illithidnapped | INBOX II

[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?

INBOX II

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