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

[illithidnapped]

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!]

Comments

[illithidnapped]

My dear, [Said as he reaches to take her hand in his own grip, slow and careful, pad of his thumb pressed just across her own to stem the bleeding. His heartbeat runs high on instinct; he does still love the color red even if he doesn’t need it to survive— like a craving he hasn’t yet forgotten— but he keeps that hungering admiration in check. For now.

Instead his voice is low and subtle, thready in a way that feels private despite their overwhelmingly public surroundings.]

I believe you’re doing that already.

[elegiaque]

( well,

that's fair. )

Do I look like I've never seen a man want to stick his prick in something broken.

( —she's so much more charming when she isn't talking. sure, it doesn't happen often, but even gwenaëlle has to sleep some time and there were definitely moments between his arrival and hardie noticing him where she was almost picturesque.

her glasses slide down her nose, a little. )

[illithidnapped]

Sweetheart, we're all broken here. It's nothing special, though I'm sorry if that ruins the fun of your little reverie.

[There's a dangerous line here to be crossed. One he absolutely knows is within reach by now— part of his own not-entirely-past life, attached to invisible, demanding strings— but can't quite gauge whether or not the reaction he'd find would be beneficial, or terribly volatile.

Probably the latter.

Yet she isn't pulling away, either. That she could doesn't escape him in the slightest.] Besides, you can't blame me, you know. Vision that you are.

[It's genial, conceding even. He imagines catching crimson between his teeth and her own skin with it— and instead, quite carefully, simply twists her hand in his grip to set a single, chaste kiss across the span of her knuckles. Perfectly harmless.

And then she's free.]

But I'm no devil or demon. I didn't come here to barter for your soul, or snatch you up in petty, pretty lies. You're quite free to do as you please.

That said. I'll be keeping myself company in the templar tower, second floor, if you care to join me. [He considers licking at his thumb. He abandons that consideration too, with no small effort, scuffing it against the edge of his tunic.]

Plenty of room to spare.

[elegiaque]

( contrarily, she is so much more at ease when he isn't trying to charm her; when he says something so bluntly that if she were taking some sick pleasure in this mess of her own making it would, probably, be a disappointing jolt back to earth. it's cold comfort, but it's not nothing. it's more comfort to think that everything is a little ruined than that it's just her, a weed growing unwanted in loveliness, and it's more comfortable that he'd tell her so than try to cosset or coax her with something he might think she'd prefer to hear more.

when he was soft and inviting, she looked half afraid of him. when he's frank enough to consider it almost unkind, something in her unknots. )

An excess of it, ( she agrees, ) you should consider finding yourself a room you aren't sharing with the dregs of the Gallows.

( mean thing to say about edgard, but she mostly means the little vint scumbag. and she's not sleeping with anyone in front of either of them. still, this is less of a sharp rejection than it might have been. maybe a get a better room and I might consider revisiting this. )

[illithidnapped]

Believe me, I am trying.

It’s a little difficult setting up suitable residency when you’re from another world entirely— [Flashing the edge of his palm, fingers gracefully curling around vivid green before offering a sweeping brush towards his ears.] And look like this.

[And yes, naturally, he could aim for something in the Gallows with a little more leg room, but that seems absurd considering matters of coin versus pay versus what he insists he deserves.]

Still, I’ve never been the sort for quitting. Give it a little more time, I’ll have proper quarters soon enough.

...but do leave that [said with a meager flick of his hand at Hardie] at home next time you're out in my neck of the woods.

[elegiaque]

You're literally able to pick any other available room once you've signed into a division, you know. The perfectly nice ones about four floors up don't cost you anything.

( is it hypocrisy that she had more or less refused to live in any of those rooms the instant she could clamber out of the gallows for hightown, had only come back for central tower quarters and had not for an instant considered the fifth or sixth floors as an option while her grandfather's house was right there.

yes. how is that relevant. )

But you're going to have to just get used to Hardie.

[illithidnapped]

I do realize this, thank you. I also realize I'm only a breath away from getting exactly what I want, and in the meanwhile, I'll survive.

[It's not as if he's keeping company in his room as of late.]

Hmph. [Is all he has to say about that sweet little snack— pup at her side.]

But please. Enjoy your evening, your embroidery, and your very devoted drool machine. I'm certain it'll be a wondrous night, filled with adventures and sweet dreams, and not at all uncomfortable in the slightest.

[Said as he backs away slowly, deigning to grace her with one very elegant mock-bow: more petty than anything actually mean-spirited, the sort of teething bites left between packmates rather than enemies, figuratively speaking.]