astarion's own, pinning his palm in place as Leto leans into that grip. In truth, there's few things more comforting than when his vampire holds him like this; it makes him feel safe and secure, kept and caught and held in the sweetest way. It speaks of the two of them as a united front, and he likes that— especially in moments like this.

And though his heart warms to hear that, still, some nagging sense of doubt lingers.]

It was still wrong to force it upon you.

[Stubborn pup, insisting upon that, but he will not let himself off the hook so easily.]

Choice or not . . . I should not have made it such an ultimatum. Not when it comes to the things you need to survive— and not when I know full well what it is to be kept lean and starved.

[But with that said . . . he frowns faintly.]

What do you mean, a vital one?

Force is such a strong word.

[Stubborn pup is right.

Astarion presses their foreheads together, profiles dragging, scuffing. The little sting of it's a comfort— pleasant friction kissing those thin places where the bridges of their noses bear in hard and heavy, intertwining scent and sweat— marking Leto with the claims of resonant affection, swearing that devotion binds them more fervently than what any missdoing might've done to tear them apart.

It intermingles with their fingertips. Their bound and boundless touches, and all the little things unsaid.

And said.]

If I'd wanted to shake myself free of your demands, believe me, I'd have well done it right from the start—

Or made more of an attempt to argue till it wore you down.

[Mild, that. Words like lodestones, but he doesn't lay them lightly.]

Because you're not wrong: you don't know what it's like to be a vampire.

No idea what they're— what we're truly like. How little worth life of any stripe merits in the focus of cold, deadened eyes. [Cattle, was the word so often used. The word that comes to mind after years gone unheard outside of dreams.] Nothing but another means to feed. To sate that endless, endless hunger, as if there'll ever be such a thing as a moment void of invidious desire.

And I— in my fear and overwhelming distress once I realized where we were— would've been all too glad to disregard my opportunity to choose a different path. Swear rote brutality in as just one more necessity amongst the rest and never thought on it again.

[His lashes don't lift. He isn't staring at Leto; close as they are, he doesn't need to.]

....if not for you.

[A vital choice, indeed.]

[The scuffing helps. That scenting claim that he suspects is as much about possessive, protective marker as it is affectionate doting, assuring him and settling him with each pass. I'm here and so are you, and this is not the worst sin in the world, and he'd known, of course. Even as he'd thought about it over the past few nights, his fingers fit in the space between Astarion's ribs and guilt churning in the pit of his stomach, he'd known the blame was not fully on him.

But it helps to reconnect. And so he returns each one eagerly, and takes those words to heart.

Though his eyes open once more as Astarion continues. And that . . . oh, he thinks, and in lieu of catching Astarion's gaze, he scuffs against him once more, for there's no such thing as too much affection when it comes to them.

And what can he say? You would have come to your morality eventually, but maybe he would have and maybe he wouldn't, for a person can justify almost anything in their terror. You are better than that, I know you are, and that Leto believes wholeheartedly— but that trait still needs coaxing after two hundred years. There's no shame in that.]

Perhaps, then, I showed you the path— albeit not in the best way.

[Another nuzzle. Another heavy push, as Fenris (and it is Fenris sometimes, especially when he is at his most mature and Theodosian) underscores his own forthcoming point:]

But it was you who walked it.

[There's a little smile in his voice as he adds:]

I will still take some credit, for I am not so selfless as all that. But it was you who abided by it, amatus.

[Agreement, not insistence— and a good reminder, should that guilt rise within him once more. Another nuzzle, but before Astarion can pull back, he adds softly:]

Were you worried? You looked so stricken when I began speaking . . .

Am I ever not worried? [He teases, warm in tone if not through touch— leech that he is of everything he isn't by design: when they're close like this, he can forget. When they're close like this, so much heat stays pooled between them that he can pretend he isn't borrowing it, paying it back by angling his lips near Leto's own.]

Mmph.

[It's a hum and a smile all at once. His head falls back by half an inch or so when pressed by that hard nuzzle, and the taste of it— the throbbing scuff that lingers right between his brows— holds his focus hostage in the middle of a far more serious conversation for just a few scant beats too long.

Someone with more sense might realize he's halfway to pulling the poor elf into his lap.]

Edited 2025-01-03 15:37 (UTC)

That is not—

[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by that insistent pulling, and with a little huff, Leto acquiesces. Not such an easy task when they're positioned like this, mind you, but still: he arches his back and spread his thighs, letting Astarion guide him into holding him however he pleases— so long as he carries his weight.

It gives him room to slide his hands up his bare chest. His palms smooth against cold skin as his thumbs glide against the twin scars he'd gifted his vampire, stroking them again and again in gentle reminder. I gave you these, every pass whispers. I bestowed them upon you for the same reason you marked me, and his own have long since stopped hurting, but still sometimes he thinks he can feel them. Twin aches around his spine, reminding him that no matter what happens, some part of him will always have a way back to Astarion.]

Someday, [he murmurs, and nudges their foreheads together again in buckish insistence,] a century or so from now, I will ask you that question again. And when I do— when Cazador is dead and rotting and his palace become something you and I have made our own . . .

[He draws back, though whether he can catch Astarion's eye isn't fully up to him.]

When you have whispered to me all the deeds you have ever done, and confessed what blood still lingers on your hands and hurts your heart . . . I hope you will be able to tell me that such worries occupy your mind only infrequently.

I love you. And there is no revelation from your past nor event in the future that will make me leave you. Not willingly. Not by choice.

[Rare, that Astarion finds himself caught speechless in this fashion. Nothing of practiced scriptwork loitering on the tip of his tongue, nothing already prepared for a moment like this, when pretty words are more akin to a hammer against glass regardless of how delicate they feel. It tempers the wildness that always loiters on the fringe of his demeanor, crude and rough-hewn and ready to supersede at opportunity's first chance; it grounds his brittle heart as much as those fingers do when they trace over a pair of better scars, far more beautiful than the ones left behind by Cazador's domineering expectations.

If he had blood left to give or a heart still beating, he'd be quite literally colored by what he feels now. Warmed by the comfort he still has to remind himself won't flee. Won't be taken from him.]

....Have I ever told you how much a nuisance you are? [He's overcome. He can almost hear his voice crack when he tries to play it off, holding fast through his fingers only to the press of Leto's hands across his scars.] Can't even let me reel in relative peace. Always saving me from myself.

[This time, he doesn't draw back. He lets Astarion keep what privacy he can, pretending he doesn't hear the waver in his voice nor feel the trembling in his slender frame. His calloused thumbs keep up their steady stroke, his palms flat against his chest as he lets Astarion soak up his warmth and his devotion both. It's all right— oh, my love, my heart, it's all right, the sentiment echoed in every slow push of his forehead against Astarion's own.]

You knew what I was when you agreed to marry me. You have only yourself to blame.

[Soft. Playing at amusement for dignity's sake, even as his lips brush against cold skin. Take my heat, my heart, my devotion— take everything, for it has always been yours.]

Ask me, when you feel that fear. Ask me and I will answer you, again and again.

[He's lived between worlds for too long. Between timelines and lives until the notion of who he is— or what he is— begins to run like submerged ink; it pours outwards, whatever facet of himself takes over whilst flooded by old instincts (Astarion the spy was so different from Astarion the vampire, Astarion the slave, Astarion— )

Whose fingerpads settle low across the supple divots spanning still-clothed ribs, rucking thin fabric as they go. Action without an endgoal, only meaning: like the scrape of their mouths meeting without staying latched, or the way he noses through it, still carving out warm friction that smells rich from their entanglement to the sort of senses that can trace it, what he wants is that permeating closeness. The one thing that always brings him back from a thousand different lifetimes.

—that's right. They are married now, aren't they? How quickly all the beautiful details of their entanglement are lost in grander horrors when they've been intertwined for years. Not forgotten, just....

His smile is a scoff, tipped close. (I will, is what he wants to say. Yet....)]

I don't know why it happens.

[No, that's not true: he does, just like any animal jerks towards baring teeth over scraps knows that it is hungry, it's fear that underscores the instinct. Drives him like it never left, and leaves him unwilling to face it. Leaves his eyes tipped down between the working of their mouths, lashes heavy where they lower.]

I've never doubted you.

[His thumb keeps up its steady stroke against Astarion's scar; his left hand drifts down: calloused fingertips sliding against soft skin until they find Astarion's hand and blindly lock around his ring finger. He needs to find them rings, Leto thinks distantly. There's been no ceremony (for what gods do they believe in?), no oaths of devotion (for they have long since sworn deeper and more meaningful ones than mere I do's). There were no friends invited, no family to bear witness or show good faith. And it is what it is, but some part of Leto still wants something traditional. Something to show that there was a transition in this relationship beyond simple agreement.

It doesn't matter, not really. It doesn't change anything between them, for their souls are intertwined, and always will be. And yet somehow, on some subatomic level deep in his heart, it does matter. There is a difference, though if asked Leto couldn't name it. And he will mark that difference with a ring, for perhaps the weight of it will bring them both some comfort.]

Now that, [he says, and nuzzles deliberately against Astarion as he says it,] I do not fully believe.

[He isn't trying to catch him out. This isn't a trick. Don't reel from me, as he brushes their lips together again.]

Perhaps they are fleeting, or only come when I am not near you . . . or when the silence of your coffin is too much to bear alone. But it is no sign of ill-faith to have fleeting doubts or fears, even for me. Even if all of you knows better.

[He hesitates, and then:]

And you would not be alone in that. Or did you assume my apology from earlier was wholeheartedly from simple reflection?

I— [His laugh is such a narrow thing, thready in surprise.] suppose it wouldn't have been, would it?

[There was an ocean's measure of lament laced through it all, to the point it comes to mind so clearly in hindsight. It lingers still, he realizes— guilt— tender and well-hidden, wrapped around his caught finger before his returns the effort. A little ouroboros. A simple, childish sort of promise, like the kind shared on rooftops between young things.

And it means the bloody world to him.]

But I waited for you for so long. I latched myself onto the hollow imprint of your footsteps in Kirkwall even when I doubted you'd ever come back— hells, I even killed for the unpalatable consolation it lent by the time I'd thought you'd been slain or moved on, finding neither hide nor hair of the Blue Wraith despite it all.

[And those words don't come from self pity, transparent as they run when they trail the corner of Leto's chin, pathed by the backs of nimble fingers; they're together, now. That's all that matters of it.]

You can't imagine a thing like what I sink my teeth into matters enough to change a thing in that respect.

Right now, with your voice in my ears and your arms around me? No.

[Of course not. Questions of blame aside, it's so easy to push that away and dismiss it as something ultimately irrelevant, barely worth remembering. Even later, when Astarion lies in an undead slumber and Leto nestles sleeplessly at his side, he will be able to recall this conversation and take solace from it.

But . . .]

But when I brood over all the mistakes I have made since coming to this world— all the ways in which I have put you in danger, or asked things of you that are not fair, or even simply misunderstood who and what you were . . .

I am not used to that, you know. [It's said a touch abruptly, his wandering thoughts consolidating into a singular point.] We have always been alike. I have always had a point of reference when it comes to the things you have suffered and lived through, even if the torment was not the same. From the moment I first met you— both times— I understood you.

And now . . . it is a little harder.

[Not impossible. But it takes more effort than it once did, and that frightens him.]

And I fear that there are times where that divide is too much. That I am too— too young, too foolish in this world, not understanding that I was starving you, unwittingly setting the very same limits upon you that Cazador once had, and all in the name of naivety. Speaking too loudly of stakes and sunlight and coffins, or lying poorly when my friends asked why you never came out during the day.

And sooner or later . . .

[He doesn't know. Something, a nebulous dead-drop that ends the way it always does for Leto: alone and bitter. Whether that means Astarion tires of having his life endangered by his youthful companion or something goes dreadfully wrong, still, somehow it will all end badly.

He draws back just enough to glance down at Astarion, though he does not force him to catch his eye. His hand cups his cheek, his thumb sweeping gently over the curve.]

When you were stolen by the Rifts, I ran for you. I had slaughtered and threatened my way through Kirkwall and down the trade routes, confirming you hadn't been kidnapped or killed, and when I did . . . I ran to the Crossroads, mourning you all the while, and made my way through.

And make no mistake, amatus: I was terrified. Every moment spirits flocked to my lyrium which felt as though it would tear my skin asunder, and it was agonizing. I heard their whispers and cries, offering me anything in the world if I would only submit . . . and there was such a slim chance of finding you. I was tempted. More than once, I was tempted, for to find not just the right door, but the right time . . . I thought it nigh-impossible. I feared that I might wander there forever, unable to find my way back or forward, until at last death or madness overtook me.

[A slow, steady exhale, and then he continues:]

But there was no other option. Not in my mind. It was not a question of if, for I would not be separated from you, not if there was even the slightest chance I could find you again.

[Gently:]

You cannot imagine, after all that, that I would leave you. Not for any slight, large or small. Not for any blood on your hands, nor sin that wears at your soul. There is nothing that could ever make me not love you . . .

And yet here we are.

Here we are indeed. [Is a stall for time.

Something low and pretty in his throat that listens just as well as he does in the silence, holding onto present conversation whilst he cant; one foot in the rivers of three years ago, when they really were more alike in essence: refugees and slaves that aside from Astarion's niche pecularities were both worn down in the same ways, thought the same things in confrontation— even fed the same, for the most part. It makes the words 'a little harder' sting with recollection like an echo. A broken-record of a pulse that aches along his ears again and again as his mind wanders back towards it, as if it were the softening of truth, rather than the truth itself.

That thought, that poisoned little thought.

All this for the man that always speaks his mind (and what solace said bluntness has ever been right from the start; he trusted Leto with his life before he knew what trust was, moreso than other outstretched, lying hands), which sparks a rueful twisting of his lips. Not spite— amusement, albeit brief.

Red eyes lift to meet their counterpart. To note what he can feel with more than just his hands, his skin, his senses or his frigid, listless heart. This is the creature that walked through the Hells themselves to reach him. The one living soul who bared the magic he reviled as a means to bring him home, and how wretched a tread that must've been for all the fears they'd spoken of. Bargains and regrets and nightmares, all visited there for what Astarion assumes was an eternity of waiting.]

Death or madness.... [Trails his claws light across the fringe edge of white hair at Leto's brow, grown longer now. Easily tucked behind an ear.] ....Death and madness, [he corrects with one more wry puff of stolen breath,] as one would have to be to come so far for the glory of a Lower City hovel filled with fur, dust, and the inimitable inevitability of my dedicated love for you.

And only you.

[There is a pinch of thumb and forefinger; as if teasing a rapt child, he squeezes the lobe of that twitching ear that he'd tucked pale hair behind. Fortitudo.]

You are nothing like Cazador Szarr.

[His eyes close when nimble claws play with his hair, quietly pleased by the familiar habit. Astarion has always had a minor fixation with playing with his bangs; he's never pointed it out, for fear that it would stop. It's a comfort to feel it now.]

I know.

[He does. That pinch to the ear, equal parts scolding and immensely fond, underlines Astarion's stark words and drives them home. You are nothing like him, and no matter what guilt might linger— swept away in the light only to seep back in on sleepless nights— those words will be a boon against them.

But he isn't the only one in need of comfort. His palms slide firmly down Astarion's sides, soothing and grounding both, as he regards him. My love for you. And only you, and he tries to echo that with touch, calloused hands that refuse to leave bare skin for a moment.]

Neither are you.

[Not at all. Not for a moment. Not even when his mouth is hot with stolen blood and his past is littered with all the corpses of those who hadn't deserved their fate, oh, Leto believes it wholeheartedly.]

And I am not leaving you, come what may. There is no revelation from your past that would drive me from your side, and there is no world in which I do not love you with all my heart. I am devoted to you, amatus. I wore your mark in Thedas and I would do it again here, for there is no one more important to me.

[But they've done this before, haven't they? I cannot be your consort, and though they'd worked it out, the memory— the misunderstanding— still stings sometimes. His hands rise, cupping both of Astarion's cheeks, his thumbs smoothing over the curve as he catches his eye.]

Tell me now, if you feel a distance. If you fear that I will leave. I—

[How does he say this? He thinks for a moment, then:]

It is harder, I said, to understand what you need and what I should and should not ask of you. But the fault is mine. The distance to make up for is mine. And I do not wish for you to lie if you are hurt, or feel rejected, simply to make sure I don't leave.

[Heaviness sinks into those hands, bone-deep.

Deeper still than that.

It closes ever-searching eyes. Cools the rampant frenzy of a self-protective mind that fears the world and dreads what's coming, and knows— albeit unmalignly— how to see enemies in friends. 'Family'. Strangers. As if there is no difference. As if everything is a mask to bring Cazador's cruelty closer, and there is no end to its venomous outreach, and there is no peace save for when he's broken under, and there is—

A tiredness to his smile once his gaze slips open once again.

There is a handsome elf before him, holding all his grievous sins between his palms, and swearing just to love it.]

I don't feel it tonight.

[One night at a time.

That's how you survive. That's how they've always done it, whether suffering through torment or tending to their fretful hearts. One more minute, one more hour, one more day, and in that way you build a life. Three years is nothing compared to two centuries, but give it another decade, perhaps, and some of that fear will have lessened through sheer repetition alone. I'm not leaving, and it doesn't matter how often they need to have the conversation, only that they have it. I won't ever leave you, my heart. I could not bear it. I have never known a love like yours; I have never known the kind of joy you bring me. I want to worship you, devote myself to you, serve you, adore you, keep you safe from all harm. I love you more than anything in this world, every world, and there is nothing that would make me stray from your side.

Every slow nuzzle whispers it; every brush of his lips and purring rumble deep in his throat swears it. I love you, I love you, I love you, and he stares into those tired eyes, thumbing at his cheeks in echoing supplication.]

Tonight is enough.

[He murmurs it and leans in, kissing his forehead with aching tenderness. A muted sort of relief and a quiet joy twist together to form a bittersweet sort of ache in his heart, amplified as he draws back to smile down at him.]

I love you.

[Just a little briskly: a fact, not a sweet lie, and punctuation to this conversation. His thumbs sweep over the curve of his cheeks again, one last bit of tenderness, before Leto tips his head.]

Now come to bed.

[Come to coffin, in fact. They part only so they can finish their preparations for the night (Astarion donning dark silk while Leto shimmies solely into a pair of sleeping pants, for even in winter the coffin is a surprisingly insulated thing). And when they settle in and Astarion closes the lid over them, they murmur in the darkness: the conversation drifting this way and that, nonsensical and a little silly, until at last, without quite meaning to, Leto falls asleep.

And wakes to the sound of growling.

Low and vicious, an endless snarl that only rises in volume as the seconds tick past. It's Ataashi, Leto realizes dimly, still struggling to wake. Ataashi as he has never heard her, coward that she is, and for one bewildered moment Leto wonders if perhaps she's spotted herself in the mirror or gotten bitten by Montressor—

Until he hears voices.

Low murmurs and urgent whispers hissing at one another. 'Shut her up,' a woman snaps, her voice rising above the rest. 'Kill her before she wakes him—'

And suddenly the world narrows as adrenaline floods his system, sickly sweet and nauseating, panic turning into terror turning into that distant dissociation that marks entering a battle. The voices blur (but not fade), individual words nonsensical and yet each one marked for later examination. Time slows, each second passing like molasses as a thousand thoughts race through his mind— and then disappear, eclipsed by the burst of white-hot clarity that sears through this mind.

Attack—

With a bang the coffin lid flies open as Leto leaps out, his sword materializing in his hand. No time to stop, no time to think: he takes in the frozen snapshot scene (six foes with hollow eyes and glistening fangs stand before Ataashi, their presence foreign and strange and so achingly wrong amongst all their familiar trappings) even as he rushes forward. And as his heart thunders like a drum in his chest, as his blade whips through the air, he does not think so much as feel the words—

They will not take him.

It's a searing command carved into his very bones; he could no more disobey it than he could fly. Adrenaline screams as it floods his veins, but there's nothing but hissing silence as without warning he throws himself forward (don't waste your breath, focus on your attack). Like a wraith he darts among them, weaving his way between their ranks, and it isn't until steel meets flesh that his foes seem to realize what's happening. With a shout they turn on him with inhuman speed, claws outstretched and teeth bared, ready to rip him into shreds—

Only to be met with a blade that crackles with lightning and sings with lyrium. He moves so fast that it seems inhuman, his blade an endless whir that's impossible to track. Six on one isn't a fight, it's a massacre— but if that's true, no one told Leto, for he fights with a feral, fixated intensity. Seething rage and deadly focus have twinned to revive a creature who was once broken and reshaped to become the perfect killing machine (who still smells the surf somehow beneath everything else, who has slaughtered far more than just six at a time). Again and again his sword meets whatever flesh it can find, blood spraying from countless wounds to thighs and arms and torsos.

Two of them are downed almost immediately (two vanish with a flash of black light and a gesture, though only later will Leto realize what that means); the other four waver, hesitating, and that's their mistake, for Leto does not. One flick of his hand and a whirling tornado of shattered glass and knives suddenly appears right where the gnome stands. He shrieks in pain as he rushes forward, only to gut himself like a fish on Leto's waiting blade.

(Three).

Two of the women leap upon him, grabbing his arms (one wrenches his right arm back as , his bones creaking warningly, as another bites down deep into his left)— only to scream in terrible harmony as a burst of blinding light fills the room, the scent of seared flesh suddenly thick in the air. Lightning crackles through Leto, coating his sword and pulsing through him; with a bellow he follows after them, stabbing one after the other square in the chest. They cry out— they beg— they howl in pain and he does not care, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until with a feeble burst they too vanish.

(Five—)

But even as they disappear, the male elf leaps with a snarl, his hands wrenching Leto's head to one side; it's only with the greatest of efforts that Leto twists, the bite sinking deep into his shoulder instead. The spawn tears away a chunk of flesh and spits it out with a gag, reeling as he wretches— and then screaming as Leto's blade stabs back and slices deep into his side. Leto twists, turning wildly, only to be met with claws that rake deep into his throat and chest, splitting flesh open wide; he staggers back, faltering, gasping for air that won't come, and the elf follows with a triumphant cry—

Only to shriek as the illusion vanishes and Leto leaps from the side, grabbing him by the throat and yanking him forward. Their foreheads smash together with a sickening thunk; the spawn reels, dazed but not downed, and so Leto does it again, ignoring the searing burst of pain that that blossoms behind his eye. And then his blade rises, swinging so sweetly through the air in a perfect arc to connect with the spawn's neck and slice right through—

And continues swinging as the elf abruptly vanishes.

And what then? And what then? And what then, and Leto turns, his eyes wide and wild, his teeth bared in a snarl as he searches frantically for another enemy, another foe, another vampire, they will not have him—]

[One night at a time, that's how it goes. Prepare and count your lucky cards for the day you'll need to play your hand, and hope that it's enough. Shut your eyes and talk yourself to sleep, reminding yourself of simple truths: the slow beat of a living heart, and the silence between whines or padding scuffles from small paws, and the assurances that'd come from voices not their own— that it won't be tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. The day after, perhaps, but that's not for now. So take it one night at a time.

But it's such an old nightmare.

It starts with the scent of Cazador's favorite wine. Dry, and arid, and tempered by the lingering musk from the velvet drapes that hide bricked-up panes. Whispers that he can't quite make out, yet he knows those voices; fears them, though he never used to. The growling in the dark, the—

Crash—

Coffin lid cracking when it slams back against its hinges, rattling the frame up to his teeth. His eyes are open, he's already on his feet with fangs and claws flexed far enough to ache— a bristling warning. A wild show of posturing like an animal dragged out of its den: nothing of him left under his skin, only raw panic mixed up with that tightened sense of seething ire. The intrinsic roar of enmity gone lethal, dripping venom on the floor.

Fenris is faster.

Even to vampiric senses he's a blur (a Blue Wraith again, at long last)— but the blood that scents the air is ashen and fallow-bitter, laced only once or twice with something sweeter at a distance. All primal, all unchecked. (God killer. World surmounter. Fog Warrior, wolf, bladesinger, amatus.) It's beautiful. Divine. It pitches away fear and brings on the keen intent to latch his jaws on the first of his siblings within reach as they assail him— only to feel icy fingers clamp down rough across his throat from right behind.

They're pitifully desperate, those claws. They tremble as the drag and tear him backwards, surrogate for far more distant power, as if somehow success might still be had by the grip that they enact, no matter that they're the last of six remaining. No matter that Astarion holds more strength (and wrenches against the agonizing pinion of those talons with it), turning far enough to fist his own hand in a thinner stream of curls— Petras— before something in him snaps in boiling impatience, and a white-furred wolf throws itself deep into those arms with a howling flurry of fur and jagged teeth, knocking the spawn to the floor and seizing his slim throat. Clamping like a vice, squeezing like one in wait of feeling something burst—

Left instead with empty jaws. A acridly slicked tongue.

And Fenris. Fenris.

Leto.

Oh, he rushes to him in a flicker of movement and spent magic, smoke still rippling from his skin in waves, fingers reaching for arched cheeks and panicked.]

Loqui ad me. [Are you all right? Come here. Gods, show me your face. Your hands.] Let me see you— are you bitten?

[He can only hear his breathing at first. Heavy and hard, his lungs sucking in air as he dreamily drinks in the rest of the scene at a distance. A wolf, good, that's a good form, he thinks vaguely, knowing he doesn't really understand what's happening, not in detail. It's enough to register, with a nauseating sort of drop, that Astarion is safe; it's enough to know that the threat has been conquered (but what if it hasn't? How many times had that lesson been beaten into him, how many times did it take for him to learn that Danarius always wanted him on his guard, always check for another mage, always make sure you've slaughtered everyone, too many of my peers have died because they were careless, boy, and he won't lose Astarion, he won't be a fool, he won't—)

And then cool fingers grip his cheeks. The voice he loves more than anything in all the world speaks to him in such a panicked tone, and he has to pay mind to it. Loqui ad me, let me see you, and Astarion wouldn't be acting like this unless there were no more foes.

Leto exhales. His head tips forward, sagging into that gentle grip.]

Im purus, im purus— are you?

[For who cares about Leto? There's a gouged-out chunk missing from his shoulder, the wound deep and bloody; gouges from talons line his torso and hip, ranging from skittering scratches to something deeper. He'll take care of those, for this is how it always goes: he gets hurt and then he takes care of himself, and sooner or later he's all right again. But there are more important things to focus on right now.

His other hand cups Astarion's cheek, thumb brushing over the curve as he drinks him in. as his eyes finally focus. They dart around his face, his torso, seeking out wounds that might or might not be there.]

Tell me— did they touch you? Did they hurt you? Are there more that might come?

No. [To all of the above.

There's blood upon his throat, but Leto won't see that it's his; no self sacrifice required when he'll heal in but a span of minutes or hours depending on the depth of Petra's' clutching grasp, ergo there's no point letting it slip to the surface now, not when his darling half is hurt. Not when adrenaline runs thicker in green eyes than sense.

There is blood upon the fingers caressing at his cheek; he can smell the iron clearly, and it twists beneath his ribs into a knot of barbed wire rage. A twitch of all his muscle at the sight of Leto bloodied, calling him towards the streets. Towards the Upper City spires where he knows his master dwells, hungry for a death Astarion will damned well deliver after this—

But the moment that he starts to rise, he stops— sinks back those bare centimeters to his knees. Nothing more than a twitch.

He can't leave Leto like this.

(He can't leave him.)]

Arms up if you can move them. Hold fast to me. [It's not a question: Astarion lifts him into his arms without a second spared past warning, carrying him to the bed and its swath of expendable sheets— tourniquets or bandages yet untorn, albeit not for much longer now.

First: the familiar summoned from midair, whispered to before a flurry of flapped wings sees it off. Second, a cool hand at his shoulder, appraising wounds for depth. What he mutters in Tevene, he mutters to himself.]

Brave thing, you'll be the death of me— again.

[He's sicker from the adrenaline drain more than he is the blood loss: a nauseating pitch to his stomach that makes the room spin and leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It means he doesn't fight it when Astarion picks him up and carries him to the bed— though he doesn't lie down, not fully, not yet. Resting on one elbow, Leto stays half-up, dazedly determined even now to stay on his guard.

Though ah— maybe the blood loss is affecting him, for he swears he sees an enormous bird appear out of nowhere. Big and black and so utterly inexplicable that Leto stares dazedly at it for a long few seconds, so baffled he doesn't fight it when he's pushed back onto the bed. But then it's gone, and there's nothing left in the room but that murmur of Tevene, which— oh.

Oh.]

I will always be there to protect you.

[He says it simply, his eyes focused utterly on his mate.]

And I will never let them come close to taking you, nor killing me, no matter how many waves he sends.

[There's more to be thought about (they'll have to move tomorrow, he thinks vaguely, and with that thought comes the shadow of another— that such a move will have to precipitate an attack, that they'll need to strike soon, that Cazador knows where they are, but one thing at a time). But not right now. Just for now, they can afford to be breathless and soft in this dizzying aftermath.]

Astarion . . .

[He catches his wrist, pausing his ministrations just for a moment.]

Look at me.

[For tending his wounds can wait. More important is his chosen mate, who cannot be as unaffected as he's pretending.]

We are both still here, and not going anywhere. I promise you. I will heal from this, but . . .

[He squeezes his wrist.]

Are you all right?

[And what a different question that is from are you hurt.]

[If there's an answer to be given that could satisfy any of this, Astarion doesn't know it. He'd need awareness for that, or more accurately: the ability to slip outside perspective into objectivity of any stripe— self-preservation or analytical, anything but the ringing in his ears he has to strain around. A scalding fury roiling in his bones that still won't abate no matter how the storm has passed. Instead he seethes that much more without numbness in the way, and it's trapped there where it boils. Bottles lividly, ready to tear its way out of him if need be just to keep his bondmate safe—

Too late, of course.

The soaked sheets he presses to tanned skin more than readily attests as much, watering his mouth and aching beyond that. Astarion spares a hand to close around the one that's caught him, though he's strong enough that he could ignore it if he wanted to.]

We are, and you rescued me just as effortlessly as you always do. [A mild squeeze compresses round those fingers, the sincere, fretful sense of love more than just a guise for the mending pressure of his palm.

He can't think on it now. If he does, he'll shatter; he can feel it. Go to pieces like a barren figure in every tragic stageplay, undecided whether he should gnash his teeth and tear the world apart for its audacity, or curl up on the floor. Come here, his deadened heart insists, stooping down to drag their profiles together— intermingling their scents again and again and again. The grounding line that keeps him here. The sole light in the dark.] But dare lift another finger and I'll finish what they started. [Comes with a nip that can't connect— doesn't dare connect—

There's too much blood to risk it. Too much instinct.

Too much love in an unbeating heart that saw its own reflection in those anguished eyes and ruddy fangs.]

[That isn't an answer, but what had he expected? Of course Astarion isn't all right. He must be feeling a thousand things, each more overwhelming than the last, and none of it easy to parse, never mind articulate. Leto knows better than to ask that, but now, years later, he can finally appreciate why Hawke had once asked him that very same question. It doesn't mean are you okay, but rather: come here, come fall apart on me.

A better answer: the way their profiles touch. Leto leans up into that butting affection, his eyes closing as he returns every nuzzle with as much love as he can muster. Come here, come here, and he isn't quite aware of what it does for their scents (how his own becomes smothered gently by Astarion's once more, claiming and protective in equal measure), but there's something to be said for the comfort of touch.

It ends too quickly, and Leto's eyes follow Astarion as he draws back.]

You wouldn't dare.

[It's offered mildly, the retort more about breaking the silence than any real banter. He wishes he knew what to say, and knows even as he thinks it that there isn't anything to say. Tell Astarion to leave and he'll gnaw on himself in bitter, miserable rage; beg him to come down on the bed and he'll grow frantic over Leto's injuries, overwhelmed by the scent of blood and the sight of gore. Beg him to share how he feels and he'll snarl and snap, but ignoring it doesn't feel right either.

And so Leto waits. Patiently, his eyes soft, and shifts accordingly each time his mate needs him to. Cold fingers brush feather-light against the gouges on his stomach, measuring their span before he presses another sheet to his torso. At one point, Ataashi leaps up onto the bed, her massive paws so careful as she makes sure not to jostle either of them. Her bulk is a comfort, even if she shivers in belated fear as she beds down next to them. She even manages to quiet down the pup's crying: craning down off the bed and grasping them carefully in her mouth so she can bring them up one by one, nuzzling at them each time they get it in their tiny heads to try and wander towards Leto.

It's quiet for so long. Long enough that his shoulder begins to clot; long enough that Astarion can begin to wrap a bandage around it rather than just stem the gushing flow. And when he does, finally, Leto breaks the silence to murmur:]

Will you lie with me soon?

[He wants to hold him. He wants to kiss his forehead and nuzzle against the top of his head, holding him close as he shakes himself into terrified, enraged pieces; he wants to hear that those were Astarion's enslaved siblings, each an unwilling enemy. But not yet. Not until his mate is ready.]

[I would, if it meant saving you, Astarion stubbornly reiterates throughout one bridging whisper, impressed soft against a salt-rough cheek. Languages and sentiments. Shaky-legged rituals as a stand in for self-soothing while the sun's still far from risen, and the hairs along the back of his own neck won't settle, more certain by the second that there's more to come (adrenaline draining through the tips of his fingers, leaving a disorienting sense of pins-and-needles numbness in its wake; emptier than he's felt in ages), bleeding out in the streets a second time.

But gods, he won't lose the life he's built to this.

Not the wolf hushing her packmates. Not the warm hands straining to find him in the dark, all too beautiful to the broken vampire that'd beat his hands bloody over iron, begging for a scrap of mercy. Another voice beside him. Anything to defy the cruelty Cazador made law.

Anything.

He nods to that request. Hikes one leg up into the softness of the mattress and what remains of its torn bedding just to (carefully) rearrange Leto's alignment, wrapping himself (arms, legs, ankles and clawed fingers— even his profile he buries) against his wounded hero. Still dashing as ever, as it so happens.] Until the others arrive and patch your wounds properly, compared to my own shoddy handwork.

[A nosing nudge. A bit of care to avoid the damage to that shoulder whilst they wend into each other, and then:]

Are you in pain....?

[Does it hurt?

Questions he'd never asked anyone before, save.... ]

[There, now. There he is, and Leto nestles himself within that protective hold: wrapping his arms around Astarion as his chin tips up to make room for that burrowing. Come here, whispered as his vampire settles atop him protectively. Come here, come be with me, me fortes amatus, his lips brushing against his forehead as he draws Astarion in close. Their legs intertwine, their arms lock around one another— and though the danger has never been closer to their doorstep, still, here and now, Leto feels some part of him quietly exhale.

It's always been them against the world. Thedas or Toril, Riftwatch or Cazador . . . so long as they're together, there's nothing they cannot handle.

At his side, Ataashi has taken to licking both the pups, settling herself and them both with uncharacteristically affectionate grooming. So, too, does Leto settle in with Astarion: his fingers coming up to card through his hair, stroking through silver curls patiently, nuzzling and nosing at his forehead all the while. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, as much a comfort as the steady beat of his heart or the slow rise and fall of his chest.

And then there's that question.

Spoken with such devastating, tender tentativeness— so much so that his heart aches to hear it. On sudden impulse he turns his head, kissing Astarion's forehead with as much devotion as he can muster as his arms wrap even tighter around him. For a moment he thinks of lying— but ah, what good would that do either of them?]

Not as much as before.

[It's true: the bleeding has stopped. Pain thunders through him, but it's hot, dull pain, easily accepted and ignored.

He's quiet for a little bit. And then, softly:]

Tell me what you're thinking.

[His voice is pitched low enough that Astarion can ignore him if he wants. His fingers keep up their steady rhythm, carding through his hair as Leto stares up at the ceiling. This late at night, the only light comes from the dappled patterns of the lanterns on the street, flicking so faintly you might mistake them for stars.

Beloved, oh, beloved, and his heart aches for how distant Astarion's voice sounds. Not cold, but dissonant. Part of him isn't here, Leto knows, but in a palace in the Upper City, where the air smells of iron and no light nor joy ever reaches.]

[He is always there, in truth. The years pass as they wont, and he smiles more, and feels the warmth of his husband's skin as a proxy for the sunlight that even Kirkwall graced from time to time, made more alive by the day despite his own afflictions.

But at night, in the dark, in the cold or wet or most fenced-in— sometimes even in the mildest of conversations— something slips in his own footing, and he realizes why he's so off balance: that it's impossible to stay upright when his other ankle's still shackled to those endless hallways and their slack-jawed nightmares. The sense of emptiness they imposed upon his shoulders still clutching from across the distance, for like their own dear master, the estate was always hungry.

And to the tune of clotted copper, he knows he's never once left.]

I don't know.

[Comes with a feathering sound at its end. Air let out through his nose like a fragile facsimile of a laugh, bittersweet and well-resigned and swearing that he doesn't want to leave this bed (the coffin is a mess beside them; he'll force himself to take stock later, and force his mind to swallow down the notion that the damage isn't disastrously prophetic).]

A thousand things at once— [although that's nothing new] how much I should've done to prevent this. How I should be on my feet already locking the door and carting you elsewhere, [but be can't do that now that he's sent for help— it'd only prolong Leto's suffering, and they'd be more exposed out in the open searching for a new rathole than shut in here with allies close at hand. Maybe Cazador's even banking on that; Astarion did always love to run, as he so eloquently put it.] and if not that, how I should be giving chase. Seizing what might well be my only opportunity to turn the blade when he would least expect it, tearing out his throat for what he almost cost me tonight.

[There's an unintended growl cast over those last words, rippling in his throat unnoticed, fangs only briefly bared— and then, in his own voice:]

....That wasn't how I'd hoped you'd meet my siblings.

[A thousand desperate plans to prevent a fate that seemed relentlessly inevitable. A thousand what-ifs always running through his mind, his eyes constantly darting around the room like a rat in a cage, his ears always straining for the sound of footsteps, he's coming, he's coming, he's coming—

It's been so long since Danarius has died, but Leto has never forgotten that terror. That nauseating, breathless panic that festered in his chest and boiled in his veins. It wasn't until long after his corpse was rotting on the Hanged Man's floorboards did Leto finally feel that merciless weight lift.

So none of those thoughts surprise him; he hums his agreement, listening to each and every one, knowing them for what they are: comfort in the eye of the storm. An attempt at finding solid ground, even when there's none to have.]

I can think of a few families who had a worse beginning, [he murmurs into Astarion's hair, the joke as humorless as his husband's earlier laugh. He presses another kiss to his forehead, then adds:] But not many. It is a rare sibling-in-law that tries to bite a chunk out of you.

[There's another long moment of quiet, for this is a conversation filled with endless ebbs and flows. Leto watches the lights play out over their bed, half-imagining he can feel the thoughts racing through Astarion's mind as he goes over the ones already articulated.]

This was inevitable, amatus. We knew that from the start. And when trouble came to our doorstep, we sent it running.

[There's no pity in his voice, but no condemnation either. He cannot afford to pity Astarion's siblings, not now, but nor does he revile them the way he does Cazador.]

Tonight is not your only opportunity. It's true we must act, and soon— but you lost nothing tonight. In fact . . . I would argue you gained an advantage.

[It isn't that Astarion doesn't know all this. He spent so long hunting, after all, and tactics are far from an unknown to him. But it's Leto whose mind is calm right now. It's Leto whose thoughts lay out in methodical pieces on a chessboard, moves and countermoves playing out in his imagination.]

He expected you alone, and found you with an ally. Now, I suspect, he will think he has the measure of you, but he has no idea there are more than he could ever dream ready to fight at your side.

[But that's for later. Planning their attack, weighing what's known versus what might be guessed, plotting their movements and timing . . . that will come tomorrow, when dawn's light breaks and there is some relief to be found.]

Which was which, among your siblings?

Edited 2025-01-31 02:03 (UTC)

[Another attempt at a laugh that can't quite reach, reflexive and just so damned stupid considering the state of more than just their little rented hovel. The pricking tension at the back of his neck; the scents that he can't overlook— not this close. Not when even nosing at the only creature dear to him invites the thought of what could have been were he not a little bit faster (what good are all these senses if he cannot even use them when it counts—) or Leto a little bit slower.

He'd be a monster to lean into such a thing at a time like this.]

Yousen was the first I saw you fell [oh but he could smell the others. More familiar than his own reflection— in the literal sense, of course— he'd shared quarters with them, kennels and all, tended to their wounds and fears and intolerable hopes.] the gnome, white-haired.

Always Cazador's fetish, that. [Is a joke solely because it isn't a joke at all, in truth.]

Dalyria was the one that bit you first. [You were magnificent; I should have been faster.] Violet the other you dispatched shortly thereafter. Two out of three sisters— meaning one of the initial spawn you eliminated was Aurelia, the ever-ambitious tiefling.

[I should have been faster.]

Leon, capable and made dangerous for it as always, was the one that nearly killed you were it not for your deft maneuvering. [I should have been faster. I should have been faster. I should have been— ]

Leaving Petras last, as is right and proper.

[A long, drawn out beat winnows through his fangs in memory of biting down over contempt beyond contempt.]

....the only thing that was strange is that they didn't die.

[Leon, Yousen, Petras. Aurelia, Violet, Dalyria, and he tries to match names to blurry, smeared faces, knowing even as he does he'll have to try it again tomorrow. He's still too overwhelmed by the battle to recall anything but the barest details: a snapshot image of purple skin or terrified scarlet eyes caught behind glistening teeth. Shrieks of pain and panic among cried out words to Astarion, but nothing that he can truly parse right now.

But oh . . . now that Astarion mentions it, that is strange, isn't it? A frown crosses over Leto's face. He hadn't even thought about that, not beyond registering the threat was gone. But gone where? Back to Cazador, no doubt, and yet . . .]

They left, once their injuries mounted. Vanished . . . teleported, it seemed. But that was never one of your powers.

[It's mostly a statement, but there's a question of confirmation woven in there, for he's thinking again of the sudden appearance of that raven. Leto fits his fingers against the back of Astarion's neck, rubbing gently against tensed muscles and cool skin.]

Perhaps Cazador granted them that.

[And if so . . . what else has he given them? And why now? Has his desperation reached a feverpitch? That could be useful. Haste makes waste, to put it tritely, and desperation will mean Cazador might overreach.

But ah . . . he's making the very same mistake: his mind trying to leap forward into tactics, when that isn't what tonight is about. His other hand rubs soothingly against Astarion's back as he adds, his voice softer:]

Are you sorry that they did not die?

[For they are his siblings, when all is said and done. Hated and despised, beloved and pitied . . . it would have been a mercy and a tragedy and a blessing to kill them, all at once.]

[They are your family.

No, they aren't. They never were, no matter how many times it'd been embossed into their minds or wedged into cramped corners with too few beds to speak of. Rejected over the course of sprawling lifetimes in all directions save from on high because no family was ever made like this. Not his kin. Not siblings, nor friends, nor lovers. Not the life he left behind. Not the people that he must have loved— (had anyone at all cared for him before Cazador set in?)— scraped off and replaced in the blink of a fetid eye as empty as any of Godey's hollow sockets. It was forced caring, like sick surrogacy, that flourished in those rooms. Those halls. Those mattresses and parties and greasy little whorehouses. Hearing another animal yelp close enough when you're in pain, and anyone— anything— would feel a tug of polarity stringing them together, whether they wanted to or not.

(And yet—)

He resists the urge for candor. Leaves it burning a hole through his throat like bitter bile, more nauseating by the seconds as they pass.]

I don't know.

[Was meant to have been yes. Was meant to have been It'd have been easier that way. For everyone. Is— ]

....I don't know.

[His face folds into shadow in retreat, a scant difference of inches for he can't bear anything more than that, even whilst needing cold air in his lungs. Old habits. Less old than the rest. Farther than the rest, too, still leashed to Thedas by its touch.

And there at last, under the law that dictates anything frozen runs hard:]

Yes.

[It isn't a lie.

(Hatred had run so hot through his veins when he'd turned to face Varania. Any semblance of brotherly affection he'd ever held for her— born while two elven children played giddily under the Tevene sun, rekindled with scrawled words and familiar phrases echoed and relearned— was long dead. Murdered by a cowardly woman who was too stupid to see the vipers she'd allied herself with would have disposed of her the moment she ceased being useful. About to be murdered now by the being she'd once called brother, and it would be no less than she deserved. He wanted to do it. A screaming in his ears and all the years of torture and humiliation and agony all bearing down on him in that single moment where he'd wanted to rip her heart out and make the bitch suffer—)

It isn't a lie. They aren't his siblings, not by blood (what worth is a sister you don't even remember?). Their deaths would have deprived Cazador of six potential allies in this upcoming fight; it would have been a mercy to them, slaves that they all are, put down like rabid dogs finally granted rest. It would have been for the best. It would have been smart. Yes.]

Yes.

[The echoing answer lingers in the air between them, underscoring his own in low agreement. Moonlight streams in from a half-open window, turning Astarion's pale skin into something almost ethereal: pale and cold and distant. Not a monster, not at all— but something different from Leto, withdrawn into his own nature.

Only after a few seconds pass does Leto's hand slide up, cupping one chilled cheek with aching tenderness.]

. . . and no.

[It's somewhere between a question and a statement. A way to articulate that churning mass of uncertainty and rage and pity and grief without having to make Astarion actually take the first step. His thumb strokes the curve of Astarion's cheek, ignoring the sharp throb of pain in favor of keeping that gentle contact.]

It would have been better had I left Varania's corpse lying next to Danarius'. But I did not. And I do not regret it.

I cannot say I love her. I cannot say I do not loathe her. But she is still my sister, despite it all.

Edited 2025-02-05 21:55 (UTC)

[So many times he'd aspired to what Leto simply exuded without effort: his master slain, rich confidence his burning crown, one full decade come and gone beneath his belt that holds to all triumph and tragedy as something hard won, well treasured. He's netted just a sliver of that time before grim reality's come knocking for its due, and despite the calcified resolve he's clung to for weeks— months— he scarcely feels ready to face it.

He scarcely feels himself at all.

The fear is there again, clotting in his throat. Staved from overtaking by the wearied stroking of sore fingers, caught by clawed hands a moment later just to keep Leto stilled whilst he's still aching. Still wounded. Still bleeding. Like all else in this equation, Astarion's malformed dread can't supersede greater priority; his beloved's safety brooks no competition, nor will it ever.

His voice is thin. Runs like a shadow of itself, slipping soft between sharp fangs. It sounds like grief.

A mourning pall for none other but himself.]

Yet she wasn't foisted on you. [Perhaps unfair, that. Astarion lacks any metric by which to measure it, and the words would've left him anyway, even if he did grasp the tactlessness that drives him.] She really was your sister, your own flesh and blood....not just a tool for some madman to inspire guilt.

[A hitch, tongue pressed to the roof of his own mouth.]

....wasn't she?

[He makes a soft noise of disagreement as his hand is caught, but doesn't fight it after a cursory tug. Leto would have happily pushed through any amount of pain to keep his beloved soothed, for he has done it before. In Thedas: gathering Astarion close in wake of a nightmare, ignoring the way his lyrium screamed in protest in favor of running his palms down sweat-chilled skin: I'm here, I'm here, you're in Thedas and he has not come, I promise you, you're safe . . .

He wants to do that now, insomuch as he can. But fight too hard and it will only add to Astarion's distress. Instead, he curls his fingers around Astarion's own, determined to hold his hand as best he can. You aren't alone, I won't allow it, and if it keeps the panic at bay, that will be enough.]

She was.

[Gentle. Astarion could curse him out tonight and there would be no offense nor unfairness.]

Perhaps a half-sister . . . our coloring was not the same. But she was flesh and blood to me, yes. And I will not deny you that it made a difference when she wrote to me. I would not have responded the way I did had she been a mere friend or long-lost companion.

[A shallow inhale, his eyes locked on Astarion's face.]

But it was familiarity, not blood, that made her betrayal so vicious. We wrote to one another for months before I sent her money to arrive, and in that time, in my own way, I grew to love her. [His thumb strokes a steady path against Astarion's hand, soothing and familiar.] I do not think I would have cared so much had she simply shown up . . . and I suspect Danarius knew that, too.

[Manipulations upon manipulations . . . oh, their masters are so similar sometimes.]

I suspect he instructed her to write to me, and monitored the contents of her letters enough to ensure a bond built. Perhaps he did not guide her hand, but I doubt very much he left it all to chance. And yet: that knowledge does not change how I feel.

[But maybe he's not asking the right questions. Leto lets that hang in the air for a few seconds, and then, so gently, continues:]

They were foisted upon you, and he insisted that you all call one another family. Perhaps that term does not apply. Perhaps they aren't your siblings. But . . .

[It's Anders he thinks of. Anders, who blazed so bright in his fury; Anders, who could not and would not stop fighting for what he believed in, no matter who tried to shut him up. Anders, who was obnoxious and stubborn and wrong in so many ways, who had suffered cruelties and was bitter and twisted because of them, who ran from his torments and yet was determined to face them, challenge them, conquer them . . .

But then another comparison comes to mind. Orana, small and meek and mild, always flinching at loud noises and clinging to the edges of the walls, even in freedom. Orana, who could not understand that her mistress would have sacrificed her in an instant for the smallest of rewards; who wept in baffled confusion over the dissonance of being good and still being punished. Who had to fight not to address him as sir, no matter how many times he told her that she shouldn't.]

You can despise someone and still want their suffering to cease. You can pity them even as you revile them for what they remind you of within yourself.

I could not stand to see the slaves of Tevinter simpering for their masters, no matter that I understood them. I could not bear to be near Orana, Hadriana's favorite slave, even as I instructed Hawke on how to converse with her.

[Months. For months Varania had led him in with penned mendacities, tightening the lead and all but ensuring her sought after outcome. The thought festers, even in hindsight, like an illset blister— irritating and chafing when he should be focused elsewhere: not on her (for that's hardly the endpoint of discussion, nor the goal of it to begin with), only Leto's choice. Only the outcome of it, and the knowledge that he gleaned. The harsh sum of everything tallied, and the lack of regret brought on in hindsight.

But.

(Would he have made the same choices were Varania at Astarion's throat? Were she an outstretched set of claws and an extension of ember eyes hunting for the throat of his amatus? Would his heart feel lighter still?)

Pale digits turn themselves over living ones, quelling the throbbing pulse beneath; stroking time and time again until his mind runs clear— and Leto's wanders elsewhere, into deeper waters as Astarion sets in at his side. Slow pressure on the bed, one leg crossed above the other, leaning nearer. Keeping everything close.

Crimson eyes meandering over injuries all the while.]

To....[Ah, but those eyes flicker like shutters in the next false breath. A snapback to the present he can't flee, only strain to follow pace with, contorting darker brows.]

....Hawke spoke to her? Did she recognize you?

[Oh bloody hells, Astarion, the man's covered in glowing lyrium tattoos, how could she not?]

Mm, more than that: Hawke hired her the moment we ran into her.

[It's easier right now. Not easy, not when every breath is too shallow and their sanctuary lies in splintered wood and tattered rugs, but at least marginally less overwhelming. And he hopes the same is true for Astarion, but it must be: it's far easier to speak of someone else than it is linger on your own problems, even for a few seconds.

He can grant him that. Fenris curls in a little closer, though he keeps enough of a distance that his mate can still look him over. His pulse still throbs hotly in the wounds, blood run tacky and brown now that time has passed.]

But yes, she recognized me, and I her, though we never spoke. She was frightened of me, I suspect, and her father likely told her to stay away.

I tried to speak with her once she was situated in Hawke's home. It did not go well. She flinched most of the time, and would not meet my eyes. She called me ser and spoke of home longingly. She approved of Hawke, but could not convince her to give her orders, no matter how much she begged. And she wanted to recall times when we had served them both together at some function, or passed each other in the hall, and I . . .

[Mm . . . his mouth twists into a sardonic smile.]

It was too familiar. And I could not stomach it.

[He lets that linger in the air for a few long seconds, and then:]

I kept my role to advisor: telling Hawke how to introduce her to the concept of money. Of freedom— letting her know that she was free to leave, free to stay up, free to eat what and when she wanted, or argue back if she disagreed with something . . . though I doubt she would ever dare such a thing.

She took to it, more or less. It helped that Hawke's mother was a noble and far more used to how to order a servant around. But I still avoided talking to her, for I was angry and sharp-tongued each time we met.

Hardly your fault. [Stands in for absolution's overt presence when Astarion wasn't there to fully grant it, but what he knows by heart is the gut-rotting twist of glimpsing a past you once inhabited by proxy. Meeting neither your eyes nor your master's, but something close enough that catching it inspires bitter hatred for the creature you once were. Not who you'd choose to be. Not who you are.

Contempt a tightness in his throat even now, as his nimble touch unwinds to set itself back upon what few bandages are tentatively tied— brushing away the worst of ruddy streaks.] Were our places swapped I doubt I'd have wanted her within my sight at all, and doubtless would've found myself attempting to chase her off or rip her to shreds at the first opportunity— pathetic little creature. [And you know, between the downturned lip curl or the snarl within his voice, it's certainly believable. Like the cold streak that bristles underneath his skin each time Gale attempts to cite familiarity, or when the packmates of Evereska's verdant byways came trotting into his space unannounced; Astarion bleeds warmth for Leto, but for the world? Oh, he can— and will— be harsher than a cat batting at a wounded hatchling. No second thoughts, no mercy or regret, just the plunge of talons into tender skin, and the relief of being rid a nuisance.

(But this is also the same elf that couldn't turn his back on abandoned slaves in Orlais despite feeling repulsed each time they clung to his side in shadow. Who sought contacts and made deals unseen so that they would remain untouched by Tevinter, half a continent away and staunchly out of reach.

It gnawed at him for weeks, their gratitude, their wounded, clinging hands. Left him restless.

Unmade.)

A hopelessly weak heart, just as Cazador had always claimed.]

But I'll tell you one thing: if I spare my supposed kin the same fate as their beloved Master, they'll know to keep their distance.

They will. I doubt any of them would have survived for long if they did not possess enough instincts to know that.

[If he spares them, and the truth is that no matter what Astarion decides, Leto will back him regardless of personal feeling. He'll hold the knife or keep his siblings from fleeing, stoic-faced and determined, there's no question of that. But privately, in his heart of hearts, he hopes Astarion won't.

Killing Varania would not have destroyed him. He still believes that even years later. Murdering her would have been a twisted form of justice, and though it might have embittered him further, he does not think even now it would have been wrong. But . . . nor can he deny that sparing her helped him. In some intangible, unknowable way . . . it helped him move past the betrayal more easily, perhaps, by knowing that he was better than her. That, if given the choice, he could be more than just a mindless caricature of an elf dancing along a magistrate's strings.

But that's for later. He strokes his fingers against Astarion's own, soft and soothing, before gently nudging them back.]

Help me sit up . . .

[Grunted out as he struggles to rise without exacerbating his injuries. It's just for a few minutes— just long enough that he can focus himself, for this isn't a spell that comes naturally to sorcerers. Still: the benefit of having an excellent wizard as one's tutor means (as Gale told him) that so many spells can be taught, if one's pupil is dedicated enough. Simply twist your hand like this, and repeat after me, and the words were so easy to remember when they always sound like a bastardized form of Tevene.]

Pone terrorem . . .

[He glances over at the puppish pile (Ataashi's blazing eyes fixed anxiously upon him, her chin resting atop the two fat little orbs that have passed out in their terrified exhaustion) and adds:]

Sine catulis et lupo.

[There's a faint tang of iron in the air, cold and brittle, as blue sparks fly from Leto's fingers out towards the room. They nestle in the window and doorframe, in the wreckage of the coffin and out towards the bloodstained floor: embedding themselves into every surface they can reach, wriggling into the wood before disappearing with a little pop.]

There.

[There, now, and he leans on Astarion's guiding hands as he eases back down, biting back a wince as he does.]

Now we will have an alarm if anyone, save you or I or our hounds, will come near.

[It will not put Astarion fully at ease, but perhaps it will help. Leto glances up at him through dark lashes, taking in the coiled tension in his muscles and the way his eyes dart around the room, his attention split only by the way he turns to ensure Leto isn't bleeding out or suffering unduly.]

They are licking their wounds, amatus. Trust I know the terror of yet another wave being sent— but I doubt any enthralled slave is as deadly as a vampiric spawn, and he has no more left in reserve right now.

That we know of. [Astarion corrects in that stiffened way of his, the one that signals when he's more intent on being calm than actually calm at present— but it's a half step closer to reality for trying, and oh, it matters what he wants to be in this fragile snapshot of a moment. That for all the rage he feels (and the deeper beat beat beat of terror working its jaws against his nape), what he wants is to let azure sparks find a place to den within him as well, and wash away the memories he can't ignore to, quite literally in this case, save his bloody life.

Yet gods how he melts around his mate without an ounce of hesitation to be seen in segue. His fierce, fearsome mate, who brought himself right to the brink to keep him safe—

And who did so again (eliciting a mild hum as Astarion noses in against his cheek much like Ataashi herself is prone to; scolding and appreciating all at once: don't exert yourself, don't drive me to drain you— turn you— I'm not ready to take your life away; I'm not ready to be like him....) all for the sake of their security.

His security.]

It's been years, and if the Devil wasn't lying when he said that Cazador grew more desperate by the day, then there's hardly any telling what thralls or bought-out allies he might send our way. [The thought's a nauseating shiver, rattling along his spine and threatening to bite him: how many would it be now? A third of the city? Half?] He could have the duchy's assets on our heels, the Steel Watch, the Gur— knowing or played for fools, it makes no difference, we—

[Ah, but the alarm. The magic woven through the floorboards, and if it comes to it he'll flee with Leto in his arms— Ataashi will teleport the pups away and manage on their own, while he at least spirits his better half to safety. The old apothecary might do. The one they'd met in in this world— yes, yes all right. That'll work. That's fine. He can calm with that, after all a vampire (even a lone one), is more than enough to fend off—

It's a tension in the air before that magic, thoughtfully applied, is already called to screaming service in a flash of movement quick enough to leave Astarion on his heels— fangs and claws viciously bared to guard the creature laid behind him, obscuring Leto from view mere seconds before the door to their room buckles under pressure, then clicks, then gives way with a fresh burst of tavern air as half the flock of Gale's talked-about companions come spilling in, armed to the teeth and looking for a fight.

'Are you hurt? I smell blood,' presses a warbling, delicate and delicately out of breath voice belonging to the dark-haired half-elf at the fore, her eyes darting round the room towards the ruddy pools that clearly didn't come from Astarion, 'Selûne's breath—'

'Move. MOVE.' Growls the massive tiefling behind her, barreling past in a mad rush— snarling for the adversaries she can't find— and then practically grasping Astarion by his cheekbones and ears: cupping his (comparatively) tiny face in her warm hands, looking him over with teardrops welling in both eyes and then—

—oh and then she hugs him like she'll crush his bones to dust if she doesn't suffocate him first. 'He's all right! Guys, Astarion is—'

(Squawking. Seething. Barking in trapped indignation and feeling like a clay piece in a collapsing kiln between her biceps and the scalding center of her chest, and oh, the curses he howls out in livid outrage fit to end the world itself in every language that he knows— )

'—oh shit,' Karlach gasps from overtop those silver curls, gawking down at the other elven stranger she's not met. The one Astarion had been squirreling away like a mother tiger poised before her laid out cubs, and Karlach—

(It's a hiss-pop of vampiric magic. A fluttering of displaced Weave, and chittering with volatile enmity a small white bat flutters out of her arms, lashing out with claws and fangs for good measure on its way to transformed freedom— little difference that it makes to hide as thick as hers—)

—blinks in stunned surprise. Lifts one now empty hand up towards her shoulder, and waves down at Leto as if he were every bit a tender wonder. A little tiger cub. A delicate, pretty, very special thing for what she knows he means to her companion. 'Hi.']

Fuck off- 'hi!?' 'HI??!' The gall to to to to even DARE— after an entrance like that— to just act like nothing happened, fucking hells I thought you were—

[Oh his gazes slides past the tiefling. Past the half-elf. The humans, the....gith? The flying cat. Past them all to the wooden fixture that's behind them creaking in the wind like a broken, swinging arm.]

My DOOR!!!!

[He shrieks to the point of cracking his own voice by the end of it, clawed hands outstretched in utter bewilderment and shock.]

[It's such a chaotic mess.

Of people (a young swordsman has already crossed the room, speaking in a low tone to the gith (gith?) woman at his side, the two of them pointing at the bloodstains and speaking of foes and tactics). Of voices (Karlach's cry setting Ataashi off, who whines in distress as she shoves the pups out of the way and attempts to crawl atop Leto— only settling for fretfully nosing at his cheek instead once he grunts in protest, white-hot pain flaring through him). Of a swirl of information and overwhelming presence, Astarion's unhappy shrieks not dissuaded at all by Gale's assurances that he can repair it; the pups have woken up and begun leaping around on the bed, torn in a thousand directions and excitedly overwhelmed— it's too much, it's too overstimulating, it's—

Gods, it's like home.

He swears he'll sit up and see Anders just out in the hallway, debating with Varric as Isabela blatantly switches sides again and again. He stares at Wyll and Lae'zel and wonders that Aveline isn't there, serious-faced and assertive, offering up her own opinions on how best to respond. Gale's given up on placating his fretful companion, and instead has focused on Karlach, who still stares down at him with such a strange mixture of adoration and wonder, and surely Merrill belongs just at her side, peering over one broad shoulder in wide-eyed curiosity.

It's so similar he nearly reels from the dissonance. A wave of grief sweeps over him momentarily, a lonely mourning that he won't dwell upon. Instead, he focuses up on the woman. Truth be told, the look she's giving him is a little baffling, but not unpleasantly so.]

Hello.

[It's a deceptively simple reply, especially in wake of Astarion's shrieking. But he likes the look of this woman. She's pleasantly straightforward in a way that he can appreciate, and anyone that shows that much affection (however misplaced) towards his Astarion must be halfway decent. With a little groan (ignoring the nauseating wave of pain that flares through him, white spots dancing in front of his eyes), he struggles to sit up again, feeling foolish for lying down in front of everyone.]

You missed the fun. Though there may yet still be time for more.

['We should be so lucky,' the half-elf drawls. Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are more worried than she wants to let on. A pale white glow fills her palms as she makes her way over to Leto, sitting on the bed with far less care than Astarion had. 'Stay still, now.']

Which are you? Gale has spoken of you, but I have not— ah—

[Heedless of his conversation, the half-elf gets to work. She sets her palms firmly over the gash on his stomach— and then, frowning, leans in a little as the white glow grows brighter. In an instant relief floods through him, cold and crisp, and without thinking his eyes flutter closed, a ragged exhale finally bursting past his lips. The pain isn't all gone, not yet, not when his shoulder is still on fire— but oh, gods, any kind of reprieve is worth relishing. In an instant his head starts to clear, the thundering of his own heart lessening as his brain feels less like it's trying to pound its way out of his skull. He can feel his flesh begin to knit itself slowly and steadily,

He can hear her muttering to herself, though whether it's an assessment of his injuries or some kind of incantation is anyone's guess.]

Fenris is my name.

['Karlach!' the tiefling answers with a grin. 'And that's Shadowheart there fixing you up— that's Wyll with Lae'zel, and you know Gale— oh, and that's his cat!'

'Tressym,' both Gale and the cat correct, which is just insane enough to derail Leto's entire line of thought. He's used to animals talking, sort of, but it's one thing to hear the pups' excited cries when he's cast a spell. Quite another to just hear one talking like it's a godsdamned person. Like, admittedly, it's the least of his worries right now, but also: Leto stares hard at her for a long few seconds. She, for her part, ignores him utterly as she settles herself neatly on the bed.

'Cease your caterwauling,' Lae'zel says crisply, glancing up to stare at Astarion. 'You told us to hurry. What is a door in face of that?']

There were—

['Stop moving,' Shadowheart says firmly, and Leto huffs softly as he sinks down, unable to help it. Karlach's nose crinkles in amusement as she glances over to catch Astarion's eye— and oh, Leto realizes, she thinks he's young. She thinks he's a teenager at best, grown and yet not, crabby because he's being told what to do.

And he doesn't quite know what to do with that.

But Astarion matters more. Leto glances over, trying to read his face. The yowling is a good thing, no matter what Lae'zel says; it's an easy way for him to let off steam, for it's so much easier to shriek about a door and an unwanted bear hug (oh, precious little bat) than it is to linger on what came before.

'You shouldn't linger here,' Lae'zel continues, her tone gruff but not unfriendly. 'They may attack again, and it would be foolish to give them such an advantage.'

'We have room,' Shadowheart adds. She's still frowning down at his injuries, but her tone seems light enough. 'We rented a room, actually, just outside the edge of the city. You could stay with us, so long as you don't mind the company.']

Edited 2025-03-20 06:24 (UTC)

['How's that even a question?' Karlach barks back almost immediately, shocked to find her attention snapping away from Leto for even a narrow second— but it makes sense, doesn't it? Like the whirring of turned gears her pause gives her the answer after a half-turn of intense thought, and like its predecessor is put immediately and unwaveringly to speech, 'Look at 'em, Shadowheart. They're like....little baby birds or something— ']

—EXCUSE me???

[' —they need to be WITH us so we can protect them, otherwise this kind of thing's gonna just keep fucking happening.'

The look of immense distress on her face doesn't leave, halfway between silently begging the others in the room to agree with her or elsewise flat-out trying to garner whatever pity that she can. It doesn't sit right with her, the idea that they might be late again at the moment when it matters most.

Unfortunately it's also lost on Astarion, now distracted by the way that Gale— roused to action by his promise that he can, in fact, repair the crux of all immediate furniture related stress with but a wave of his magic, has already placed his hands on the door's center mass— what's left of it anyway— which means that conversely Astarion's already childishly rushed to clap both his own hands over Gale's wrists trying to pull them off, hissing that enough damage has been done already and that if they REALLY want to put things right they'll hire a gods damned carpenter who works nights.

Ergo, craning his neck towards his shoulder to intercede in that secondary (tertiary??) conversation, Astarion adds:]

If what's on offer is this amount of chaos, we very much do mind—

['It is not usually so terrible as this.' Lae'zel presses through the richess of her voice, making her point before poor, mildly exasperated (and yet pup-covered) Wyll can argue otherwise: 'It is often much, much worse.'

Ah.

Wyll nods as Montressor attempts to climb his chest, artfully stopped short. So it is. 'At least there aren't dragons involved this time.'

'Yet,' says Karlach, her tail flicking wildly back and forth in its irate disappointment that not a single soul's agreed with her yet. 'Know what kind of shit-fuckery devils get up to? The kind that makes things way, WAY worse when they're already in the dirt. So you lot better believe me when I say that if that Cazador made a deal with one, he's got a lot more than a bunch of fangs up his sleeve. They need us.']

Need is a strong word.

[He likes Karlach already, but his pride is stung by the way she looks at him— and besides, it's true. He won't deny they require allies if they have any hope of storming Cazador's palace, but Leto is stubbornly certain he can handle whatever other foes might appear tonight. Baby birds indeed, and his expression had gone as indignant as Astarion's at that comparison.

As for living with others . . . Gods, as much as he likes this crew already, there's such a difference between befriending them and living with them, however temporary. Even in Kirkwall, his mansion (however lonely) was a refuge from all the chaos and excitement that their friends brought; he was never built like Isabela or Varric, thriving by being in the center of things, and Astarion is the same way. Gods, Ataashi is the same way— even now, she hasn't stopped whining and burrowing against him, overwhelmed by so many people.

On the other hand . . . he winces as Shadowheart's hands glide up his side. Those claws had sunk deep, and though they hadn't hit any major organs (he hopes), it's still an injury that will take some time to heal. And that's to say nothing of his arm . . . he could fight through the pain, of course, but it would be better not to.]

We are more than capable of taking care of ourselves. I will not deny that we are grateful for your aid, but—

['Yeah? And what if we aren't in time next time?' Karlach snaps. 'What if they attack again tonight? Whatever devil he's made a deal with will be all the more eager to get his paws on all those souls now that Astarion's back— do you really think he won't throw all his forces behind Cazzy? You're going to get hit and hit hard, sooner rather than later!'

'It'll take time for me to finish this,' Shadowheart adds, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 'You aren't going to be up on your feet for at least another day, if not longer, never mind fighting. And I'll need to monitor for infection.'

'See? You do need us! And I wasn't asking,' the tiefling adds, glaring at her companions meaningfully. 'We have the room, and even if we didn't, we'll bunk up. We're not leaving them behind.']

We'll think about it.

[Firmer, that, and in answer to Karlach's beseeching tone. Putting one hand on Shadowheart's in silent pause, Leto sits up properly, his countenance sterner than before. Take me seriously, for he cannot stand being pitied, much less babied.]

As for tonight . . . you may as well stay, if you wish. There is a bar below, and that will serve well enough as resting place. [Yes, Montressor mumbles, unheard by anyone save her sister. Yes stay yes, her little tail wagging sedately as she snuffles at Wyll.] Some of you, anyway. But this is not a move we would make lightly, and we need time.

[To discuss it, to reel from all that's happened tonight, to steel themselves to the very real possibility of suddenly having a whole handful of roommates . . . it's a lot. It isn't the answer Karlach wants to hear, clearly, but before she can continue arguing her case, Wyll interrupts.

'Come on,' he says, ostensibly to the group but to her as well. 'Shadowheart needs room to work, I bet— and if there's a tavern below, we can settle in and plan further. No decisions need be made right this second, and nobody will be unprotected.'

It's a neat compromise, and it seems to settle some of Karlach's fretful urgency. She glances between Leto and Astarion, a little frown on her face, before nodding. 'Right,' she agrees. 'Come on, then.'

'I could have that done in a moment,' Gale says to Astarion as they begin to file out (the pups dutifully following Wyll, two little sentient orbs fixated on their newest adoration). 'Are you certain you want a carpenter?']

Edited 2025-03-21 22:32 (UTC)

Shut. Door. Get. Out.

[Astarion briskly retorts, his chin held so authoritatively high throughout the gesture that someone from another lifetime might be forgiven for thinking Astarion the Magistrate's come back from the dead. As things are, Gale bows formally in acquiescence, he and Tara take their leave, the waddling pups are snatched up arm-in-either-arm by their curly-maned patriarch who then kicks what's left of a haggard, now borderline barnyard door 'shut': it's a few vivisected planks hanging loosely off one hinge, wind still flowing steadily in through a dwarf-sized hole in what was formerly its bottom.

And then he turns, inhaling to reset himself through a trained performer's rituals. Spine straight, eyeline leveled, expression more like a resigned and resentful shrug than anything else when he finally meets Leto's stare.

A stand in for what the fuck was that, staved off only because he'd prefer not to potentially piss off the one person here capable of healing his amatus. He doesn't know her well enough to guess, after all.]

Well.

[Is a blink. A bitter monosyllable, nearly scoffed.]

That was....something.

[Ah, but it's the healer herself who reacts first: snorting out a little laugh as she keeps up her steady work.

'They are, aren't they?' she says, nothing but immense fondness in her voice. 'I thought so too at first. Neither of us liked them very much at the start . . . but they mean well.'

She risks glancing up and away from her work so she can catch Astarion's eye. There's just as much fondness there as Gale had, though it's tempered and hidden behind some sympathy. 'Sorry. I know how annoying it is when people talk about things you can't remember. That's right, isn't it? Gale told us. You don't remember any of our adventures . . . or perhaps you weren't part of them. He wasn't very clear.']

Things seldom make sense when traveling between worlds. Less so when time becomes involved.

['You were in another world, then . . . how bizarre,' Shadowheart says. She shifts, resettling herself on the bed so she can keep both of them in her sightline. It's a little calmer with just her here, Leto thinks. There's none of Karlach's fervent protectiveness or Gale's well-meaning know-it-allness . . . there's intelligence behind those dark eyes, but she's more reserved, and that's a comfort right now.

Beneath Astarion's arms, the pups wiggle wildly, squirming until they're released and can leap to the bed. In an instant Shadowheart's face softens, her eyes crinkling with amusement as both pups immediately head towards her, snuffling at her thigh with intense interest. She doesn't smell quite so interesting as Wyll, to be fair, but it's still something new, and oddly refreshing at that.

'What— easy,' she chides gently, and grins when Montressor absolutely ignores that command. 'What do you remember, anyway? If anything.']

[Astarion's softened up considerably, now that he can actually hear the measured thrum of Leto's voice (Shadowheart's interjections are muted in comparison to all former rancor, at least, and for that fact alone Astarion's pinioned ears have started to ease their way forwards once more, making the narrow edges of his gaunt face more youthful in appearance— particularly when he's no longer starved for mortal blood the way he'd once kept himself for months on end: there's still a burning, inhuman brightness to the measure of his eyes, still a faint shine to his skin. With his arms folded and his posture drawn in tight, it's nigh impossible to recognize just how much the tension coiled in him isn't from the attack or its chasing interruption, but from the heady smell of Leto's blood, and the sight of open wounds.

At her final question, though, he bitters.]

There's nothing to remember. Whoever you know— knew— hells, I don't know— however you want to interpret it, that wasn't me.

I was with— [Leto, he starts to say] Fenris, the whole time. [Ah, up until he wasn't. But it was just so short a stint apart....wasn't it? And what of proper timelines? Memories.

He's bristling again. Growing sharp despite himself.

(He loathes the thought of having no control over himself. His life. His mind. His very presence. Can't stomach the suggestion that yet again there may yet lie one more cavity inside him where something vital ought to be.)]

I remember being kidnapped by illithid monstrosities, barely bracing my way through a calamitous crash that ought to have been the second death of me— and then jolting upright in the overwhelming chaos of an entirely different world. And there wasn't any remotely conceivable way that I could've been in two places at once.

['No, you aren't,' she agrees evenly, unperturbed by that growing tension. 'Even if you were in two places at once, memories change a person. You aren't who we know, and it's foolish to act as though you are.'

She finally raises her hands off Leto's stomach. The flesh there is tender and sore, with blackened bruises taking the place of tan skin, but still: the wound is closed. His shoulder comes next, and she grimaces in sympathy as she peels away the bandages.

'They certainly dug into you,' she says to him, and doesn't miss the way Leto's eyes dart over to Astarion as the scent of blood wafts in the air.

'You know,' Shadowheart begins, pressing her hands to the wound, and presses her hands to the wound. The glow is brighter than before, so much so that Leto has to turn away— but he can feel her magic working harder. Trying to speed up the process at least a little, just so the scent of blood isn't quite so prominent. 'When my memories were taken from me, I was desperate to find out who I used to be. I told myself I wasn't, of course, and there's still so much that I don't know . . . but I met a friend once, and asked her all I could about who I used to be. It was odd. Dissonant, and yet not bad.']

You find yourself in similar company, then, if your memories were stolen.

[Gods, what a duo they make. A trio, maybe, but Leto won't insult Astarion by saying so.]

How were yours—?

['I once worshipped Shar,' Shadowheart says, as if that's any kind of explanation. 'And she valued darkness and secrecy above all else. My memories were taken from me so I couldn't betray my cloister . . . though I think, now, it was done out of cruelty. Which suited her too.

'Don't get me wrong,' she adds. 'I'm not trying to hint that you're secretly pining to find out who you— or this other Astarion— were. I'm just saying: you aren't speaking to someone who doesn't know what it's like to have people assume you're someone else, that's all. And you don't need to convince us. Gale and the others will learn soon enough. Though . . . how did you know to seek us out?']

[Between the two of them now— between the ebbing of those open wounds (and the shallow pang of guilt brought about by the memory of his sibling's claws)— whatever coarseness lingered outside the borders of his bloodlust fades off, reflecting only in his eyes. Lost beneath his hooded lashes in the next beat as pale knuckles tuck against his lips in thought, thumb beneath his chin.

Shar.

That's no light confession, as far as grim secrets go, and there's the disarming way she admits to pressing for nothing in return. Not a shared admission, but an offered one.

It makes a difference.]

Gale, as it so happens.

[He's not surprised the man didn't share the details with his companions; irritating as so much virtue might be when it's poised opposite to Astarion's own self interest (or fun), the wizard's brimming with it: he'd been kind in Thedas for the hours that they'd shared; kind in Toril, when he sought to keep them safe and train an unknown elf. Little wonder that he decided not to recant Astarion's assumed amnesia or transplacement— it wasn't his story to tell.]

He turned up in Fenris' world whilst I was there. A stranger out of the blue, telling me that he knew who I was. That he knew Cazador, and was glad to see me free.

[His scoff is featherlight, rather than disdainful.]

It's a damned miracle I didn't slit his throat.

['Really?' For a moment Shadowheart looks taken aback, but nods a moment later. It makes as much sense as anything, after all. 'I suppose if anyone else were to go, it would be him . . . he thrills at the thought of traveling among the planes as it stands. You should ask him if he recalls that,' she adds. 'Either there's two copies of you both, or not . . . but he hasn't said anything to me when it comes to visiting another world. Then again, I doubt he would, not without discussing it with you first.'

Amusement flits into her expression, and she adds wryly: 'I'm surprised you didn't cut him up, at least a little. You're losing your edge. What stopped your blade?']

The fact he would have been imprisoned in a heartbeat for the crime of murdering a human, for s—

[He cuts himself off with a sharp hiss, his whole body flinching as a bolt of pain flashes through him. With a frown Shadowheart leans forward, the glow around her hands brightening as her magic intensifies. There's a long moment of silence, and then she exhales sharply, her mouth a thin line.

'It's deeper than I thought,' she says, and splays her fingers, covering more of his shoulder. A moment, and though the pain doesn't dissipate, the edges soften, becoming something sharp and throbbing instead of searing. Leto's head ducks down, the fingers of his other hand clutching the blanket tightly as he fights to keep still. Pain is awful, of course, but pain can be managed and controlled; it's just a matter of focusing. Keeping still and keeping calm as sweat beads on his forehead.

'We nearly fought him,' she says distantly, her attention now split. And then, focusing more: 'Cazador, I mean. We planned on it, right up until he— the other you— disappeared. We spoke of it, but never got a chance to act upon it. I'll be glad to rectify that mistake. From what little I heard of him, he sounds like a monster.']

[He wishes they had acted on it. How simple a solution it'd have been, all neat and tidily filed: retuning to Toril only to find his master had been undone by a pack of famed adventurers— no second glances at his back, no need to run or hide or come back to face the demons from his past. But then he'd only be returning to find a dead pack of adventurers, he supposes (perhaps that's unfair, given all they've mastered; perhaps it isn't, and they would be lucky just to perish and have it done with, for there's a much worse fate they might've come to in dealing with Cazador Szarr, and it takes so little for fangs to sink in deep).

He moves to stand opposite to Shadowheart, cool cloth taken up between his fingers (though the redness flooding pearl-white fingertips makes its water laden sum look hotter than it is), pressed slowly to Fenris' forehead— brushed across the sides of his face. A temporary distraction for the moon elf's visibly overtaxed nerves.

In the end, what he really wants is for this to have never been his plight to begin with. For none of this to have happened, least of all the agonized flickers in a focused, drawn down expression lost within his shadow.]

The word hardly does him justice. [Astarion murmurs, distant through the hollow thrumming of each syllable. Somewhere else, for just a few, scant seconds.

His stare lifts.]

That other woman.... ['Karlach,' Shadowheart offers.] Karlach, [Astarion corrects in turn,] she was right about him. That there'll be no peace if we stay here like this.

Considering it's nearly morning, I'm not worried about tonight. [And he'd rather not move Leto yet, if they can afford the extra time for him to heal. He's no weak heart, of course, but gods, he deserves better than to limp off like a wounded dog— no time to choose for himself, less time still to reconcile with departure.] But....

[There's something masked in his expression, silently conveyed. Petitions he can't bring to the forefront of his wearied throat.]

[All it takes is that look. One silent question that Astarion need not ever articulate, for Leto will give him anything his heart desires— and sometimes that includes being freed from the burden of choice. His head turns, tipping gratefully into that cooling cloth, before he says firmly:]

But tomorrow, we will move into your rented rooms.

[There's still strain in his voice, his fingers flexing and tightening with every slow pass, but this is something to focus on. Already his mind darts forward, sorting through what needs to be done. They don't have half as many things as they did in Thedas, and at worst, they can pack the bare minimum and come back for more later— but oh, there's so many hands to help now . . . yes, they can do it before next nightfall, Leto is certain. He nods, his eyes hard as he affirms that to himself— only to soften in the next instant as he looks up at his vampiric mate.

I know. I know, my love. Astarion, who gives so much of himself even now: dipping his hand in water and ignoring the pain that must be shooting up his arm in favor of trying to soothe his Leto, and all the while his mind must be miles away, lingering in a palace in the Upper City . . . it's beyond difficult. Impossible in a way that's almost too hard to comprehend, for dulled panic has a way of clouding the mind and smothering the senses.

So let Leto return the favor, and free Astarion from having to think at all. Let them go to a place where he can, if not relax, at least rest assured that he is not the sole person between himself and his mortal mate's demise.]

We'll need privacy, still. And a place where no sunlight can possibly reach . . . if not, we'll build it ourselves. Curtains to begin with, and something more sturdy after tomorrow.

[What else? The pups will go anywhere they're loved, so no worries there. Ataashi will be incredibly unhappy, but at least he now has the ability to tell her why they're moving, and negotiate with her from there. Possibly she can roam outside the city's boarders for stints, though he suspects she'll only ever do that if she's going absolutely stir-crazy.

'Privacy may be difficult to come by,' Shadowheart remarks. 'But sunlight we can do— or not, as the case may be. There's a corner in the tavern inn that has no windows—']

Good. We'll settle there.

[From there, he falls silent. It's another half-hour before Shadowheart finishes her work, and by that time, she looks as exhausted as Leto feels. Dropping the bloody bandages onto the bedside table, she stands with a yawn. 'Rest for another few hours,' she orders him. 'I'll check on it again in the morning, but it should be fine.'

He's left with blackened bruises a soreness that pervades, but nothing gaping. Nothing bloody, and thank the gods for that. He listens to Shadowheart's slow footsteps as she heads downstairs, and wait until she's called out to the landlord (who has since risen, delighted at the thought of even temporary paying guests) before he reaches for Astarion's hand.]

It will be worth it, [he murmurs, and strokes his thumb against his palm.] No matter how irritating.

. . . call it motivation for killing Cazador, perhaps.

[Moving . . . happened. The less said about the sheer amount of chaos it was, the better. Five extra sets of arms were useful, especially once Wyll managed to pay a few local boys to help carry things. But there were pups to hide and a wolf to cajole; a near-catastrophe with the sheer amount obscene items they own (that Leto would rather die than let anyone else see); keeping Astarion covered and out of the direct sunlight while they moved from one inn to the other, and having to fend off his worry whenever Leto came in with a suitcase, favoring his left arm. It's full of cross-conversations and serious debates on how best to move something bulky (Lae'zel prefers the clever tactics, while Karlach is in favor of just shoving anything though a doorway until it fits); it's full of sweat and frustrations and camaraderie.

By nightfall their old home stood empty, all their things carefully arranged around the bed they're to share.

At least there's a vague sense of privacy. Leto had made sure of that. Not just sheets tacked up on a ceiling, but a proper four-poster curtain surrounding their mattress. Fasteners are tacked into the openings (to be sewn in properly tomorrow), cinching them shut all around. It's no coffin in terms of security (nor familiar, longed for comfort) but it's the best they can do on short notice. And really, considering they're shoved in a corner where the sun never reaches, it will work for one night as precautionary measure.

Around them, the others are in bed, if not fully asleep, and the room is blissfully quiet. Not the peaceful silence he and Astarion have grown used to over the past few years, perhaps, but still lacking in the endless chattering demands for attention. At their feet, Ataashi snores faintly, her weight a pleasant bulk atop Leto's legs and feet. It's a little warm, but pulling Astarion into his arms solves that.

And now they lie together, Astarion tucked beneath Leto's left arm, his fingers carding through his hair and his mouth pressed against his scalp.]

The sooner we do, the sooner we get our privacy back.

Oh thank goodness.[Curls the borders of Astarion's lips as vividly as it does his voice, wading into featherlight shoals: performative and stitched together from old habits, there's such softness to the edges of it all— the only signal he can offer just to show he's rearing up to tease when they're not facing one another. Ear to a steady heartbeat, the crown of his head impossibly warm, eyes shut to everything. Everyone.

A second layer of privacy, thinner than those curtains.] Here I was wishing there was something actually compelling to press me into tearing off the metaphorical bandage that is murdering my old, terrifyingly vicious madman of a master.

[At their feet, Ataashi groans in her sleep; little restless puppy paws pad wobbly over stone, distant, and nearly lost to the crackling of the fire for how they've no intent to sleep when so many new smells and hands await inspection; someone treads about, and although Astarion reasonably knows it must be one of their companions on watch (for someone is always on watch, the flock insisted whilst outlining their arrangement), his right ear turns itself into a sharper angle just to track the sound. Steady. Matched by a pulse, and masking nothing else. No noise from the pups or the other mutt in camp.]

Freedom? Mm. Your safety? Overblown so far as motives go. But a little peace and quiet?

Peerless.

[He huffs out a laugh against silver curls, his smile unseen in the dark. In truth (though he will not say this now, for there's a time and place), being packed among the others reminds him of nothing so much as his childhood. Not idyllic by any means, and of course, snuggling on a downy mattress within a four-poster bed is a lot cozier than lying on the stone floor, but still . . . there's something intimately comforting about being around others, even as he mourns their lost privacy.]

You jest now, but just think of the next time you want to have sex. You'll tear through him in a heartbeat just so you can spread my legs by dawn.

[Another comforting little nudge of his nose against the top of Astarion's head. Don't fuss. Don't fret, and of course Astarion will. Cazador has gone from a distant terror to something viciously, vividly real within the span of twenty-four hours, and there's no escaping that. Soon— in a day, maybe, or a little longer— they'll go to confront him. They'll go to kill him, and it will be worth it, but oh, what a daunting task it will be.

But little comforts help, for all that they won't soothe. Little reminders: I'm alive and so are you; I'm free and so are you. Nothing will come for you, not tonight.

In the distance, he can hear Wyll teasing the pups, spoiling them with belly rubs and cooing praise for nothing more than existing. Diligent man that he is, he resumes his patrol a few moments later, accompanied by the soft padding of paws. He listens to it for a time, his hand drifting up and down Astarion's back. Then, his voice quieter:]

. . . tell me what you're thinking.

[During the eve of battle, when all they've worked for and done for the past three years hangs in the balance . . .]

Or I will distract you, and we shall speak no more of it.

[That it will take longer than a week for Leto to recover fully, regardless of the magic spent to expedite that process: nothing comes from nothing, after all, and Shadowheart wore exhaustion on her sleeve each time her hands withdrew from knitted wounds. Balanced scales means one or the other will need rest— and Astarion's own guess is both, eventually.]

Mm. [Rumbles in his throat with tigerine inflection, almost managing to distract his pricked-up ear.] Little else rouses my will to act like the thought of burying myself between your legs—

[Effortless even now, the turn of his head that draws cool lips closer to a tattooed throat. His smile subtle, the edges of his mouth upturned and barely parted in anticipation, more than ready to submerge (ignoring the bandaged trackmarks of his siblings, wrapped gauze stringent with ointments that obscure the way Leto should smell otherwise— yet that too is a comfort; it stands to reason he'll be safe if he doesn't wear Astarion's scent), and it means that allowing himself indulgence would only really be tantamount to self-preservation, really. An exercise in obscured invisibility. In devotion. In—

'Tskvaa—'

'Lae'zel, hush,' Karlach whispers coarsely through cupped fingers at a distance. Something akin to a bed frame's buckling creak following thereafter, loud against the silence.

'Why is it that I must hush when it is Astarion and his mate who have awoken me with their discussion of legs and how they wish to breed where we can hear it?'

Astarion's throat clears. Sharply.

(On the opposite side of that rented floor, Fortunato's claws skitter over wood in anticipation of being scolded whether or not she's the one in trouble. She knows that noise by heart.)]

I realize the notion of privacy in our current situation is performative at best, but do try and refrain from eavesdropping....

[It's all too sudden when his voice twists over itself like a serpent rattling its coils, growing deeper.]

....elsewise your peace and fucking quiet isn't the only thing I'll be violently dismembering tonight.

[And there in the lull, without a word, the Weave twists via Gale Dekarios' deft hand— a bubble of suffusive silence expanding till it blankets the curtains round their bed, acting as a bulwark for privacy's fully overdue sake.

It's the first unchecked sliver of gratitude afforded to that wizard since the second they first met.]

Thank the gods. [Is a melt-inducing sigh that slacks his spine and shoulders; sinks the weight of his own neck into the crook of Leto's arm once more.]

Any more of that nonsense and I'd be weighing how much murdering-our-allies I could get away with before the odds started shifting irreversibly into Cazador's wretched hands.

Edited 2025-03-26 11:05 (UTC)

[He has to test it first. He trusts in Gale's magic, no doubts there, but it's one thing to feel the silence around them, and hear the resulting (relieving) quiet. It's another to trust in it entirely. But . . . no, there's no response to Astarion's barbed grumbling. No response, either, when Leto calls out to them each in turn. They're self-contained, it seems, at least for a little while.

Which means he can groan so wretchedly without fear of being overheard. Petulant and sulky and embarrassed, and he rubs a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the belated flush that's set in.]

We were quiet.

[How sharp can githyanki ears possibly be? But it's fine. It's fine, it really is, and it's not as if half the city hasn't heard them rut at this point, never mind just talking about it, but even so . . . gods, and Leto sighs as he settles back and gathers Astarion to him, trying to put the issue of his mind. If his ears and cheeks are flushed for a few minutes longer, well. Only Astarion need know about it.]

The feeling might well be mutual . . .

[But it's more a wry grumble than any real fuss. He can remember his own aggravation during those long nights in Sundermount, when Marian and Merrill would dissolve into hushed giggles and unsubtle moans . . . and how he would, despite his increasing exasperation, still feel more or less the same about them come morning. Odd, now, to be on the other side of it— but then again, there's that same odd feeling. Not quite of comfortable camaraderie, but . . . something close to it, maybe.

His head tips down, nuzzling faintly at silver curls as they resettle.]

The odds are in our favor, Astarion.

[Quiet. Gentle. He will shift gears if need be, for he is happy to distract with filthy talk and spread legs . . . but it's in his nature to want to address the tension that fills the air.]

I will not try and sell you that it is not dangerous, nor that we have such a large chance that you need not worry. But . . . I would not say that if I did not believe it.

He will fall.

[And soon you'll be free, but such a thought is too painful to articulate just yet.]

I don't have my doubts.

[Nor regrets for that matter— although proximity to acrid gauze holds still his resolution. His lungs. Time will bleed the sting out of what happened (the fear he feels churning in his throat like nauseous bile), but for now....

The bed is luxuriously soft when he shifts into it, letting his weight slacken at last in the silence. Even if it is a farce, without anything left to tug upon ever-vigilant vampiric senses, it seems he can trick his own subconscious into believing nothing more will come for them tonight.

(Gods, it is strange to rest in such grand surroundings as these. They'd scrounged enough for finery here and there, but accommodations always bore the brunt of their constant budgeting. The others, on the other hand, are renowned heroes of the city if the innkeep's to be believed, and Wyll Ravenguard took care of all the rest, as his namesake would imply.)

With his chin pressed to the edge of Leto's chest, red eyes scan those tacked-on curtains.]

....I only wonder what the cost might be.

[Nothing comes free. Not in this world or any other, and most of all not when it involves a bond that he can still feel each time he flexes his own shoulders or lies flat across his back: the places where severed nerves transmit nothing between bright pops of sensation, incapable of healing.

He catches one downturned ear between his fingers. Feels the warm shiver of a living pulse fluttering just beneath the surface, possessed of a gravity all its own, and so painfully fragile.]

[No, nothing comes for free, Leto thinks, and stares back down into crimson eyes, knowing what Astarion fears. What he can't quite bear to articulate, lest he somehow bring it to fruition through sheer belief alone.]

Pain.

[His hand comes up, resting over Astarion's as he tips his head into that affectionate touch. Don't stop, and not just because he loves it when Astarion plays with his ears. Don't fret, don't panic, his skin searingly hot against chilled fingers, promising him with every gentle touch that this is all right. That they can speak of this.]

Exhaustion. I have no doubt I will sustain some injuries . . . perhaps I will lose something. An eye. A hand. An ear, [as his own flicks fondly into that pinching touch.] And so will you. It will hurt, and it will be a long battle.

And we will not come out unscathed.

[Oh, yes. He's thinking of Corypheus, you see, and remembering just how many hours it took to bring the bastard down. Chipping away at his defenses until he was vulnerable, only to be forcibly reset over and over . . . but they managed it. Blood in his eyes and a sour taste in his mouth, but he can still remember the god's gurgling last gasp.]

He is old, and he is powerful. But he is not infallible. And he is far, far from invulnerable.

You will not lose me. [For there is no world in which one of them survives and the other doesn't. They'll either live together or die together, but there will be no grieving widower at the end of this tale.] I aim for no self-sacrifice. I will not compromise our future. We will kill him, with our magic and our blades, and you will be free of him once and for all.

[But what if I'm not. But what if it fails. But what if you die, and the truth is, neither of them can say anything with any certainty. But . . . he reaches down, cupping Astarion's face with both hands and drawing him up. His thumbs stroke over two arched cheeks, affectionate and soothing.]

Will it distract you too much if I am there?

[He should've asked whether they ended in triumph or anguish, those countless lifetimes.

His halfhearted smile instead twitches when it pulls higher, snagging against the tip of an elongated fang— shifting in the center of warmed palms into something that much brighter with a vivid flash of white— lean body rising from the bedsheets just to perch above his better half without jostling that hold: braced by one hand, the muscles of his arms and chest run thick with iron tension so that he can meet that gold-green stare head on....and trail his opposing touch from ear, to scalp, to temple (to cheek, where it anchors like a grounding wire), adoring in every last sense of the word.]

Only if I'm not there with you.

Then we'll go together.

[Firm, if not warm: a decision made, a line crossed. No matter when this happens (and it will be soon, for all that Leto and Shadowheart both need time to recover), they'll do it hand in hand.

Which leaves only tonight, and the tension wracking through his lover's lithe frame.]

Do you know why I am so certain we will kill him, amatus?

[He tips his head into Astarion's palm, nuzzling faintly against him, as he keeps their eyes locked together.]

Not just because I trust in you and your abilities. Not just because I have seen the way your friends fight, and how loyal they are to you on the merest suggestion of danger. Not just because I know you, and I know that when you face him, you will conquer . . .

But because I have seen it, too.

[He'd agonized over whether to say it before the battle. Whether the knowledge of Cazador being another factor in both their lives would only demoralize Astarion, convincing him of the worst instead of the best. But here, now, it feels right.]

I have watched you as you ripped his shriveled heart from his chest and crushed it in your palm. I have seen you make a mockery of him, ruining his reputation and leaving him with nothing more than spite and feeble desperation. I have watched you kill him over and over, and I will watch it again, here, now, in this lifetime. For if all that you have told me is true, and those are our past lives . . . I will not say it is fate that you win, for I do not believe in such things.

But I do believe in you.

[Oh, more than anything, he believes in Astarion. In his will, his strength, his determination . . . there is no doubt in Leto's heart, not a shade of it.]

Let me show you.

[There's no thought involved with this spell, not anymore. Leto's palms glow as he allows his mind to open, letting Astarion in, and showing him . . .

Kill him, amatus. He bores me, and he sees it through his own eyes: Astarion's fingers wrapped around his master's heart as unimaginable triumph roars through his body, reflected in his mate's expression. Cazador gasps, gurgling, choking on his own blood and bile; in the distance the sound of battle echoes up stone halls and marble floors. His corpse falls to the floor, unheeded and unnoticed, as they embrace, kiss, touch one another over and over, neither quite daring to say it just yet: it's over, it's done, we won, surreal in the sweetest way after so many decades of enslavement, and it takes so long for them to truly believe it— even later, when they stand hand-in-hand and watch the palace burn, it's hard to believe . . . but it's real. Isabela stands on one side, Anders on the other, and it's real, it's real, it's real . . .

Or another memory . . . Cazador younger, his hands wrapped around Astarion's wrists, begging him not to crush his skull. Pathetic and sniveling, promising fealty and loyalty and anything, anything at all, if only Astarion the Decadent would let him live. Everything has a red haze, pain and searing heat pulsing through every one of Fenris' muscles, but even near death, he can still summon up awe and shock over the sight of Astarion snarling over him.

This is an insult, he seethes. To think you could lay a finger on my consort—

My apologies, I— Cazador begins, and falls silent as Astarion's fingers tighten around his throat.

You will be, the vampire lord promises, and without another word throws Szarr to the floor, ignoring his pathetic groveling as he thanks him for his life. I'm not done with you just yet . . .

But oh, before they sink into that one, another rises, and this time, the flavor of it changes. The lights are artificially bright and dyed scarlet, so that the vast room is tinted in an alluring red. Nearby, half-dressed prostitutes apply makeup as they gossip to one another just backstage, while busy employees scurry about, arranging tables and dusting windows, prepping things for when the Moulin Rouge opens her doors tonight. The main stage looks perversely empty, devoid of the entertainers that will fill it tonight; no one pays it much mind, which makes it the perfect place for he and Astarion to huddle.

And the prize diamond himself, the peerless courtesan of Paris, the most desirable man in Europe . . . lies on his stomach, dangling halfway off the edge of the stage. His hair is mussed, his face devoid of makeup, for he's taking the night off to spend with his lover. They can do that now, Fenris thinks with some pride, and bites back a smile as he feels fingers brush idly against his hair.

My darling, how many times are you going to reread about him? Astarion drawls, but his boredom is a feigned thing, for his eyes are as eager as Fenris' are. He shifts a moment later, arranging himself so he can rest his chin over Fenris' shoulder, nosy little thing that he is.

As many times as it takes to satisfy, Fenris replies, tipping his head to make room. His eyes scan over black ink, for this is an old story now, and while it will be revived again and again as more details come out, most papers have finished their initial report. But— there, oh, there: an article tucked away on page four about the tragic downfall of the Szarr family. Suddenly impoverished and massively in debt, with no noble family willing to touch them for fear of the scandal spreading by association. Cheating and whoring and brutally exploiting others for fun and profit is one thing, but murder? Murder where one is caught? Oh, that's another entirely. Szarr will stand trial for the murder of two noble elves and the attempted kidnapping of their son, and there's no new details there, though the paper tries valiantly to milk some via speculation.

He must have read the story a dozen times by now, but the satisfied thrill never fades. Absently, he reaches back, carding his fingers through silver curls, smiling when Astarion turns his head and steals a swift kiss. Setting the paper aside, he shifts, hopping up on the stage so he can offer a hand to his sprawling lover. Come on, he says, and smiles as he says the words, unable to quite believe they're true. We have a date to make, and the restaurant I found you will not hold our reservations, not even for the Sparkling Diamond.]

There are others. Other memories . . . ones where he does not touch our lives.

[Soft.]

I would show you them, too, but . . . these first.

[These so Astarion knows: it may be a constant that Cazador Szarr is in their lives, yes . . . but it is a constant, too, that he dies at their hands, over and over.]

Edited 2025-03-29 23:47 (UTC)

[Other lives. Other worlds. They're a wave sweeping over his awareness for the second time, dashing everything upon its fractal shores. Together was the constant that Astarion initially held onto (a sliver of charged magnetism worked beneath his skin in verdant light— what he'd mistaken for awe casts such a different shadow knowing what he does now), but to catch a glimpse of— what? A menagerie of lifetimes? A cacaphony? A chorus of memories still rings within his ears and he can't shut out the heat it brings to the borders of his eyes or the adjacent depths of his own sinuses, their burn convincing him for a moment he's still alive enough to need to inhale just to shake it, that painful, distant longing for what (is, and) isn't within reach.

It means it holds true, Cazador's promise Astarion would never be without him. It means that to him, death was no more than an open door rather than a dead end— the foothold by which he sank his claws into their shoulders again and again and again.... (Does he know, then? Did he once dream as Fenris does now? Does he remember every slight? Every rejection?) There's a sudden ache battering his shoulders, boring through his scars; questioning if that razor sank in deep for retribution worn in place of bitter muscle memory. Dark streets. Darker prospects.

Yet there's still an echo of spent triumph lingering in his veins from that same source.

The picture perfect glimpse of what it might be (—no ) —was like to laugh after the storm. To outlive it, outstrip it, outmeasure it, rather than simply run until his legs give out or luck itself does, whichever one comes first.

For the thousandth time, what began in Thedas finds its voice again: he wants it. Like a fever that won't break, like an addiction he can't muzzle, he's brushed against an ending to this story worth more than its own prose, and by the second it's begun to calcify— or fester, either might be true hinged solely on perspective— each half-breath spent searching those tsavorite eyes for any sign of misdirection is one more drop of lost determination brought back from the grave.

Again: there's hardness setting in beneath the angle of his brows.

Again: it's nearly dawn, but he's tempted to leave now— allies and entourage be damned, he could tear his former master's throat from its soft housing. Oh, he couldn't, of course— but fury promises he could.]

This'll be the last.

[His fingers alight on Leto's cheek, bridging the gaps between past and present. Like the thought before that assertion, truth and possibility weigh less than his desire.

Less than the press of his forehead against Leto's own.]

I'll send his soul screaming back to whatever demon he made pact with, and I'll make you immortal, and he will never come to haunt our lives again.

[One final pause, touch sinking low enough to trace along thin gauze.]

Death can't harm what it can't touch.

[Turn me now.

The impulse flashes through his mind like lightning as delicate fingers trace over his bandages, reminding them both of what might be at stake. And it would make things easier, wouldn't it? Having two vampires ready to strike, and one of them not under any kind of blood compulsion . . . it would give them such an advantage. Astarion needn't worry about just how fragile his mortal lover is, either; he won't spend the battle fretting over every claw and fang and cry, his attention desperately split between fighting and protecting.

But . . .

Leto isn't ready.

For the very first time, the reality of what he'd be giving up sinks in. Not just the abstract, a heartbeat or the notion of life (and he has never known what it is to not have those things), but something more real. He thinks of his friends— of lying on a rock in Evereska, content as a cat as he'd basked in the sun and listened to his friends goad one another to leap down a waterfall. There'd be no more of that. There'd be no more excursions or random adventures, not when he'd have to become a reclusive thing, shying from sunlight and steeling himself to the sound of their hearts.

He thinks of the joy of walking through a crowded marketplace, unseen for how ordinary he is and yet still a thriving part of something bigger than himself, something living. He'd never had that before here, and even a year later, it's still something novel and wondrous to him. He thinks of the pups, and how they'll shy and whine and shiver until they learn to tolerate the scent of death; he thinks of how he'll never be able to befriend anyone easily again, not without keeping them at an arm's length for fear of how they might react to what he truly is.

He doesn't want to give that up yet. Not when this world gives him a life, dignity and strength and joy as he has never known it, oh, he isn't ready to give it up just yet.

No wonder Astarion had spoken so cautiously of changing him. No wonder he had painted it as something to be given at the end of centuries, when Leto's mortal lifeline finally faded. For it will be worth it to spend an eternity with his beloved, oh, yes— but at the end of his mortal life, not the very beginning. Not when he isn't even yet fully grown.

The thought lasts for only a flicker of a second before he pushes it away, focusing back on Astarion. Not yet, he affirms to himself, and cups Astarion's cheek, stroking him as he lingers close.]

This will be the last.

[It must be. It will be. They will reincarnate again and again (and oh, how that terrifies him as much as it thrills him), finding one another in every world, but not Cazador. Not anymore. He nuzzles fiercely against him, noses bumping and scuffing in familiar ritual equal parts adoration and assurance, and murmurs against his lips:]

You will slaughter him, and there will never be another moment where you need think of him again. He will become a footnote in your life, as Danarius is in mine, and you will know freedom as you never have before. And as the years pass, I will watch you grow as you have not been able to until now. In a decade— in a year— you will not recognize yourself, for the weight of two centuries will finally be off your shoulders. And you will know in your heart, as I know now, that you are so much more than a mere extension of him.

[Oh, he can't wait. He truly can't. It's nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the present: you are so much more than he ever let you be, and years later, Leto can still remember looking at himself in awe, watching himself do and say and be things without flinching, never once fearing what the repercussions might be.]

I would show you more . . . the memories that he does not taint. The dreams I have had that show us happy afterwards, or the ones where I suspect he has not entered our lives at all— for there are more than a few where that occurs, and we find bliss all the more easily. But . . .

[But first . . . he cocks his head, and asks, his tone gentle:]

Is there a part of you that wishes to turn me now?

[It's a question, not a trick— for if the thought had flashed through Leto's mind, perhaps it had flashed through Astarion's own.]

[His laugh is soft. Throaty. Proof it's caught him by surprise, that question. With his thoughts pinned so far on the future (nevermind their storied past), a jolt back towards the present feels akin to stumbling headlong to a halt from a sprint: dizzy with the absence of momentum, and slower when it comes to catching his own bearings.

But no less amused for it at that, quirking one dark brow beneath thicker cascades of snow white curls.]

Mm, I'd thought about it. [Astarion confesses easily in that far too sincere tenor of his, most often worn in Leto's company— and Leto's company alone. There's a subsequently chasing pause where his knuckles knock soft against the underside of his husband's jaw, tipping it in lieu of a much more weighted scuff.]

If only to keep you safe.

....but [and there it is, a momentary melodic dip that acts as segue and punctuation both, reminiscent of the noble thing he might've been before Cazador first laid claws on him] it was self-serving, that notion. Flawed, to say the least: Cazador's no stranger to murdering his own kin. His competition even more so. And the thought that you'd be strong enough to withstand whatever initial efforts he might've spent attempting to lash out at you in retribution was about as far as that guarantee could ever run.

All it'd take is a bit of sunlight or a clever, paid off hunter actually worth a damn, and I'd still lose you.

[His sigh runs thin. His expression wearies, eyelids sinking till they shut.

And open.]

At least like this there's a second chance if it all goes wrong.

[If I can't save you the first time, then believe me, darling, I will the second.]

[He can see the man that Astarion used to be in moments like this. Not the prostitute with the silver tongue who had to learn how to forget dignity and sell himself each night to survive; not the feral, half-starved spawn who learned how to swallow fetid blood and say thank you to the man who tortured him— but something more dignified. Something fairer and nobler . . . something more dignified, and able to afford such notions like fairness.

For just a moment, Leto feels like an adolescent caught in the crowd, spotting some fair prince on procession. It's the oddest feeling, there and gone, leaving him only with an odd sense of adoring melancholy as he listens to Astarion speak.]

On such chances are victories made. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant . . . fate does not dictate our chance. Only preparation.

[He turns his head, knocking gently against Astarion's fingers as his eyes stay locked on him all the while.]

I felt what it was to be a spawn in those memories. I remember how cold I was . . . how warm you made me feel. How I saw you not just with my eyes, but with scent, too . . . how much we thrilled in claiming one another that way, however temporary. I did not— [Mm, well. Anyway, and whatever mild embarrassment he feels is evident only in the sudden flick of his ears, there and gone. In any case:] I remember leaping up on the rooftops, giddy at my strength and power, and you chasing after me— eternally the experienced hound corralling his energetic pup, it seems.

It was pleasing, that memory.

[He catches one hand, drawing it up so he can kiss his palm gently.]

If my transformation happens centuries now, I will not be displeased. I like this mortal life, and I mean to savor it for as long as I can. But if my change comes after this battle— if I am killed, and you need to revive me— I would not mind that either.

So long as it is by your hand— so long as you remain at my side— there is little I ever mind.

are you awake

astarion

ASTARION are you awake

[The all-capital letters don't actually make the words leap off the page any louder, but still. It makes him feel better. It's also 1:30 in the morning, and Fenris should have long been asleep, but here we are.]

[Given the hour, someone (Astarion) is courting the local riffraff in a sly reenactment of the age-old adage old habits die hard— only this time, said habits serve a better master. Himself.

Four glasses of wine in with a local young merchant who can't stop himself from staring at sharp fangs, and already a handful of glancing touches spell out gold in Astarion's future, provided he commits to dazing the little darling long enough to dip into what's in those pockets.

....or....]

I'm right here, needy thing. No need to yell.

[Penned barely a minute after Fenris' messages were sent; fond exasperation present.]

Well, what is it?

Lose your claws? Had a bad dream?

[Needy thing, and it sends a not-unpleasant shiver running through him.]

how can a foot be a fetish

[Oh.

Well that's not at all what he expected. Give him a proper moment to relocate, then. Settle in near a quieter little corner of the tavern's back of house, where no one will think to bother him.]

That's the one that caught you up? Really?

[Adorable.]

Well now i know it's not your fetish. [Rejoice, Fenris. You're officially beyond suspicion.]

But the answer is: it depends.

Some like the sight of something beautiful and delicate kept hidden away (hidden in my world, naturally) whilst others love the obscene dexterity required to do something as wicked as working a cock over with nothing but their toes. Then there's the sensory factor: if it's a matter of licking or kissing, it's one of the most sensitive places for most creatures, next to ears for elves or tails on a tiefling.

Does that help?

[There's a long (not that long), thoughtful pause.]

i

maybe
yes

i suppose

it seems like it adds more ~~comla~~ ~~multiplicitate~~ bits than there needs to be

but i suppose it makes sense

what about other body parts????

It's sex, darling. Adding more 'bits' to the equation keeps it fun instead of boring. In theory.

Other parts? Like what? elbows? knees? Are you asking if those count as fetishes too, or how they're used to make things

complicated.

[;)]

[The tone, if one can ascribe that kind of word to the sudden spiky quality in Fenris' handwriting, is: haha wow what an interesting question gosh hm well i guess if you really want to tell me but i'm not super interested, like not WEIRD interested, i'm just interested a normal and healthy and platonic amount in that answer haha]

both

Edited 2024-10-17 07:01 (UTC)

[c u t e.]

We'll be here all night if I'm to go over everything. Though it is tempting.

Most important to note is that there is no logical rhyme or reason to it— what gets the proverbial horses running could be anything, innocuous or alluring, it makes no difference. Ergo, any portion of the body is fair game. Anything you can imagine, in any nigh conceivable situation, is likely irresistible to someone.

And it goes without saying one can service said someone with all those mundane crevices— even the ones you wouldn't think only require a little creativity. A flattened palm to act as a bracket in a pinch [hah] whilst rutting against a stomach or a shoulder or a neck, or a couple of bound limbs.

Ah and never discount the simple novelty of those that adore mundane objects used on knees or wrists, cunts or cocks. [Strange, how this feels like deja vu despite never having had this conversation— or anything like it before. He's told no one of his trade unless it was demanded of him, and yet as he pens this down he has to check to shake the overwhelming notion that he has discussed this with Fenris. Perched atop a settee in a warm room by firelight, but—

Some remnant of some spice-wine laced dream, no doubt.]

Not in the way you might be picturing, either: just a few strokes of a hairbrush and a little filthy talk or panting, and off they go into blinding bliss— no intercourse required.

i

all right

i see

[There's a pause. It's not that he doesn't understand it in theory, no, nor that he can't imagine how one might discover they've an interest in such things— but it's a little like trying to extol the virtues of a seven course meal to someone who's only ever had a sandwich (albeit a particularly excellent one). He can understand the theory just fine, but that's still different than really getting it.]

~~people seem to have too~~

[No.]

~~does it~~

[No.]

was that so common where you're from?

[...is what he finally settles on. It feels stupid and childish, for it's not as if he's some sheltered little princeling. He has heard enough of the services offered by those at the Blooming Rose, and for Andraste's sake, he grew up in Tevinter. Never mind Danarius rarely attended all the blood-soaked orgies and vicious revelries of his peers; it's still impossible for Fenris not to have picked a few things up.

But he never really thought about it. Not the way he thinks about now, talking to Astarion and learning so much.]

such things are not utterly unknown to me. i am not gawking at the thought of kink, and i know of a few. but nor have i ever known anyone who, if given the choice, would opt to fuck someone's shoulder instead of their cunt.

[Then again, he thinks, taking another gulp of wine, how many people has he quizzed on the intimacies of their sex life?]

Edited 2024-10-18 01:53 (UTC)

[Somewhere a former vampiric spawn is smirking to himself as he pens out the words:]

Have you spent much time at the local brothels?

not as a customer

but a friend of mine did a few favors for some of the workers and inevitably i would be dragged along

and i lived in tevinter

why?

But did you talk to them, darling?

And I don't mean just the usual politesse, or sat within earshot during business hours— or did you do the same with any of the other chattel slaves Tevinter no doubt kept, for that matter. The way you and I talk now.

no

i do not talk to anyone the way i talk to you.

and in the past, it was much the same: i would speak of such things to hawke or varric, perhaps, but not a stranger.

Well there's your probl~~e~~~~~~

[O h

Here's the start of a joke: a whore gets flustered by some rough and tumble upstart disinclined to speak anything but the truth as it comes. No taking back that smear of ink now, but with luck, Fenris will never open his communication tome to this page ever again.

Varric. Hawke.]

I'd assume neither of them were the sort to mount inanimate objects or suck on toes, then.

[Of course he notices the ink blot, for he was so deliberate in choosing those words. Gratifying isn't quite the right word for what he feels when he sees it, but . . . it's something to have the weight of that comment acknowledged, even inadvertently.]

no

[Well—]

varric had a disturbing amount of fondness for fingering his crossbow, but i suspect that was a joke. probably. and hawke kept her sex life private, for which i was frankly grateful.

if anyone, isabela might have— but if she did, she never told me of it. her preference was to tease out innuendos and coy jokes rather than get into details— which was enjoyable in its own right. and when we slept together, it was

[Hm.]

thrilling. vigorous. but straightforward in that regard.

[What was flustered becomes—

Astarion doesn't know.

Sharp and needling, maybe. Like a buzz of uncomfortable static across his back teeth, up into his nape and the top of his skull. Why, is a mystery to him. He's never been uncomfortable before. Never been particularly prudish about others' intimate partners.

But there's something in those words that catches in a way that's more trenchant than bemusement on its own. A little more prone to sticking.]

Now she sounds a treat.

[Defies the heaviness sitting in his stomach. ]

Love a creature that knows the art of enigmatic play— a rare talent in any world, I've noticed.

oh, yes. she was a rare talent in many respects, and the ones anyone least expected most of all. you would have liked her a great deal, i think— she was very good at misdirection. flirting and dropping innuendos in order to make her opponents thing her little more than barroom slut— and then viciously proving them wrong.

[Not unlike you is the comparison he means to make, but wisely chooses not to. Not after penning barroom slut; it's hard to take it as a compliment after that, though Fenris assuredly means it as such.]

it made it hard to tell when she was serious about her exploits, though. which is how she preferred it.

still, i cannot call it educational. not in that sense, anyway.

[He probably would have liked her. Fenris is hardly wrong, if that's the impression she starkly left behind. Flirtatious, likely brighter than a star—

Hah.]

Oh?

In what sense was it, then? Don't tell me you were made one of those misdirected conquests.

Well, yes.

[That's a joke at his own expense, for he adds swiftly:]

misdirected, no. but a conquest? oh, yes. she approached me, and sooner or later, we tumbled into bed together. it was purely sex, which she made clear from the start— and which was a relief for me at the time, i admit. but it was straightforward, with very little variety in terms of kink or fetish.

[A pause, and then, a little carefully:]

she was my first.

[There's such a lengthy pause there, that for a time Fenris might be forgiven for thinking Astarion ran off and disappeared— his quill instead loitering above wax-skinned parchment, chancing the start of an inkblot once. Twice. Never quite connecting.

Ever? Is the question he can't ask, because he knows— or at the very least suspects there was another at the front of the line before her. Part and parcel for any slave with a pretty face (and sometimes not even that: what rough features fail to offer, youth, or a strong set of arms, or warmth alone might do for those with power on their mind).

But it digs in his craw like a splinter between set teeth.]

In freedom? [Writes itself before he can stop it.]

[There's no one else in the world he'd say this to, Fenris thinks, staring down distantly at the question. Isabela might have guessed long ago, but if she did, she had the wisdom to never bring it up. Even now, he isn't sure how he would have answered her. But not Hawke, not Varric— no one, for no one else would understand.

No one save somehow who had also gone through it.]

Yes.

It was

[Hm.]

Overwhelming. In every way you can imagine, it was overwhelming, but I do not regret it.

[Another pause, and then:]

It took me years before I was ready. I think we were in our third or fourth year of friendship when she began to flirt, and even then, it was a slow process.

Is it something you wish to try someday?

[No. No, he hadn't meant it that way. (Had he....?) —No. Don't be daft, Astarion.

Or at least don't be a cock.]

What, sex?

Yes.

~~You would have little trou~~

[Has he overstepped? Was this too much? Surely not— and yet something in Fenris writhes in agonized embarrassment for reasons he can't quite name. This is too much. This is too much too fast, he oughtn't have even brought the subject up— for it's one thing to ask that of a bodyguard, but a slave whose primary use was prostitution? Maker, he wouldn't blame Astarion for never wanting to touch a single soul again, and that's to say nothing of how objectified he must feel.

There's such a large ink blot forming before he writes again.]

Think nothing of the question if you do not wish to answer. It has not been so long, I know, and[...] as I said, Isabela was overwhelming even in theory.

[Hhhhhhhh]

Edited 2024-10-21 04:10 (UTC)

[He can almost sense that discomfort coming off the page in ripples, starting from the dead center of that inkblot. Funny, that his own trepidation left no trace where it could, and yet Fenris' is right there, front and center and precious enough to rot out every last one of Astarion's viperish fangs.

He's already hopelessly done for as it stands.]

Do you imagine I haven't yet?

Precious pup, it's fine. You can ask anything you like of me.

Doubly so for sex.

[Years later, when they've long since learned one another, Leto will laugh at his own folly. He'll know to read the come-on for what it truly is: a purring late night proposition that offers him an easy way in or out. He'll scoff at at his own fluster and the way he tripped over his own paws in his eagerness not offend— and he won't regret it, not really. Not when it was done out of care and concern.

But for now, what Fenris thinks is that Astarion has sensed his own discomfort and is overcompensating to make him feel better. That whether or not he is actually comfortable with it remains secondary; that training and conditioning have long since kicked in, whispering that offering a flirtatious statement is far easier than being raw and honest.

And that's fine. Fenris won't ever fault him for that. But nor does he want to make it worse. And yet—]

You have?

[The written equivalent of blurted out, his pen striking fast.]

when?

with whom?

(Hells' teeth. You really were flustered weren't you?

And here I thought you were straighter than a templar's rigid cock. Tsk. I suppose it's true what they all say: hindsight really is comparable to a beholder's gaze.)

--

[Well that's unexpected. Is it worry that has ink dashing over parchment, or the uneasiness of a former slave that needed years to find comfort in carefully applied companionship?]

Oh all right, fine. It was foreplay mostly. Just after my liberation from quarantine so

[Hm.]

yesterday or the day before? Sometime in there. I don't think it counts if they come from a hand job and pass out barely five minutes later.

No one noteworthy, cross my heart. Just some local riffraff with a good amount of coin in their pocket. Same as I was working towards tonight, as a matter of fact.

Though I like this better.

[That's— hm. Fenris frowns down at the paper, unsure how he feels about that— and unsure of how much of it is even his business to comment upon. Astarion is an adult, after all, and it's not Fenris' business to question how he earns money or what he chooses to do.

. . . but even so . . .]

I do too.

[Genuinely meant, if not distractedly written.]

did you want to do it?

i have contacts in the coterie, if you would prefer another line of work.

[Slight pause; an elf is buffering.] Did I want to do what? Seduce passing strangers for the sake of making myself rich in a world void of resources save your own?

[On second thought, scratch that. There's yet another nagging something tugging at the borders of otherwise pleasant awareness, and whatever it is, he knows better than to indulge.]

The local thieves? Wouldn't they just take a cut of my profits?

most likely, yes. but

[He hesitates. He has never been good at this, he knows. He was awful with Orana and it hasn't gotten much better; he never knows how to strike that perfect chord between sympathetic and allowing another person their own free will. Maybe there is no perfect chord; maybe that's why he always snarled whenever Hawke tried to find it.

Each word comes more slowly now, jotted down as Fenris tries to organize his thoughts.]

there are many things you could do in this world. you have lighter fingers than half the coterie, not to mention greater intelligence. and i would not see you sleep with others out of necessity for sheer lack of opportunity

[Ugh. That sounds so . . . clinical.]

i fight for money often. when there are no jobs to find and no one wants to hire an elvish mercenary, i go to the fighting pits and earn my supper. and i do not mind it, though i use skills i learned as a slave. but it is a choice i make freely, knowing there are other ways to make money.

but you need not put your own skills to work if you don't want to.

[Ugh.]

[Its kind focus. The sort of you could do better that isn't rife with a touch of indigestible poor thing. And while Astarion might hate (such an understatement) other slaves, he's come to know he doesn't hate Fenris. In fact he's beginning to doubt he ever could.

(Dangerous, the influence that much fondness holds.)

Still, the compliment only carries so much at this late hour, when it's easy to fall back on old tricks— agency too new a concept to stick properly from dusk till dawn.]

I liked it more when we were hellbent on discussing strange fetishes, rather than the wide, less enchanting measure of what my options are. The delight of planning that takes into account a war where we might find ourselves at risk should the losing side go belly up. Not to mention our disadvantage in having pointy ears, few allies, and barely any coin.

The superstitions I've already noted about my anchor shard or whatever they call it— thwarted thanks to your gloves.

[Theres a pause, and it lingers gently before committing dark ink to paper.]

I'll consider your offer. [Is as close to gratitude as he can muster when it bubbles up like bile otherwise. Sour as the urge to run. To bare teeth. To cry— which he won't allow.

But....maybe there's a point there. Something worth mulling when all's been said and done. Maybe he won't sleep tonight for thinking on it again and again, trying to discern the difference between survival and desire.

Trying to follow if he's ever had a difference to begin with at all.

And now there's a spot on the paper. A large one, brought on by his damned resting quill when he wasn't paying attention— fucking Hells.

It smudges barely when he swipes at it, but it's too late now. The damned thing's stuck in.]

Do you still see her? Your wild temptress.

[Frankly, it's a far tamer response than Fenris himself would have given so long ago. And thank god, he knows how to back off. He still doesn't love the thought of Astarion sleeping with others for money (or for the chance to steal from them), but it isn't his choice. Leave it, he orders himself sharply, and yet stares down at that blot for far longer than he should, trying to decipher its meaning.

But no: leave it, he tells himself again. There's nothing good that can come of badgering Astarion, and the last thing he wants to do is come across like some preachy Chantry brother eager to save someone from the sin of sex. The only thing he allows himself is a sentence, small and penned next to I'll consider your offer.]

There is no time limit.

[There. An endlessly open offer, and they can move on.]

No. I have not seen her for many years, but the last I heard she had gone back to sailing the seas as a raider. She even calls herself an admiral, though I do not know how true that may be— the legitimacy of the position, anyway, for I have no doubt she has the cheek to title herself that regardless.

For her sake, I hope the ships she raids are less perilous than they once were. Have you heard much about the Qunari uprising here? She began it by stealing— and losing— one of their most revered religious tomes.

It is as it should be. She always longed for the sea, and living for nearly a decade in Kirkwall was akin to caging a bird.

[A pause, and then:]

I doubt I will ever see her again.

[And it is what it is, of course, but it's not hard to hear the faintest shadow of grief in those words.]

['As it should be?'

His first, and a woman he pens about having come to him after such a vast expanse of years (oh, Astarion, hypocrite and fool in blinded measure), and all that comes of it is a resigned kiss of never again?

What is it that has him by the throat? What is it here, in these frail seconds lodged beneath the punctuation of a hideous stained blot that makes written letters look more marring than the void he'd left behind? Scowling without meaning to, lip curled idly in disgust. A conquest, he'd said. His first, he'd said. And as useless as sex has only ever been aside from living through another night with the carrot rather than the stick, Astarion knows something of firsts, now. Of the irreversible anchorhold it has. (A flicker of something, erased. Pretty words spoken hundreds of years ago, scrubbed clean not by Cazador— not directly, no— but by Astarion's own hands. Pushed away.)

Drop it, reason warns, citing the obvious occurences of less than one full minute prior, where Fenris settled back to grant fair peace in waters Astarion couldn't navigate. Change the subject. Play it sweet.

And yet he can't.]

Rotheshit it's as it should be.

[Oh. He hadn't expected that, and for a long moment Fenris blinks down at his journal, unsure how to take it. It's not wrong. Certainly it isn't, for if things were as they should be, no one would have left. Anders wouldn't have blown up the Chantry; the others wouldn't have had to scatter for their lives, and things would be as they were. He would have long since introduced Astarion to his companions, and they would have eagerly taken him under their collective wings as one more misfit ready to tag along on whatever madness Hawke had found herself embedded into . . .

Or maybe not. Maybe it was always destined to reach a boiling point: mages and templars, Qunari and Kirkwall . . . maybe Hawke has always led a life that discourages any kind of permanency no matter how hard she tries.]

Why do you say that?

[He knows why, sort of, but he wants to hear it. There's a part of him that's ever raw and wounded that longs for affirmation and assurance, and it's so rare he indulges it.]

It is perhaps not as it should be, but . . . say, then, it is what was destined to happen. She was miserable on land, and none of us were meant to last. Not Hawke nor any of our companions . . . I should have known there was a time limit.

[Lucky they're not speaking. Lucky this comes through the scratching of a bony little nib soaked through with enchanted ink. It makes him sound more reasonable, perhaps. Less incensed.

Though context swears he's not.]

Because she left.

Why would it ever be fated?

A boat can go anywhere. The freedom she sought out isn't solely the ability to run— it's the very same freedom to come back. Or at the very least to track you down.

[He doesn't know how to answer. All the things he can think to say (will you stay? would you have been different?) are either too childish or too absurd to even remotely consider penning. It's everything his lonely heart has ached for and nothing he's ever allowed himself, and now that he's faced with it . . .]

~~have you~~ ~~would you~~ ~~where~~

I am[. . .] used to people leaving. and I have found it is a foolish endeavor to expect they will ever return.

[Every word slowly written and heavily weighed.]

does it upset you?

Yes I'm upset.

[You stayed because the shard wouldn't let me leave. You abandoned tertiary freedom to shackle yourself to an organization that can't organize itself to save its life beyond not drowning in an ocean of a war. You chose me.]

A peerless vintage is a beautiful thing, darling. Lust for it for ages like air and it'll be a grand day when you feel it in your hands at last. But a gift like that is best shared, I've found. Even if all you offer is a sip.

You deserved better.

Edited 2024-10-25 22:16 (UTC)

[Again, the emotion washes over him, drowning him; again he stares at the paper, every word overwhelming and baffling and perfect. You deserved better, and when has anyone ever said that to him? When has he ever even said it to himself? It's not that no one cared. It's not that Hawke and Varric and Isabela didn't think he deserved better than the life he'd had before— but there's such a difference, isn't it, between someone sighing over your life in enslavement, and someone lamenting the fact you'd been abandoned . . .

And he doesn't know what to say to that. Truly he doesn't. The quill hovers in the air for so long that by the time he goes to write, the ink's already dried and he has to get more. But what finally emerges, slow and careful, is:]

Perhaps I have found it.

[He doesn't know if he could say that aloud, but the written word offers a little more ability to be vulnerable.]

I do not begrudge Isabela her leaving— at least, not enough to have it linger in my heart. But I will not say there is no bitterness nor grief when I think of what we had. For any of my friends who once lived here. The city is full of ghosts for me, and there are days when I loathe it.

But you make it worthwhile to stay.

[Oh.

Holding a quill between long fingers disguises too much of the truth. That his claws, now trimmed off and blunted, were designed to hook into the animals around him; his eyes for scanning every detail; his voice for honeyed words. It isn't hard to say the right thing— it's easier still to jot it down, circling the sum of Fenris' bleeding past with an instinctive nose for blood. And if he did, it would be as it always was: ultimately nothing. Ash and soot across his tongue, just like all the others made a fine means to an end. (Because it's true, that Fenris stays here now. True, that he's possessed of no desire to leave as Isabela had. But a city full of ghosts hardly sleeps. How long until it grows unbearable, then? How long until Fenris realizes that just like his old friend, he's tired of the leash and longs to run?) The last time Astarion let himself feel anything, it ruined him.

Gods swear he's all but primed himself for an encore.

But he can't stop staring at that last line. Feels it tugging again and again on the shallows of his chest with every glancing read, unable to discern whether he feels sick from wine or—

—or his own heartbeat, atrophied and delirious all at once.]

That's a relief, considering I can't leave. [Is an attempt at giving levity a place to live so much overbearing acritude.] Though on the upside of things, you'll always know right where to find me, won't you? No vanishing acts. No open seas.

~~and~~

~~just for the record~~ [I'm no good at these things. Endless centuries spent spinning stories of fondness and affection solely Cazador's amusement subsequently make any attempt at talking all this over feel as if I'm barely capable of anything but lying.]

But I'd stay even if that wasn't true.

Edited 2024-10-26 01:20 (UTC)

I believe you.

[And how quickly that comes after all the pauses of before, but it's true. It's one part blind adoration and one part common sense, but to dilute it to either of those reasons makes it sound cheaper than it is. I believe you, for there is something special about the bond they share. He has no words for it, not really, nor any kind of understanding just yet, but . . . there's something between them. Something that tethers them together.

It reminds him of Hawke, though he won't say it on the heels of all they've just spoken of. But it's that same gravitational pull, gentle but endlessly inexorable.]

And I am not going anywhere. Not without you, at any rate— though I would not say no to leaving Kirkwall if ever we can manage to make it painless. But Antiva will keep.

[It's not too much. It might never be too much, starved for affection as they both are— but it's hard to come down from the emotion of that, and they neither of them are used to it. So he jots down:]

Are you packed for the mission in a few days?

[Speaking of leaving Kirkwall . . .]

At least you will get a taste of what Orlais is like, though you may regret it.

[Oh it hurts. Like a flood after starvation, he can't quite take it in; too much is the flutter of his heart and the stutter in his breathless lungs— and yet he circles back to read those lines again and again and again. Relieved to have the freedom of another segue (and if it was for sympathy that they move on, he doesn't care); it gives him space to pace the borders of their conversation.

To frame that message with an outstretched thumb and keep it in his eyeline.]

I've only you to take, so in that sense: I'd like to think I am.

Will I?

Oh go on, then. Don't be shy— tell me everything.

The population is obsessed first and foremost with their grand Game— their term for all the endless lust and backstabbing and intrigue and petty wars that make up any wealthy class. Orlesians, however, make it into an art: even the commoners are caught up in it, and almost anything is allowable so long as you manage to be discreet. It is not dissimilar to Tevinter in that respect, I suppose, though they somehow manage to put an even greater emphasis on how one looks and acts and is perceived.

They all wear masks, and you and I shall have to as well, lest we stick out. Their fashion is impractical at best and needlessly complicated at worst, offering endless layers and frills and patterns to dizzy any eye. Their wine is decent, but their food, much like their people, tends towards the extravagant, and it is hard to find anything of substance.

And they are even worse to elves than Free Marchers are— though most will end up simply ignoring us, I suspect, or assuming we're the consorts to some wealthy Duke.

[The more he writes, the easier it gets: the heavy emotion of before not so much dissipating as easing, ebbing through him with a familiar warmth. His heart is still pleasantly heavy, thundering with emotion and adoration— but complaining about something meaningless helps. Allowing them both to inch away from that ledge helps, though Fenris is assuredly still thinking of it.]

Edited 2024-10-26 04:41 (UTC)

[There's such an art to survival at times, making the sensation of mastery over it only ever fleeting.

More and more frequently since falling into this world, the sting that imagined mastery leaves behind when it falls through proves just as fleeting too— giving way to gentler shoals. Warmer tides.

Astarion's thumb stays pinned against the words I believe you, even as he smiles to himself.]

Consorts? Both of us? [Try not to pen that so excitedly, Astarion.]

Do they wear masks all the time?

They do, unless some pressing need demands they take them off. Often they are used in a variety of ways— to suggest house allegiance, status, fashionable trends, etc. Ours, I suspect, will be "simple", made only of silver or gold (or iron painted to look like silver or gold, knowing Riftwatch's budget).

Is the prospect of being mistaken a consort so disagreeable? We can easily come up with a better story, should you not want to rely on assumptions.

You may have to lead the way when it comes to fashion, however.

On the contrary, my dear. I was just thinking how exciting it would be to be mistaken for your equal, given our divergent trades.

[It feels akin to transparency, after all this time. That secondhand feeling of a red light somehow burning in red eyes— and doubly so in a world with no elven nobility to speak of.

None that haven't been dead for thousands of years, anyway. Can't exactly pull the wool over anyone's eyes in that regard.]

Tell me something: I assume in Tevinter a slave (or servant) owned by a magister held more sway than one kept by lesser castes— is the same true in Orlais?

[There's a small blot of ink as Fenris thinks better of what he was going to write. You are my equal. That the rest of the world thinks otherwise is their fault, not yours. It's true, but it also feels cloying: sticky-sweet in a way that has no real ties with the real world. He'd scoff at anyone else saying such a thing, so why did it occur to him?

Because it's true. And it's cloying and stupid and saccharine, and somehow it's still true nonetheless.]

I suspect you will be mistaken for my better. I do not do well with these kinds of missions.

But yes and yes: there are elves, I hear, who wield more power than some minor nobles, whether because they are the lover of some human or simply high ranking enough to get away with insolence. Servants contracted to the Empress or one of the higher ranking Dukes are given deference and better treatment; it is not dissimilar in Tevinter.

You wish to pass as one of them?

I wish for us both to pass.

After all, if the only thing required are a few masks, it makes it that much easier for us to feign at being

well, anyone, yes?

[Part and parcel of a Grand Game devised atop anonymous notoriety is that just about anyone might play....if they're crafty enough.]

In theory . . . I do not doubt your acting skills, but those who play the Game tend to know the players.

[Then again: how many humans really notice elves? They'll stand out a little, no doubt, but who would assume the truth? Far more likely they exotic newcomers, just recently hired by some Duchess who wants a few pretty accessories within grasp.

Hm.]

Perhaps if we pass for new hires, prized and adored . . . I will teach you some Orelesian. I do not know the language, not the way I do Teven or Qunlat, but a few phrases are not so hard. And I will not say I have no skill in subterfuge— but it will have to be you who leads the way.

Are you up to it?

Oh there he is. Fearless and clever as ever and ready for a challenge.

But as for myself: I'm a whole new man these days. Why not double down and take up becoming an Orlesian while I'm at it? And with you at my side, I'd argue Ive never been more up to it, darling.

Know any filthy Orlesian?

Tu peux me baiser quand tu veux.

Isabela taught that to me.

"You can fuck me anytime you wish."

Tu peux me baiser quand tu veux.

[That's it. That's the whole tweet.]

[ —just kidding.]

Meet me in the Gallows before we're due to depart. I want to brush up on my Northern etiquette before diving in headlong.

And I can think of no better sounding board than one particular local, tattooed elf.

Edited (oh god i cant write even texts coherently) 2024-10-27 09:58 (UTC)

[He jots some reply down, and yet for the life of him he can't remember what it was. Something idle, no doubt. Some response that isn't a response at all, written while he sits in his lonely mansion and tries not to read far too much into what was clearly a teasing retort. That way lies ruin, and Fenris has no ability to navigate those murky waters yet again. He is too old, too broken, too wrecked and ruined to risk his heart on even the faintest hint of a possibility; better to shut it down even within his own mind, refusing the first stirrings of the faintest embers.

A few days pass. They're given provisions and supplies, including a small budget for clothes and masks, which is something, Fenris supposes. It's not a very big budget, but then again, they're hardly the only two going: it's a small party of six setting out, all aiming towards the same goal of infiltration and information gathering. Theoretically a low-risk mission, though Orlais is risk enough by sheer virtue of the grand Game they so love.

Traveling there is . . . well. It is what it is. Fenris watches helplessly each time Astarion grimaces in pain, knowing that his mark must be aching— and knowing, too, there's nothing he can say or do that will help. Even the salves that usually bring some form of relief for his markings only work so long, though he shares the pot with him each night regardless. It's no relief to finally reach the city, but at least it means that the Rifters can wince in comfort.

They're two to a room, which suits Fenris well enough. To his great relief, Astarion takes his customary grumbling and growling the way it's intended: a sort of background grumpiness that oughtn't be paid much mind. He huffs about the culture and the snobbery, the wealth disparity and the poverty carefully hidden behind glitz and glamor. It's a shame, for Val Royeaux is a beautiful city, Fenris can admit. Music constantly drifts through the air as merchants sell pretty fabrics and fine crafts; to the south, the Waking Sea glitters so brightly as the sun shines each day. The architecture is clever and deliberately placed— so different from Kirkwall's habit of building things atop another, so that most of Lowtown is little more than a series of winding alleys and endless loops.

They shop for a time— or rather, Fenris lets Astarion shop, and is quietly relieved when his companion takes it upon himself to dress them both. If Fenris had his way, he'd show up in armor and with a scowl, so it's best to leave the aesthetics to his endlessly more refined friend.

And now it's a few hours before they're due to appear, which is, apparently, not very much time at all to prepare. Fenris, a man more inclined to roll out of bed and get going, wouldn't agree, but once again: that's why he isn't in charge of this mission. He sits on his bed and leans his weight back against one hand, watching Astarion as he flits about.]

What are you doing?

[Curiously said. Makeup and perfumes and jewelry— all of that is so foreign to him, and it's interesting to watch.]

What does it look like? [Carries no bite, only a playfulness at odds with the speed at which Astarion both primps and tugs things free of his provisions— (I've only you, he said, although admittedly he'd only acquired the bulk of his assets in their Faderift-given shopping trip, either with coin or agile fingers:) perfumed oil daubbed across his throat and along the backs of his ears, dipped down into decolletage beneath layered silks; gilded jewelry gleaming in waning afternoon light, though all he'd managed to pilfer were a few delicate bangles and elven-(ish? -looking) necklaces, and a couple of pretty cuffs; kohl, black as night, streaked on across his eyes so that the mask's gaps don't come across as unseemly— and a hairbrush, oddly enough, though his hair's already woven into braids. Courtesy of asking one of the only Orlesians on their team for help, which begs the question as to why he's dug it up in the first place, shifting in his seat just so. Prelude to a fuller turn—

—which subsequently answers said question almost immediately, given the way he's eyeing his companion. (Made additionally ominous by the pitch-dark smears of makeup lining crimson eyes.)

Hello, Fenris.]

Getting ready for our debut.

[Our debut. As if they're not from two completely separate divisions, likely selected for two completely separate sets of skills.]

Our debut . . .

[Oh, he knows what that means. Little matter his skills are far more suited towards battle than ballrooms, he was told he was meant to gather information— and while his plan had been to vaguely lurk around the edge of the party and see what he might pick up from the other servants, even he can admit it wasn't much of one.

But the alternative— to dress up as Astarion has, to make himself look desirable, to flirt and talk and charm his way into information— seems impossible. Little matter he'd signed off on whatever outfit and mask Astarion had picked out for him; little matter that he'd agreed to this consort plan a few weeks ago. He is not suited for such tasks; he's barely suited for these kinds of parties at all. That balking hesitation is written clear over his face, his eyes darting from the brush to Astarion's face and back again.

(And oh, what a face: for all that Fenris balks at the thought of himself in such a role, oh, Astarion wears it beautifully. What might otherwise appear ridiculous looks stunning on him, from the dangerous glint of scarlet eyes in a sea of black to the delicate braids that are woven within his curls. Silver jewelry glints as it acts as pretty contrast, making him look ethereal, as the low cut of his silks offers up tantalizing glimpses of pale skin.

Enthralling. Beautiful, Fenris thinks again, and doesn't know how to begin to say).]

I will tell you again: you will have far more success if you go at it alone. Even Hawke knew that— she set me to merely lurking in the shadows when last I came to Orlais.

[Still, he agreed, and he won't be a child about this. Fenris holds out a hand for that hairbrush, though in truth he just intends to run it through his hair once or twice. What is styling one's hair, we just don't know.]

[Astarion still hasn't gotten used to it, on the other hand.

The sight of Fenris. His presence, in particular: high contrast setting him apart from any slave or spawn or thrall— a sharpness that isn't anything but bound to him in its every shifting facet, making the pale elf wonder how it is that even passing strangers scarcely see it. That ferocity. That beautiful, straightforward sense of pride. (It was only out of sympathy or snide snarling that Cazador's children ever looked at one another, and even then, only rarely. Never like this.) He wants that. To be that. To be near it.

He'd wept like a child (thankfully alone) the first time he saw his own reflection in the mirror.

Only Fenris could tear him away from it so easily tonight.

Captivating things.]

'Merely lurking?' [Astarion scoffs through the segue that lifts him from his seat and bypasses that outstretched hand— planting himself on the mattress behind Fenris, and— ]

Where's the fun in that?

[ —tugging off his gloves in the wake of an attempt at taming hair with them on. One short yank of leather between his fangs on either side, and blunted nails begin combing back silver somewhere around the fighter's temple: brushstrokes quickly following.]

Edited 2024-10-29 01:28 (UTC)

[Fenris melts.

The tension slips out of his body like an exhale, taut muscles uncoiling for what feels like the very first time since they crossed the border. A gust of air leaves his lungs in the form of one slow, satisfied exhale as a flush touches the very tips of his ears. That feels—

Maker, it feels so good.

Astarion's fingers are cool as they work through his hair, and every subsequent brushstroke is soft and sweet, working through stubborn knots and brittle ends with endless patience. The motion is hypnotic in its rhythm, and the soft press of warmth from the body behind him only adds to the sudden duel feelings of intimacy and safety that wash over him like the sweetest tide. It's been . . . Maker, he doesn't know how long it's been since someone touched him like this, much less brushed his hair. Years. Decades, maybe.

(Unguarded as he is, he forgets he sits near a mirror; he doesn't think about how he must look, his eyes fluttering shut and his expression so utterly content. Such a far cry from the fierce warrior who stalked these halls, he looks more akin to a pup who's finally found a spot by the hearth).

But— oh, he was asked a question, he realizes belatedly. His eyes snap open as his mind scrambles to catch up— where's the fun in that— in where, in what, in lurking, because they're spying, because they're in Orlais—

Maker's breath.]

As opposed to the fun of chatting up nobles?

[His voice is almost entirely as it should be, his tone dry and familiar— but there's a warm contentment there that wasn't before.]

Mm, anyway, it is not down to whether it is fun, but a matter of talent. I am not good at lying on the spot, not like that. Nor being . . . [Well, be honest:] nice to people, not if I already have a grudge.

[Maker, if he were a cat (if this were Toril), he'd be purring up a storm by now. And he's so distracted, which means that each sentence sort of exists both on its own and as a vague continuation of the last, his attention decidedly split.]

My point is merely that I suspect I will slow you down rather than aid you.

[A singular intrusive thought slides around that familiar feeling of someone's body going listless underneath the surface— calmer than a lake, yet nearly thrumming on a deeper, undetected frequency— is that he's yet to purr in front of Fenris. And after: the thought that maybe he can't anymore, either, now that he's lost the true foundations of his vampirism.

Because they're so relaxed near one another now. If it was ever going to happen, it surely would have. On the border of every sweep of slender fingers through pale hair even perception disarms itself, following Astarion's example in letting go. Letting everything go, if only for a little while. There's never enough time before soirées.

The next stroke of the brush avoids dipping too low. She always—

Oh.]

Oh pish posh, sweetheart.

[You never do.]

Honestly you don't even need to talk— and given the way things work here, it might be best if you don't. People long to fill in the blanks. Their minds do, that is. Stay silent, and you'll become whatever they wish you to be. [Smiling to himself, his thumb rolls across his forefinger, playfully winding a few white strands together, tucking them behind an ear. Aside from their voices, it's quiet enough to hear a pin drop; they can afford to be a little conspiratorial. Talk shop.]

But maybe you've experience with that already.

[It's not bad advice. It's very familiar advice, in fact, and one that brings a knowing smile to his lips as he basks under Astarion's fingers. His head tips this way and that, his eyes opening lazily just to watch himself in the mirror, fascinated despite himself on what Astarion's plan might be. He has never really bothered to style his hair; it grows how it grows, and when it becomes a nuisance he takes to it with a pair of scissors, but nothing beyond that.

Nothing like Astarion's curls, he thinks, his eyes flicking to stare at them admiringly. He has no idea what the other elf does, but he clearly must put effort into it to get it to stay so charmingly windswept.]

I do, but I suspect the intended effect was far different than what you aim for.

[And of course Astarion knows that, but there's something so charmingly sedate about this moment that encourages such chatter. Talk shop indeed, for there's pleasure to be found in trading mundane secrets.]

I am used to being a menacing figure. Intimidating. A beast only barely restrained.

[His tone is drawling, his words dry. There are times when talking of the past hurts so badly as to nearly overwhelm him, but it's different here and now, and Fenris can't decide if that's because of the intimacy of this moment— or that's it merely Astarion himself that makes the difference.]

Ask me to be your bodyguard, Astarion, and that role I can fill happily, glaring at others until they know to keep their distance. But you may find me a brutishly intimidating consort.

And you'll set their hearts racing in no time, for good or ill— [Thumb slid in a horizontal line along the back of Leto's scalp at eye level, sectioning it out. A momentary pause to bring the brush up with his opposite hand, gathering loose fringe towards waiting fingers— catching them with practiced ease.

He doesn't notice he's being watched. After all, his focus is already set: everything else pours into conversation, and the thought that tonight, Fenris won't hardly recognize himself, diamond that he'll be.] —either way, I'll be able to put an ear to the ground in all the right places and find out what our dear Marquis thinks of the Venatori's recent attempts at courtship.

[He snorts, and it's anyone's guess as to whether that's for the former statement or the latter, for both have an equal chance at earning his amused disbelief.]

You may have luck. [No, correction:] I have no doubt you will have luck in sussing out his intentions; whether or not they are favorable to us, on the other hand . . . I will not say there are no nobles with morals and decency, and I have not yet heard anything overtly damning when it comes to the Marquis. But I have little faith in their ability as a whole to do anything that isn't line their own pockets and stick their heads in the sand.

[But tell us how you really feel, Fenris.]

What are you doing back there . . .?

[He squirms just a little, neck craning as if he might somehow get a better angle in the mirror.]

Little changes there, even between worlds.

[Fenris isn't wrong on that respect, no matter how Astarion in those first few days had hoped differently. Now, he's seen enough even in preliminary trawls through written records or on the streets themselves to assume no surprises lurk within the wings.

Orlais, Baldur's Gate, Kirkwall, is it really any—

There's a (gentle) correction from deft fingers, exhale twisted into fond chastisement at the same time that he pulls against Fenris' wide-eyed leaning (those doeish eyes....)

Hells.]

Trying my damndest to give you a proper tail, darling.

[He looked it up, that name. It sounded too familiar to someone that's read an incantation or two on cast-off tomes in perfumed captivity— Fenris. Fenrir.

Wolf.]

But it'll be a lopsided one if you don't sit still.

[Oh, and it's the sweetest kind of surprise to realize Astarion knows what his name means. Not due to the meaning itself (a moniker that Fenris embraces and resents all at once, just like his lyrium), but the thoughtfulness therein. He thinks about me when I'm not near, and it's one thing to know it vaguely. Quite another to have it confirmed.]

Is it even long enough for that?

[Internally, he scowls at himself. There were so many sweeter ways to engage with that, and instead he bluntly offered the first thought that came to mind. It isn't unsalvageable, but Maker's breath. . . and he doesn't know what to say, now. Thank you sounds silly, but I'm actually enjoying this, I just don't always know how to simmer for it is embarrassing.

Hmm. A beat, and then, internally cringing just a little, adds:]

I have no doubt you will succeed, with or without my squirming.

[Ugh. Anyway: he settles. Commits himself to sitting up straight and still, staring with curiosity in the mirror as pale fingers cleverly work.]

I did not know you had an interest in etymology. Or is the name Fenris another thing that spans worlds?

Never the size that matters, only how one uses it. [Finishes recentering his hold with a sly tweaking of his fingers, so much life trapped there that he can feel it pooling as he works— the docile blowback of what he'd salivated for in days not at all long past. Little things he doubts he'll ever manage to take for granted again.

The next few grazes of that brush are soft, capped by the distinctive feel of being braided.]

Anyway like most creatures blessed by common sense, I've a vested interest in anything that keeps me alive. Language, I find, alongside history, culture, politesse and politics, happens to be one of those things. [....and yet before Fenris assumes it wasn't at all personal....]

But yes, as it so happens. Your name bears a very similar ring to one of the languages of Faerûn.

That of magic itself.

[Oh, and his ears perk up with interest at the mention of languages. He wants to know the rest (what cultural things are there in your world? What politics have you witness?), for he wants to know everything about Astarion— but languages hold a special place in his heart.

But then Astarion continues on, and oh— those ears lower once more.]

Is that so?

[Maker, of course it does. Of course it does, and he wishes he could be surprised. He is surprised, sort of, in that he hadn't suspected such a thing would transcend worlds, but . . . god, the irony is palpable.

And yet it isn't Astarion's fault. And yet it is interesting, no matter that it's also a little embittering. Fenris takes a breath, trying to return to focusing on the sensation of patient fingers in his hair.]

The language that mages use to cast their spells? Or something else?

[It isn't just irony that's palpable. Not with those ears drooping.]

You're not happy about it. [Thumb over forefinger, over middle, over ring— and back again, threading.]

No, but the fault is not yours.

[How to put this? The explanation itself isn't so awful, but nor does Fenris have any desire to break the tranquil mood that's fallen between them— and explaining Tevinter and her magic-based hierarchy will surely do it.

So start smaller. Talk about something that doesn't send them both back reeling, even if it brushes against old traumas. (And if Astarion hates it, if even this talk is too much, Fenris will make it up to him later, he thinks, and surprises himself with how earnestly true that is.)]

. . . there must be things that remind you of your master. I do not mean the obvious ones, but smaller things: a wine he favored, perhaps, or a phrase he was fond of. Yes?

Edited 2024-11-05 01:43 (UTC)

[His fingers stop.

Razor blades.]

Terrible music. Worse company. [Again, he sets to weaving, now that he's found a trail to follow. Thumb scraping along the inline of his index before rhythm settles in once more. Like that, it's a simple thing to remember all the rest. Two palatable half-lies, and a truth:]

The stave he used to drag around night and day— you could always hear him coming.

[So many days spent stilling his lungs and willing himself to vanish into stone— all for a little percussion. And the tailing dread thereafter.]

....was magic yours?

[Tap, tap, tap, every echoing touch of stone and wood a steady counterpart to the growing rhythm of footsteps. Did Astarion learn to distinguish his master's mood that way? Knowing that if it was too quick it meant that Cazador was in a filthy temper and looking for someone to take it out upon; that every third tap missed meant that he was too preoccupied to hunt for entertainment— oh, Fenris is almost certain Astarion did. How could he not?

He won't ask. There's no room for details, not here and now— or, no, that isn't right. In this intimate warmth when they're together and yet a little apart, Fenris can feel his tongue loosening, his defenses lowering, and he does not doubt that Astarion feels the same. And yet to dive into those details now would make it a very different conversation, and one that neither of them wants just yet.]

Yes.

[Astarion's fingers are pleasantly cool as they brush against the back of his neck: little touches, idle and absent, and he focuses on them for a few moments.]

Danarius was a mage. And in the Tevinter Imperium, magic is everything. Magic dictates success or failure, whether you are high-born or a slave. Magic is infused in everything, from the ways people travel to the enchanted Candlehops that deliver messages all over Minrathous. The only people allowed in government are mages, and unlike in the rest of Thedas, mage children are desired and prayed for, for a mage in the family can elevate you to new heights—

Or lower you, if a mage family produces an heir who cannot even conjure a wisp.

[Just beside (not beneath) Astarion's fingers, lyrium pulses: flaring into deliberate brightness as a ghostly song thrums just out of earshot.]

And magic is what Danarius imbued in me.

Within that . . . the tapping of his staff. The scent of the herbs he used to combine to enhance this spell or that.

[With that said:]

But Astarion . . . I enjoy hearing of your world and its languages. And it is a fascinating thing to learn that such a name transcends worlds.

[A beat, and then, a little wryly:]

Do not take my grumbling as condemnation. I am old and bitter, and there will be no shortage of times where I will tell you the evils of magic.

[Old, he's, like, forty-five at best.

Fenris hesitates visibly, and then, his eyes flicking away even in the mirror, adds:]

It does not please me to learn of magic— but it pleases me to learn of you.

[He's done the braid wrong.

It's a supervenient discovery, already two notches down with a third knot on the way, necessitating a sliding of his little finger tip-first through the worst of his offenses— carefully undoing his own mess. Every minute will start to matter soon: they've a mission to succeed in, and Astarion can't afford to go without Riftwatch's protection when Kirkwall continuously calls him back. Or— perhaps that's what he tells himself to make the obvious less like the tangle he's currently revising.

But it's not unpleasant.]

Tell me that again when you're two hundred years old.

[Soft as warmed sugar in the mouth. Soft across the channel of his tongue and in his throat, and softer in the upturned corners of his shadowed smile, aimed down towards his efforts. Fingers in the right place, silver strands pulled through and woven taut before they're banded. Smoothed back into a proper tail, the likes of which stand synonymous with status, or at the very least, care.

He'll be the bell of the ball....provided he doesn't crack open a highborne nose or two in rage along the way.

(This battleworn thing. Suited for dockworkers, not debutants. What in the nine hells is he thinking, letting some lost, lifeless monster drag him into trouble like this?)]

[He exhales slowly, invisible tension easing as Astarion makes no fuss over that comment. He likes it better this way, he finds. Fenris isn't always adverse to talking about things, but sometimes it's nice to simply say something and let it be.]

Are you truly two hundred?

[The question more soft than curious and more curious than impudent. He believes Astarion wholeheartedly, of course, but Maker, it's a strange thing to think. And then, a little more impudently:]

What age have you offered to those outside of Riftwatch?

Tsk. [Theres another (mild) tug at the end of his own handiwork for daring to ask that question— but it's the tone that keeps everything kittenishly gentle; manners would dictate Fenris never ask at all, but manners don't give answers. Plus, he finds he likes that bluntness. That its momentum also occasional swings back around to smack him in the face is just the cost of doing business.

He's smiling when he gets up and crosses the room, taking his brush with him.]

No one's cared enough to ask outside Riftwatch.

[A pause over his travel bag, thick leather buckles held still but for a moment.] ....yet.

But is it really so unthinkable? I mean, granted I know this world isn't all sunshine and rainbows for hardships, but really, I can't be the oldest elf you've come across.

[Oh, gods.

He turns around, peering with renewed focus.]

....am I....?

[Maker, had Fenris really not told him? But of course he hadn't. Two centuries, Astarion had told him that first night, and there were a thousand things more pressing to discuss— and after that, oh, he'd simply forgotten. Astarion looks and acts and feels as though he is about Fenris' own age, and it's only in moments like these that he remembers it isn't so.

Still. There's no way to say this that won't bruise Astarion's ego a little. Ah, well.]

You are the oldest person I have ever met in my life.

[But then, before he can puff up in rage:]

Elves only live to be eighty or so, if they're lucky and live in a place where they can die naturally. [Fifty or so is the morality rate in Tevinter, but for once, Fenris won't go down that dour road.] They— we— share the same lifespan with humans. So do dwarves and Qunari, if it comes to that.

[He cocks his head as a little realization occurs.]

Is that— I thought your age was due to the vampirism. How long do they live in your world?

[I thought your age was due to your vampirism.]

I thought your shock was because of my curse.

[And....maybe it was. Two things can always be true simultaneously, never mind what a tumultuous first night it had been, both of them reeling from respective revelations. New chapters started with a Riftbound bang.

And here, the aftershock.

His shoulders slump alongside the outline of his spine, hands draped inside the borders of his pack, baffled.]

I don't [understand]—

But that can't be right. We're elves, for gods' sake! [We.] You ought to have seven hundred years left, at least. More than a thousand if you're lucky.

[But eighty. A paltry eighty? That's nothing at all. Barely a breath in the grand scheme of things. And just by looking at him, Fenris is already....]

What about your connection to magic? The elven gods?

[A thousand? He can't even comprehend a thousand— Maker, he can barely contemplate two centuries, never mind ten of them. It's so baffling as to defy understanding, for how can anyone stand it? How can anyone not lose their minds over the course of a thousand years? How does that even work with other species (and do they, too, have an expanded lifespan?). It's—

Maker, he's gawking at Astarion, he realizes.]

What about them?

[It's blunter than he means it to be, and he waves a hand, dismissing his tone.]

The gods are dead, Astarion, if ever they existed at all. Personally, I doubt it. I have no connection to them, and as for magic . . . why would that afford me a longer lifespan? It does not for humans.

[But it must for elves in his world. Fenris stands, not thinking of his loose braid— not thinking of anything, really, save that the shock mirrored in them both drives him to action, no matter how pointless.]

Besides: I do not have a connection to magic. My sister did, once, and I am mage-blooded, but . . . I have no magic beyond the lyrium embedded within me, and that doesn't expand my lifespan.

[Mm, debatable, but it's not as if Fenris knows that just yet.]

Does it . . . do the mage elves in your world have a longer lifespan? Or all they all mages?

[Maker, he doesn't understand. It seems impossible that they, each and every one of them, should be blessed by magic, but what other explanation is there? Your connection to magic, the elven gods, Astarion says, as if it was a given thing. As if, though he has never seen Fenris perform a spell, he has assumed he must be able to.]

[....Dead? Never mind Astarion's calcified contempt for all things deified— Maker and Chantry included— his mind reels towards rejection. Bristles in denial that scarcely feels his own, because buried down deep in the hollow of his blackened ribs lies the urge to point across the Veil and spit out that they're right there—

Wretches and despots, all, inclined to ignore the despairing wails of the damned, but dead? No. Not that.]

We're not all— [Mage-blooded. A sister. What terms don't do to dizzy him, those revelations do.] no. Well, I mean, technically there are some wizards that've been rumored to lengthen their own lifespans through the arcane, but it isn't like that for the rest of us.

[His eyes are following Fenris as he rises; little widened flashes of caught light faceted like garnets.]

Elves are creatures of the fey, darling. [And if that doesn't resonate:] Wild magic. Wild places? Forests filled with ancient aspects of creation, inherently infused with the magic of our pointy-eared, entirely untamed progenitors? Oh come on— something in here has to sound familiar to you.

[Please, let it sound familiar. He doesn't want to think about you wilting before his eyes.]

The fey . . .?

[Does the word remind him of anything? Some half-memory forgotten long ago of a story his mother whispered to him: tales of elves long ago who were immortal, whose magic was woven into the very air they breathed, whose lives were so very different than the wretched, miserable ones they themselves led . . .?

Maybe. Maybe. A ghost of a memory, the echo of words long since forgotten . . . and there's no time to recall, not right now. Not when Astarion demands his attention. Wild magic, wild places, and Fenris shakes his head.]

No. I am not trying to be difficult, Astarion, but no. If anything, there is Arlathan . . . it resides now in the Tevinter Empire, but it is a vast forest, and was said to be the capital city of the ancient elven empire. But that was . . . I cannot even tell you how long ago. Thousands of years, maybe. Before humans arrived on the continent, I think I read once.

I have been there. And it is beautiful, I will not deny it. And . . . ancient, too. You can feel the history around you, the age of the trees and the land . . . and there are relics there, too. Remnants and buildings long since abandoned. But there was no . . . there is nothing like you described.

[He feels as though he's failing somehow, and doesn't know why.]

The gods . . . I know their names. I even know their aspects. But if they were ever truly real, they do not have an effect any longer. Mythal, Elgar'nan, Andruil, Ghilan'nain . . . the Dalish still worship them. Pray to them. Beg them for help, for all the good it has done any of our people. The vallaslin— the tattoos they sear upon their faces— are a tribute to them.

But they have never once helped us, not in the thousands of years since the fall of the elven empire. Not when elf is synonymous with slave in Tevinter. Not when we are all but second-class citizens even now, and the humans look at us as little more than fodder for their whims. And there is no magic they offer us that helps us, whether it comes to lifespan or otherwise.

[That feeling only intensifies: a bitter disappointment and a strange sense of grief and guilt, as though he has somehow let Astarion down. And maybe there is a trace of that child still left in him— the one who once long ago listened sleepily to his mother as she murmured about the glory of the elves, for he adds:]

Tell me . . . what is it in your world?

[Mythal, Elgar'nan, Andruil, Ghilan'nain....

They might as well be gurgling noise for all Astarion can recognize in them: no Corellon, no Angharradh, not even a Tethrin or an Oberon to speak of. But the gods did die— ages upon ages ago, before Ao supposedly took reign. Perhaps—

Perhaps nothing, is the snap of a door shut within his mind, pulling presence back into his unfixed pupils. It's not the distant past he should be looking at: it's here. Here, where what is and isn't true is made simple, regardless of what he wants it to be or wishes that it was. There'll be time later to think about ramifications, possibilities, and promise. It's the present where Fenris dwells beside him, and he could lose him to an assassin in a soirée gown just as readily as he could to time.

With a puff of air let out through his nose, he rises. Shoos Fenris back towards the bed and moves to weave a bit of jewelry back in with all those braids— metal cool against his fingers. Cheap glass and painted resin, but no nobles will ever notice in the glow of lantern light.]

In Faerûn, elves only came to live with humans and the other mortals after departing the realm of our gods and being largely cut off from it. Even so, we never found our lifespans shortened.

[There is no coddling; he cannot sense Fenris' guilt or disappointment, and so doesn't think to quell it as he works.]

Has it really always been like that for you?

[There's something so striking about what Astarion tells him, and for the life of him, Fenris cannot say why. He is not like the Dalish, constantly mourning an empire long since gone and praying to gods who have never once bothered to answer; he lives his life as best he can, for there is nothing useful to find in the past. And yet . . . there is something familiar there. Something that strikes a mournful note deep within him, some ancient genetic memory that sits up and whispers: we were cut off, too.

He cannot pinpoint it, and they move on too quickly for him to ruminate. But the thought lingers even as chilly fingers begin to weave in jewelry.]

Yes.

It has for everyone . . . truly, Astarion, I do not think there has been an elf in centuries who has had a lifespan that reached so far. The concept of someone being able to reach even two hundred is as strange to me as our lifespans are to you.

[But oh, that makes him think, and he adds:]

How does that affect your childhood and adolescent years? We consider an elf a child from when he is born to, I don't know . . . ten, perhaps? And then an adolescent until he is sixteen or eighteen, somewhere around there, depending on the elf in question.

Is it the same for you?

[His touch has fallen into stillness faster than it takes for clarity to keep pace; tethering the last piece of jewelry more distractedly than he'd like— necessitating a doubling back for security's sake.

Light jingling. Little tugs.

They really are like humans, aren't they?]

No. [Comes thinly, sticking to his tongue.] We're considered adolescents till we're in our eighties, more often than not.

[You're upset, he does not say, for he doesn't make a habit of stating the obvious. Anyone with ears can hear the sudden terseness in Astarion's tone, and it doesn't take a genius to understand why. I thought I had centuries more to live in freedom, Fenris thinks, and he's not entirely wrong.

I must seem a child to you, he thinks of saying. It's not an untrue thought, but it feels false right now, cloying in a way he has never indulged.

So he's quiet as Astarion finishes weaving those ornaments into his hair, tipping his head this way and that as directed. There's something quietly pleasing even now about feeling another touch him so intimately, little points of connection that he knows he will never tire of.

But when he finishes and he can turn, he does: twisting around to catch Astarion's eye, his brows furrowed.]

You're disappointed.

[Tell me.]

[All the things that it could be— all the possibilities that Fenris (fairly) thinks of—

Astarion's expression locks itself abruptly. He blinks too many times. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out aside from breath (true breath, not its lifeless imitation); just a narrow exhalation cut through parted teeth, no voice.

What does one call compulsion without compulsion? (Reflex.) A pale chin dipped towards his shoulder, a pair of eyes squinting through the darkest smears of kohl around them. Like he doesn't understand the question. Like it's been asked in Rivani or Tevene.]

I'm—

[Sounds as stunted as it did in hollow palace chambers. Again, a puff of air squeezes from his throat, a shallow mask to cover up his shame.]

unhappy to think that I might lose you.

[And then, after hanging for a beat too long, as if only just realizing that it was the truth let loose from its cage, Astarion stiffly rises without another word— footsteps ferrying him across the room to his belongings. There's a glimpse of sunset crawling through the border of a plaster-lined window, cutting across the buckles of his pack, and it's one more apt reminder of where he needs to be. What he should be doing.

There's little said after that.

If Fenris responds, Astarion won't hear it— cuts short any attempt at continuation with a liar's sly wit, grinning all the while. But the pinnacle of Astarion's efforts isn't the tailored silk that fit Fenris' measurements like a scandalous glove, or the bangles in braided hair, glinting against the back of his long, lean neck. It's the pair of masks that he procures before they depart: a gilded pair— one gold, one silver— fashioned with fine features, and themed after the moon and sun.

And because of their importance, unlike the jewelry he'd plucked up on arrival, they're real. True precious metals, the sort nobility would only entrust to those assets they most want to show off.

Astarion's fanged grin is lost in shadow underneath blinding bright gold filigree; one reflects light beautifully, the other veils intent, and if nothing else he's certain that the latter will keep Fenris safe tonight no matter what comes next.]

Remember, you know exactly how to play this, darling. [Arm in arm, the grand chandelier strung above the foyer flaunts thousands of strands of cut glass by bouncing scattered rays off of the pale planes of their twin masks when Astarion leans in, a rumble in his throat.

Ordinary: for a pair of precious starlings to swan about together independent of their masters. Ordinary: that in the style of Orlesian theater and song, one of those twins is sweet while the other is dour. Not ordinary: for one of the two to be branded with strange markings when the other isn't— but it wouldn't be the first time a baron or baroness made due in that regard, and Orlesians are resourceful people to the last.

Or at least, that's the story they're going with.]

Find yourself a nice, secluded spot with a good view. Better, if you can manage to snag a little gossip.

I won't be long.

[I'm unhappy to think that I might lose you.

An hour later, he still can't quite get over hearing the emotion said aloud.

He feels the same. Of course he does. There's no other explanation for the way he'd brightened upon realizing they would room together on this trip; there's no real reason he would have agreed to go to Antiva all those weeks ago if not for growing fondness. And yet it's one thing to know that passively, a spark building into a hearthfire in his chest.

It's another to acknowledge it.

You'll lose him, something sings shrilly in the back of his mind. Just like you lost Hawke and Isabela and Varric, you know how this goes, don't you? You'll give too much of your heart away. You'll grow too used to his company and let your defenses falter. You'll let yourself rely on his humor, his wit, his charm; stupid boy, you'll delude yourself into thinking it will never change, and then it will hurt all the more when he leaves.

And he will leave, because that's what people do. That's what friends are: people who mutually use one another until they get what they want, and then they go.

(And he knows that isn't true, but what his head knows and his heart weeps cannot always be differentiated).

And yet what is he to do? He can no more stop his adoration than he could the beating of his heart or the inhale of air into his lungs: it happens, whether or not he wants it to. And the thoughts keep churning around his head, over and over, a panicked response with no answer— so that he's almost grateful to be given a task to focus on.

Fenris does as he's told: tucking himself into the shadows of a pillar with a drink in hand. Dutifully he glances around the party, watching the guests as they move about. This part, at least, he knows how to do: it was not solely for appearance's sake that Danarius had him serve wine, and knowing how to listen for particularly juicy bits of gossip was yet another aspect of his training.

So: he hears that the Viscount Blacktree has embarrassed his lord father yet again by fretting over the ethics of hunting. He hears that the Lutece twins have hinted at yet another magical breakthrough, the third of the season— and that the rumors of their, ah, preferences towards one another's company have only grown worse. He hears that nobody has seen the Cousland daughter in ages, and no one can decide if she's died or run off with an elven servant.

And he knows without having to be told how little all of that adds up to, especially when it comes to their mission. So perhaps it's no surprise his eyes inevitably flit back towards the glimmering figure flitting his way cleverly through the crowd. Not tracking him, not as a jealous lover might, but merely . . . paying mind. Watching as heads turn and eyes widen, entranced by such beauty— and tensing up when he finally approaches a noble tucked away against a pillar, watching the proceedings without actively participating.

Fenris cannot hear what they say, not from this distance. But oh, he does notice when the man lays a hand on him. Gently, not groping, despite his station— for though it's a masquerade and the entire point is anonymity, there isn't a person in the Orlais who doesn't notice when a duke is in attendance.

Even when the duke in question would rather not be noticed.]

I would not call it loneliness that has me here on the sidelines . . . there are enough people dancing, and I need not participate to enjoy.

[An answer to a sweet question posed by the little starling in front of him. Vakares' voice is low and even, something gentle peering out of the eyes of his pantherine mask. There's amusement there, but no inclination to rouse just yet.]

But you are a new face here. I cannot recall you at any of the other fetes the Marquis has thrown— though, [he adds, a note of fuss entering his voice despite himself,] there have been so many lately.

[He is so introverted and it is so hard to go to these parties.]

Where did you come from?

[Astarion was never bad at this, understand. He always had a knack for it, with or without memory intact. Worked his way through gilded halls or taphouse rooms with the very same deftness of a needle pushed through gauzy silk, erasing any marred spots, any weaknesses, and instead driving them to shine. The conversations lasted. The charm was easy to inspire. So what made him seem piss poor at it in the crosshairs of his master's stare and that of all his divine lackeys, was that inevitably, he cared. That he held no desire to stop caring when left to his own devices— and worser still how that ill habit always seemed to rear its head and infect everything around it, rather than buckling to correction and obeisance. It affected his hunts. It poisoned his siblings. It was never one botched night when it set in, but rather weeks of fractious mourning, or failure or defiance, tumultuously clinging to the shores of whatever fondness had inspired, until finally uprooted. Pulled loose. Hewn clean.

A smart creature would learn from that. Astarion did eventually, after all.

But a smarter creature would've learned it sooner.

Then again, a smarter creature wouldn't be standing here smiling through gold features without blinking. (A smarter creature wouldn't be dwelling on the nagging feeling of distance growing stronger; antithetical to Orpheus, yet no less desperate at heart.) A smarter creature wouldn't be able to handle autonomy with a familiar purpose. (And a smarter creature wouldn't be smothering a prickling sensation risen along the back of his own neck, turning over the measure of his plans and wondering— )]

Does it matter?

[Is a question turned away from Fenris' observation, low-throated and etheric. The fact that it preys on all things preconceived regarding elves— let alone servants and their masters— at affairs like these does more than its fair share in masking what lies underneath.

Instinct. Inculcation.

White noise.

The man he's speaking to can't quite qualify as handsome when there's the matter of masked features here in play, but if nothing else, he has a very pleasant voice. Gods swear it's almost familiar.]

It does to me.

[It's more honest than sentimental. He isn't a simpering romantic looking to lose himself in this elf; rather, there's something almost amusingly stark about how he says it.]

Do not take it as mere nosiness. In all honesty, if you are not from here— and I suspect you are not, at least not originally— I would hear how you see these things compared to what you are used to. Else all I will have to go on is impressions.

[He nods out to the marble floor, where countless pairs glide in sweet synchronization, every step perfect, every beat kept— at least in theory. And yet the longer one looks, the easier it is to spot the disparities: little mistakes here and there. Little slips born of too much alcohol or unfamiliarity with the latest dances in Orlais, but oh, there isn't a soul alive who isn't taking notice.]

My former countrymen give themselves away with their tempo . . . they expect the music to be faster, I suspect.

[There's no hint of an Antivan accent in Vakares' voice, but it's an Antivan pair he nods to: the woman slightly yanking the man along as he attempts to temper her, her eagerness to move faster outpacing the tempo every few beats.]

They find the food too light for their tastes and overcompensate with drinking wine . . . but they, at least, know how to play the game better than some of the Southerners.

[The Free Marchers who attend, standing out as too crass, too loud, too different: the ones who don't know it's impolite to take more than one canapé or that you can't enter a dance halfway through. It isn't all of them, of course. Some of the Fereldens blend in perfectly well, trading secrets with a smirk behind their fans; it's just that it's interesting to see the ones that don't— and deduce why.]

But I will not press you for secrets you wish to keep. If you want to stay an alluring mystery, by all means. You're good at it— certainly you've caught the attention of most here.

What will you do with it?

[Most, yet not all.

Much like the servants here scurrying around in the backdrop, the obvious does work. Obviously, Astarion is an elf. Obviously, he belongs to someone here. Obviously, it stands to reason that few would take an interest in him personally rather than the nobility he obeys, and obviously the same is true in reverse— a hound seeks what its master wants most if it's any good, and Astarion habitually makes himself worth keeping. (Ah, but how like old times it is, even when it lacks for horror. No coincidence that when he turns his knuckles to let them brush along the inside of his new companion's wrist, he can almost hear the echo of Fenris' rasp somewhere in the din. You don't have to, it sounds like, but when his eyes dart peripherally he doesn't see anyone he recognizes).

It's a diversion through the obvious. A smile in his voice, obscured by gilt features. The slide of his thumb playful, not seductive— they're not equals, after all. But letting him in? Someone powerful and clearly interested? There could be more good than harm, there.]

I want to know who has the Marquis' ear.

[Anything else would never sell, anyway. Extensive studies about cultures and world states don't hold a candle to experience.]

[It's blunt, for all that it's tied up with gilt ribbon, and it earns a low chuckle even as his skin tingles in echoing reminder.]

Mm, yes, I imagine you do.

[You and everyone else, little one, and he startles himself with how naturally the endearment comes to mind. Since when is he a person who gives out pet names so freely? Never mind to a complete stranger . . . odd enough he's bothering to chatter at all beyond a few polite words, but there's something about this elf that compels him to speak. And why is that? It isn't attraction— Vakares isn't blind, and of course this elf is a pretty thing, but that has never had much bearing on how he views a person.

(And yet his skin tingles in echoing memory of that glancing touch. And yet his next few breaths are a little shallow, faint and unnoticeable to anyone but him— he is too honest with himself to ignore such a tell).

Strange. And yet not so strange he feels the need to bring things to a pause. Vakares takes a breath, slow and even, and continues:]

Most everyone here does too. I cannot claim to have any particular insight into that arena.

[The Marquis is technically his cousin, but then again, most of the nobles across Thedas are related one way if not another.]

But if I had a guess . . .

[Hm. He nods towards a woman decked out in holy whites and vivid scarlets, her costume clearly based on Andraste.]

I would say you might want to flit around that woman there. The Baroness of Seleny is fond of him, and dotes on him the way an aunt might. But you'll have to go about it carefully: I suspect your usual charms might not work. She is, ah, devoted.

Really?

[Is a surprised intake of breath.]

All I need do is ask and I get your qualified opinion just like that?

[Behind the mask, red eyes flit towards their designated mark; gameness glittering in their reflection— though it's the duke that ultimately earns their shine when they slide back. Attention traveling up from that wrist, to its elbow, to broad shoulders....

....To the shaded underchannel of the Duke's lithe throat.]

No desire for anything in return?

[What could an elf give nobility of this caliber? The obvious, of course. And there's an oddness present in the fact that for all Astsrion's thoughts had lingered on Fenris' whispered urging, little one spells the start of realization that....perhaps he wouldn't mind after all. Perhaps there's something to be said for agency. Control. Freedom. (Perhaps there's something to be said for this strange, familiar man whose charms leave him searching for identifiable marks: does he remind him of someone, is that it? Vincent? Sebastian? No, that can't be it. Each search draws closer to reminders of Fenris, but Fenris isn't like anyone he's ever met before.)

It makes no sense. It's not important.

Besides, exhilaration and affability go hand-in-hand, don't they? Maybe he just missed the splendor of soirées without the sour note of looming torture.]

Not even a glass of wine? A fetched hors d'oeuvre? A dance?

Edited (apostrophe get back in there) 2024-12-01 04:33 (UTC)

[He laughs softly, but it isn't directed at Astarion. His offers are sweet, but his disbelief is, well, appropriate, and all the more so when directed towards a duke of his power. Vakares should be asking for something, shouldn't he? He sticks out all the more if he doesn't, but then again, that's always been his way.]

Mm, well, not a dance. I have two left feet.

[He doesn't, honestly, do all that poorly in dancing, but being able to perform the moves is far different than enjoying it.]

Call it a gift, with no expected strings attached. I doubt you'll find a rarer prize in these halls, but I have no desire to barter for such information. You would find it out sooner or later regardless; it's hardly a secret.

[But . . . hmm, and he cocks his head, regarding Astarion warmly. There's no small amount of interest there, flattered and quietly thrilled by the slow drag of scarlet eyes— but nor does he reach for the elf just yet. He is confident in himself, Duke Vakares, but self-confidence does not always mean having the courage to flirt.]

But with that said, you have your prize. I would not say no to continuing our conversation, but not as an extension of that. Stay if you wish, or don't.

I certainly wouldn't mind the company.

Edited 2024-12-01 22:35 (UTC)

You know, a smarter man would think you were leading me astray. [Grand Games and closed-off spaces don't play well with honest guesswork; an accent can be feigned, an investment guarded by way of trussed up little half-truths too small to tip the scales.

But amusement overtakes Astarion anyway regardless of scar tissue and suspicion. Against the grain of his sharp mind he feels a scoff inside his throat (soft, all of it) before it leaves him, spurred on by that admission. Either the Duke is an exceptional liar, or he's the second most honest man in Thedas.

Either way, Astarion hasn't moved just yet.]

If I am, it must be a subtle plot indeed— and my ego enormous, to assume you'll be drawn in by allure alone after I've given you what you desire.

[He sips at his wine. There's a small smile gracing his lips, some part of him amused by his companion's refusal to simply flit away and take what he can.]

I have played this Game for a long, long time. You have too, haven't you? You seem to know it well enough. [A guess, but not a far reach, not when the elf is probing so curiously at him.] Then you know that too often, all the whispers and feints and ploys all amount to absolutely nothing save petty gossip. Nothing changes. Nothing shifts, except perhaps who is invited to what party or who wears an out-of-date dress.

I do not seek to lead you astray, I promise you— but perhaps I seek to change the nature of the game itself, for it's a rare thing that information is shared freely. Besides: the Marquis is a dullard and an oaf, and I would not be sorry to see him inconvenienced.

[He wouldn't be sorry for a lot of things should they happen to befall the Marquis, his tone suggests. But there's a difference between voluntarily retreating from the Game and smashing the board entirely, and Vakares has no desire to be called in for treason.]

Now, then: you have the puzzle pieces. [His tone is a bit more instructional now, a tongue-in-cheek lecturer.] The Baroness of Seleny is devout, or at least makes a grand show of being devout, and I suspect it is genuine enough. She dotes upon him, as I said, and advises him. The Marquis himself is rather more interested in hunting than he is in politics, and when that isn't enough to occupy him, he lingers in the arms of his mistress.

[Vakares nods to a woman who stands nearby. She's beautiful in the same way a knife is beautiful: all sharp edges and gleaming countenance, but there's something in the glint of her eyes that warns she isn't to be trifled with. She stands out among the crowd, her black hair a vivid contrast to the scarlet silk she's clad herself in, every inch glimmering with small rubies.]

She hails from Nevarra, though that may or may not be true. There's very little anyone can find out about her past.

[He raises an eyebrow.]

Which way do you think they sway, with the Venatori calling out freely for allies? And to what end?

[It's an honorable endeavor. An admirable one too for that matter, and it's because of that notion's inherent lure that for a moment Astarion almost tricks himself into believing its potential. The Duke is charming if not quietly withdrawn; his corner of the fete feels calmer for it, more comfortable in its overarching airs.

But the world will push back first before it ever emulates his stride.

Astarion simply settles in beside him in lieu of taking up a banner. Propped against the wall at listless angles, nursing his own drink between splayed fingers— he watches the horizon, and marks the players on the board, as prompted.]

What I think is that dressed in that, she very much could wake the dead even if she isn't from Nevarra. [But the unspoken is louder in the silence that then follows with a grin, not for a servant to ever utter. Not even here.]

....where is it that rubies are mined from again?

[He smiles at that joke, for it's amusing enough (and he does not like the Marquis' mistress, snobbish thing that she is). But it's what comes after that intrigues him: that slanted grin, charming in its roguishness and cleverness both— and emphasized by the question that Astarion offers him.]

Neromenian, I believe.

[One of the cities along the coast within the Tevinter Imperium, and it's— it is what it is. No one expects all trade to cease just because two countries are at war; ideologies are all well and good, but money is money, and those with enough gold can turn blind eyes easily enough. It's not so shocking that she's adorned in jewels from those they're at war with . . .

. . . but it's not going unnoticed, either. There are whispers here and there, speculation and rumor, and Vakares wonders if that isn't the point. Say what you will about the woman, but she isn't stupid: she'd worn this outfit on purpose. And now every motion, every movement, every soft throated laugh or sharp smile is a deliberate message— though what that message is might be up for interpretation.

He glances at Astarion, one eyebrow raising (invisible behind his mask, actually, but he forgets that, too eager to discuss tactics).]

And what of it?

[Tell me, for he wants to measure just how clever this elf really is.]

Mm? [It's feigned surprise, and wholly so.

It also doesn't care to mask that fact.]

Oh nothing. What could I possibly say about such a delicate affair?

But I do think it's quite fun, isn't it? Sex and piety— a devil on one shoulder and the maker's bride atop the other. [Astarion's shoulders shrug against the wall where he's slung, dramatically punctuating his point with a playful bit of showmanship. One shoulder, then the other, and then—

A nudge against Vakare's own with his own.]

Behind closed doors, I'd bet on the Neromenian rubies.

[Maker, but it's been too long since he's been touched. Not even romantically, but platonically too, for the gentle bump of the elf's shoulder is a thrill all unto itself. It lingers, his skin tingling through two layers of fabric, his eyes softening just a little in a swell of longing he wishes he didn't feel.]

You would win that bet, I suspect. Though I can't say I know for certain . . . the Baroness is craftier than she looks.

[And he shouldn't do what he's about to do next. Or, no, that isn't right: he never does what he's about to do next, for such things aren't his style. But he's a little lonely, and the wine is good, and this elf's eyes glitter as they peer up at him— and Vakares is only mortal.]

Now I have an exchange for you. What would you ask of me, if I wanted to know just why you want to know which way the Marquis is going to fall?

[Were he home, it would be the constellatory endpoint of one brilliant trap. Here, the moment he would've spent a whole night chasing after like a bloodhound, that same breed of openness and honesty that would've netted him nothing more than the humiliating tang of fetid rat blood rather than so much worse. It was the rotting carrot rather than the inevitably risen stick, and yet still he feels the ingrained thrill of its success on instinct.

The Duke's eyes on him, the Duke's latent sense of yearning, tanginle where it oughtn't be. Made even better by the fact that elves merit hardly anything in this world outside derision, and yet—

(What would a meretrix ask of a Duke in the labyrinthine heart of Orlais?

Everything, answers something back.

Dangerous. Dark as the pleasant thought only a vampire— former or otherwise— could nurse along inside its frigid chest. He doesn't even want to. Not really. But despite his neophytic first flight on the heels of someone better, the graveyard still has him. It's there in pallid skin and knifing fangs. Beneath the mild, inexplicable bond (and the pity for palpable loneliness lapping at his heels by proxy), pacing like a tiger in its cage, his first thought is a flash of vibrant cruelty.

Put away.)]

Surely you understand that my altus would be greatly displeased if I were out here spreading all their secrets for fondness' sake.

[Yet the question was what would he ask— not what could he ask.]

But if I were in the business of dealing my own downfall, [As Astarion Ancunín always was.] I'd start by asking for your name, so that I could remember it. Something to take home with me.

A souvenir.

[It's a nothing-bargain, as his old tutor would have called. Giving away something for nothing at all, the most foolish— and most often committed— mistake in any negotiation. Every word, every smile, every look and glance and name and date and title all have value; to offer them up for nothing at all is like hanging out free money.

But he's rich, when all is said and done, and in more ways than one. And though he knows better than most the foolishness of believing in things like sincerity or connection . . . he likes this elf too much to deny him.]

You realize the point of a masquerade is anonymity, don't you?

[Of course he does. Placing his hand on his breast, he offers Astarion a deep bow from the waist, graceful and fluid as only years of training can produce.]

Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares . . .

[He sneaks a small, conspiratorial smile at Astarion as he rises.]

But Vakares is far less of a mouthful.

[How regal Duke Vakares is. Even tucked away amongst his peers he stands out for that, lionish and striking. In a way that's beautiful. In a way that invokes a teething sort of jealousy— this is what you were, once. This is what you were born to be— no longer.

But that's nothing new. Two centuries spent wearing a different sort of mask always made him feel this way; at least here he can't feel a collar round his throat, choking out the thought of self-sufficiency or pride.

At least here, he has a choice.

And with the luxury of freedom in his corner, Astarion returns that bow. Graceful and fluid as only years of training can produce. Not a mockery or mimicry of it, nor something made to entertain the fickle whims of nobility that couldn't care less about him past his service. A truth revealed— if only through sleight of hand.]

Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares, [smooth as butter on the tongue, that recitation, his red eyes lifted just before the rest of his body follows suit. As it is with all things: the repetition helps it stick.]

Having my mouth less full of sweetness isn't my idea of a good time.

[Ah, but then there's the question of a name, isn't there? Telling the truth would jeopardize the assignment. Moreover it would jeopardize him, something he can neither ignore nor abide. Yet if anonymity is the point, he can make the trade more fair, at least, by offering a name he's used before— even if it wasn't right.

Viniquessë, is what I remember being called.

With that, he takes his prize in turn: an evening spent soaking in the tidbits of proxied information, more than enough to bring back to Riftwatch for the mission in totality despite this having been the first night of scouting on its own. So well done, in fact, that he stays beside the Duke a little longer to bid farewell to the second kindest man he's ever known, returning to the first holding a bottle of stolen wine plucked up from the Marquis' cellar. After all, in Orlais elves go where they're needed. And isn't it funny how that translates to everywhere?

Speaking of which—

Hm.

A gentle turning of his head this way and that through the milling of the party reveals nothing. He'd thought his companion would be easy to spot, but....

Where is he?]

[It takes them some time to reunite.

Not forever. But Fenris, no matter what Astarion had assured him, really isn't built for this kind of subterfuge. He can flirt with the best of them, coy remarks and drawling statements, but only when he means it— and what few vague attempts he'd made tonight were middling at best and utterly awkward at worst. Better to quit while he was ahead, in his mind; at least he wouldn't spoil the duel act Astarion had spent so much effort making for them.

Besides: slipping out of the party means he doesn't have to watch Astarion ply his trade. And maybe he's aware of his own aversion and maybe he isn't; all he knows is that there's a thickness in his throat and nausea in his gut each time that Duke laughs or reaches out to steal a touch— and that the feeling only lessens, never abates, no matter if Astarion is in his sightline or not.

He roams, for their thoughts align: no one notices an elf, even a prettily dressed one, for every human assumes elves know not to risk the wrath of their betters. And as he roams, he makes himself useful, collecting information and finding things out in his own way. His disheveled appearance speaks to that: his hair sticking up a little here and there, his sleeves pushed up his forearms and his mask just a little askew from being taken off and put back on blindly. As for what he does and who he talks to— ah, well, that's something he'll tell Astarion soon enough.

For now, he lurks in the shadow of a convenient pillar, a little ghostly as he deliberately draws attention away from himself. A rogue's art of seduction isn't in his repertoire, but hiding in plain sight? That he can do. Nobles' eyes slide right over him; most of the servants don't even realize there's a person lurking but a few feet away. And when Astarion comes looking—

It's petulant, but he watches him go by just once, tracking him as he weaves through the crowd. His thoughts are sulky, lingering on just who else Astarion might be looking for, and he doesn't know why he does it. He isn't upset with Astarion; he isn't even sure who he's upset with, except perhaps himself.

But it's a momentary impulse when all is said and done, and he corrects it the next time Astarion drifts near him, stepping out of the shadows and catching his eye.]

The Marquis is a generous host, I see.

[Amusement threads itself through his dry-as-bone tone.]

Does he know you're availing yourself to it? Or is this a gift for our altus?

Oh- gods. [Is a faintly startled exhale that breaks into a laugh once Fenris catches him proper, easing back into his shoulders and the long line of his spine now that he knows he's not been cornered unawares.

Yet it's genuine, the melt off into warmer shoals. The roundedness that seeps into the places where his mask doesn't reach, uncovered soon enough. Gilded decoration pulled up and pulled off, exposing the razor shine in crimson eyes.

Come here. Come away. A little further right of center stage into the margins where even the staff runs scarce— shadowed by moonlight cutting through a latticed terrace. It catches on all the places where Fenris' primped presentation has come unstrung.

Which is charming, as it so happens. Unlike the way he and his siblings always persisted.]

Me? Availing myself? Perish the thought, I'd never take such liberties unwarranted. [A flash of teeth; an outstretch of covered fingers that slips a few stray hairs into place once more around the shell of one downturned ear.]

But our blessed altus did relay he's feeling unwell and wants us to partake in his stead.

[Without thinking, Leto tips his head, pushing against Astarion's fingers in one subtle gesture. The press of them are cool against Leto's flushed skin, his skin soft in all the ways Leto's own fingers aren't. It's an impulse, there and gone, and in the next moment he covers for it: tugging his mask free with more fumbling than is strictly required, giving Astarion time to pull back.

(He doesn't regret it, though. Not for a moment).]

Did he now?

[Oh, his expression is growing warmer, losing some of that sulkiness in favor of amusement. There are few things that perk up his mood more than undercutting some Tevinter noble— even when said noble is, well, fictional. And now that Astarion is here—

But perhaps he's being too hasty. His eyes go from green to white and back again as a breeze picks up the leaves in the terrace, moonlight rippling over both their expressions.]

Are you done for the night?

[It's soft, for his ire truly isn't with Astarion, not at all. And in case some of that tension threads its way through, he distracts again: reaching to pluck that bottle deftly out of Astarion's fingers so he can pry it open.]

[He can feel it, too. The unraveling. Little traces of their comfort coming home to roost— first of them that touch above Fenris' ear, retreated from, and yet....

Well, it surrenders to something that doesn't feel like a rejection, only equilibrium.]

Done? [Short flex, fingers letting Fenris have the run of the bottle; all yours, darling. No matter what he says, he brought this for his companion. His patient, fête loathing companion who's earned his every drop.] Well now that depends on what you mean by it.

Done circling the golden glories of Orlais' uppermost echelons? Oh yes, darling, tonight has run its course.

Done enjoying myself on the other hand.....

[Ah, now that's a dracolisk of a very different shade. ]

[Good, and he feels no guilt about how pleased that makes him. Fenris knows the importance of missions like this, he truly does, and every single one counts if they're to oppose Corypheus— but he can't help the seething resentment that pulses its way through him each and every time. Resentment for Riftwatch and the assignments they so easily give Astarion; resentment for all the nobles in the room who have the nerve to laugh and dance and act as though they haven't a care in the world.

But here and now, his only focus is in front of him. His fingers make quick work of the foil and cork, casually pocketing both, before offering the bottle back to Astarion.]

You earned it. It's only fair you get the first sip.

[He shifts as he says it, leaning up against the wall and making himself a little more comfortable. Angled like this, he can keep one eye on the party just inside, golden light spilling out as music wafts through the air, and yet still keep Astarion in his sightline.]

If you weren't working tonight . . . would you want to be here?

Tell me the appeal.

It is work, darling. [He sips because he's told to; celebration all the sweeter on his tongue, burning scarlet on his lips. What he says before it? Oh, no more than an emphasis, not an explanation. Not to someone else that knows. The little intricacies that transmute recitation into resonance itself: I know what you've been through, because gods swear in all their elaborate misery, I've been there, too.]

And yet it's beautiful. It's warm and rich with life, unlike the darkness where I felt I'd slip away beneath those swells of welling anguish, unseen. Soon forgotten.

But like any job, it's not what I'd fancy for myself, had I the opportunity to choose.

[He indulges in another sip, head canting playfully towards his own shoulder. Deliberate in prolonging the act before holding that heavy wine bottle out, neck first.]

Too many memories. None of them belong.

What about you, though? Find anyone interesting in your hunts?

[His eyes linger on Astarion for a few moments before he takes the bottle. There's something so unique about the way he threads in those dark memories, weaving them through conversation so deftly that you could almost miss if it you weren't paying attention. Unseen, soon forgotten, and it's so unlike the blunt, angry way Fenris offers his own traumas. Cleverer. Easier, too, to move on from them instead of making the conversation come to a screeching halt.

It's a talent he doesn't have, Fenris knows, but it's one he admires. And maybe someday he'll find the words to say it.]

A child, of all things.

[He offers a little smile, softer and easier around the edges, as he takes a swig of that wine. It's sweet and rich, lingering on his tongue and easing some of the tension in his system.]

There are always slave children lurking about in the back halls of these places. [It's an oddly fond tone he uses, for though his past is murky, there are hints sometimes. Smears of colors and snatches of sound; he must have run around at a party not unlike this one long ago, keeping out of the way and sneaking what food he could. It's not a wholly unpleasant thought.] I asked her what she knew and paid her for her troubles either way, and she was happy to tell me all the things she'd seen: strange visitors coming to the estate lately, smelling of iron and earth. Templars with scarlet eyes and an urgent look in their gazes . . .

[He tips his head, glancing over at Astarion as he passes the bottle back.]

I suspect our Marquis is dealing in red lyrium.

[Someday, he will. And if nothing else, for now it's Fenris that catches Astarion wholly off his guard, surprise brimming in an expression that's only partway obscured for the scantest of seconds— segue brief before his own mask comes off, shadow flitting over the bemused curl of his lips.

A child of all things. A single, unimportant, no doubt truthful-to-his-own child. While Astarion was off hunting coattails and causerie, Fenris went right to the genuine source. What a beautiful beast you are, the white flash of his jagged fangs seems to say. What a clever, -clever- thing.

This is why he wanted him here, that stark difference in perspective.]

That....[Astarion starts, red eyes glittering to watch Fenris slake his thirst whilst his mind crawls back towards remembering those rubies. Even the Andrastisn guise standing opposite to it, begging a question he can't yet answer.] ....or someone close to him.

Someone with their finger to the pulse of his sovereignty, perhaps.

[Oh, and it's startlingly sweet, the sudden appearance of Astarion's face. A little unexpected and all the more pleasurable for it, and for a brief moment Fenris feels something like preening pride fill his chest. Perhaps there's something to be said for a masquerade, for though he's seen Astarion's face a hundred times before, still, here, now, it feels like an earned prize.]

That does seem more likely . . .

[Heat washes through him, the wine already making him pleasantly tipsy.]

And I would bet almost anything you have an idea just who that might be, hm?

Will you tell me? Or must I earn it?

[Time and tide already prove— punctuated by an electric sparkle in those eyes— that there is nothing Astarion would not lay willingly at Fenris' feet if prompted to, dropping everything from gossip to agonizing truth on the ground like a guttering, half-dead bird sporting puncture wounds in its neck.

His love language is service. It's the only one he ever learned with any sincerity. It's the language he most wants to speak now.

Still it's Fenris that's been pushing him to think before he reacts on thready instinct, and it manifests first in a vibrant twist of amusement channeled high throughout his face— tipped back along with him as he tucks both arms behind him, chin canting low across his throat, head tilted.]

If I demand the latter, I wonder....would you let curiosity lead you....?

[Or would you turn away, and let it lie.]

[Oh, and something in the pit of his stomach flutters pleasantly. Suddenly he isn't so certain of where the world is taking him, but it isn't a worrying feeling. He trusts Astarion, after all, and whatever he asks of him, Fenris is certain, it won't be anything egregious.

Besides: he's never been a coward.]

If it were you at the helm? Yes . . . I think I would agree to most anything.

[He doesn't know what he's saying (he does know what he's saying, the wine making his tongue loose and his face flushed hot). He angles a little closer to Astarion, drawn in by the coy way he positions himself, all rapid movement and eager swoops.]

But only if you'll indulge me in return, once all this is said and done.

[He's never heard that from a friend. Never heard it from anything beyond his many marks, and it smelled so pungently of longing when it came that he can't help pausing just to hunt for that old, familiar whiff of expectation buried deep—

(Foolish. Foolish and overwhelming all in a single moment, when he finds it isn't there.)

He knows what he's saying, and it's far from wine or heady tannins making his tongue loose and his face warm when he cranes closer in tight quarters: grinning whilst his fingertips ghost near to Fenris' chin— playfully passing by.

Wanting nothing than to touch.]

Indulge you how?

I don't doubt the party would be improved by a pair of scantily dressed escorts tussling for victory if you're so restless, but I'll warn you, it's hardly discreet....

[He doesn't recoil from that touch, though he would have with anyone else. Astarion's fingers glide over him so carefully, though, weaving between his marks and leaving only a pleasant tingling warmth in their aftermath. It quietly thrills him, just as the way they're talking does, and he does not linger on just why that is; only grins a little recklessly, his head tipping toward the party.]

Nothing so brutish, [his voice briefly affected, morphing in Astarion's own.] But we have been on our best behavior tonight, when all is said and done. Played the part of consorts perfectly— or at least, [he adds more honestly,] you have, and I have done well enough not marring it.

But consorts are meant to be noticed, are they not? Be daringly memorable?

[Another grin.]

Come dance with me, and let us scandalize every human in there.

[Because he's tired of how small this organization makes him feel, and this will piss off their superiors. Because he hates this country, and this party, and these humans; because he's so tired of ducking his head down and keeping himself safe and nonthreatening for no other reason than he has pointed ears. Because he's drunk and happy for the first time tonight, and he sees no reason not to keep that going.]

But only after you tell me your desire.

[His desire is a bitten tongue and an even broader grin— not Fenris', his own— because he'd been more than ready to beg, petition or steal his way into having such a handsome creature in his arms where everyone might pay witness, dancing as though they belong and aren't somehow sullying the landscape with their very pointy ears. He'd wanted to ask for the same thing, in other words, and instead walked facefirst into his own aspirations.

The borders of his ears are burning, though he shows nothing of his hand elsewise when Fenris stands so close. Like a practiced poker player, he knows better than to let true feelings enter into this, lest he lean too hard, want too much— turn their playful banter into the forthright transcipt of his desires and send the only elf that matters slinking back towards their room in want of distance. So there's an art to the way he lays his focus: sets his profile to the side whilst lifting the level of his gaze, smeared kohl glittering in faint slivers of caught light.]

Nothing that isn't iniquitous by design.

[A fair way to save grace when one's only other real response would be to answer 'same', with the height of all those wasted charms. Grant him some credit, he has more decorum than that.]

So I'll settle for your suggestion, and think it fair pay for my conjecture. [His hand moves like a snake's coils just to fit between them where there's little room, extended in genteel offering.]

....shall we?

Edited 2025-01-10 00:10 (UTC)

We shall.

[Astarion's hand is so soft compared to his own. Not in actuality any smaller or more delicate than Fenris' own, and yet the mind plays tricks on perception, for as he runs a calloused thumb idly over the back of his hand, Fenris marvels at it. Soft and cold, for his fingers are like ice as they thread through Fenris' own.

He draws their joined hands up, his other settling on the jut of one sharp hip. He takes the leading position by default; there's a certain mechanical way he settles himself, stiff and yet not unyielding. He knows how to dance. He even knows how to formally dance, albeit in a somewhat old-fashioned style. But knowing and practicing are two different things; right now, Fenris moves like a man mentally checking off boxes, making sure all his bits are in place, so unlike the way he fluidly slides into battle positions.

One hand here. Weight evenly distributed and leaned forward into the balls of his feet (pinching in the hated shoes). He steps a little closer to his partner, bridging the gap between them until there's only the barest sliver of space. And then—]

Follow my lead.

[It's such a simple little waltz. Most of the Orlesians around them are addicted to complexity: drawing apart and walking forward with only their fingers linked, or thread through one another, trading partners in a complicated weave. But there are others, much like the two of them, who make do with nothing more than a steady set of motions, steady and pleasingly simple.

That isn't what sets everyone's tongue wagging.

'Are they actually—'

'Do you think their Altus knows?'

'Are they even allowed to do that?'

Whispers whip through the room in a swift susurrus, soft giggles and uncertain grins echoing each one. Is it a joke? A game whose purpose they haven't yet deduced? More than once couriers glance up at the Marquis, trying to gauge his reaction, only to find him utterly preoccupied with speaking animatedly to his mistress. And no one is saying anything . . . perhaps it is a joke. Perhaps this is some sort of backwards ball, or a play on nobility.

And Fenris doesn't care. The whispers drift to his ears, and he's more than aware of how many people are staring at them, but somehow, it all comes at a distance. He'll chalk it up later to focusing on not stepping on Astarion's feet, and indeed, that's a concern— but truly, it's that he can't take his eyes away from Astarion. He can't stop noticing the softness of his hand or the span of his hip beneath Fenris' palm. He searches for scarlet eyes behind a golden mask and smiles when he sees them glittering in amusement; he dares to add an extra turn and grins when Astarion effortlessly keeps up.]

Stay close, lest they swoop in and attempt to steal you from me in a spirited effort to get you to join in some inane group dance.

[An answering hum as the tail of that spin brings them closer than they were before. The soft lay of his fingers where they rejoin the smooth dimples along Fenris' lower spine, stronger once they've found their marks. Everything where it belongs— save them, if the swirl of restless whispers flocking them holds any meaning. Any merit whatsoever.

To Astarion, it doesn't.

The noise might wax and wane, and the words themselves might register well enough, but the buzzing in his skull rings louder; the mantra circling its tail that swears in awe as often as it can that this is real.]

Then I'll hold you that much tighter, and dare them all to try. [Is a murmur inlaid near the borders of a lunar mask, blowing back with his own exhale— warmer on its second pass. He can still smell that bottled wine, still taste it in recounted memory. Where there hands fit together— smooth faultlines over rough (and the pulse of his anchor, aching like his own raised pulse)— he palms that grip like he did the bottle: stealing everything he can without crossing into crassness. A subtle, conscious effort for a hungry thing like him.]

....You know, I didn't take you for much of a dancer.

[I was wrong, insists his tone.]

Dexterity, adaptability, flexibility . . . fighting and dancing require many of the same skills.

[The scent of lilac fills his senses as his nose bumps against the edge of Astarion's mask. It's sweet and light, and a welcome contrast to the heavy perfumes the Orelesians tend to favor. He likes it, Fenris thinks, and wishes there was a way to say that without coming across as creepy. I like your scent; I like the way you feel as I hold you like this, small and warm and close; I like how fluidly we move together— there's so many sensations right now he can't tell Astarion about, for fear of it all being ruined.

I like how this feels, he thinks as they move together, right to right, left to left. I like having you near me, and he can't— won't— think about what that means. He won't connect his own relief that Astarion isn't squirreled away with some oafish count with the simple pleasure that pulses through him now. He won't even linger on the way his body is so aware of every place they touch: Astarion's fingers leaving ghostly echoes against the small of his back, and gods, he wouldn't mind if those hands drifted even further—

No.

Too dangerous, that line of thought. Too terrifying for a man still steeling for the inevitable loss.

Focus on the here and now. On the intimacy of whispering things to one another, and all the jealousies they spark by not sharing. On the joy of having Astarion (selfishly, possessively in a way he has no right to be), even in some small way, even if it's only for now.]

Indeed: there have been times when I have contemplated taking up ballet as a hobby. Then again: considering the demographic that usually populates those classes, perhaps not. There are few things less merciless to one's ego than children.

[Is he joking? There's no giveaway in the rumble of his voice, but this close, Astarion might be able to see the amusement glittering in his gaze.]

I could say the same to you, though. Are dances so similar where you're from, or are you simply good at adapting?

[Light, airy: better to say that than in your world.]

Mhmm, so do fucking and dancing, for that matter.

[When all was knife-sharp palatability in the dark, crass humor remains a heady thrill he's still not truly normalized quite yet— and to that extent, it's exactly why there's nothing wicked loitering beneath the surface of that remark.

Well, not overtly, anyway.

Any dedication to packbound levity initially leaned on suddenly recedes the second that his mask is nudged by a pretty nose. One that every last facet of himself is magnetized towards for just an instant, very nearly giving chase; all that saves him from the humiliation of taking things too far is a single, shifting step towards the left timed to the rhythm of the music (and a memory he can't quite place— deja vu— have they done this once before....?) wherein centimeters of empty air do the hard job that he can't: redraw the line between winebound fantasy and reality.

And it's effortless.]

I don't know which is worse: children or Orlesians, for criticism.

[Ah, but 'where you're from.' He likes that, he realizes. The way it makes him seem like he belongs here, rather than the great pretender that he is.

And it's far, far from effortless.]

Dances vary by the region, and much like....[well] pursuits of an undeniably different shade, one hardly needs to know every step to follow a keen rhythm. But shockingly I'm finding this particular dance almost exceedingly familiar.

Then again, there are only so many ways the mortal body can move.

Much like languages, I suppose. [Fenrir and Fenris, he hasn't forgotten, though a few hours has sweetened the comparison.] Though so few possess a fraction of the flexibility we do: it makes for a limited pool indeed.

[It's not meant to be as judgemental as it comes out, but Fenris can't find it within himself to care. One song drifts into another, the tempo shifting from slow to lively and back again, and some part of Fenris hopes that it will never end. That they'll linger here, talking and dancing with the world kept so far at bay, until at last dawn comes and they'll squirrel away to their shared room.

And it won't happen like that, of course. He knows that. Nothing good ever lasts— so best to make this count.]

So show me.

[His head cocks, a challenging little smirk on his lips.]

Sex and fighting both also require an ability to read the other person's body, anticipating their moves and mood, and then improvise as needed . . . show me the differences in your dances and mine. I want to learn more of you.

[And it's true. He's eternally fascinated by languages and culture: how one affects the other affects the one, an endless ouroboros of society; how the differences between each arise, and what marks them. Orlais and Tevinter and the Free Marches, yes, but . . . what of another world? They're so similar in so many ways, but there's still so much that Fenris doesn't know about.]

And we'll see just how well I can keep up.

[Does he trust Fenris not to make a fool of himself in front of a court that'd spurn them both for the sake of a fine challenge?

Yes. Yes he does— and that goes beyond the fawning trust fostered from the awe long set in on arrival's heels: Cazador's court would be in ruins for the lightness in each step or every deliberate twist his body makes, as if he's come to know even his own musculature (let alone his veins, his blood— his weightless sense of balance) the way an artist hones his tools. Neither the work nor canvas, but the means, masterfully wielded.

He'll be fine.

So: cut his foot along the inside line, knee to inner knee. So: a tightening of his right thumb when it sinks into the channel of Fenris' palm, taking lead. So: square up with his left against the small of one muscular back (and try, try to remember how to breathe) as he smiles past his canines in warning. This is the moment before they play. Before they test just how well Fenris can keep up. Best be ready.]

I think I should warn you....

[The next song doesn't leap in so much as it flows. Smoother than a river, yet give credit to the acoustics that he can hear himself speak over the pleasant din. (Rivaini? Antivan? Closer to a tango than a waltz.) Its tempo drives him forwards; quickens his steps; straightens his spine and rounds his neck so that when he stops to spin them both into a dip, he can whisper to the patterns in silver metal:]

....I am much better at dancing than I am fighting.

[Amongst other things, unimportant to this sparring.]

[Fenris gasps.

One short, swift inhale that he won't ever admit to anyone, Astarion least of all. It's there and gone, evidence for it only living on in the way he's breathless as he's bent backwards: held by hands that don't waver and whispered to with a voice that overwhelms in the most alluring way. His heart thunders as heat floods his cheeks, and he doesn't know why, save perhaps that no one has ever done this before.

But there's no time for reflection. In the next instant they rise up out of the dip and move: Astarion driving them forward and Fenris walking back, his eyes gleaming as he remembers how this goes. It's all about letting go, in fighting or fucking or dancing: how to stop worrying about how you don't know what to do and simply let yourself do it, trusting in your own instincts to be your guide. Don't glance down at your feet, for they don't know any better than you what's happening next; instead, watch his eyes. He grips Astarion's hand and feels the tension there, guiding him into turning left or right; he surrenders the urge to lead and instead focuses on following, grinning all the while.]

I see that.

[Muttered wryly as they twist, turn— dip again, Fenris parting his thighs as Astarion leans in deep, their breath hot against one another's mouths. Like this, like this, and without realizing it he's shifted his own body, arching his back as his hips remember what it is to act separately from his torso.

They drift apart deliberately, hands still connected, and Fenris uses the momentum to add a twist, his feet moving in a complex pattern before he's drawn back close once more. Astarion's hand is warmer now, soft and yet with enough power in those wiry fingers to guide Fenris along as they draw back together.]

Is that the best you can do?

[More, show me more, as if they aren't electrified already— but now he feels as though he's in sync with Astarion. He knows the press of his body and the tension in his muscles; he knows how to anticipate, angle, move with him instead of against him, reading his body and relying on him to know just how to catch him when Fenris falls. Even their breathing feels as though it's in sync, ragged exhales and sharp inhales as they move together.]

Don't hold back.

You think I'm holding back?

[The syllables electrify themselves. Spark life at the corners of his mouth. Inspire him as so little else ever manages, weaving in and out between shared rapidfire steps. The little reverberations traveling upwards from the edges of his soles that bristle like perked whiskers, telling him just how close they are to clipping one another— to touching— through the rhythms of a song he doesn't know. Never heard before. (Sunlight on his skin; kind words; outstretched fingers that don't grab for him before he's ready.)

A song he wants to hear again and again and again before the lights go out.

There's a flourish. The flow of weight along his forearm when he yanks his grip backwards just to change direction and invoke the heady rise of excitement without warning. There's more— so much more— for combinations unexplored as his mind races like an animal in practiced pursuit of swifter prey, and the music builds to a crescendo—

'Leave.'

Is all the guard says to them in the meager silence of uncaught breath, once the music stops abruptly. A full dance floor, but he's there beside them like a damned iron post, clearly wearing someone else's (a noble or two or more, perhaps) ire: arms folded, mask colder than the ballroom's overarching sentiment.]

—I really thought we were going to be jailed for that. [Astarion laughs dryly, quenching it with a slow pull from (one last) stolen bottle, invisibly plucked up on his way out regardless of the eyes that watched to make certain they took their leave. Two unmonitored companions with no altus in sight? Tsk tsk. Like letting a greyhound have at the empress' table, apparently.

They won't be getting back in any time soon, but at least the gardens are cool and quiet, and feel pleasant against the sweat-kissed gaps between lacelined clothes.]

Do they send assassins after slaves here?

As if a slave was ever worth something so important.

[Drawled rather than growled, a testament to his lingering good mood. He sits sprawled on the ground, his back resting against the bench and Astarion's leg not an inch away. It's a childish pose and he doesn't care, not when he's tipsy bordering on drunk and still so exhilarated about tonight.]

No, they would hire common thugs, if anything, and half the time they wouldn't even find the right slave.

[Everything feels warm and out of focus right now, pleasant in a way that Fenris hasn't felt in a long time. His head rolls to the side, his smile a little wide as he peers up at his companion.]

You still owe me a dance, though. We did not finish ours, and you never proved yourself to me. You cannot count that as a victory just yet.

Now give me that bottle. And tell me what that dance was, anyway, for it was nothing like anything I have seen before.

[Astarion twists himself to look down, one leg dangling over the side of the bench closest to Fenris, only slightly in the way when he passes the bottle back on demand.]

Seriously?

That wasn't enough to impress you? [Tch.] Such a demanding young lad.

[There's such a resounding click when the bottle leaves his grip— deliberate— jewelry caught against its twin.]

....or maybe you just couldn't get enough? The tango is quite addictive.

[An amused scoff slips past his lips for young lad, for he still hasn't had time to think about the reality of their age difference. But he must be young to someone two centuries old, he thinks muzzily as he stares up at Astarion. He must seem little more than a child. And what is it like, to age so much? Do they grow wiser with every decade, or does it plateau after a certain point? Does an elf with five centuries upon him scoff at the folly of someone who's only a hundred? It's equal parts baffling and amusing, and his thoughts linger there for a time . . .

Until he realizes he's been simply staring up dazedly at Astarion, his gaze unfocused. Ah . . .]

Tango . . .

[He rolls the word around in his mouth, pinning the word to deed. Then, as he grins around the bottle's mouth:]

Let me amend my words, then: I was impressed, for you are an excellent dancer . . .

[He really is, and he lets that linger in the air as he drinks a mouthful.]

. . . but that doesn't negate the fact we didn't finish. And that I would like to learn the rest of it someday— though somewhere where we won't be interrupted, I think.

[But perhaps not here and now. He adds curiously:]

Are all dances like that where you're from? So . . .

[He gestures vaguely with his hands, trying to indicate a general sense of heat and passion, not to mention closeness.]

. . . intense.

[A simple reiteration slides its way in as gloved fingers pull a gilded mask fully free, discarding it in lush grass off to one side (they won't need it now, will they? If he turns up here tomorrow it'll only bring about a swift kick in the ass— or as Fenris so aptly surmised: thugs— let alone a deeper inquiry as to who at all invited them, and he'd rather not bring suspicion down around the Duke's ears either for having spent the evening at his side, an inevitable consequence of investigation. No, he'll cash his check and find another way to ferret a few tidbits of information without being seen, or endure the consequences; Riftwatch can't even begin to compare with Cazador's admonishments, after all), white curls slightly damp from dancing and the blowback of his breath behind that mask, leaving them splayed wildly in all directions.

In sore need of combing down, which he does with his fingertips thereafter, exhaling.]

Keep flattering me and I might actually commit myself to teaching you. You weren't a terrible study, as it so happens. [Is a tease, and an admission, and it comes with a far more praising wink for good measure before he leans back.

Squints up at what few stars can be seen over city lights as they continue on.]

Hah! Goodness no.

Despite the way it is both well-known and perfectly acceptable as an art in higher hallways, you certainly won't catch the Duchal Grandmatron hiking her skirts with both hands at the start of every ball. [Spares one delighted half-snort of delight at the imagined thought.]

Most are either rowdy enough to warrant warnings depending on the establishment, or remain about as stuffy as your typical exchange back there. The usual step-pause-step-step-pauseeee~ [a bored half-sweep of his hand runs long] ~wait for your partner to imagine the whole of your lives together, the children you might rear, growing old together whilst battling the scars of the past through tearfelt romantic readings of old memories plucked from a notebook, something-something kissing in the rain- anddddd step.

Edited 2025-01-21 23:50 (UTC)

[He laughs at that descriptor. His cheeks are aching, he realizes. He can't remember the last time he smiled so much around someone— a real smile, too, not just a mean smirk or sardonic grimace. And as for laughing, Maker, he's rusty at it. The sound startles him even now, a full-throated laugh as he tosses his mask atop Astarion's, quietly gleeful at the wastefulness.]

Come, now.

[As truly chiding as Astarion's own words, his tongue thick and a little clumsy as he speaks.]

You can do better than that for a compliment. Or did I not keep up with your every step and move?

[His hand lifts, his wrist rolling with surprising flexability as he offers it.]

Must I prove myself again? Though you may not find me quite as nimble after so much wine.

[Spontaneous, the laughter he breaks into without thinking; angles his attention low across the bench towards the backs of pretty ears.]

If it means watching you dance again, I'll tell you you're the worst in Faerûn though it'd be a lie—

[Ah.

Ah, that's right. Silly to forget a thing like that when his own palm's aching like it's been stung, but....

His inhale's clipped. His smile thinned down to something sober where he isn't, and it makes it hard to keep up with what he feels before it up and speaks for him.]

You make it easy to think of better days I can't remember.

[Oh.

Something like astonishment crosses his expression as he turns to face Astarion, soft and light in a way that eases the years in his face. For just a moment he isn't the jaded and cynical elf that had crossed the border three days ago; instead, he's something less roughened. Doe-eyed and a little awed by this wondrous, impossible companion who speaks from the heart instead of the head.]

You make it easy to simply be.

[The words are soft, but genuinely meant. And though some part of him balks at such honesty, he doesn't take it back. The moons shine so bright tonight, making Astarion's hair look like starlight; his eyes glimmer in the darkness, twin rubies that Fenris wouldn't look away from for anything.]

And I think it is fair to say I have never met anyone like you before. Not in all my years.

Good. [Sounds more confident than it is— ] because if there was someone else, I'd certainly hate to have to kill the unlucky bastard just to secure my rightful place. [ —Less weak in the knees than he feels, and it's nothing to do with the hiss of spiced static between his ears from too much wine. Too much comfort. The moonlight's blinding at this angle, as is everything else, frankly, and at the fringe edge of that recognition as he leans on all his skills, is the realization that this kind of fondness could be fatal.

That he could make all the wrong choices for someone who looks at him the way that Fenris looks at him, speaks to him as Fenris speaks to him; all strange, enduring brilliance, and a pair of hands roughened by too-familiar scars. Worn down in all the right ways. Made stronger in ways he'd never dreamed of.

Gods help him, he's a fool, that Astarion.]

His mistress is pulling the strings, I think.

[The bottle fits into his hands when he takes it again; he's lost track of the back and forth.] That's what I owed you for your dancing, after all. My assessment. My 'best guess'— which might now be my only guess, considering our graceful exit from the court's envious gaze.

[Something was lost in those breathless seconds. Something that Leto can't quite name, but his heart mourns all the same. Wait, wait, and he doesn't know how to beg to go back, nor even what he would say if they could. He's breathless as Astarion's words weave around him, his mind caught in that endless undertow—

Before he moves on, for there's no other choice.

(Hours later, when Astarion is asleep, he'll allow himself to wonder about that moment. And years from now, curled up in the circle of his arms, his memories half-restored to him, he'll pity his younger self, and be grateful for the way it inexplicably still managed to work out).]

It's enough to satisfy Riftwatch, in any case.

[His voice is a little distant, his mind still caught on before.]

I suspect you're right, but even if you aren't, they will not ask for confirmation.

[It's funny: nothing has changed, and yet all at once, everything has. The air smells a little less sweet; the noises around them are a little too sharp, vulgar laughter and the endless drone of violins now offensive to his ears. His legs are restless, and without thinking he stands, his hands pushing into his pockets as he glances down at Astarion.]

Come on. We can finish the bottle in our rooms. But it will be a long journey back to Kirkwall tomorrow, and a lack of sleep will not help it.

I hear you're clever when it comes to having light fingers.

I'd like to hire your services. What are your prices?

[And, like, hi, and such.]

[Goodness, this one's brusque, isn't she?]

Hire? Oh sweetheart, you don't need to hire me for that: we're comrades, aren't we? Packmates in war-targeted arms or whatever it is we're presently considered.

And if you just so happen to have something I might need in the future, well....

My name is not sweetheart. Nor, for that matter, is it darling, honey, or whatever other moniker you decide to bestow upon me. "Madam Lutece" is my title; you may shorten it to merely Lutece, if that proves too much to type out.

[A bit brusque, yes. And so very fun at parties.]

A favor for a favor. That works, insofar as I can hold up my own end of the bargain. As it so happens, you'll be helping yourself: I need equipment for my laboratory. The more I have, the more I can potentially make for you— and I assure you, the wonders I can create are far beyond what this world can boast of.

There's a warehouse in Lowtown that happens to have a shipment waiting for me. It's full of glassware, and exceedingly heavy, I imagine. Expensive, certainly.

I want it to disappear. I can file for a dispute and get my money back, and if the products happen to turn up in my laboratory anyway . . . happy coincidence.

Are you up to the task?

Oh

you meant

[That sort of clever-fingered reputation, not the other kind that he'd been thinking of.]

And here I was thinking you were offering a fun little night out on the town.

Then again, a spate of unseen skulking in Lowtown isn't exactly an unfun night either. All right, dear mistress Lutece, I can fetch you what you're after, if you're certain all you want is a couple of armfulls of cold, stiff machinery.

[Oh. He meant—]

Very certain.

[Yuk, as an as-yet unborn pup might mutter— though that's no reflection on Astarion himself, mind you. It's just that she has eyes for one person only.]

Does your answer about your price still stay the same? At least your generosity makes more sense, I suppose.

Hah! does it really?

[Well, mm, after a momentary spinning of the gears in deep consideration, he supposes it does; the newborn thrill of heretofore unknown perspective catches him off guard before he falls in step— a handful of seconds spared each time it tracks him down. This is what it's like to be one more rakish rogue in a city full to bursting with them. This is what it's like to see entanglement as a sporting game, rather than a prime directive.

How odd.]

But in light of all our current revelations, in the spirit of camaraderie and friendship

and with ample note of your self proclaimed wonders

yes, my dear, [Didn't she tell him not to use any monikers?] consider this bout of breaking and entering entirely on the house

regardless of whether or not any academic miracles ever happen to surface

[She doesn't love my dear, but it's more tolerable than sweetheart. Pick your battles and all— and besides, she's fairly certain she's heard him call others that. That makes it more tolerable.]

Suit yourself. Though I would caution you against such bargains in the future. Allies we may all be, but organizations are rarely the paragons of virtue they claim to be.

[...she explains rather patronizingly to the former slave. And speaking of being patronizing:]

Are you certain you're up to the task? I can procure some helpers, I expect. Some of the equipment is heavy, and nearly all of it delicate.

[Hm. Fair point there, actually.]

Helping in thieving or helping in carrying?

[Very important distinction, that.]

How competent are you in either arena? "Both" may be the answer.

When it comes to thievery, my dearest Lutece, trust that anyone you might send would only slow me down.

That said, if you're wanting an entire laboratory's worth of equipment stolen, a pair of extra fingers might not be a bad idea. If they're capable of staying out of my way.

Otherwise, well

might be prudent to trim your wishlist down.

That's a bold claim.

[And that isn't a statement of doubt, but rather a fact. If he lives up to the claim— and from what Rosalind has heard, he does— she'll be impressed. She might even tell him as such. It's always pleasant to meet someone competent in their field, especially when there's so many blowhards and braggarts about.]

I'll see about extra hands to aid you when it comes to carrying. And in the meantime . . . I can offer a few incentives, even if the equipment in this world is rudimentary at best. What weaponry do you favor? I can improve it, for starters— unless you think you'd be better served with quieter boots or the like.

[Or whatever it is thieves need. Extra steady lockpicks? She wouldn't know.

(Lutece, she notes, and that makes a difference too. Such an easy courtesy to follow, and yet so few do. It means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but it does matter now.)]

Edited 2025-03-22 23:45 (UTC)

Then I'd say we're quite evenly matched when it comes to bold claims.

Let's see how well they both hold up.

[He's smiling on the other end of the line, though she'll certainly never know.]

Quieter boots would prove quite useful as luck would have it. As would the improvement of my daggers or arrow or bow, were one so helpfully inclined.

But can you really do all that, I wonder? Is it enchantments that you dabble in?

[The scoff she emits might as well be heard across pen and paper.]

No. Enchantments are what money-obsessed mages and swindlers in this city offer, and none of them are worth much. I offer you improvement and innovation.

Daggers and a bow? [Hmm . . .] Come by tomorrow. Even without my laboratory, I can make you a set of daggers I once prototyped in my last world. They'll come back to their sheaths automatically— or your hands, if you'd like.

But, if you prefer elemental enchantments, I can manage that, I suppose. Electricity will give you a leg up— excuse me. Lightning, as they term it in this world. But mine will give you a far greater edge in battle than anyone else has, for no one has lightning as I do.

Well well, such shocking wonders you contain if true. Personally I can't admit to grasping how your own version of it would even begin to surpass this world's already charged interpretation.

Is it malleable? Controllable?

Biddable?

A fire in a hearth and a blazing inferno that eats a city alive have the same starting base, but you wouldn't compare one to the other in terms of power, would you?

Imagine that, and add to it the idea of harnessing it for yourself. Not as mages do, calling it briefly, but wielding it like you would a knife. Though I would not call it biddable, precisely: it's still dangerous, and it would be foolish to underestimate that. Nor is it a pet. It can, and will, kill you if you handle it wrong, and trust we will go over that tomorrow.

What of your world? If electricity isn't familiar to you, what is? Or is it similar to this place in terms of technological advancements? The magic is a wonder, I suppose, and the sociological implications of magic are interesting, but I find it rather primitive overall compared to what I'm used to.

Familiar in some ways, indescribably unfamiliar in others. I suspect you and I would be here all night if we set to picking apart all the minutiae between us. Because at first glance I really thought this was my world— just some odd, unexplored, backwater fragment of it that I, as an elevated member of high society, had never even heard of until now. An assumption very quickly pruned once it began begging the question of where are the airships? The self sustaining lifts and automated doorways powered by something other than oversized chains and a massive hand crank? The enchanted lights that won't threaten to burn down half the city if a vat of oil topples in its vicinity? And don't even get me started on the whole 'human supremacy' nonsense

no offense, of course

But it's utter tripe, and while the concept of mage jail certainly is funny at a glance, one questions if they're even doing it right when the church can't even keep its tenets straight from region to region as I hear. And I've been told there are comparable modernized luxuries in the north, yet the whole enslavement-beneath-the-rifter-hungry-elf-loathing-self-appointed-'god' puts a bit of a damper on making plans to see any of it.

In other words, darling, primitive is a downright apt assessment as far as I'm concerned.

[An opinion Astarion will never voice to the local herd beyond Fenris, however; it's too valuable to fit in with those he doesn't trust, too important to take their side and make himself seem as native as they come, so that if there ever comes a day when sides are taken or sacrifices made, he can at least slip in at their side and warrant not even a second, passing thought.

He's heard the way rifters are spoken of. The distrust at its thinnest and accusations of demonhood or magecraft at its worst— and he's no intention of ever being trapped again. Not by walls. Not by perceptions.

Not anything.]

[Her first, wholly classist thought is: thank god he's a member of the elite. She'd a fool to claim those are the only people worth anything, of course, and she damn well knows better, but still. When it comes to civility and mannerisms, she was raised a certain way, and some preferences still stick. Perhaps there's a reason she's oddly inclined towards him already.

But her second thought, which races past the first and eclipses it within a second, is: airships. Oh, she would dearly love to see those. How are they powered? Is it something similar to her own anti-gravity inventions, or is it more about aerodynamics? Or even magic? And how does magic work in his world, anyway— is it based on a power source, as it is here, where mages draw on lyrium like a battery, or is it more comparative to electricity, which can be generated if you're clever enough to know what you're doing. And that's to say nothing of lights that aren't lanterns, or self-sustained lifts . . . oh, his world must be so much more advanced than this one, even if said advancements went along a different path. It's fascinating, and her eyes gleam as she thinks of it. What she wouldn't give for just a single book on the subject . . .

Add it to the list of things she'll make Robert take her to see, as penance for inexplicably abandoning her here.]

Of course they aren't doing it right. Religion as a justification for any kind of ostracization has always and will always backfire sooner or later. Call it an inevitable constant spread across worlds. It holds right up until all falls apart— and from what I've read, it's already falling apart here. Not that it will stop the church from trying again and again, until they learn to pick on a marginalized group that can't conjure fireballs at will.

Still, I'll admit: it's pleasant to have someone understand. At least we have indoor plumbing now, I suppose that's something. Not much, but something.

Who knows? Steal me enough equipment and perhaps we can grow wealthy again over the invention of something so miraculous as, oh, I don't know. A working clock. A standardized calendar not based on the whims of whatever interesting thing happens that century.

A pen.

[Had he only the means to see betwixt those pretty ears.

Two centuries of ill treatment mark his posture and the fine lines of a gaunted face, but even there, he'd found glimmers of admiration amongst those who'd thought him as highborn as he'd once been. Little embers of import. Of adulation. Admiration. Attention.

He's not so starved these days, but still.

It's nice.]

You mean you can grow wealthy, my dear. I doubt the masses would look well on an elf with more fortune than humility, after all.

I stand corrected. I'll grow wealthy, and you'll become suitably well compensated, only to lose it all because you can't stand not flaunting it. Is that better?

Oh pish posh don't be so fussy, darling. It was pure hyperbole: naturally you'll wear your wealth upon your sleeve, while I, a charming-yet-fashionably favored elf who despite it knows his place, will stay very, very poor and yet want for nothing throughout all his long years. And also will not have a secret hideaway filled with more treasure than he can carry.

Wink. And also wink.

If you imagine that is me fussy, you're in for a dreadful surprise. That was me humorous at best.

Indulge my curiosity, then, so long as he's confessing his secrets to me: what would you do with said wealth, beyond accumulate and hoard it? Don't mistake that for a critique; you'd be among wealthy company if you did so.

[Color him every shade of pleasantly surprised.]

Gods above it is so achingly hard to tell these sorts of things over text. Doubly so when every last creature I've spoken to amongst our ranks is stiffer than a prick at sunrise.]

[But as for her earlier question....]

I'd love nothing more than to tell you I'd be spending it on caviar, courtesans, fine wine and lush trinkets, but I'm sad to say I'd only use it to safeguard myself against the sort of world-ending, slavery inducing threats that might just win this war if we're unlucky.

Don't mourn sensibility. It's a rare enough trait, in this or any world. Though let's hope it doesn't come to that, for I doubt either of us would fair well, Rifters that we both are.

Besides: truly good caviar is rare, and Kirkwall, of all places, won't have anything but cheap imitations. Save your money.

Is your eventual plan bribery, or to go on the defensive? If nothing else, this world has a great deal of weaponry against magic, so I suppose that's something, though I don't know how well it would fare against the likes of a so-called god.

Bribery, yes. Amongst other things such as bought favoritism and exceptional treatment, you'd be surprised what sort of merit a great deal of gold can afford.

Or maybe you wouldn't be surprised at all.

[He doesn't know her well enough to say.]

Either way, few things in any world can be counted on save for money and sex paving the way to absolute safety when all else would otherwise fail, and I don't intend to have my blood rotting in a phylactery or my body in a cell.

Not surprised, no. Though I would argue money guarantees more than sex ever can.

[But perhaps that's a personal observation. God knows there's been more than a few social climbers who have lived their entire lives in comfort thanks to their willingness to spread their legs; it's just that such things don't last when the mob comes to your door.

Then again, she'd been long dead by the time the Vox took over Columbia. Perhaps gold wouldn't have saved her, and her scalp would have numbers among all the other elites killed and put on display. Something to think about.]

So? What have they gotten you so far? I doubt you've been idle, and reputation takes time to cultivate.

So very very little, alas.

Perhaps it's my very nature as a creature from another world- or my ears, though I'd argue they're quite fetching- or my red eyes and jagged fangs, despite their exotic charms.

Either way, few seem inclined to let me hold their hand, let alone their heart.

But you've been here longer, haven't you? Know this lot better overall. What appeals to them.

What doesn't.

[It's a good question. She stares at the wall and smiles without a drop of amusement, quietly ruing the fact this conversation reminds her of another she'd had long ago.]

It depends on what you mean.

For you? I would suspect the tactic to take would be that of exotic appeal. An elf, but a charming one; a Rifter, but a relatable one. They will never accept you as anything more than that, but you must know that already. But if you can appeal to them while dancing that fine line . . .

[Hmm.]

Amuse them. Endear them to you. Thrill them, if you can, but do not scare them, and don't ever remind them that you're smarter, or braver, or more able to kill them. The wealthy elite are much like any wealthy elite: they crave amusement, and want to feel good about themselves. If you can swallow your dignity and become a pet, all the better, but even putting on a good show for a night or three might help.

Either that, or find a way to use your talents in such a way as to make yourself invulnerable. Vastly more difficult, I admit, but more satisfying to one's dignity. It's your choice.

As for this world in particular . . . I suppose the only thing I can tell you is to be elvish enough to intrigue, and human enough to safely relate. Strike any elvish from your speech, but offer to teach them exotic rituals or fun little party games.

But perhaps I'm telling you things you already know. I've been here longer, yes, but you seem keenly adept at survival. Are these lessons you haven't already learned? I would be shocked if the answer was yes.

What were you, before this?

[She is, as it so happens (and every word of it weighs something in him down, pitching heavy in his skin like stone), but it doesn't bother in the slightest; how could it, after all? She doesn't know the origin of nimble fingers.

The depths to which they've delved.]

Perceptive.

[Or resourceful....?]

But I'm not certain I should tell you: it's not the sort of thing spoken of in distinguished company, after all.

And I wouldn't want to offend the very creature I've already grown quite fond of.

You won't.

[Wait—]

You're fond of me?

[Hm.]

Don't take this the wrong way, but that seems ill-advised.

You? Ill-advised?

Oh sweetheart, I adore the sense of humor but you're penning nonsense. Besides, everything I do is already ill-advised anyway: whatever could you do to make things worse?

Edited 2025-04-24 03:26 (UTC)

Don't call me that.

And "ill-advised" in the sense that I am not a nice person. I'm selfish and uninterested in friendship, or bandying pleasantries, or anything that doesn't strike my interest and intrigue me. You will not find me a good confidant.

I could, and have, made things worse by being rather unpleasant company.

Don't mistake this for self-flagellation. I have no issue with being these things. I simply tire of people being shocked when I don't wish to hear about their week-ends, or what they had for dinner last night, or whatever other idiotic chatter they wish to fill their vapid lives with.

Force of habit. Cross my own unpleasant little heart.

But you know, I don't need a good confidant. Nor do I need a shoulder to cry on, or a friend ready to weep in commiseration over the first little slight thrown my way.

In fact, I'd argue that might just be why I find myself fond of you already.

So. With newfound revelations on the table.

I was a whore back home, if one were to be technical about it. Albeit an eternally enslaved one, so there might be a discussion to be had about those pesky little definitions regarding sex and money, but it's the closest thing to accuracy, so it'll have to do.

[. . . hm. She hadn't expected that, and Astarion earns the rare honor of taking her by surprise. There's a little pause, and then:]

You're a particularly well-spoken one, then.

[It's not an insult. It's even sort of a compliment, if you squint, but mostly it's an observation.]

What made the enslavement eternal?

[If only Ros' glowing assessment could've made its way into the right ears nearly two centuries ago. The pains it would've saved.]

Magic.

A curse, more specifically I suppose. Inescapable if not for the little mishap that brought me here.

But that's a thing of the past, isn't it? We're all here now, you and I and the rest of us unleashed oddities. All that's left is- like you said- to make the most of it.

Right?

[Idly, almost without her realizing it, her mind wanders. Magic is just another word for science, after all, and it's not that she would ever keep slaves, it's just . . . oh, she can't help but think of hypotheticals. How would one keep a slave eternally bound, as much a thought exercise as what do I substitute for ledeburite in this backward world or how would I more effectively redesign this organization. It occupies her thoughts for a few seconds, but oh: Astarion truly is much more interesting.]

For now, yes. I have no intention of lingering in this world any longer than I need to— but nor would I go back, were I you. And so long as we're stuck here . . .

There are worse things to be than a whore. Or a slave, if it comes to that. But the boon of a new world is that you're allowed to remake yourself, if that's what you wish. You can be who you always wanted to be, but couldn't, for one reason or another.

It may not end well, mind you. I have seen that, too: vainglorious men desperate to abandon their past and in doing so, lost their grip on reality and morality both. But I have seen it end well, too— or at least satisfying to the person in question.

So: who do you wish to become?

I'd need morality to lose it, and all that's left of sanity for me is gain, so thankfully there's not much farther I could fall under desperation's heel- provided I remain breathing.

And in an ideal world I'd regain every drop of lost glory and respect, but considering my options, I'd gladly trade who I want to be for what: left alone, beholden to no one, capable of pursuing all that thrills me, and freely charming any soul I meet.

[A pause.]

This equipment I'm liberating for you. Is it how you hope to return home?

Eventually.

I aim to use that equipment to attempt to make what I need, but there are so many parts this world is not equipped to even begin to give me— and I'm a scientist, not a blacksmith.

[And why hasn't Robert come? Why hasn't he stepped in to save her? It's a question that torments her night and day, her mind spinning into the worst scenarios when it's late and she can't sleep. He would never abandon her (but he almost did once before); he would never leave her (and what if he can't find her here?).

It's up to her to get herself out of this. She'll find her beloved, just as she always has, and they'll go off together.]

But sooner or later: yes. I will find workarounds, and I will make myself a door and leave this place.

Why? Do you wish to come?

[Not that she would bring him with her to Robert, of course, but . . . still. It's worth asking.]

I suppose there is a touch of temptation there....

[If her world is made of less revulsion for his kind— or at the very least, more opportunity— then oh indeed, it'd be worth the risk just to flourish in the light in ways he finds impossible here (knows to be impossible here, for the higher he climbs the more ire he'll inevitably draw to the surface along with him)— and that's if the war doesn't go to utter shit. If Corypheus doesn't win, if the dread the Chantry's most devoted spout doesn't spark, if the only place that houses people like them doesn't go to utter pieces.

I won't let that happen.

(There's a snapshot scent within his nostrils. Remembered, nothing more than a memory alone, and yet the visual it sparks is clear as daylight. Ozone. Silver-azure glow. Green eyes and a thrumming voice, all swearing to safeguard him against the gruesome grain of all his scars, and he realizes then that's all he has for hesitation: the illogical, stubborn refusal to let go of a promise he has no right to trust in.

No reason to sacrifice an exit for.)

She doesn't need to know that if the day ever comes where she succeeds, he'll wind up saying no.]

What is it like?

A surprisingly difficult question to answer.

The city I spent most of my adult life within is called Columbia, and it was meant to be a crown jewel. Independent of any other country, it floated in the sky, acting as a beacon for morality and religious fervor. To live in Columbia was supposedly akin to living in heaven, or the next best thing. There were no elves— nothing but humans, in fact— but if you could hide your ears, I suspect you would do well there.

The reality, as always, disappointed. It was a city full of religious fervor, keen on oppressing those unfortunates beneath their heel. The city's leader was a madman who was convinced he was a prophet, and he, through the use of technology, could fake it well enough that he had everyone fooled for a time. One of the city's leaders brought in ex-convicts and other "undesirables" to work as brute labor, which might have worked, were we not all trapped within a single, enclosed location.

After three decades, it all fell apart. Revolution, bloody and swift, came for those elite citizens of Columbia, with drastic results. Scalping was not uncommon; rape and murder were par for the course.

[But that's only half the answer. Rosalind smiles faintly to herself, waiting deliberately, and then continues:]

But I was long dead by the time that occurred. The Prophet was a madman, as I said, and rarely do those paranoid, powerful men suffer any kind of weakness. He assassinated me, and it was the kindest thing he could have done for me— for I did not die, but became something different.

And evolved as I was, I could go anywhere— anywhen, if you will— that I so pleased.

We were in an elven realm before I was stolen here. Pretty, admittedly, if not a touch too artistic for my tastes.

But let me not get ahead of myself. What questions do you have?

[God, she's so insufferably smug sometimes, especially when she knows she can explain something to someone.]

[Smug doesn't begin to register— perhaps it would in person, wholly dependent on tone or the little movements of her features, her posture— but either way it requires an awareness that Astarion lacks at present, replaced entirely by something that oscillates (or merely exists between) disgust and fascination.

Because a madman with a violent vision of his glory? Oh, familiarity becomes the tale, no matter how its verses split— as does assassination, though unlike him, she never seemed quite dead to his keen eyes.

Perhaps he missed something.

Perhaps he didn't.]

An elven realm?

[Oh he'll ask about the rest in due time, of course, but— priorities first.]

The Feywilds?

Arvandor?

Evereska?

Lórien, the locals called it. It was beautiful. Strange, and utterly unlike the forests of England I grew up near. The leaves were eternally golden, and there was always singing in the air.

But Arvandor . . . that sounds familiar.

[Memories scattered across a hundred thousand universes, a hundred thousand timelines . . . they've blurred since she arrived here, and it's only gotten worse the longer she remains. Soon enough they'll disappear entirely, her mortal mind unable to cope with the dissonance, and then—

Mmph. She frowns as a fat drop of blood soaks into the page and draws back, tugging a handkerchief out of her sleeve.]

I think we may have visited there once . . . I'm almost certain, in fact.

Edited 2025-04-26 06:10 (UTC)

[Hells' teeth, he'd think she was fucking with him if he didn't already know her well enough to guess she's hardly swayed towards cruel-cut mischief (oh, not like him, in other words).

The drop of red draws his focus to a needle's point. He very nearly feels an old, vestigial pull towards its recreated hues.]

Careful, dear Lutece. Whatever it is you're doing whilst you entertain me isn't worth something as precious as your blood.

A bloody nose, nothing more. They happen here, from time to time. Not unexpected, but irritating.

[Irritatingly painful, too, and not for the reasons one might think. She usually has more discipline over her heart, but oh, how can she keep from thinking of Robert when the scent of iron is thick in the air? Blood on her fingertips, blood on her tongue, and she swears if she looks to her left she'll see him laid out on the couch, pale and sweaty and perfect.]

The Feywilds, Arvandor, Evereska . . . which do you hail from?

Air too dry here for your evolved body's liking?

[He'll have to remember that.]

Technically, none of them.

My ancestors held claim to something of the Feywilds, most likely, but that was ages and ages prior to even the birth of my parents, nevermind me. Still, it's nice to know you actually have seen something of the other Realms: most people in Thedas seem blind to their existence entirely.

[Something like that, she might have answered if they were speaking in person. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd tell him the truth: of what it is to have such dissonance in your mind that your brain goes mad trying to reconcile it . . . and what it was like, all those years ago, to watch Robert go through that. She likes Astarion already, you see, and she's so lonely . . . but ah, that's a feeling she's used to.

For now, there's this.]

Most people are idiots, both in Thedas and outside of it.

[Written crisply and directly, and she would know.]

Where did you hail from, then? Perhaps I've visited there too. It isn't outside the realm of possibility.

[Though it might not be the worst idea for her to stop trying to recall . . .]

[. . . and trust that that is the reason she writes what she does next, and absolutely not out of a slightly petulant desire for recognition:]

Does the concept of evolution after death truly not grip you?

[Like, obviously she's above needing praise and accolades, but also: no she fucking isn't.]

Grip me?

[She can't see it where she sits, but the laugh he fights is so pitch in its own nature that it's practically charcoal black.

It's funny. Make no mistake, it really is— and he's just mad enough to delight in all that present irony.]

Oh there was a time when it did, I can assure you. But considering that for the last two hundred years I couldn't escape its grip, these days I find I'm much more interested in the notion of simply living.

But if you were ever in the vicinity of Baldur's Gate do tell me: slim as the odds are, well

it might not be terrible to know where I stand when it comes to the likelihood of someone from my world potentially making their way here.

[A sliver of ice works its way into her heart as the words appear, jarring and terrifying both. Eternal enslavement, he'd told her, magic, but to realize he'd been dead— that he, perhaps, was something a little like her, even marginally, and yet found himself trapped (just as she is now, just as they all are)—

It's nothing. She is not him, and their stories are not the same. Robert will come for her (Robert will always come for her), and until then, this is a distraction, nothing more. But it frightens her, and she hates that.]

How could you be dead and not all at once?

[But then, perhaps as preliminary offering:]

The likelihood is so small as to be infinitesimal. It took me years to build my machine, and there is almost no one in all the multiverses who is as smart as I am when it comes to quantum physics.

Those who are, I have taken note of.

There is always a possibility. Our own presence here attests to that, and the Rifts are an anomaly I have yet to fully understand. But given how few people hail from the same place, I would put the odds at a disadvantage. There were millions of people in my world, and yet only I am here; there are, presumably, just as many in yours, and yet only you have arrived.

It's possible. But probable? No.

The odds of being bitten by a vampire and enslaved to his ambitions were razor thin. [Is how, bidding farewell to the last vestiges of pretense held between them.] The odds of the fabric between worlds toppling like cards were thinner than that, but it happened just the same. Your immortality. A fucking aspirant god returning from the pages of Thedosian history just to wreak havoc on the entire bloody world.

Possible, not probable.

I won't stop checking over my shoulder anytime soon, but you're right I suppose: with even a little dumb luck, our stories might avoid adding any more blots to their pages.

[Vampire, and it's satisfying to feel that puzzle piece click into place. It explains the magic, too, and the enslavement, for vampires are always such power-hungry things, aren't they? So terribly obsessed with elevation and keeping themselves safe from a world that would do them harm, yes, she had identified so well with them.]

What powers did he possess, your maker?

I assume that's who your slaver was.

Why?

Assuming in turn that your own mishap wasn't related to a set of scheming fangs, and that you therefore aren't possessed of a desire to employ any similar sets of exhaustive powers over others against their broken will, you'll understand why I need to make absolutely certain that it's only curiosity that drives you.

You fear I may be an agent of your maker, and thus wish me to prove my innocence? But that is a difficult task even for the most pious, never mind me. What proof can I offer you beyond my word— and I doubt very much my word means anything to you.

But for what it's worth: I ask because I know a great deal about how to travel between worlds. More than almost anyone in any world. And I would know what powers he possess, to see if he could even begin to come close to doing so.

Tell me, or don't. I won't pretend to be offended if you decide the risk is too great.

I fear the allure of power, and becoming someone else's means to an end. Whether or not that coincidentally includes my master doesn't lessen any risk on my part, but if it's any consolation, you never struck me as the sort.

One of his own, that is.

[As for the rest, it's a touch too early to tell. But he likes the forthrightness that tucks itself into her words, and the way she never flatters. Rare is the day Astarion doesn't regret his own choices; thus far, he's on a winning tear.

Here's hoping that it lasts.]

Those he bit were bound to him eternally, as I'm sure you've already surmised. We had no free will of our own to exercise, although he allowed the illusion of it for sport or entertainment's sake, and it wasn't just dominion over our minds, either: he could act through us or command us, seize control of our bodies directly or through a single spoken word. As for his other abilities, all the usual treats applied: shapeshifting, bewitchment, eternal life and beauty, commanding lesser beasts and possessing the sort of strength most mortals never know. Only sunlight or a stake would do him in, of course, and you'd be hard pressed to find either in his overdecorated palace amongst the capital elite.

[Terrifying. Truly, it is, and she cannot imagine being caught in such a trap. She'd had her own leash and collar, of course, but Comstock's power was always kept in check by her own brilliance (up until he'd outmaneuvered her, anyway, but look where that got them both).]

Such a power hungry thing, and yet he never gathered slaves from other worlds . . . something to keep in mind, perhaps. If he had the ability to follow you and find other slaves, I assume he would have already done so.

[A faint bit of comfort, perhaps, but comfort nonetheless.]

Still: I'll take that compliment as intended. I will not deny the allure of power, but only for safety's sake. I have little desire to rule over others— merely not to be at the end of a leash again.

I was no whore. And I doubt very much the blood on my hands compares to what you went through for two centuries. But I know what it is to be on a leash, tethered to a man who craves power, and I have never sought to be the one on the other end.

Have you?

Sought to be? No.

Would, had I the chance? Oh yes, darling, I'm not a fool. [Bypasses the ruddy guilt that never worked loose despite despair's endless, endless keening; shucks that blatant show of hypocrisy like a second skin in favor of glib playfulness— and the blunter promise that he's not here to lead her by the nose in favor of her favor.

In another time, another place, he might have. Just not here.]

But when holding a leash prevents finding oneself at the dangling end of it, I'd wager you'd also choose heads over tails.

[The quill nib hovers before it closes in on parchment:]

What was he like, your madman?

[Oh, he makes her smile for that, though she won't say so. Heads or tails indeed, and it's so hard when every word reminds her of Robert— but then again, what doesn't?

But ah, Comstock . . .]

Zachary Hale Comstock was a grifter, or so I believed when I was younger. A clever fool using religion to achieve his goal of establishing a city where he would be beholden to no one. He was very good at it, admittedly. He styled himself first as a preacher, then as a prophet: a man guided by visions from God, working to make a holy city that floated in the sky. A heavenly paradise above the sinful earth, redeeming all those who were worthy enough— and wealthy enough— to enter.

And he was very good at it. He was a charismatic thing, handsome in his younger days and filled with a surety and affability that made most want to give him what he asked for. [For Rosalind, sixteen and perpetually unable to summon anything more than icy disdain to those she felt beneath her, it was stunning. A science all unto itself, and one she couldn't emulate no matter how much she wished to.] Clever, too: clever enough to make his vision a reality, quoting passages and hymns to inspire those gullible enough to believe it— and utilizing money, bribery, and other such base methods for those who didn't.

It wasn't until we were all trapped in his city that we realized he believed every word. That he was no grifter, but truly believed that he was Chosen.

[Hm.]

A story, to better illustrate my point. We have a ritual in my world called baptism. Perhaps you're familiar. Undergo it, so they say, and all your sins of before will be wiped away, and you can start anew. ~~As if a dip in the water can~~[Anyway.] Comstock, former a solider who killed innocents for no other reason than sadism and spite, underwent such a ritual— but he rose from it believing that all his sins had been approved of. That God, in all his infinite wisdom, had said to him that he could do no wrong.

So: he could do no wrong. As he hired a man whose greed was only outstripped by his lack of audacity; as he contracted prisoners and worked them as slaves, using them until their bodies collapsed and they could be discreetly disposed of. He could do no wrong as he stole a baby to act as his heir and imprisoned her for her entire life, attempting to mold her into his perfect progeny; he could do no wrong as he murdered anyone who understood that his prophecies— so terribly, stunningly accurate— were the result of his peering into alternate universes, not through God.

I was sixteen when he hired me. Twenty-two when Columbia, his golden city, took flight and never returned. And I was thirty-eight when he killed us.

[There is a sense she's never gotten to say all this before— because, of course, she hasn't. Robert was there, and while they commiserated for so many years over the growing madness in their patron, well, the walls always had ears. Bad enough they had to keep their attraction a secret; complaining about Comstock was the surest way to a swift death. And afterwards, well . . . there was no time (and yet all the time in the world).

It's a relief to write this out. Excessive, though, and she wrinkles her nose as she peers it over. A smear of ash, hastily wiped away, appears on the page; a cigarette is the least of her vices, and she deserves one for recalling all this.]

It all backfired on him in the end. So there's that, at least. The benefit of evolving beyond humanity's limits: we ensured he was not just killed, but erased from all timelines, all universes, all worlds. Excessive punishment for my murder, but I admit, it was satisfying.

[Oh, that makes it sound so very different than what really happened. Not a lie, not at all, but a different perspective. As if she had acted out of vengeance and noble intent; as if she hadn't had to be blackmailed into doing the right thing, her arm twisted for no other reason than latent guilt. As if it was all her doing, and not the girl rightfully taking control of her fate for the first time in her life.

She's fond of Elizabeth. She really is. And she admires her so much for what she did. But this is a personal story, and she's allowed to twist the narrative to suit her.]

[For all of it, Astarion won't judge— least of all for the kiss of ash across the page: too few can ever truly lay claim to the words 'when I was killed', and of those meager measures even fewer still retain enough sanity or self to manage uttering remembrance. Even his siblings fawned (in time) over the favors of their beloved maker. In contrast: Astarion bided his time, scraped his senses off the floor beside slick viscera, and if he couldn't bare his teeth for retribution then at least he could still doggedly persist.

Rosalind did too, it seems.

A golden city, a grand messiah—

And beautiful, bloody death.]

All of them?

You're certain of it?

Oh, yes.

There is a world in which the circumstances of your undeath played out differently. Perhaps your slaver chose another victim, or decided that he would elevate you rather than enslave you. But that's but one circumstance: there are other worlds in which events played out just as you remember them, and you are no better off for knowing there is another version of you who got off easy.

But if you— every version of you, from every world he ever touched— could go back further, to the moment of his creation, and ensure that he was killed before he could ever become a vampire at all . . .

You'd save yourself. From that fate, anyway.

We killed every version of the man who would evolve into Zachary Comstock. And in that way, we saved ourselves.

[He wishes it wasn't parchment. Wasn't ink. Her voice he could look away from, feign disinterest till the matter dropped alongside his memory of it.

As things are, it sucks him in.

There is a world in which the circumstances of your undeath played out differently. Perhaps your slaver chose another victim, or decided that he would elevate you rather than enslave you-

There isn't.

There can't be.

Because if there was—

You'd save yourself.

—why wasn't it him?]

....what did you trade for it.

[Is a grim scrawl, jagged at its edges.]

Everything.

Edited 2025-05-12 04:33 (UTC)

My morals. My life. My death. My dreams and hopes and follies and weaknesses. My humanity.My [and there's the barest pause] twin. There was the most infinitesimal chance that such a transformation would happen, and there are a hundred thousand versions of me that died and never came back.

[And yet they're all her, too. A thousand thousand Rosalind Luteces, all compressed and contracted into one consciousness.]

Would you do as we did, then? Kill the man before he became a vampire?

The you as you are now would never have existed. You would be something utterly different.

[It's a neutral statement, curious and devoid of judgement.]

I'd have to think it possible for that hypothetical to have any merit.

[And so it goes without saying, perhaps,]

I don't.

[But that isn't a criticism, nor a harsh-heavy breed of skepticism either. What he believes only lives until it meets the borders of his circumstance: beyond that, possibility is rife with prospect, and as far fetched as it seems he has no choice but to believe her, no matter how impossible it sounds.

A thing like that....

It'd have to have cost everything.]

You tumbled through a Rift into another world, and still you limit yourself. Who's to say a Rift might not lead you back in time?

[Everything that can be, might be. That's what all those parallel universes are about, and of course, not all of them survive. So many lead to dead-ends, or relapse back into their main timeline with no one the wiser. But it's no more impossible for Astarion to go back and kill Cazador than it was for her to kill Comstock. Improbable, yes. Wildly, fantastically improbable, oh, yes.

But not impossible.

But people tend to not like it when she says things like that. Chalk it up to a lack of imagination, perhaps (or her own fixations and lack of tact).

In any case:]

It murdered his daughter.

Killing Comstock, I mean. She was the one who proposed it happen, and she, tormented and tortured by him, her gifts— her magic, they would call it here— siphoned out and used to further his agenda, had more of a right to demand it than anyone. But it killed nearly every version of her.

Such choices are not so easy as they seem.

They're only hard for anyone possessed of a figurative heart.

Or sanity, I suppose.

People like the man you've collectively now ended wouldn't find themselves hesitating at the helm, after all. At least not in my experience.

No, they wouldn't. Not for a single moment. And I suspect your experience is more familiar with someone's true nature than most.

[Most people, after all, aren't faced with the brutality that desperation or power can bring. Most people don't see the worst of the world, never mind meet their end at the hands of it.]

You have a very unusual point of view, you know. I imagine that's garnered you no small amount of trouble in our heroically inclined little organization.

Edited 2025-05-13 02:17 (UTC)

Hah! Not as much yet, doubtlessly attributed to subterfuge being a much less discerning employer overall, but I did very nearly wind up in diplomacy at first, and I'm now quite certain that would've veered towards disaster soon enough.

Then again, you've got me curious. I can't say I've ever found abundant evidence of morality amongst those given to either science or the arcane pursuits: how's your department treating you?

It depends on how you look at it, I suspect.

On the one hand: there's far less rampant sexism within the department, which is a relief. Most people are clever enough, or at the very least not stupid, which is also a boon. There's a unification that comes of having a set few goals, and learning of other worlds from an individualistic point of view has been fascinating.

On the other hand . . .

[She pauses for a moment, frowning.]

I have no interest in the affairs of this world. Stopping Corypheus means nothing to me. And so I find myself at odds with those more entrenched within the politics of this world, for their goals are about stopping a god, and mine are simply leaving. And I find the endless moralizing tiring.

What of yours?

[Oh but hold on now— ]

Are you not concerned about said god finding you before you've finished facilitating your escape?

Not particularly.

[Should she be? Perhaps. But it's very hard to attach herself to the world. Harder still to remember that she's temporarily mortal once more, and subject to all the whims and wills that comes with such a status.]

I have served under evil men before. I do not particularly relish doing it again— and yet I will, if that's what it takes.

Don't mistake me: I don't relish the thought. It would be better if he were killed, I have no doubt, and his forces scattered and disposed of. But I'm not going to throw myself into a conflict I have no stake in, not when I'm a mere visitor.

Do you not feel the same?

[He's lying to himself by way of pressing Fenris' deep-throated tenor to the back of his mind for just a fleeting moment, obscuring the obvious (first) thought that comes to mind when he imagines either flight or freedom; it's there, bearing down along his spine with all the weight of an undeniable truth, but there's a great deal Astarion finds himself capable of ignoring when he sets his mind to it.

It isn't a denial. He's not so stubborn as to shun the only good thing he's ever known for the sake of saving face, although it's taken time to make peace with the idea of letting someone into his long shadow. But if he's to mask what could be used against him— against them— or seen by higher hands as liability, well, the logic that he leans on needs to function like his first.]

Unless you've unearthed a loophole that I've yet to find: no, my dear, I do not.

Kirkwall is our weakness, after all. All Corypheus need do is take the city in a southbound show of force, and wait: it won't take longer than a month for us to either be caught funneling in or out like rats to alleviate the burning of our anchor shards, and he'll have all the Rifters he pleases for those rumored experiments of his.

Ergo until something changes or we find a much more viable way out, call me our most devoted soldier.

[He's not wrong. Rosalind glances at her hand, grimacing as green light glints back up at her. Easy to think that she would rise to the top, and perhaps she would. Brilliance has a way of surviving, and she is no stranger to manipulation, but . . . it isn't a guarantee. There are so many stupid people out there, after all, and rarely do they listen to their captives. How long would she spend rotting in prison cell, or screaming at the hands of some sadist with a blade and red lyrium? And all for nothing.]

I suppose we shall see. Though your efforts seem to be paying off so far.

[Her fingers close, sealing away that light. It's as close to you're right and I have avoided thinking about the realities of this world as she'll get without further prompting.]

Would you care so much if you had a way out?

[Or would you leave as I plan to? It's a real question, for she's as foreign to morality as she is this world, and it helps to hear what others think.]

Only for you, I mean. If you had a doorway into another world . . . would you stay and fight, or flee?

[There's something about the mansion that makes it feel emptier when only Astarion is present. There's more weight to the dagger at his hip, and he feels more avidly the softer calfskin of dark gloves against his fingers, as though even his own consciousness is determinedly swearing that the wind whistling against stone isn't the same curdling hiss of air through mausoleum walls.

Permanence is a hard concept for his mind, apparently.

But it makes it easier to consider what she means— what she really means— when she asks those questions.]

Well now that depends on what's on the other side, wouldn't it?

[Has all the conveyed tone of a quill twirling idly between fingers, crowishly unfettered.]

'Better or worse than Corypheus' seems an easy enough metric of measurement until you start factoring in whether it not one can come back once they've broached that crossing—

[His pen traits off abruptly; curiosity fills the void.]

Do you actually remember all the other worlds you went through?

[It isn't no, I could never abandon the others to this fate, and that's something. She isn't certain what it means, exactly, but it's . . . mm. Comforting, perhaps, in a strange sort of way. Pleasing to have confirmation she isn't the only one who thinks first and foremost of herself.]

No.

Not all of them. Some better than others, but to remember all of them would be to go insane. Some linger, for better or for worse, and all were fascinating. But we visited countless ones, all of them unique.

Why?

Curiosity.

I've tumbled out the other side of only one rift and happened on a world where elves are societally tread upon and magic is— in some cases quite literally— a blight. It begs the question of odds in flight. Whether it's worth attempting to even leave in the first place.

It begs the question of just how nasty our universe can get.

The answer is, of course, both.

[And what a helpful answer that is.]

There are thousands of worlds in which elves rule over all other sentient species, or live peacefully among them. Others where they alone are the sole species in the world, and their lands stretch out as far as the eye can see. Even more where they don't exist at all, save in myth and legend.

It's a gamble, as unsatisfying an answer as that is. Whatever you can imagine has a world and a counterpart.

But there are times when anything is better than where you are.

We aren't there yet with Thedas— though I can respect that my position is easier than yours here. But it may be worth the gamble if Corypheus does indeed attain his victory.

[. . .]

But for what it's worth: in my living memory, Thedas is the only world I have encountered where elves are treated as chattel, not revered. So the odds may well be in your favor.

[Or not! That's quantum for you. Fucking quantum.]

If you wish to hear more of what I recall, I will tell you. But not like this, for it would take pages upon pages. Bring over a bottle of wine some evening, perhaps, and we will speak.

[Heads or tails: his odds have never been good, or kind, or merciful, or even mildly disdainful.

But at least he trusts she isn't lying when she pens those words. She doesn't seem the sort for pity or pandering.

She does, and doesn't, seem like him.]

A bottle of wine?

Nonsense my clever little mind. I tell you what, I'll supply the goods you're after— hand delivered— to whatever port or promenade you call your own, and there you'll teach me everything you know.

Well.

Everything you please, anyway. I suspect everything you know would take the rest of my eternity and we both have our schedules, after all.

Deal?

[So it's on me to supply the wine, then, she drawls to no one, an old habit that's hard to break. And though nothing and no one will ever come close to Robert . . .

Well. This fellow is agreeable enough, and seems to have that rare quality of charm, intellect, and common sense that's such a rare trio among the population. And there are worse things than having an audience to hear her pontificate.

And maybe he'll be a useful set of hands once she goes about building all of what he delivers.]

I'll hold you to that, if you truly wish to learn.

Bring them here.[An address written in neat script: a Hightown townhouse, though not one of the prettier ones.] Tell me whenever you plan to go, for I do not take well to surprise guests.

[That is to say:]

Deal.

Did you hypnotize me this afternoon?

Without telling you? My love, tempting as it is to have my way all the time, I'd never bypass your assent.

Now, having a little fun with subtle, wholly subconscious suggestion on the other hand is another thing entirely.

....why? Did you dream of me?

Edited (it just kept feeling too tiktok fic overexplainy and less astarion gomen for my hamfisted rust) 2025-03-23 21:11 (UTC)

Yes.

But not in the way you're imagining— though there was that, too. I dozed off and I dreamt as I do not normally dream: coherently, to a degree. I saw us not as we are, but as we might have been. In different roles, and different lives . . . but always the theme persisted, unlike in normal dreams, where everything melds or blurs. Always it was us, and yet the worlds themselves . . . I recognized some aspects of some of them; others were strange and bizarre. You were younger in some, and in some I was; you were changed, or I was, less broken or unchanged, enslaved or free, dressed up or dressed down . . . in some I was your bodyguard, or your beloved kept in secret. In others you and I were rivals, or strangers.

And there were times I dreamt of a world I have never seen before, filled with elves and wondrous things . . . like Evereska, but grander.

It was vivid unlike any dream has ever been before, and it felt like forever. And yet only a few hours passed.

Perhaps it was the wine. ~~Or having the pups~~

[No, he doesn't believe that.]

I know what it feels like when you nudge me into getting worked up, but not when it happens when I'm asleep. But I do not know what that was, if not that. Perhaps it was the wine after all.

Edited 2025-03-24 00:01 (UTC)

I

[It can't be.

Like an echo of times before, an old, familiar thought pricks once again in the back of Astarion's mind: how the hollow byways of the Crossroads nauseated him to the bitter end, offsetting his attempts to navigate its rhythms as any native thing would. There was no bond there to speak of, no matter how he looked the part. No matter how much disdain humanity afforded or what sharp ears invoked outside of Leto's gentler touch, he found himself a marked outsider in every world set foot in. Deeper than the scars across his back.

And yet—

—his death-stilled heart is in his throat. A frenzied blur of half-tallied truths grasped tight within his bloodless fingers, taut around his quill. Ink doesn't pool beneath it, but that hesitation stilts the first slant of his next word, misaligning its arrangement on the page.]

How real was that reality we're discussing? Did you feel it, those lives that you described— the sensations, or

[Or.

....he doesn't know. He's no idea what to ask. What he's searching for. Only that his jaw is tight, his tongue against his teeth.]

Edited 2025-03-24 05:56 (UTC)

[Oh, something whispers in his heart. A five-second foreshadowing of something he has no knowledge of just yet, and everything in him suddenly gone hushed and still.]

Yes.

[It comes more easily now that he knows what to remember. For yes, there had been that . . . the warmth of skin on skin. A chilly exhale against his lips, puffed out by an older man with dark hair and kind eyes. The chill of diamonds against his skin; the taste of brandy offset by saccharine sugar. Astarion's voice shouting in his ear to be heard over the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a rapid bass or sneering down at him with cold cruelty— snatches of words. Echoes of scents. Nothing he can stitch together fully, not yet, but . . .]

What is it?

Elves, especially young ones— those that've yet to reach their first hundred years— are supposedly blessed by the elven gods [though he lived in Evereska's boughs, he can't bring himself to say our gods. He'd felt almost mortal again before they returned to Baldur's Gate; he's never felt so far removed from it now] and granted visions of their lost lives, however many of them that might've existed before their prior death and reincarnation— for Corellon and his ilk don't strive to keep the souls they sired in the afterlife the way that other divinities do. [Including the Maker and his bride Andraste and their shining, golden city.] Meaning that barring some disastrous, brutal schism that might sever the bond between patron and progeny, each elf that exhales his last passes though the Feywild in spirit before eventually being reborn in a new body. The same soul, same beating heart, same intrinsic memory that'll come flooding in through his dreams to remind him exactly who he is.

It is an impossibly precious thing. Sacred like little else could be.

what

Edited 2025-03-25 01:50 (UTC)

[No. No, that's not enough, not nearly enough, but he can't . . . it's so much to comprehend. It's almost too much: the concept of reincarnation suddenly offered not just as guesswork, but blunt fact; the realization that those were not dreams, but memories, but above all else . . . the fact that across universes, across lifetimes, they found one another. Over and over again, ten, twelve, twenty times, for even now, his thoughts scattered like marbles across a desk, he knows that. It wasn't one mere life.]

are you

did you

[Gods, he doesn't know what he wants to say. He keeps stammering over it, stumbling, his mind going in endless rerouting loops as he tries to understand that which rewrites his entire belief system. And what does it mean that he's lived through so much only to suffer in this lifetime? What does it mean to accumulate that much pain and grief and suffering? What does it mean that he feels no wiser, cleverer, better than he did, and what is the point of living and reliving— gods, what's the point of making him aware of it? Why here, why now? Why would Corellon care enough to give this to him, bastard child that he is?

It's too much. It's so overwhelming that he can't possibly parse it all right now. He doesn't know how long he pauses before adding in a haphazard scrawl:]

you were there in each and every one

you were with me. you were the only constant.

[For even as his mind races, it's that which he keeps coming back to. Those flashes of images and snatches of sound, oh, he wants to go over each and every one, scouring them hungrily for details.]

you were the only fixed point i had. the only thing that mattered, throughout every life.

Edited 2025-03-25 01:50 (UTC)

[Written oh-so-subtlety one night while Karlach (with some occasional input by the others) regales them with the story of Wulbren and Barcus.]

what grudge do you bear against gnomes?

you keep making Comments.

Edited 2025-07-24 16:17 (UTC)

Does one need a reason to despise something vile and unsettling? They scurry, they scamper, they fit in unreasonably small spaces where it'd be so

so

easy

to just pop out like a bloody jack-in-the-box without even a single moment's notice. They're the staple thrill of carnivals and sleazy copper-coin magicians full of whimsy and jingly bells and all that wretched, detestable shite the common folk with as many teeth as they have sense adore.

[Eugh. Astarion's shivering just thinking about it.

Thank the gods the others haven't yet dragged them to the circus that's in town. He's liable to bite and kick his way out of it like an unruly horse.]

[And he'd be right to, if you ask Fenris. There's few things more viscerally upsetting than a clown, especially if they think it's a bright idea to do crowdwork.]

All of them?

[He cocks his head, silently indicating the story they're being regaled with. They're that couple, texting one another from across the room.]

They used to use imps for such things in Tevinter. Just as unsettling, but at least more inclined to dissipate within a day or two.

Is it gnomes you hate, or whimsical surprises?

Imps? Really?

[Gods, he didn't actually ever see an imp during his stay in Thedas— not that he'd ever gotten close enough to Tevinter proper to experience any of what Leto just described, let alone a great wealth of Tevene culture undiluted. Suddenly he's grateful for it.]

Darling I don't think I've ever had the chance to separate one much from the other in any direction, but I feel confident in saying I hate both equally— particularly when they're so deeply entangled they might as well be fisting each other.

Conceptually.

[He tips his head in wry acknowledgement, conceptually indeed, before glancing up at Karlach. It takes a few minutes before he scrawls again:]

what about halflings, is that also on your despised list? you were polite enough to the barmaid downstairs.

[Karlach's smile is beaming once she notices the resident broody elf glancing her way, long tail wagging faintly at her back. That he looks back down instead of acting on that mutual recognition between them must be such a let down as far as her everlasting excitement goes.]

Mm. Not my favorite, but at least they're decidedly less waggish. Honestly I've yet to see one up to any sort of hooliganism or knavery, it's always honest work like breadbaking or making wood-carved pipes passed down from their fathers' father or something of that sort.

Then again, it's not as if I've met every last halfling in existence.

Why do you ask? You're not thinking of befriending one, are you?

[Oh, Karlach. He’s growing fonder of her by the day, he really is, and she and Lae’zel make for excellent sparring partners, but still. Astarion comes first (though he does aim her a little nod, fond of not full of smiles, to show her that yes, he’s listening, and he doesn’t do that for people he doesn’t like).]

Hooliganism and knavery . . . your age is showing, old man.

Or perhaps just your magisterial tendencies.

[Amused and so, so fond.]

I ask because I want to suss out the edges of your biases. I know so little about the prejudices here, and I was not sure if it was related to height or not. It seems the hypothesis wasn’t so far off— though you never seemed to take issue with dwarves in Thedas.

[Not a lie, actually, for Wyll and Karlach had spent most of last night catching him up on devils, cambions, and the prejudices tieflings faced based solely on relative appearance alone. They’d never said the name Raphael, and Leto hadn’t either, but he swears he smelled the faintest hint of cherries.

Or perhaps he’s just paranoid.]

Was THAT why you hated Falon so much from the get-go? He was still five feet, more or less. . . Though I admit, it was more less than more.

[And then, with a little grin:]

Would you still have fallen for me if I needed heels to tower over you? What if I was born a gnome? Be honest.

As is yours, my dearest little nuisance, for thinking knavery or hooliganism is anything to scoff at. Because I've been to Thedas, and I am well familiar with all the things y

oh

ha. ha. ha.

very funny.

[Please. You know damned well that boy doesn't need any help from genetics when it comes to being annoying.] Though if he was part gnome it'd go a long way to explaining a great deal about why he is the way that he is.

You know if I'd known you were going to be this much a thorn in my side, I'd have stayed out in the wilds and waited for some other handsome, heroic, overwhelmingly endearing elf to come and whisk me away to Kirkwall instead.

[No, he wouldn't have, and by now everybody knows it— not just them.]

I'm scoffing at you and your insistence on sounding more like a pearl-clutching magistrate than the rakish thief I know you to be. And, too, because I think the surest way to get mugged in either Kirkwall or Baldur's Gate might be to call the local coterie hooligans.

[The only downside to writing like this is the way Astarion (and everyone else in the room) can watch his smile play out in real time. He's biting it down, trying to keep it contained, but it's so hard not to beam when he's verbally tussling with his mate.]

And if you'd waited for some other elf, you'd be bored out of your mind in some alienage, longing for my thornishness. Don't pretend you don't live for when we fight— or that you long for the most when I show you my teeth. But if you'd rather me dutifully flinch from every human in sight and beg for forgiveness for the crime of breathing . . . I can certainly try and comply.

I notice you didn't answer my question.

Edited 2025-07-26 22:46 (UTC)

Because it was a stupid bloody question that I don't want to answer.

And besides, you should know what the answer is regardless, obvious as it's always been. Making me spell it out is just ruffling my tailfeathers unnecessarily. Did you not get all your dogged energy out via sparring with the others? Have they grown so weak that they no longer sate your boundless vigor and set you upon me instead?

Ugh fine.

Yes.

[He waits until the others are more wrapped up in themselves (Karlach turning her attention towards Shadowheart, Wyll once again besieged by the pups, Gale and Jaheira wrapped up on a discussion on magic) before mouthing out:]

You love me.

[And isn't he smugly pleased about it? For he did know what the answer was, but it's so thrilling to hear it confirmed anyway. And maybe he's being a bit of a teenage brat, he knows, but on the other hand: why not? It's fun and it's harmless, and gods know they don't have enough of that in their lives. He rests his chin in his hand, smirking at Astarion, before adding:]

Now, is that all gnomes, or are there specific kinds you would and wouldn't lust over . . .?

Edited 2025-07-27 00:37 (UTC)

I care little one way or the other. But you do have a bias, kadan, and the others have taken note. I would keep your most acerbic comments to yourself— or not. But Karlach has asked me already what's up with you and gnomes.

Mmph.

[He does love you. With all his wretched, acidic heart, he loves you more than life itself, Leto.

Now stop giving him Avernus before he's fully awake— it's not even sunset yet, you darling little hound.]

What business of it is hers? And

Hang on, why is she asking you about my entirely rational biases, anyway? [Tsk!! Nosy thing!!!!]

SHE HAD BETTER NOT BE PLANNING A FUCKING TRIP TO THE CIRCUS

[Oh, he snorts, the noise involuntary and impossible to contain. One hand shoves over his mouth, scrubbing at his face to try and hide his grin, as he rereads those fervent words over and over. He's not laughing at Astarion, he swears, it's just . . . darling, please.]

She wanted to. Earnestly. It took several conversations to dissuade her. She offered to protect you from the clown multiple times. [She offered to protect them both, actually, before Leto had firmly and curtly shut that line of thinking down.]

But no, the irrational biases came up later, when you made that remark about they all of them wasting their time freeing the gnomes from the underdark. I think she wished to ensure there wasn't a gnome-based tragedy in your past before she snapped at you about it.

You're going to have to think of something beyond the circus, though. She was insistent; I have no doubt she'll demand it again unless you offer her something better.

[Don't you 'darling please' him.

—oh, wait. You actually defended him from those wicked, hellish schemes of hers. Never mind, from here on out for Leto and Leto only he'll be the most kittenish thing in all of Toril until his tail is tugged once more.

However long that lasts.]

Then tell her it's not a prejudice. Tell her I have a lethal allergy to the little beasts and be done with her begging. I might not have a gnome based tragedy in my past but I'm not about to have one in my future if I can help it.

And what about you? Does she know about your affliction when it comes to hollyphants?

[Another grin, badly hidden, as he takes in the first part of Astarion's reply. Are you two writing again? Shadowheart calls, her voice playfully disdainful. You might as well climb in his coffin if you're going to be like that.

Then neither of us would get out for another hour or two, and we have errands that need running before it gets too late, he replies. Is it my lack of attention you're sore over, or Astarion's?

Neither. I just think it's unfair he manages to talk to you and get a space all his own where he won't be bothered by your fearsome pets. She says that, and it's true, the pups are a nuisance . . . bu-ut she's also currently scrubbing at Montressor's cheeks, showering her in love, so there's no real sting to that sentence.]

Oh, no. You tell her. I have fended her off enough for your sake, you can be the one to face her palpable disappointment.

And no. She doesn't. And she will not learn of it, for no one needs know about that save you. The last thing I need is any of them patronizingly treating me as though I'm ten years old, telling me about how there's nothing to be frightened of and that I should just try and befriend one.

Foul beasts. Why waste your time hating gnomes when those creatures are right there?

Edited 2025-07-28 00:46 (UTC)

[They should all be grateful their resident vampire self-isolates as a rule of thumb. If he didn't, between Minsc's 'helpful' ramblings and Gale's perky-yet-judgmental little lectures, this arrangement might well end in a massacre. Or a murder suicide.

Something with blood and sunshine and the rustled temper of a creature too used to his own routine in his own damned space.]

I don't know, how about the fact that the only thing worse than a hollyphant is a hollyphant with hands??

[A beat, before:] ....By which I mean gnomes are everything wrong with hollyphants....and also have hands. Which is why they're worse.

look it's just awful I hate it I don't make the rules

It's not as if we choose what repulses us anyway

ask Karlach what she finds utterly repulsive. See how she likes having all her personal displeasures pried into by half the bloody world

—did Shadowheart just say something about me????

[There’s the sound of conversation beyond the coffin: Leto murmuring and Shadowheart responding, their voices low and amused. Snatches of words might flit into Astarion’s ears, things like spoiled and overindulgent— you let both of them boss you too much, her voice clear and arch, her pronouncement as tart as it is utterly amused.

Then, finally, Leto writes:]

Why not come out and find out, instead of making me your eternal go-between?

[The script is jagged, and little mystery why, for there’s the sound of Leto’s heartbeat approaching. Soft footfalls round the folding screen that serves as nominal partition between their beds and the others, and there’s a soft wuff of placid greeting from Ataashi (who lounges on their bed, one paw over her nose as she attempts to pretend there’s no one else out there). A soft rap of his knuckles against the lid for politeness’ sake, and then Leto opens the coffin.

And there, lying petulant and pretty and perfect, is his husband.]

Make room.

[Swiftly, please, for he’s clambering in already, graceful and yet not: wriggling and shifting until he can nestle in beneath Astarion’s arm, curling himself there as he does most nights.]

She said she was envious of your ability to hide away and talk to me all at once. And then that the pups were spoiled nuisances, hence her jealousy.

[He tips his head up, nuzzling against the sharp line of his jaw before offering a single nip.]

It was not malicious, kadan.

[Petulant and pretty, but perhaps not perfect unless the rucked-high mess of tangled curls clinging hard around his ears and brows do anything to match those bags beneath his eyes.

(He hasn't fed much this week yet. And given his Ataashi-like reclusiveness, perhaps it's safe to say that all roads lead to the same integral root right now.)]

Come here. [Is almost scolding, though it's soft and sweet and throaty in a way that's truly all need, all desire. Suffice it to say he wants his mate close.

A nip to a faintly downturned ear seals the suggestion.]

She might've been holding her tongue in terms of phrasing, but it's obvious she takes umbrage in both— elsewise why make comments about it in the first place?

Jealousy is jealousy, my dear amatus. Don't let their charm fool you.

Except when it’s fondness.

[A soft demure, for he remembers going through his own version of this, and his wasn’t half as difficult. Even now, the thought of being asked to trust a group of Tevinter citizens, no matter how well meaning, is hard.

He cups one chilly cheek and swipes his thumb just beneath where dark circles have grown darker. It’s hard not to whisper that Astarion can sup in him just a little, and yet Leto bites his tongue, knowing why he shouldn’t.

Instead, he gently urges the other into catching his eye as he adds more plainly:]

Do you think I would stand for someone speaking of you with anything beyond affection— or at the very least, respect?

[He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer.]

Besides, [he adds, and deliberately takes some effort in snuggling back in (and breaking their eye contact, so Astarion might not feel so scrutinised),] she adores Montressor, for all her supposed complaints. Shadowheart might well replace Wyll for favorite soon.

[Mmph. Is it fondness? Between the two, it's Leto that has the most experience with kinder packs— and even then, what Astarion remembers is Anders and the Chantry, Isabela's flight, Merrill and her mirror; of course his darling dearly misses them, but one can miss all manner of familiar misery, their talk of siblings proved that much with ease. And whilst he knows Shadowheart is nothing even remotely similar to Violet, of course, his lens beyond that remains the whole of Riftwatch: a faction he either fucked or lied his way through in majority just to ensure they wouldn't throw him to the Rifter-hungry, sycophantic wolves. Saying it's a littlehard to trust that anyone is really all that different from Cazador's own court beyond Leto himself is....

Well it's beyond an understatement.

He clucks his tongue in the middle of smoothing back white hair that's slumped its way in front of gold-green eyes.]

Of course I know you wouldn't, but— [mm. Hm. How to put this in a way that won't retract those warm fingers from his cheeks?]

People in Baldur's Gate are wretched by design. Conniving, to say the least. I've spent two centuries amongst them from the top down, believe me, I know them better than anyone. Frigid heart and all.

[Which— ]

I'm not saying she's trying to spin a web of deception around our heels, but she's a former cleric of Shar for gods' sake— you can't tell me she doesn't know how to work a phrase. So if she doesn't like the layout that we've chosen, she should've fought to get a better bed from the start.

I need my mate.

And my bloody privacy.

—Aannd the pups love anyone with a pocketful of crumbs to spare, let alone a hand willing to scrub their senseless little heads till sundown. So don't try to sell me on that very shoddy evidence, young man.

[He snorts for that toothless shot at his age, teasing and too tame to invite any retaliation beyond the pointed push of his nose against a cool jawline. He's quiet after that, though, contemplative as he turns his lover's words over in his mind.

The thing is: he isn't wrong. Draw back on the words themselves and examine the whole of the matter, and Leto cannot fault his mate for regarding every teasing word and overfamiliar joke with suspicion at best and outright snarling hostility at worst. They haven't known this group for more than, what, four months at the most . . . that isn't enough time to build up trust. It's barely enough time to build up familiarity. Fenris himself had taken so many years to trust his friends, and that was only with a single lifetime of abuse on his heels . . .

And it's never been a competition, but privately, Leto thinks that his mate has the lower hand. A handful of decades is nothing compared to two centuries, and that's to say nothing of the mindgames that Cazador delighted in. Danarius may have isolated him, but Cazador drove the lesson home over and over that Astarion had nothing— could trust nothing— beyond his master. And then, like clockwork, so many of Astarion's victims had underscored the lesson time and again . . .

It doesn't matter that Leto's heart whispers that these companions are to be trusted. It doesn't matter that he feels safe with them, for the truth of the matter is this isn't about him— and these companions, comfortably familiar as they are, still aren't the friends he'd once known and lost. And maybe that loneliness, and that fear of returning to that bitter, snarling state, makes him a little more eager to trust than he might normally be.]

Mm.

[Not a way to avoid speaking disagreement, but rather a rumbling hum of acknowledgement as he keeps up his gentle affection.]

Perhaps you're right, especially about her.

[Perhaps he is. Devotee of Selûne or not, perhaps she is being a catty thing, petty in her passive-aggresive commentary. Old habits die hard, and old lifetimes all the more so; they know that better than anyone.]

But . . . if you can, if you wish to . . . allow for the possibility at times that she— or any of them— mean what they say.

Karlach told me she wanted to take you to the circus to get to know you better, and give you a fun night out. [He mouths gently at his jawline just once.] I told her the only thing more repulsive to you than clowns might well be night-clowns. And she was disappointed, I'll grant you— but she immediately began to try and plan for something else, quizzing me all the while on what you might like.

And I do not think it was so she could hurt you with it later.

I do not know if they are all so sincere. I do not know if they all are so selfless as they present themselves— I doubt very much they are. [It's so strange how heroic they all are. Gale and Wyll and Karlach and Minsc . . . even Shadowheart and Jaheria, cynics though they are, still seem so earnestly devoted to doing good. It's strange, and some part of him assumes that it's the product of coming from wealth. It's easy to want to do good when you don't have to worry about where your next meal is coming from, after all. Though that doesn't explain all of them . . . but in any case:] But I believe there is some truth to their affection for you.

[That's it. That's all there is. He doesn't get to ask for more than that, because this isn't his journey to make. All he can do is gently offer an alternative time and again, and hope that it isn't too overbearing, for the last thing he wants to do is invalidate.]

But I will not press. And I will not demand you regard them as something you do not feel, merely for the sake of supposed harmony or so-called friendship. No measure of trust is worth it unless it is earned— and they have not earned it.

[Perhaps they never will.]

[The dry edge in an otherwise sharper smile fades, retreating into placidity so sincere it leaves past habits in their graves. He doesn't look this unsure around the others, doesn't let the whole of his expression melt back into an upturned, hangdog stare unless it's not the spawn Astarion being spoken to, but Astarion as he always was beneath the cracks in his facade— and maybe that is why he slips away so often. Maybe that's why— now that the others are more comfortable in reaching and vice versa— that he opts for the coffin rather than his bed: because when a folding screen can be bypassed, a shut lid is tantamount to absence. They can fuss at his husband, but they won't dare bother him when he's confused on how to read them. What they're saying. What they mean.]

It's not as simple as with you. [Is a low-set agreement of sorts. Like the mm that Leto had exhaled, and like the language of touch and posturing he and Leto have developed over the years, it conveys more than what any first glance might imply, and they both recognize it.] Not even with Karlach.

[But....if his softened state swears anything, it's that his hackles are at least down now (and how tiresome it must be— not that Astarion would apologize for his rough edges, par for the course as they've ever been— to have a lover where even something so simple as sleep or gnomes or mild teasing circles always back around to this.

Hard to convey in words the relentlessness of Violet's cruelty, or Leon's devoted resignation, or Dalyria's tender heart....and just how ruinous even the most innocuous bits of it had been. Hard, too, to convey how much he hopes Leto never learns of it.]

....who was the first in your pack that you grew close to?

[Isabela's touch was keen, no doubt, but she was as double-edged as a coin at heart from what he's taken in; he wonders if disarmament took a different shape than intimacy.

He wonders if he might search for something like it now, wrapping a single claw through the cuff of Leto's sleeve in slow distraction.]

[Isabela is the first that comes to mind, admittedly, but he's glad he doesn't say her name. He loves her most dearly, it's true, and likely always will, but she was as fickle as the wind, and not one to want to sit and open up to a person. She thrived in the moment, fast friendships and joyful memories, and though he grew to adore her spirit, that wasn't what Fenris responded to, not at first.]

Marian.

[Low and rueful, and he opts to watch Astarion playing with his sleeve as he says this.]

The others were friendly, to a point, but she was the one that drew us all in. Without her . . . I do not know if we would have stayed together, for she was our focal point. She was the one who would pry and press, but never too far. She was the one who showed up— for all of us, not just me, but she did so unthinkingly.

I think . . . I suspect she was lonely, but she was never desperate. She pushed, but only so far as I let her. The first night I met her . . . I had laid a trap for some of Danarius' hunters, and used her as bait. I wouldn't have let anything happen to her, of course, but she would have been well within her rights to loathe me for it. And yet . . . the moment I thought I had Danarius cornered, she backed me without a second thought. I had known her for minutes. I could have been anyone— I could have been a slaver myself— and yet the moment she heard that I was an escaped slave, she was on my side.

It was . . . I will not say easy. It was never easy. But . . .

[Leto heaves a sigh, not particularly unhappy so much as heavy.]

It took many years before I could tell her half the things I have told you. But . . . she made space for it— for all of us. And I saw how fiercely she dedicated herself to the others and their causes, always straddling the line— no easy task among us. [Mages and templars, legality and theft, murder and mercy . . . it wasn't that she had no opinion, but rather that she could manage to deftly appeal to both.]

She had to prove herself. But she did, and each time she did made it easier to want to tell her who I was, and what had come before.

[His first thought is straightforward at its core, plays on context in the segue between one topic and the next: he's not sure that exists for him in a sea of raucousness that's grown around the Astarion someone else once knew, the adventures already deeply shared. All that's left to him now feels different than what's been said of Kirkwall years ago, as if he's missed his chance.

But in the midst of softly recounted memory he can feel the welling rise of pain and vulnerability in an otherwise unshaken voice, and so, in ways that always startle him for their overwhelming fervor: he forgets his own struggles in favor of Leto's. Leto comes first.

A few claws to that pretty chin (tattooed now, not branded, and though he can't feel the resonance of their magic binding them together, what stands in place of it is stronger. Just as charged, only it doesn't come from Thedas or the Fade.

It comes from them.]

One thing I can't deny is that she had exceptional taste in companions.

If ever there was someone worth the effort, darling mine, it was you. [And he feels right in that assessment; he'd waited almost a year for Leto's own return. Despite it being torture, there's no part of him that wouldn't do it again if it came to that— no matter how long the task.]

[It's Leto who offers that hangdog stare for just a moment, now: eyes wide, his face surprised and vulnerable for a precious few seconds, given to the only person in the world he trusts it to. Then his expression softens, and he leans up, bumping the bridge of his nose against Astarion's cheek in old rhythms long since learned. It's been a long time since he's felt the urge to do this (blame it on Toril and her thoroughness in transformation; blame it on Thedas and her eagerness to instill an irresistible set of instincts), but it still brings familiar comfort.]

So are you.

[It isn't a compliment returned for the sake of politeness.]

Whomever these people end up being . . . they would be fools not to want to be close to you.

[He means that with all his heart. If the way their fractured hearts always stray back to their wounds is tiresome, it's a tiresomeness they share, and it eases more and more with every passing year. It won't be so hard in a decade or two, Leto knows, but he will not begrudge the steps it takes to get from here to there.]

Does the answer surprise you?

[Marian, he means.]

Shockingly, no. [Skirts the bridge of Leto's nose, one hand still swept along the underside of that finely angled jaw, bridging them together. Etching every word into their hearts— alive or dead— their skin, their marrow, for much like the makings of their masters one can't run from what's inside them. Can't put distance to its name in a way that makes it anything but real.

And they need a heavy dose of truth. Something antithetical to doubt, he thinks.]

I'd expected it to be someone at the core of your conglomerate, and after all the reading and research and listening I've done over the years, the only other guess I'd had was Varric, perhaps. Isabela was compelling, no doubt, but the woman that ran off in the night? Mm. You'd have been more bitter, I think, if she was your sole tie towards the others.

More inclined to hold a grudge.

[Or is that just Astarion thinking of himself? (The old weight of a dagger in his hand and a snarl across his lips, heavy in the saddle for more than just the blood staining his fingers— bitter, and he wasn't sorry till one fateful day in Kirkwall).]

Mm . . . you aren't wrong.

[No, not at all, and it's easy to admit to it when Astarion is pressed so close. Fenris closes his eyes, falling silent for a few seconds as he savors this— this, this closeness. This touch. The scent and sound and feel of his chosen mate, slender fingers guiding his jaw and soft puffs of cool air against his lips. A miracle, this, and no less so for being something he's come to take for, if not granted, at least a given. A miracle after crossing worlds; a miracle after all the horrors in their lives. One he means to savor in bits and pieces, drinking in idle moments like these, when the world is quiet and it's just the two of them.

His eyes open, and he looks so softly upon his mate, smiling without smiling. It's less for pleasure and more simply contentment: his heart settled to find himself in a place where he feels only the barest echoes of that bitterness, the two of them intertwined as they are.]

I will always hold a little resentment towards her, I think. All of them, to varying degrees. But not Marian.

[Not just because she had the least amount of choice among all of them, but because— well. Death changes things sometimes.

Though— he blinks, not shocked so much as a little surprised. It makes sense, truly, but:]

You read about me?

Naturally, my dear kadan. [My sunlight. My star. My darling, darling boy— is a muttered set of sweeping kisses to his captive husband, swept up briefly in a weathervane wave of euphoric, albeit faintly aggressive admiration, knowing that his co-consort can't well escape it now. Not with that hand against his face on one side, and his own profile pressed against the other. Not with them both sequestered here for comfort. Isolating, perfect comfort.

It lasts only briefly— long enough to foist a sharper scrape of his long teeth on tender, sunset skin.

He smells so much of the outdoors, now. That warm-sharp tinge of sunlight and faint sweat. When he can't have his utter freedom, this has become the next best thing.]

Does it surprise you after all you did for that ungrateful little world?

[Was it really ungrateful if it bothered to record the highs of Leto's journeys?]

There were tomes detailing your crimes amongst the Chantry's halls— collective crimes, I mean. [Allies of an enemy, last seen here or there.] I scoured them in curiosity before you disappeared, back when I was afraid to ask you more about yourself. Afterwards, they were my means of keeping score. Seeing if you'd resurfaced....or been taken captive, on those nights when cynicism didn't get the best of me.

[He's not perfect. He never claimed to be. His easy smile's proof.]

My personal favorites were the tales told close to Starkhaven, however. Folklore fostered by the elves and slaves and poorer lot— and their beloved Blue Wraith, invoked to keep Tevinter and its fiends away. [Ah— ] Even demons if I recall correctly, though I only used it to hunt Venatori like the rattus that they were.

[Oh, oh and he's briefly diverted from his own bewilderment by the sudden outpouring of affection he's no choice but to melt under. Ears twitching and an irrepressible purr rumbling low in his throat, he grins as sharp fangs scrape his skin, his fingers tightening their grip against a soft shirt. Hello, my love, hello, hello, basking in the pet names his love bestows upon him. He nips just once at Astarion's bottom lip as they settle back, adoration sparkling in his eyes.

It lessens some of the . . . oh, not embarrassment, don't call it that. But baffled self-consciousness, perhaps, as Astarion spells out just how many times his name has been recorded or echoed. The Chantry is less of a shock, but folklore— Maker's breath, he murmurs, for it's one thing to free elves and hear their tearful gratitude. It's quite another to know they've spoken about you afterwards, much less invoke you. It's a little bewildering, honestly, and he blinks once or twice, trying to absorb all that.]

You—

[But Astarion matters most. Always, he matters most.]

You hunted Venatori under my name?

[Oh, that's delightful. That's more than delightful, that's charming, and alluring, and so many other things that Leto can't help but laugh a little.]

Little wonder slavers were after you when we met. [The second time, that is.] Clever thing— I have no doubt half the rumors were due to you and your wicked blade. How many did you kill? How many times did you pose as me?

[But then, that bewilderment rising again:]

Folklore, really?

[Mmm, that precious little purr— it calls on everything he has in him not to hike his darling's shirt up just to match the fever spiking in stilled blood— is Leto certain he's no vampire? He must've picked the habit up along the way.

He sets his fangs tight against each other when he nuzzles in, stealing a kiss without opening his jaws to bite.]

Why not? I was a weakened thing without my powers, though my fangs still did the trick. [Both sets, wink wink for all you rogues out there.] Wearing a blue cloak and hacking out hearts had the more superstitious amongst them far too wary to go all in on their attacks, which as you can imagine worked out quite sufficiently in my favor. Oh, it was all smoke and mirrors— and there was a moment where I had to make a few quick exits to avoid the attention of your once-comrade Prince Sebastian without giving my little game away, and more than one occasion where I needed to....

Well.

I needed to pretend to be you when spotted by those especially starry eyed elves.

[Nothing personal, darling, he did you relative justice. He thinks.]

Really. You did a great deal of good for them, from what I gathered. Even if you didn't know it, they certainly didn't forget about you.

[It isn't that he doesn't believe Astarion— hells, it's not as if it's all that unbelievable. Of course they were grateful, but Leto had thought . . . oh, a fond memory of a gruff elven figure with strange vallaslin and a disinclination towards small talk. A fervent thought of relief, but even then, aimed more towards an averted fate than the one who had freed them. Not this. Not something so pointed, so memorable, and he doesn't quite know how to reconcile that. But it's a warm feeling. It's not the squirming discomfort of knowing Varric had written about him; this is more pleasing. More bewildering, and there's a silly little smile on his face as the feeling suffuses through him.

Or maybe that's due to the way Astarion describes himself. Certainly the way his smile grows bigger is, for Leto is outright grinning now. Every word is more delightful than the last, a charming surprise he had no idea existed (and someday, he'll grow used to the idea there is so much more to his amatus than even he knows).]

You imitated me.

[Oh, it's charming. Bittersweet if he lets himself think of the implications, so he doesn't. They're together now, affection and adoration surging through both their frames; let this be a happy memory, not a rueful one.]

Tell me. I want to hear the details. Though you did well by avoiding Sebastian . . . did you attempt to make your voice lower?

[A beat, and then, wryly:]

Though you know, Astarion . . . for all your claims of their adoration, I find it suspect they managed to be fooled by a pale-skinned, curly-haired version of me.

[It's around ten at night, one of those hours in which their deliberately modified schedules blissfully overlap. The others are asleep, or close to it, and Leto ought to be as well, but instead there's the faint glow of a candle lighting up the interior of his tent.]

If nothing else, this bounty ought to teach you that three days is too long to go without, never mind the full week you demanded of me when I return. For no reason other than eagerness, I'll remind you.

Certain you haven't changed your mind?

'No reason other than eagerness?'

[Barely a few hours awake and he's trying not to scoff. He's also trying not to suffer, considering the distance and lack of contact is so hard on them both, not just his Leto. His dear, fussy, intractable little Leto.

He's pulled away into the corner of his open coffin, one leg hooked around its edge and dangling outside, scribbling against the leverage it provides.]

How long has it been since you touched yourself?

You think a different word would be better? I was no more demanding than you ever get.

[And yet he was unjustly punished for it, that's the teasing undertone there. And oh, there's the slightest of hesitations, and then:]

Two days ago.

[Or, in other words, one day after he left Astarion. There's nothing that's forcing him to be honest, of course. There's nothing that forces him to abide by these rules, nor indeed, even play this game. But it's thrilling, even if it makes him a petulant little thing while he waits.]

How long has it been for you?

I think a different intention might've been loitering beneath the surface of my reasoning.

[But asking a young pup pawing at him in the middle of the day (and now night) to consider hidden ambition as to why he can't slip a hand down his own trousers is a tall, tall feat, he knows.

That's why he did it in the first place.]

Not since you left.

But the night is young and I find myself restless without you here, you know.

[It's so hard not to whine, voiceless and plaintive and needy. It's so hard not to rise up to his knees and slip his hand between his thighs, two fingers slick with spit plunging deep within himself (it wouldn't even break the terms of his punishing pact), curling and stretching in feeble imitation of what he's longing to truly feel . . .

But he is not alone. And though it might not be hard for either woman to guess what the glow of the candle means, he'd rather not outright confirm it through vulgar shadowing pantomime.]

You lasted longer than I did, then. I'm impressed.

[He is, honestly, but let Astarion read into that as coy flirtation too.]

Though perhaps now you're starting to understand just how pent-up I feel.

Tell me where your mind strays. For I can tell you I have thought of a thousand things when it comes to you, each more filthy than the last— though I keep thinking of how pent up I'll be in a week's time. How desperate you'll be once I return, needy thing that you can be. And how much I plan to make you rue this little punishment.

I dream of you hunting me down. Across the rooftops or through the streets, I care little, so long as I can fight you once you manage to chase me down— and you would not find me such easy prey as you did when I first came here, I think. I would make you work for it, and feel you seethe each time I escape you again and again. I dream of fighting you, my blade sinking into your skin and your fangs scraping at my throat, both of us fighting to come out on top, until at last one of us triumphs. I dream of feeling your fangs at my throat, my neck, biting my nape as you pin me down and promise me that you'll keep me captive in your bed for a full week, drowning me in aphrodisiac and tormenting me with every toy we own, for how much effort I've made you exert.

[Oh, never doubt he misses their privacy for so many reasons, but their growing toy collection (now inaccessible and unusable) is certainly among them.]

How's that to sate your restlessness?

Edited 2025-08-11 01:17 (UTC)

[There's a long enough pause on both sides of this equation that imagination speaks sheer volumes in the silence. Leto opening the door, and Astarion....]

Little boy. You can't even fathom the ways in which those dreams don't so much as scratch the surface of what they illustrate inside your mind.

Because I am not needy for you, my darling. Neediness is what the pups feel when you shut the door behind you once it's dinnertime. It's the low whine in your wolfish hrávandil's throat because you've failed to stroke her fur in any given number of days. It's the whimper you make when I haven't sucked you off enough to finish as you fight to palm yourself instead. Which means that no, it's not neediness I feel whenever I move to hunt you down. Nor is it something so tolerable as desperation by any means, to wake and feel your body, inert and frigid as the grave, stir itself from nothingness to hunger with all the fervency of a stake plunged through your chest. A yearning that shudders in the hollows of your bones, threatening to rise with or without your consciousness. To lay fingers on supple skin through clothing just to rend it into tatters in an instant, leaving you naked in the moonlight. Think of starving. Think of intensity that bursts into heady pain if you don't slake it— then apply that to the urge to pin you down and rut you till you forget everything you ever were. Everything you've ever tasted but my cock and the sharp borders of my teeth etching their mark into your neck. Everything you could ever be....

....save mine.

And how if I could slip your blood between my lips enough times, we might be arguably the same. United. Inseparable.

Now realize that I am devoured by those echoes every moment I'm awake.

Every second spent in the present, I think of breeding you to ruin in our bed, against a wall, in our coffin, in front of everyone that you hold dear— your legs so weak I have to hold them tight against my shoulders or pin them flat before you beg for sleep. And more. And both come out at once in a spit-flocked jumble of pure noise that burns like the very heavens in your shuddering little lungs.

In that aching, fucked-out, desperate entry you afford me.

And then you'll be on your way to knowing how I'd chase you in your dreams. How pent up I feel.

How's that to sate your restlessness?

[Little boy—]

you

[But then: nothing. Nothing for such a long, long time, and imagination has pick up the slack yet again, for Leto can't. Not yet. Not when his cock is suddenly straining so painfully at his trousers that he has to shove a hand down to just pry himself free, just so he can then rock and grind his needy prick against his bedroll in the most pitiful angles, hips angled low as he struggles to stay subtle. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, pain searing sparks against the back of his eyes as he fights the building urge to whine— to moan— to arch his back and splay his trembling thighs in keening supplication, groaning out spit-slick petitions into the night as he begs a monster to whisk him away and devour him over and over until he shatters.

It's too much. He can't— he can't think, he can't breathe— all at once he lurches forward, snuffing out the candle (burning his fingers in the process and he just doesn't care). Even with elven vision he can only barely make out black ink against pale pages, but it doesn't matter: he can eke out enough, and searing memory does the rest of the work for him. He won't touch himself (he doesn't dare), but fuck, he needs something. He shoves his wrist between his teeth and spreads his legs, angling his hips so that he has to bite to stop himself from moaning at the next hungry grind. Back arching, spine shuddering, every heavy rock of his hips and glide of his thighs a testament to inborn flexibility and addled desperation. Again, again, again, his cock throbbing as it's pinned against his belly, bitter droplets of precome soaking into leather. Little boy, and his eyes roll back, lungs on fire as he forgets to breathe; breeding you to ruin in our bed, against a wall, in our coffin, in front of everyone that you hold dear, and his hand stutters, jerks— roughened fingertips glide just once against febrile skin before he forces them away, clenching the bedroll with white knuckles. Because if he touches himself, if he wraps his fingers around himself to squeeze just once, he might—

(For a moment he teeters. For a moment, he honestly thinks— untouched, the air bursting out of his lungs as the thought slips through his mind: Astarion's delighted laugh, low and roiling and mean, purring out every word of filth with silken sadistic precision as he goads his little lover into another orgasm, another, another, cruel in his whims and utterly merciless in his subsequent chastisement).]

Edited 2025-08-13 04:08 (UTC)

[But no— no, and though it takes him some time, he manages to control himself. Saliva slickens his tongue and he pants like he's in heat, shuddering as he squirms fitfully against his bedroll: committed to being good, and yet too desperate not to steal little bursts of pleasure in maddening, dulled pulses.]

you cannot

don't

you cannot say such things when you are so far

[The words scrawled and slanted, his handwriting messy for so many reasons (blame it on the candle, but they both of them know why his script is suddenly so shaky). And he can't say it. He can't echo the things he wants to, trembling as he begs for more; something less than shame and more than humiliation builds in his chest and stays his hand, keeping those words locked away as they bounce around his mind. Astarion would never laugh, never hurt him, never do anything less than pounce on every admitted desire with a wicked purr and a molten kiss, but it's so hard after a lifetime of learning that hedonism isn't for you.]

take me in such a way, then

[The words a touch steadier as he relights the candle— though the ink grows lighter as he scrawls, his words coming faster than his quill can keep up.]

tie my hands behind my back and bounce me on your cock. force my legs to spread open and put me on display for all to see, and use your strength to move me like a toy. fuck me until i'm crying for you, begging you to keep going— and then, later, to stop, for I have come so many times untouched that I cannot bear more, and then fuck me again anyway. Fuck me until i break and lose my mind and my wits, remembering only how to say your name, and then let me rest only so that you can feed me my own come, spilled over our sheets and my thighs and in need of cleaning.

put me on display the way you once wanted to: in that sex shop in the upper city, perched on a pedestal and howling your name as you slip in toy after toy into me, incapable of deciding what you like better— forced to ask the captivated crowds what they think is best. show me off as yours, only yours: your possession. your toy. your captive [oh, he can't say it] adolescent, stolen away and remade into your own whore. keep me on a leash between your thighs as you drink at some bar, rewarding me for how still i can be as i hold your cock in my mouth and keep you warm all night long.

dress me up, my vampire. put me in that maid costume. in stockings. in a harem outfit. make me your pet, and ruin me for anything and anyone else in my long, long life.

[Oh, the door is opened, yes. And the two of them are going to drag one another through it, filthy word by word, tormenting one another until they both break.]

Edited 2025-08-13 04:12 (UTC)

[How long had it taken Leto to respond?

How long did blood red eyes bore down into that empty space flocking the edge of his own scrawl, racing with a hunger like a heartbeat— obversed by the thought he might've gone too far in tipping his own hand. (It wouldn't be the first time, would it?) What it means to love a monster is no small, untested thing. Is it fair to want to be seen for the waiting jaws beneath his skin? To try and show a mortal what it's like to be so mad in perpetuity that his own husband— the creature he dreads harming each and every night, and yet dreads parting from as much— becomes concupiscence in totality. The shape of hunger has his name, wears Astarion's scent as a surrogate for bite marks; between the longing in his heart and the lust inside his body lies an ocean's stretch of distance for doubt to settle in, and time moves oh so slowly for a vampire. Enough that he shifts onto his bed rather than stay huddled alone inside their coffin, masked off by a folding screen.

His index claw left tapping at thin paper when half-slanted words rush in.

And relief with it.

And after that....more.]

Is that really what you want, little rabbit?

[The diminutive is new. Something in him weighted towards it, it feels right across the page.]

Is that what you're thinking of right now? The kind of ownership that knows your body better than your own fingers ever will—

[There's no going back from this. What it invokes is a prelude, yet that existence is a terminus: the fever pitch he's been reduced is like a bargain struck. A dotted line signed off. There's something mirrored and echoing in play, bouncing back and forth within that correspondence, growing darker at each turn. It has him up against the wall of his own sanity before he blinks. It thinks of lace, and metal, and uncorked bottles, and little panting mewls— it thinks of power, too. Intoxicating. Predominant. And that note in particular makes him such a slave to that pretty, quaking scrawl.

To the thought of taking more than his fair share, and how much it is wanted.

(How much must it have taken for Leto to reach back? To recite that ardent fantasy as he'd been told? To show arousal on his terms....All those signs he can't sit still and feels the pull of that past shame and yet, here they lie. Both now baring this buried ravidity unchecked. Both now drawn towards the other, seeing everything that lies beneath. How conflicted they had been only years ago in hushed confession is barely recognizable for just how far they've come.

It's not the same thing.

And it's theirs.)]

I remember everything about you. Exactly how I fit when you're around me, and which parts of you shake the hardest at my touch. I remember your shape. Your heat.

The way you taste.

I know where to let my grip slack when I plant my fingers deep, prying cry after cry from your upturned throat. Your shivering, listless shoulders. Pretty and unraveled, splayed out just for me.

[And every time, fresh memory burns away the fetid smell of tavern alleys, ripe perfume. Replaces it with something new. Something beautiful, too boundless in its bliss to recognize how keenly it's become the outline of his world.]

....is this helping you get off, my Leto? Are you slipping a hand against yourself in that bedroll of yours and imagining it's mine, drooling for the cold kiss of my breath across your neck, ready to take and take and take no matter how you whimper out your pleas to the Maker or Andraste or....

Are you shameless in breaking your own promise now?

I feel compelled to point out your replies are growing slower, after all.

[It takes every bit of his control not to moan for those words.

Curse. Plead. Whine, all that desperate need to vocalize turned into frantic physicality: his teeth sink sharply into his wrist as he squeezes his eyes shut, the words little rabbit echoing in his ears (and he'll never be able to understand why those diminutives always leave him reeling— stunned with arousal as though Astarion had outright slapped him). He ruts inelegantly against his bedroll, dulled pulses of pleasure (unsatisfying, addictingfive he allows himself before he settles, scrawling out a sloppy retort.]

no

no i

[It's just that it's so damned difficult to write anything cohesive when Astarion's words seem ready to outright devour him. He does know Leto's body better than his own— gods, after three years, he knows how to lay him down and take him apart inch by electrifying inch, evoking any reaction he pleases with nothing more than two fingers. He knows how to make him bark out baying moans or pant out pretty little mewling petitions; how to milk out precious droplets of come long after Leto had thought himself spent, or chain orgasms on a string, eking them out to the sound of his consort's screams. He knows how to get him to plead, how to cry (he'd never thought he would, not during sex, not to the sound of his nerves screaming in overstimulation or strung-out desperation, never mind enjoy it); he knows how to make him beg for the basest of indignities, agreeing to just about anything just so long as Astarion will give him the treat he holds just out of reach . . .

Why had they thought a week's break would be fun? Why the hell had Leto thought that chasing a bounty would be thrilling, when all he could ever want is to be impaled on his vampire's prick, cool breath ghosting against his ear and two fingers hooking down into his throat (fuck, fuck, and he's less subtle this time, back arching and spine shuddering as he ruts down against the bed, uncaring of who sees him so long as he can eke out the barest bit of pleasure—]

[But he won't get lost in this.

There's a faint pause between one word and the next, and Astarion knows him well enough to recognize it for what it is. It's that breathless moment that always comes when they're high off challenging one another: when they've been snarling and posturing all night long, baiting one another with the most pointless of taunts, only for Leto to end up on his back and Astarion eager to mete out vicious revenge. When his vampire has spent ages teasing and taunting and making Leto wail for how overwhelmed he is, thighs shaking and tears of exertion pricking at his eyes—

Then there's that moment. That short, sucking inhale of air that precedes fire sparking in his gaze and a surging comeback as they start another vicious round, for there's nothing they love so much as to play.]

i'd come the second i touched myself, never mind fantasized about you

and i need both hands to grind and rock against my bedroll

[Think about that, so lonely and far away. Think about how he's debasing himself for you, foregoing dignity in favor of desperate lust, too overwhelmed and addicted to think of anything save you.]

but i am not so easy to trick as that, my vampire. if your plan once I return is to pin your quarry down and punish me for being disobedient— not to mention shameless, spilling in earshot of your companions— you'll need to work a little harder.

and what of you?

are you touching yourself? lying in our coffin, smelling my scent, wishing I was there to keep you warm? are you imagining how it feels when i climb into your lap and grind down on your cock, teasing you with how good it will feel once i ride you properly?

for ownership goes two ways, Astarion. [And it is such a dangerous thing to evoke these memories in this world, when his vampire is so much more insistent on control— but they've long since left caution behind.] i remember how you look sprawled beneath me, ink-stained and mewling, your ass red as you squirmed around, desperate to try and fuck yourself if it meant you could take just a little more of my prick. i remember how you looked on your knees, fucking yourself against my shin as you begged me for the pleasure of being allowed to come— pretty thing with tears in your eyes and the sweetest devotion on your lips. so pliant and obedient for me . . . you took to it so well.

I remember, too, how hungry you got in that sex shop all those months ago. impaling me and watching me gag around the swell of the thickest toys you could find, just to try and take the edge off. punishing me for the audacity of teasing you and tempting you where you couldn't act.

you do so poorly when you're denied, even for a day or two. after a week . . . are you going to lock me away when i return, my vampire? tie my collar to the bed so i can't flee and force a pipe between my lips, drugged wine down my throat, just to make the hours blur while you bottle me up and breed me from both ends— filling me until I can't hold another drop, until i open my lips and your come drips out, staining the sheets and dripping down my thighs, just so I know to never, ever stray from your side again . . .

are you breaking your promise, astarion?

INBOX II

breaking this in

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crystal;

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About a weeks time from their last conversation

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just going to pretend we didn't both drown last month irl

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2/2

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