Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2021-05-17 05:27 pm
illithidnapped) wrote2021-05-17 05:27 pm
INBOX
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[current inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[current inbox]
( there's background interference. namely, the sound that you get when one half of the party is in a wind tunnel. )
Where are you?
( a demand, more than a question. )
Where are you?
( a demand, more than a question. )
[By now he knows that something has gone terribly wrong, despite not knowing precisely what. Emet-Selch hasn't sent another message since cutting himself off. The crystal chatter is sporadic, far from descriptive or helpful.
And because of it, Astarion's door in Lowtown is locked and bolted, working as tentative bastion.]
Safe.
[He can promise that much for himself. For Ellie, now shut in with him. More so than anyone stuck in the Gallows at present.]
Are you with her?
[He doesn’t specify who. Doesn't ask if she’s all right— or if Thranduil himself is— but there's something to be said for the abruptness of that lone question. How it's the first thing that leaps to mind, unguarded.]
And because of it, Astarion's door in Lowtown is locked and bolted, working as tentative bastion.]
Safe.
[He can promise that much for himself. For Ellie, now shut in with him. More so than anyone stuck in the Gallows at present.]
Are you with her?
[He doesn’t specify who. Doesn't ask if she’s all right— or if Thranduil himself is— but there's something to be said for the abruptness of that lone question. How it's the first thing that leaps to mind, unguarded.]
Will be, ( he corrects. ) I intend to warn the Duke. Ensure she made it home. She will want to fight.
( he leaves room for astarion to make the same request. )
I will be with the other griffons riders tonight. We may not speak again.
( he leaves room for astarion to make the same request. )
I will be with the other griffons riders tonight. We may not speak again.
[The noise he makes is thin. Bruised, even.]
Just don’t be a damned fool.
[He doesn’t ask to fight alongside them; Gwenaëlle might think she and Astarion are mirrors, but there are aspects split between the two of them where the reflection doesn't quite catch. Tonight, he’d rather the Gallows burn, if the world bent to his every wish.
His teeth are set at the edge of that warning. And when he ends the call there, it isn’t without a splintering thought spared for them both.]
Just don’t be a damned fool.
[He doesn’t ask to fight alongside them; Gwenaëlle might think she and Astarion are mirrors, but there are aspects split between the two of them where the reflection doesn't quite catch. Tonight, he’d rather the Gallows burn, if the world bent to his every wish.
His teeth are set at the edge of that warning. And when he ends the call there, it isn’t without a splintering thought spared for them both.]
Mind? No. Just do me the favor of bringing along a bottle of something sharp and dry.
And Astarion, nestled amongst beautiful gifts and a mess of ruined belongings (the shattered glass had been cleaned away, but traces of things still remain amongst clutter: rogue pearls fled far from broken necklaces, fragments of pottery precariously peppered around the edges of the single-room flat— nothing to serve as evidence when Astarion acquires junk just as much as treasure) waits just as he'd promised he would.
As of late, it's the only promise kept.
As of late, it's the only promise kept.
They stay as long at the party as Astarion wants-- Emet-Selch obviously has no desire to linger beyond that, so he's ready to leave as well, though he does pause to consider something on the way over to the tower. There are times when living a few floors up has its disadvantages, and this has proven to be one of them, so-
"If you will want water," he suggest, before they embark on the trip upward, "then we ought to bring it now, as I have no intention of going anywhere else tonight."
Both of them might want to wash off a bit, after all, and he is not making two trips up these damn stairs.
"If you will want water," he suggest, before they embark on the trip upward, "then we ought to bring it now, as I have no intention of going anywhere else tonight."
Both of them might want to wash off a bit, after all, and he is not making two trips up these damn stairs.
Astarion considers it for a long beat, still leaning forward across his own toes as if intending to move even while standing stock still.
A hot bath would be glorious. Even a basin, at this point, given the nature of costumes and revelry. But Emet-Selch certainly can’t manage ferrying water in his current condition, and Astarion...
Well, he doesn’t want to.
“Can’t you just conjure it?” He asks, already starting up those winding stairs.
A hot bath would be glorious. Even a basin, at this point, given the nature of costumes and revelry. But Emet-Selch certainly can’t manage ferrying water in his current condition, and Astarion...
Well, he doesn’t want to.
“Can’t you just conjure it?” He asks, already starting up those winding stairs.
"I assure you, were I capable of it, I would."
As always, a hint of irritation surfaces at the thought of his former capability and the sorry state of it now-- a work in progress, yes, and one with at least a little promise, but not yet fruitful.
"But I suppose that may simply be a problem for the morrow."
As always, a hint of irritation surfaces at the thought of his former capability and the sorry state of it now-- a work in progress, yes, and one with at least a little promise, but not yet fruitful.
"But I suppose that may simply be a problem for the morrow."
"Then we'll send for it instead." He determines, scuffing a few fingernails back across the edge of his scalp, just along the rise of his left ear— nagging at that heavy circlet that's now begun to dig after so many hours of use.
"Or I just steal from one of your neighbors instead."
A beat, before—
"Sorry, borrow."
"Or I just steal from one of your neighbors instead."
A beat, before—
"Sorry, borrow."
[discreetly tucking away starter space so this doesn't take up the entire inbox]
“Altruistic as always.” Astarion exhales loosely, his eyes already drifted well and truly shut under the adoring attention Dante’s actively providing: arching luridly— long and lean— into the feverish trail that roaming hand works high across tensed muscle, loose fabric rucked up in a tangled mess around Dante's wrist. It's a battle not to twitch when teeth press feather-light against his ear, eliciting a low, rolling shudder instead as his gloved fingertips twist instinctively against coarse leather, pulling. All this time. More than half a year, and Dante's the first to manage honing in on that sensitive stretch. For it, Astarion turns diligent in his attention: using a mixture of pinned leverage and his own grip on that coat (the dextrous winding of his legs around Dante's own) to bear down against him in full, winding friction through the thinner barrier of clothing with merciless abandon. The benefit of being the slighter of the two, and an agile thief besides.
Scandalous, this. Thankfully, Dante doesn’t have status to burn. Rifter, roamer, there’s nothing to his name to sully, no reputation to blacken by association. There won't be repercussions if he's caught like this. Nothing more than accusations of indecency, anyway. Or a knife to the back from a lingering spy.
Still, Astarion likes to think his long, currently attended ears will manage to pick up on the sound of possible trouble if it comes to that, even through the haze of his own satisfaction.
“Don’t you ever get tired of helping everyone but yourself?” Asked against the base of Dante's throat, words pooling there like spilled oil.
Scandalous, this. Thankfully, Dante doesn’t have status to burn. Rifter, roamer, there’s nothing to his name to sully, no reputation to blacken by association. There won't be repercussions if he's caught like this. Nothing more than accusations of indecency, anyway. Or a knife to the back from a lingering spy.
Still, Astarion likes to think his long, currently attended ears will manage to pick up on the sound of possible trouble if it comes to that, even through the haze of his own satisfaction.
“Don’t you ever get tired of helping everyone but yourself?” Asked against the base of Dante's throat, words pooling there like spilled oil.
Dante felt a very strong compulsion to scoop Astarion up and carry him off to the nearest inn, not out of a sense of modesty (a thing currently scattered to the winds), but out of a desire to indulge. He knew what Astarion looked like half dressed, but that was far beyond the point, peeling him out of every single scrap of fabric, rolling him onto a mattress, and taking as much time as he wanted to map out every part of his body had its own appeal. Currently the capacity for executing such a plan required the will to actually uproot himself from the current pleasure he was experiencing at Astarion's rolling hips, the friction that pulled at his instincts, his obvious arousal grounding him where he stood. Even if he wanted to he couldn't stifle the soft, impatient growls and the liquid sighs of satisfaction at every pass each sound whispering over Astarion's ear.
The last thing on his mind was status or reputation, not that he had one to sabotage in the first place, but even if he did have a reputation that could be demolished by public indecency he wouldn't care. He could ignore whispers, accusations, and looks from people with the understanding that most wouldn't approach him with the nerve to confront him to his face. A knife to the back? Well, Dante supposed some things were worth taking a knife to the back for, but to both his ow fortune and Astarion's there was nothing for anyone to exploit and if Dante had it his way he'd remain a nobody of any consequence.
"Mmm...?" Astarion's question pulled Dante out of his blissful preoccupation and he nibbled thoughtfully along the edge of Astarion's ear, getting his sense of enjoyment from this very specific brand of attention. After a moment he tipped his head back a grin that was half amused and half fondness curled his lips, "...I thought I was helping myself."
He punctuated this by flexing his fingers against Astarion's chest, flagrantly groping him before rubbing the rough pad of his thumb insistently against a vulnerable nipple, fixing his gaze on his companion, gauging him for every little reaction, "if I helped myself anymore than this I might have to monopolize your time for the rest of the night. As nice as it is getting rubbed off by you, there's so much of you to commit to memory."
Dante dipped back in to brush his lips against Astarion's forehead treading in territory that was both dangerous and unfamiliar.
The last thing on his mind was status or reputation, not that he had one to sabotage in the first place, but even if he did have a reputation that could be demolished by public indecency he wouldn't care. He could ignore whispers, accusations, and looks from people with the understanding that most wouldn't approach him with the nerve to confront him to his face. A knife to the back? Well, Dante supposed some things were worth taking a knife to the back for, but to both his ow fortune and Astarion's there was nothing for anyone to exploit and if Dante had it his way he'd remain a nobody of any consequence.
"Mmm...?" Astarion's question pulled Dante out of his blissful preoccupation and he nibbled thoughtfully along the edge of Astarion's ear, getting his sense of enjoyment from this very specific brand of attention. After a moment he tipped his head back a grin that was half amused and half fondness curled his lips, "...I thought I was helping myself."
He punctuated this by flexing his fingers against Astarion's chest, flagrantly groping him before rubbing the rough pad of his thumb insistently against a vulnerable nipple, fixing his gaze on his companion, gauging him for every little reaction, "if I helped myself anymore than this I might have to monopolize your time for the rest of the night. As nice as it is getting rubbed off by you, there's so much of you to commit to memory."
Dante dipped back in to brush his lips against Astarion's forehead treading in territory that was both dangerous and unfamiliar.
It's been maybe a week or two since their return from Val Chevin.
The first few days had been little more than a blur of exhaustion, settling back into the Gallows and Kirkwall, the still-wounded seeing healing. The arrow wound in his foot has been reduced down to little more than a scar and a twinge when he takes too many stairs, walks too far, without resting. He's spent some time seeing to Buggie in the eyrie, getting well-earned relaxation, and Dulcinea in the stables, pleased to see him again. There's work he'd left behind at his desk, things he'd forgotten to clean in his room. Strange, as Astarion had once pointed out, to have a place to come back to, a place where he lives.
What he hadn't remembered was that he'd left some unease back at the Gallows, as surely as his horse or his books. The problem hadn't been relevant in Orlais. But here, surrounded by familiar walls, it creeps back into his mind. Tonight — it's late enough that the last ferry to the Gallows has come and gone, and there's a knock on Astarion's door. Loud, in the quiet of the hour, but not overly insistent. This isn't some late night delivery of terrible news.
The first few days had been little more than a blur of exhaustion, settling back into the Gallows and Kirkwall, the still-wounded seeing healing. The arrow wound in his foot has been reduced down to little more than a scar and a twinge when he takes too many stairs, walks too far, without resting. He's spent some time seeing to Buggie in the eyrie, getting well-earned relaxation, and Dulcinea in the stables, pleased to see him again. There's work he'd left behind at his desk, things he'd forgotten to clean in his room. Strange, as Astarion had once pointed out, to have a place to come back to, a place where he lives.
What he hadn't remembered was that he'd left some unease back at the Gallows, as surely as his horse or his books. The problem hadn't been relevant in Orlais. But here, surrounded by familiar walls, it creeps back into his mind. Tonight — it's late enough that the last ferry to the Gallows has come and gone, and there's a knock on Astarion's door. Loud, in the quiet of the hour, but not overly insistent. This isn't some late night delivery of terrible news.
Edited 2022-01-02 19:39 (UTC)
Well at least there’s that.
Still, the look Astarion wears when he answers that door is momentarily surprised: eyebrows lifted, a singular little crease running along his forehead until one weighty second passes— one where Astarion decides he doesn’t care to ask what brings Holden here at such a dangerous hour (by Lowtown standards), instead pulling the door back to let him in while at the same time extending his hand. Expectantly.
Offering?
Still, the look Astarion wears when he answers that door is momentarily surprised: eyebrows lifted, a singular little crease running along his forehead until one weighty second passes— one where Astarion decides he doesn’t care to ask what brings Holden here at such a dangerous hour (by Lowtown standards), instead pulling the door back to let him in while at the same time extending his hand. Expectantly.
Offering?
Edited 2022-01-03 10:41 (UTC)
In truth: he's empty-handed. He lingers in the doorway, flashing empty (gloved) palms after a moment of incomprehension.
"I realized on the ferry I didn't have enough for the inn I was thinking about."
Both explanation and apology. He looks less put-together than normal in small ways. Something about the hair, a little unruly, or maybe a button missed somewhere on his coat. He'd been in a hurry.
"But I can find somewhere else."
"I realized on the ferry I didn't have enough for the inn I was thinking about."
Both explanation and apology. He looks less put-together than normal in small ways. Something about the hair, a little unruly, or maybe a button missed somewhere on his coat. He'd been in a hurry.
"But I can find somewhere else."
Disappointing, but fair, Astarion decides, given the circumstances. The minor signs of distress— or at the very least, distraction— acting as testament to the promise that this visit wasn’t exactly planned.
The fireplace is warm already, lit and staving off frigid air from outside. As for the state of the flat itself, it is as it ever was: a mess of hoarded gilt and garbage.
“You can owe me.” He says mildly as he shuts that heavy door with a creaking, iron groan. Metal hinges protesting as fervently as ever.
A Kirkwall staple.
“Did something happen?”
The fireplace is warm already, lit and staving off frigid air from outside. As for the state of the flat itself, it is as it ever was: a mess of hoarded gilt and garbage.
“You can owe me.” He says mildly as he shuts that heavy door with a creaking, iron groan. Metal hinges protesting as fervently as ever.
A Kirkwall staple.
“Did something happen?”
[Dante isn't very good at this sort of thing, but, in his own way he wants to thank Astarion for everything. It will be in the early evening hours when Astarion receives a knock on his door, the hope being that he's home.
If he is, he'll open the door to find no one standing there but there's something tied to the doorknob. It's a singular red rose attached by a silk red ribbon, long enough to catch the eye.
The rose is clean of all thorns save for one with a trace amount of Dante's blood on it, a signature of sorts in his effort to thank Astarion.]
If he is, he'll open the door to find no one standing there but there's something tied to the doorknob. It's a singular red rose attached by a silk red ribbon, long enough to catch the eye.
The rose is clean of all thorns save for one with a trace amount of Dante's blood on it, a signature of sorts in his effort to thank Astarion.]
Oh yes. They’re all just clamoring to catch so much as a glimpse of my misdeeds I’m sure.
[Teasing, coy— whatever laugh he’d meant to let loose suddenly lost to a heady groan as those teeth find their way to his ear.
A fair segue to how he clings to Dante in transition. How he exhales sharp in the very next beat, lips curling upwards as his companion sinks devoutly to his knees.
It is, admittedly, a shockingly pretty sight.]
Hm. [Thoughtful, that hum. Preceding the lifting of one leg that hooks nimbly around the base of Dante’s spine, offering up the faintest little tug as he pulls him closer.
His palms now splayed behind him in soft sheets, a brace. Expectant as anything.]
Then start worshiping, darling. And we’ll see just how long it takes to annoy me.
[One tepid beat before he adds:]
And don’t hold back this time.
[Because where they are now? No one’s going to catch sight of them.]
[Teasing, coy— whatever laugh he’d meant to let loose suddenly lost to a heady groan as those teeth find their way to his ear.
A fair segue to how he clings to Dante in transition. How he exhales sharp in the very next beat, lips curling upwards as his companion sinks devoutly to his knees.
It is, admittedly, a shockingly pretty sight.]
Hm. [Thoughtful, that hum. Preceding the lifting of one leg that hooks nimbly around the base of Dante’s spine, offering up the faintest little tug as he pulls him closer.
His palms now splayed behind him in soft sheets, a brace. Expectant as anything.]
Then start worshiping, darling. And we’ll see just how long it takes to annoy me.
[One tepid beat before he adds:]
And don’t hold back this time.
[Because where they are now? No one’s going to catch sight of them.]
[Surging up, Dante moves to crush his mouth against Astarion's but stopping just short having to remind himself that things like kisses were treats that were earned. Instead, he bows his forehead against Atarion's the glitter of his red eyes fixing on the elven vampire for now.
He would wait on an absolute transformation for the time being, he'd never gone that far with anyone as a demon and felt that little steps were probably better than going in with it all at once. He might just startle himself if he did and the fact that someone was so keen to accept him, to want that of him, that much of him.
He wanted to be careful. He'd only ever used his trigger in moments of aggression, ripping into a lover was the last thing he wanted to do.]
I think you're the only one who's ever wanted me not to hold back.
[It was an observation, but an honest one nonetheless.]
But I do like to give the people what they want, or maybe I'm a little bit more invested in giving you what you want.
[Was the flattery part of the performance? Who knows, but Dante, still kneeling on the floor drew back just enough to dutifully remove each boot in turn until Astarion's feet were bare. Where else would someone begin to beg and worship? Shoes aside Dante took one foot in hand his movements slow and deliberate.
He didn't do it very often, but every now and then a foot massage went a long way, the pressure of his thumbs from heel to each toe, rolling his knuckles against the inner arch of his foot, massaging and kneading until each foot in turn until any tension evaporated, and Astarion felt relaxed and malleable to his touch.
When finished he didn't immediately move on, but instead laid kisses that were as reverent as they were meant to be to the instep and arch, to the well-turned ankle. There wasn't a gesture that he could think of that was more worshipful, but not in a way that felt even remotely demeaning.
Once finished he was calculated in repositioning Astarion so his newly venerated feet didn't have time to come into contact with the floor. It was the pause he needed to make sure Astarion was still okay and if he had his own demands to make.]
He would wait on an absolute transformation for the time being, he'd never gone that far with anyone as a demon and felt that little steps were probably better than going in with it all at once. He might just startle himself if he did and the fact that someone was so keen to accept him, to want that of him, that much of him.
He wanted to be careful. He'd only ever used his trigger in moments of aggression, ripping into a lover was the last thing he wanted to do.]
I think you're the only one who's ever wanted me not to hold back.
[It was an observation, but an honest one nonetheless.]
But I do like to give the people what they want, or maybe I'm a little bit more invested in giving you what you want.
[Was the flattery part of the performance? Who knows, but Dante, still kneeling on the floor drew back just enough to dutifully remove each boot in turn until Astarion's feet were bare. Where else would someone begin to beg and worship? Shoes aside Dante took one foot in hand his movements slow and deliberate.
He didn't do it very often, but every now and then a foot massage went a long way, the pressure of his thumbs from heel to each toe, rolling his knuckles against the inner arch of his foot, massaging and kneading until each foot in turn until any tension evaporated, and Astarion felt relaxed and malleable to his touch.
When finished he didn't immediately move on, but instead laid kisses that were as reverent as they were meant to be to the instep and arch, to the well-turned ankle. There wasn't a gesture that he could think of that was more worshipful, but not in a way that felt even remotely demeaning.
Once finished he was calculated in repositioning Astarion so his newly venerated feet didn't have time to come into contact with the floor. It was the pause he needed to make sure Astarion was still okay and if he had his own demands to make.]
[He can’t stop himself from exhaling at the attention paid by rough hands, his own fingers curling in thin sheets, knuckles turning a paler shade of white for it. Head tipping back as Dante’s lips settle light across his skin, prompting his back to arch as he leans himself into it, tongue pressed against the edges of his teeth.]
Why would I ever want you to be anything less— [The word less only faintly clipped by his own settling contentment, and preceding a shift as his foot finds its way to Dante’s chest (near the edge of his well-defined shoulder) and presses, edging him back towards the floor, as if coaxing him to lie down across it— his own hands now taken to tugging away the thin layering of his own shirt.]
You’re powerful. Sharp-eyed and unrelenting. Dauntless beyond belief.
You’re so much better than those miserable creatures shambling about outside, wrapped in all their high-strung fear. [It’s a smooth process, his undress: he manages it with fluid ease, and this time— without the backdrop of a watchful city surrounding them— he doesn’t withhold an ounce of skin before sinking down to straddle his quarry, palms fit across the center of Dante’s chest.
Hips heavy when they shift.]
I’m not afraid of you, my darling.
Embrace it. [Leaning forward, lips skirting light over Dante’s own. Cool breath, soft touch.]
...or let me do it for you.
Why would I ever want you to be anything less— [The word less only faintly clipped by his own settling contentment, and preceding a shift as his foot finds its way to Dante’s chest (near the edge of his well-defined shoulder) and presses, edging him back towards the floor, as if coaxing him to lie down across it— his own hands now taken to tugging away the thin layering of his own shirt.]
You’re powerful. Sharp-eyed and unrelenting. Dauntless beyond belief.
You’re so much better than those miserable creatures shambling about outside, wrapped in all their high-strung fear. [It’s a smooth process, his undress: he manages it with fluid ease, and this time— without the backdrop of a watchful city surrounding them— he doesn’t withhold an ounce of skin before sinking down to straddle his quarry, palms fit across the center of Dante’s chest.
Hips heavy when they shift.]
I’m not afraid of you, my darling.
Embrace it. [Leaning forward, lips skirting light over Dante’s own. Cool breath, soft touch.]
...or let me do it for you.
Page 2 of 2