faderift | [OPEN] Young Blood, say you want me out of your life

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[OPEN] Young Blood, say you want me out of your life

WHO: Astarion and, gasp, maybe you
WHAT: catch-all for Kirkwall mayhem involving a certain vampire
WHEN: ~whenever~ pick your poison
WHERE: Gallows, Kirkwall proper, anywhere you want
NOTES: 1 intolerable vampire pretending he doesn't give a damn

I: CHARITY

He keeps odd hours, that’s the nature of being a nocturnal monster designed to feed on the blood of his prey— or, well, former monster, as luck would have it. He certainly isn’t turning to ash each time the sun rises, and he isn’t burning to death every time he sinks into a nice, hot, afternoon bath. Food, even, that’s a new luxury too, though he isn’t entirely fond of what the Gallows serves on the regular: his taste runs a touch finer, as a habit— which might be why one passing trip through the market sees an arm slung sweetly around your own for a cheerful bout of unprompted conversation at Astarion’s mercy.

It’s quick, takes barely more than a few moments of lingering closeness, and then—

And then nothing. He’s gone as quickly as he came. Wait— do your pockets feel noticeably lighter?

Pursuit would only find him sometime later, slung casually across a table in some smoky little hole in the wall: drinking a glass of vivid red, eating a very lovely meal and chatting up someone with cheekbones so sharp they could open envelopes via proximity alone.

And he probably paid for all of it with your coin. Oh dear.

II: VICE CITY

“Aha, no, wrong again, darling— that win belongs to me.”

He’s learned the rules quickly. He’s learned everything, quickly, in fact, winking slyly as he rakes a meager mess of coins and knickknacks across the table towards him. Hardly a vivid sum, but enough that the brute opposite to him growls something unintelligible— veering away as the chair they’d been occupying topples right to the floor, the noise of it snapping right through an otherwise pleasant scene.

“Well.” Astarion scoffs, silvered brows raising. “Talk about a sore loser.”

He’d only cheated a little, besides. Still, red eyes snap to, the edges of his lips curling into an easy smile, gesturing with slender fingers towards the now-emptied seat across.

“Your turn, dearest.”

III: A VAMPIRE STILL

He haunts dark spaces in later hours. Bright eyes in shadow, attentive without exhaustion. The Gallows is bustling in daylight, and near silent without, and he prowls like a cat in the gaps between lanterns, searching for something nameless and shapeless.

Perhaps out of sight until the very last, unsettling second when pale features seem to cut through pitch-soaked corners.

Try not to shriek, if you stumble into his path, won’t you? It is late, after all, and he doesn't fancy a headache.

IV: WILDCARD

[ooc: pick your poison, swap one of the prompts around, opt for daylight and cheerful drinking— the sky's the limit. Astarion can even be caught doing a little studious reading in closed-off spaces, though don't expect him to take kindly to being noticed.

Also I'll match tagging format to whatever suits you, and/or hit me up if you want something else plotwise entirely!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A pretty face can compensate for a great many sins. Including the sin of elvishness.

Just so. [Is that agreement in regards to the compliment, or the sentiment it houses? Who can say— Astarion certainly won't, even as he moves to rest more comfortably against humid stonework, relaxing the poise in his posturing.]

We'll call it experimental, then. If a little game of spywork doesn't suit my fancy, I'll come crawling back to beg your forgiveness in absolute earnest.

I do like having a handsome man at my feet.

[ By lowers his lashes, his voice a purr. Yes, yes, he's taken, and nothing will come of this flirtation - but after a certain time of night, a fellow can't not flirt. ]

Still, I can't wholly hope it happens. We do need better spies.

[This time when he reaches for that cigarette it’s as uninvited as it is deliberate: arm crossing near to Byerly’s shoulder, a few narrow curls almost catching against his ear for lack of proximity. Harmless, truly.

But present.]

You only have to ask.

[Low rolling syllables, soft set cadence.

—and then it’s all casual once more, cigarette pressed to his lips, inhale, exhale, and so on.]

But I hope you don’t mean the spies you already have aren’t any good. I can pick up the slack, of course, but I don’t think I’ll be able to carry the weight of an entire effort on my shoulders— no matter how well-defined they are.

[ In another life, By would have reached out to caress that shoulder under the guise of exploring how well-defined they are. It's this life, though, so he merely makes a great show of visual inspection. ]

Shapely.

And I'll confess, I know rather little about what makes a good spy versus a bad spy. [ Somewhere, Byerly can imagine his old spymaster's droll comment in answer - yes, I've gotten that impression based on your behavior, Rutyer. ] But I do think we have rather too few of them.

I think it’s quite simple actually: the good ones don’t get caught, and preferably don’t betray you, and the bad ones...well, they tend to get caught while betraying you. [When the cigarette is returned this time, it’s offered to Byerly’s mouth, rather than his hands. Mild. Unobtrusive and easily bypassed, but— ]

Besides, I have a good friend who would be terribly disappointed in me if I didn’t at least put forth a good effort in all matters of espionage. I think he imagines it to be something along the lines of exercise. That it’ll get my knack for sniffing out trouble worked out in all the right ways.

Personally, I don’t think he knows me well enough.

What - is your desire too strong to be worked out so easily?

[ By leans forward and sucks luxuriously on the cigarette between Astarion's fingers. What, as if he'd ever let that sort of opportunity go by. ]

All of mine are, I’m afraid.

A terrible curse.

[Crimson eyes half-lidded, slow to blink in their admiration of that deep inhale. If he were a weaker man, there’d be no pretense spared between them.

But he’s had two hundred years of practice to make the matter or withdrawal smooth and simple: the pads of his fingertips catching nothing but air despite closeness when Byerly’s lips fit themselves to the cigarette.]

Speaking of, [he starts, letting his now-freed arm rest comfortably across stone, slung like a cat in shapeless recline.] where is your dear Captain? Don’t tell me he’s left you here all alone to fend for yourself.

[ By smiles feline at the fellow. ]

Do you fancy him my chaperon? What a charming image.

Lover, darling.

[Astarion corrects, all lazy effort. Relaxed.]

The way you two were chatting it up I can’t imagine him as anything but the stern, self-destructive, protective sort.

[ Even through the dim light, the delight on Byerly's face is quite visible. ]

Oh, you give him too little credit, dear fellow. He's also quite happily destructive of others. Including his lovers.

No. How shocking.

[There’s an air of performative lightness to it. A gasp that’s far too demure, a glance let out peripherally while his own chin dips, as though this were a salon and not the dead of some overly humid, unattended night.

This is for play. They’re playing right now.]

Should I be worried about you? Or perhaps myself for being so unvirtuous here, slithering about at your side.

Do I detect a hint of excitement in your voice there?

[ Teasing, grinning. ]

A craving for danger?

Maybe.

[A weighty little word, his head canting just so with the barest edges of visible pride before segueing neatly into darker waters:]

Then again maybe I’m hoping to play the villain and steal away with you both.

Who can say?

Ooh.

[ A pleased little shiver. ]

I've never been treated like a prize before. [ Then, with a rueful grin - ] But alas, you've a more fearsome adversary to contend with - my wife.

Oh.

[Well. That's a choice.

His demeanor visibly flattens, but it's a sloping decline rather than some abrupt drop-off; he won't pretend he isn't disappointed to hear it, but he's not about to play the desperate harlot either.

That'd just be pathetic.]

I don't suppose she dabbles in sordid affairs, does she?

[Asking for a friend.]

[ She certainly does. But...Well, the answer of apologies, but I'm already on a monogamous - bigamous? - relationship with one man and one woman and there's simply no room for a sixth person in this little knot seems like it wouldn't do wonders for the fellow's self-esteem.

Poor thing. What a fucking nightmare, to be a Rifter. ]

Ooh, would you want a sordid affair with me? I'm so flattered. [ Teasing, light, still flirtatious. ] Alas, would that you'd gotten here earlier.

More’s the pity.

[No, really. He does in fact mean that.]

But I won’t go disparaging my own found freedom for what it’s worth. Your world is lovely— and with or without a little lurid entertainment I’m planning on thoroughly enjoying myself.

But...if you and your darling dear ever have a falling out, heavens forbid, you’ll know right where to find me.

Will I?

[ He allows a bit of flirtatiousness to creep back in. ]

Perhaps I'm mistaken, but my impression of you right now is "elusive and mysterious."

Elusive and mysterious and entirely beholden to this very excellent assembly of strangers.

[Please don't expect him to turn away a compliment, particularly one he thinks is true.]

Trust me, aside from a few regular excursions for fun and— mostly profit, I won’t be wandering far.

Well, we'll be glad to have you.

[ And there's something genuine in Byerly's smile, there - a real kindness. It seems that this fellow has earned some measure of care. Vulnerable fellow. ]

Handsome? Silver-tongued? Clever? Why, it's almost as good as having a double of me.

Really? [Are you sure about that, Byerly?] Plenty of people seem quite unhappy to have me here— though I'm sure I'll win them over in time.

[As for the rest, his devious smile only curves a touch more, knowing. It's always nice to be in good company, and to know where one stands in terms of means and motives. Makes the world a little more simple.]

Unless of course the only reason they're all worked up is because you've already worn them all out.

Hearts already full of joy. Afraid they might burst if there's any more of it.

[ He grins. ]

They can be a humorless bunch. Give it time. - Well, give it time for some of them. Others won't ever bend.

And I imagine you somehow love that embittered few most of all.

[Teasing in his supposition: alike as they possibly are, he wouldn't actually know what that's like, having one foot grounded in someplace— any place at all— where the people around you aren't either pawns or kings on a lone, wicked chessboard. Then again, this is a war.

Maybe that's still absolutely true, fondness aside.]

You know, there was a time I did.

[ An odd little moment of honesty. This is, strangely, the truth, even if it's delivered wryly. ]

I've recently rather had my eyes opened to the pleasures of people who actually like you. Isn't that odd?

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