illithidnapped

Astarion, who was inclined to burn hot enough to scald in that damnable chair. Astarion, who speaks openly of lust with sharp fangs glinting bright in dark places, thirst entirely unslaked. That is the creature who— when Thranduil reaches for him in urging earnest— decidedly curls his fingers away from those silver-blond strands of hair. The back of his fingertips opting to caress the edge of a sharp ear instead, lazily drawing a line down, nearer by degrees, as though he isn’t still twisted in the vice of his own want.

When he stops, his thumb kisses the rise of one arched cheek, mapping its flush for a beat that feels as though it could stretch on for an age.

And then he grins, jagged, quick to tangle his fingers in that curtain of pale hair. Quicker to stretch his own spine long when he wraps his legs tighter around Thranduil, using the entirety of that spun web to draw him in— to demand more. All soft, throaty whispers of encouragement for it.

There’s a tucked away set of phials resting on the nearby sill where it meets the bed, and it’s only after a short while that Astarion fumbles in reaching for them with his spare hand. The lightest catch of glass scratching over stone.

Perfumed oil. A necessary participant for this sort of affair.

He imagines, unless the poor elf has some withering change of heart, they’ll need it soon enough.

In this, he'll take direction- guidance- as eager to please in bed as ever, if without his usual confidence. Maybe the lack of surety is better. Maybe the novelty of uncertainty on his face is just as arousing as the flushed skin and uneven breaths. Praise certainly goes further with him, noticeable in how he shifts against the bed.

He pauses when Astarion moves, lifts his head, lips glossy wet. His sight is- complicated, but he still notices the flash of glass before he dips his head and replaces his mouth with his hand, all the better to leave him able to offer commentary.

"You've further ambitions," he accuses, his breathing evening out. His voice has an edge of roughness to it. His cheek against Astarion's thigh, he gazes up, all affection.

That such a proud creature makes himself so utterly biddable is unexpected. Thrilling, to say the least.

“Can you blame me?” Astarion asks, the edge of his hand quick to nestle just beneath Thranduil’s jawline— only the underside of his fingertips, the delicacy of it working as a guide for steering attention as surely as if it were a tether between them. Applied pressure is more than unnecessary when you have the gravity of desire on your side.

“Pretty thing like you all to myself? I’m hardly a bastion of restraint as it is.”

Its antithesis, more like.

The narrow cork is pinched between his teeth, pulled loose with a faint pop, and the scent of lilac that perpetually clings to Astarion has a far more direct source this time, a mystery perhaps all too quickly solved under the right conditions. He stoppers it with his own thumb, reaches with his other hand to pull Thranduil higher.

There will always be more time for touch. For the heat of his mouth and the roaming pleasure of kissing the way borders might be drawn across skin.

Instead Astarion finds his throat again, resisting temptation by using teeth and tongue to deepen that lone mark as he lets oil spill lazily between his fingertips. As the brush of his hand low across Thranduil carries with it a warming slickness.

Greedy, his touch. Palm fitted to the muscle spanning just above delicate ribs. His attention almost fixated. Greedier still when he crooks the fingertips of his opposite hand— only the barest warning living in that snaking touch— to let them sink in slow, and deliberate, and searching. He’s a ravenous, beastly thing, even without a thirst for blood. There’s nothing cruel about his touch—

But there’s no restraint to be found in it, either. Not a drop, as he presses in to the knuckle, dragging out an achingly slow rhythm.

"No," Thranduil says, and laughs, breathy and hardly the right indulgence when he's near panting. He goes as he's guided, mindful of the extra few inches he has on the other elf, giving him his throat and holding a fistful of the pillow by his ear. "I had such intentions-"

Ones, presumably, where Astarion was coming apart in his arms, rather than vice versa. Still, he can't complain. He is so very far from complaining, trying not to rock back into Astarion's fingers. He catches his lip between his teeth before he lets out a frustrated huff of air before purposefully stilling. Or at least pausing-- the occasional tremor gives him away, the twitch of thighs and stomach, how his fingers curl and uncurl in the sheets. No reason to give Astarion more reason to tease.

"The smell-" he says, "I thought-- perfume. And you stink of it all the time-"

And Thranduil will have to live with the reminder. Another laugh, but this one breaks off in a hiss. He's at the right angle to murmur in Astarion's ear.

"More. You cannot harm me."

Another mark. Another moment where blunted nails drag harsh against vulnerable skin, the way a feral animal doesn’t quite know how to warm itself to the concept of touch. Contrary to that, however, Astarion does know better: he’s sung like a songbird for the benefit of bejeweled prey, he’s cowed himself for lesser creatures as if they were kings.

The fact that he opts not to now speaks more than consideration ever could.

'You cannot harm me', Thranduil says, with rows of Jagged teeth perched right beside his throat, and the sheer audacity of it— the confidence held fast within it— sends a monstrous shiver running down Astarion’s spine. His eyes dilate, his inhale turns thready.

“You won’t forget it.” Astarion promises. He could mean all of this— he could mean the scent of it, or the welling markings he’s endeavoring to leave behind as lasting proof— maybe there isn’t any difference.

“You’ll remember it when I’m not there,” humming in his throat, yet another arched finger added to the merciless effort already underway. “Like a hunger you can’t sate on your own.”

His breath is warmer now, all stolen heat. A vampire still, though he stops himself from absolute indulgence, drinking in the way each drag of his fingertips prompts a shudder, or a flicker of a sound, or—

He coaxes Thranduil nearer, though they’re close enough that it isn’t much of a shift. A little higher, a little hotter. His fingers slow to retreat, falling to the tauter span of his own length, devoid of propriety when he fits himself in place without rushing for that first, initial dive: there's no senseless plunge, no over-eager thrust— he edges himself in with more tensely-held patience than he has any right to possess, reveling in every aching, febrile second.

He soaks in it, each moment drawn out as his eyes close, eyelids twitching as his mouth falls open, a long exhale, a sigh of relief. He would not have named Astarion patient, not in the way of slow-growing things, but predators have a certain stillness to them.

“Is that not desire?” he asks, and settles his weight on his knees, still perched astride. He is reluctant to draw away, reluctant to be out of distance to kiss him. As for memories, lilacs will be as much of a cue as seeing the fullness of his lips, now intimately aware of the odd coolness of his mouth and how best to avoid over-long canines.

“It sounds nearly like obsession,” he muses, and sits back, sacrificing nearness for control, to be able to rise and fall and set the pace. He leaves both hands on Astarion’s chest, more ornamentation than counter balance. There are a dozen marks on his own skin, courtesy of the other elf. He does not make a point to rake furrows as he rides, but his nails scrape still as his fingers flex.

“It could be....”

Both is what he means to add. To say, even if the words fall short across the edge of his tongue, swept away by the rushing current of sensation. Obsession, after all, is what Astarion was made for. It was all he was ever set loose for, on those sparing nights when blood needed to flow as sweetly as wine.

Ships dashed on rocks, that was what he’d told Fenris, once. Drowned sailors. All the casualties of the beasts meant to prey on want.

Thedas would shudder at his feet, if he’d kept his vampiric compulsion.

But for now, he’ll settle for seeing Thranduil’s eyes gone dark in the absence of ambient light. For the way he breathes, sharp and halting, and then quicker at times, as uneven as the dig of his nails. For the way Astarion himself can’t keep from gasping through the gaps in jagged teeth, head tilted back as his own spine arches high into the catch of those braced fingertips— as he ruts luridly in turn against the grain, despite the way Thranduil drives the whole of their pace— almost begging without words for more.

More.

As drunk on it as wine.

He laughs, a breathy exhale that coincides with a noise in the back of his throat that he cannot wholly suffocate. He is losing control. He is losing composure. He does not need to be particularly polite about it, and falling apart on him looks better than put together on most. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, lips wet and parted, the off-tempo rise and fall of his chest, he looks a tumultuous mess.

The only place to go is down, and Astarion isn't keen to lead him anywhere else. Everything narrows to sensation, to nails and skin and noise, and he drives himself harder to his own end. He is not tender. There are no words in the gasp as he comes, body briefly tense, before his shoulders slouch and he slumps forward, hand still braced against Astarion's chest.

Handsome catch. Ruinous catch. A pretty thing even as he unravels.

The night is long. What starts there— what ends there, only to begin again, no doubt— is as continuous a process as the rise and fall of the sun itself. Astarion isn't content to let him sleep, too tireless and covetous and wanting to let the man rest each time something new's been conquered between them. The faint track marks of blunted nails, the welling points where Astarion had let his mouth linger for far too long. He's a doting, drowsy mess come the hour just before dawn, tangled up in bedding as though he's just another part of it, sprawled at the oddest of angles, exhale low and humming. He's an old thing, a difficult to tire thing.

He's tired now.

"You know," he starts, eyes made unspeakably dark by the fact that he's almost fully closed them in his own contentment. "we should really do this again sometime."

The way someone talks about having tea, or going riding.

Hah, riding.

"You're better company than what I've been keeping."

He aches. It will fade, but the ferry ride back to the Gallows will be interesting. Perhaps he’ll hole himself up in the Alienage for a few days. That idea seem appealing.

Still, he reaches over to adjust the sheets, to cover exposed skin. The impulse is unexpectedly tender, though, he thinks, will not be unwelcome. Astarion seems a black hole for attention of any sort.

“If you mean the drinking,” he says, sitting up slowly, his back to the headboard. “I would welcome it. Or the conversation, or your plan to adjourn to the tavern. But no further than that.”

But he reaches over a second time, to stroke the other elf’s hair, brush some of it out of his eyes. Perhaps that is a benefit of curly and cropped. His own is surely a near snarl of tangles, which he will have to carefully comb out in the bath. The Gallows, then.

It's true enough, in fact. Like an experiment seen to completion the evidence speaks keenly for itself: Thranduil's right. Astarion almost immediately drinks in the mercy of that gesture, unnecessary as it is.

For all his talk of meaningless ecstasy, he's undeniably toothless in regards to it now.

And— with a flicker of something unreadable— he reaches out to trap those fingertips when they wander in close enough to touch. Grip as firm as it is ultimately listless under pressure. Attempting to take more than he has left in him to give, apparently.

He's smiling still, but the way his eyes narrow slightly might betray something of a sharper truth.

"What, I wasn't satisfying enough for you?"

“No,” he says, low and soothing. “You are splendid.”

Deprived of the hand which he might have used to continue to impart the gentle little touches of affectionate aftermath, he lets Astarion keep his grip and hopefully a measure of his pride with it.

“But firstly, you wouldn’t consent to be kept, I fear, by someone who tends towards possessiveness, and I–“

He doesn’t say it, and assume it doesn’t need to be said. If he’s not beholden to what he assumed was his nature, if he is not in thrall to her literally, if it was all a choice and one made with intention and love, well.

“Have I disappointed you?” he asks, moving his leg, thigh pressed to thigh.

Have I disappointed you?

Yes is the knee jerk thought that comes to mind. Unfair as it is. Unfair, which seems to encapsulate Astarion’s whole existence perfectly.

Because he wants to be wanted. Adored in the most basic sense. Having no illusions about what this is doesn’t change the fact that it stings to be met with such a reasonable— and inevitable— response. Dawn isn’t there just yet, and already the dream’s broken.

His exhale’s languorous. He lets go of that hand, smiling just a little wider as his eyes drift shut. Feigned docility.

“A little,” he says, amused by the sound of his own faint petulance. A childish joke. One eye opens; he’s back to form.

“But I’ll survive.”

He considers offering to leave. He considers quietly sliding out of the bed, dressing himself, and returning to the Gallows, to the slim little bed in the empty room, to the detritus of scattered possessions taken when he had been evicted and not yet organized in the new space.

Instead, he reaches for Astarion’s hair, combing it tidy with his fingers. There’s a brush somewhere in this mess. He doesn’t want to rise from the bed to find it.

“Tell me of— what did you call it? Baldur’s Gate?”

It’s so painfully obvious, the way his eyes shut under the soothing simplicity of touch. Just touch. Soft curls, even tangled up in tethered knots, part easily under the slide of those fingers.

“Not much to know. It’s a sprawling city, filled with all sorts. You don’t sleep unless you want to, you’re not alone unless you try your damndest to be— it’s alive, for lack of a better word. The only mercy I had when—“

Ah. No.

“Well. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, darling.”

He’s far too kind, this strange, ancient thing. Much too prone to benevolence when it’s undeserved.

“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to start regretting my restraint.”

"Your restraint." Amused. Astarion hasn't pulled away from the touch, so he doesn't stop. It's too short for braids, or those would be next. "As I have told you, I'm hardly delicate. I would not have survived what I have, Thedas included, if a sapling like you posed a threat."

He finds Astarion's ear, and tucks curls behind it, letting the tips rasp against the elongated shell. Half-tempted to pull Astation's head into his lap, he shifts on the mattress.

"But I appreciate the bravado," he admits, nails dragging against his scalp. "We ought to spar in the Gallows some day. To first blood only."

“Utter nonsense.” Astarion counters, finally rousing enough despite everything to work up the briefest flash of teeth.

“For one, I’m an apex predator, not a sapling, and besides— I hardly see the point in tussling around breaking a sweat if we’re not— ”

He pauses. Puffs a sharper exhale through his nose, even as he cants his head into the gentler glide of those nails, his eyes still shut. Get out of his house he demands, and in the next breath inches closer by degrees, seeking out warmth like a moth to a flame.

Maybe it was deprivation that made him this way. Addicted to the faintest comfort.

Maybe he was always like this.

“You know.”

Edited (im tired) 2021-09-16 04:11 (UTC)

He pulls the pillow from behind his back, and sets it in his lap. Then, he guides Astarion's head onto it, utterly unmoved by any venom the other elf sees fit to spit.

"'Apex predator'," Thranduil repeats, not unkindly, and thumbs Astarion's lip to expose his teeth again. Those are particularly long and very sharp, and there's a few of them. Well, some people get an elk for a fursona, and some people get a shark.

"To assure me that you have means to defend yourself besides your wit." His hands go back to Astarion's scalp, working in slow massage. "Or means to defend yourself once you offend someone. Surely you've managed that, living in Lowtown."

Gwen made use of her companions. Astarion might adopt the same strategy, in time.

"That I've lived, darling, is my proof."

Docile, languid, he's nothing more than a collection of sleek curves sloping down into rumpled covers. Even his tone's gone dull, mired in the precursor to sleep. Lulling conversation.

"I don't see why it matters to you." He presses, not even bothering to open his eyes anymore; the thumb at his lip is hardly unwelcome, the return to the soothing scuff of fingernails along his scalp just as pleasant. His inhale is too long. His exhale slow and fading.

"But fine." Astarion murmurs, sinking fully into sleep and knowing he'll wake to the same emptiness as always.

"Whatever you like."

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dreamwidth tried to hide this from me

dreamwidth is cruel

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