illithidnapped

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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