illithidnapped

“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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