illithidnapped | INBOX II

[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.

INBOX II

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just going to pretend we didn't both drown last month irl