rebellionyell | Faderift Inbox

Oh, don't start. [He puffs mildly. Delicate despite the nature of that huffing dismissal itself, eyes drifting shut under the nudging pressure of that kiss, lips curled just at their edges— his tongue still marking the lingering taste of that deliberately (of that, Astarion has no doubt) spilled blood, bright and beautiful to his senses.

That he shivers in the wake of it all, fighting the entirely damning urge to go rigid by meager degrees, is no doubt the end result of both the heady scent of well-streaked iron and the roaming run of roughened hands just before their retreat.

Devil.

His inhale is slower, then. Steadying. Like trying to find his own footing.]

Not that I'm one to complain over doting gratitude, but even I know that thanking me for the bare minimum's only going to encourage the absolute worst of my own instincts.

You'll have only yourself to blame for it, next time.

[A joke.

...and possibly also not one at all.]

But...there is one more thing.

I need a favor from you.

Haaa...why do I do the things I do? I'm my own worst enemy. [Dante's voice was airy and amused not to mention completely unrepentant, not terribly concerned about Astarion's worst instincts. At least he had a warning and maybe he was just a bit curious.

Regardless he smoothed a few strands of silvery-white hair behind the curve of the vampire spawn's ear and leaned himself back again, his expression sobering slightly as Astarion appeared to go take on a more serious tone.

Favor huh?]

Sounds serious. [And of course his interest was piqued.]

What can I do for you?

Aren’t you just. [Astarion teases lightly, leaning into the trace of those roughened fingertips where they slide, instinctive as always. Fond, to say the least. Like an overgrown cat, there’s no mistaking Astarion’s genuine contentment when it blooms.

But—

Yes, the subject change is serious. Dante’s clearly right, considering how that momentary flicker of ease fades in the seconds that follow— Astarion’s expression rounding out alongside the press of his hands.]

Someone stole his memories, I think. Tried to alter him while he was away— that’s why he didn’t come back. [It isn’t really Astarion’s story to tell, but Fenris isn’t shy about it, either. And what’s more, given the cause itself, Astarion feels justified enough in pressing on.

He trusts Dante, in a way he trusts almost no one else.]

I suspect Venatori. Or at the very least, someone from Tevinter.

And while I know he’s more than capable, [beyond capable, in fact] you’re in Forces with him. You’ll be there at his side on missions where I won’t be, you understand.

Just.

[An inhale. Light. Bracing. It's such a difficult thing, showing his own figurative belly.]

Watch his back.

Please.

Well...since you said please [Dante's comes up just shy of bemused, but also consenting to the request as well.] I'd normally charge a fee for bodyguard services, but given that the client requesting my services is special I guess I can make an exception.

[Giving Astarion a reassuring squeeze as a testament to his joke he continues.]

I'll keep an eye on him when and where I can [and working on the repairs of Fenris's manor might just be useful in that capacity] if we're on missions I'll make sure he doesn't wander off into the sunset.

[I'll make sure he doesn't wander off into the sunset.

Ah, but doesn't that thought just sting, somehow. Maybe it's the residual pang of loss, still so fresh within Astarion's veins: he'd been so bitter, so hateful in the wake of losing Fenris the first time that even mentioning its deterrent starts to gnaw at him, low and sharp within his chest.

Stupid. Pointless.

He curls his fingers tighter against the fabric of Dante's shirt.]

If it’s his choice to go, then...fine.

Tempting as it might be, I can’t leash him. [No, that’s not right.] I won’t leash him.

Still.

[Still, letting the word dislodge all his stiffness, easing down into something softer. Far more unguarded.]

I’m not one for gratitude but— Thank you, my darling. I’ll rest a little easier knowing he won’t be trudging around entirely exposed.

[Mild, when he corrects with a tepid sort of laugh:]

Ahah. Well.

You know what I mean.

Okay, okay. You don't have to expose your soft nougaty center to me I get it.

[Dante said teasing Astarion and with all of the formality their affinity had to offer he leaned in to worry the shell of one ear with his teeth briefly, with all of his cheek and facetious manner in place.

Even though he's not willing to admit it Dante gets this is something important.]

But you're welcome and if he just happens to be exposed, we both know I carry layers.

[A mercy. One he won’t forget. One he won’t admit aloud, either, though he does sigh beneath the set of those teeth, all but melting into Dante’s arms.

Make no mistake, he's found comfort in the wake of such a vitriolic storm.]

Or a trade in the moment, perhaps?

You strip down, he wears all your layers instead. [Mild by Astarion's typical standards, his daydream-laden laugh, though it's actively pressed through the overly sharp edges of a jagged grin— completely and utterly incorrigible.]

Now that I’d like to see.

Only if you enjoy a good bodice ripper [Dante just had his own mental image of busting out of anything Fenris wore.] I could probably get his leggings up to my thighs, but it would be cheeks out after that.

[Dante emphasized this by bringing a hand down on Astarion's cheeks, just hard enough to be felt and underscore his playful mood.]

On the other hand? I think I want to see him in my clothes now. [Dante was chuckling a bit too, but it wasn't for the same reasons. He was picturing his 6'4" fitting duds on Fenris who was maybe a hair taller than Astarion himself.]

Mmmm [Dante nodded his head almost conspiratorially now feeding off of Astarion's incorrigible nature right into the territory of fun, but bad ideas] I wonder what that would take? Losing a bet? He is a gambling man.

[Should he laugh at that? Doesn’t matter, he’s laughing regardless for that perfunctory contact so unexpectedly shared, his long fangs glinting in pale moonlight.] Ambitious besides.

[Or maybe competitive is the better word for it. Perpetually driven to rise to a challenge.

Still, somehow Astarion imagines the two getting on like a house on fire if a decent game is in play.

That, or they’ll just set a house or two on fire. Hard to say.]

And if you win, I hope you know I'll be demanding a very thorough description, thank you very much.

[Competitive was probably the right word for it, even though Dante was exceptionally bad at gambling and often lost at bets as was his curse. He still engaged due to his own nature which was, admittedly, quite exploitative if anyone thought to take advantage of it.

And there were people, though arguably they were people Dante viewed as being outside of the realm of causing him real harm, or people he cared about.]

I could do one better, turn up at your door and give you the experience in person. I might be several sheets to the wind for that to happen, but it could happen. [What's gambling without drinking anyway? That's all part of the enjoyment.] It'll be terrifying for the neighbors...probably.

Or enlightening for them. [He snorts mildly, resting his cheek somewhere just across his folded hands, right over the center of Dante's chest.]

You're nothing short of a wonder in your natural state, you know.

And then I'll have people clamoring at my door at all hours of the day because how could they possibly resist all of this [Dante gestures vaguely at himself.]

That could turn into a potential pain in the ass.

Ohh. [He coos almost sweetly, the gesture veering directly into saccharine coddling on entirely played-up purpose.] You poor thing, suffering for being so bloody popular and charming.

...and very well endowed.

[The coddling is so bad Dante can't even keep a straight face, bowing his forehead against Astarion's shoulder instead.]

None of it's true...[amendment]...except for that last part.

[He likes to think so anyway.]

But I do like it when you're flirty, it's a turn-on.

[His responsive laugh is such a slow thing— dark and deep within his throat.]

That, my dear, is very much the point.

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