illithidnapped | INBOX II

if you dont stop waking me up with that stupid cucumber im going to train myself into biting

[Oh dear oh dear— be still his lifeless mess of an unbeating heart. Is someone cranky today?

Because if so: hot.]

You are so precious, acting like you don't try to already. [One might imagine it's the vampire or the wolf in bed that's prone to being sharp between the sheets compared to one adolescent moon elf, but oh, they'd be so wrong.]

You're slow to wake up, dearest little catulus.

Why do you think I started using cucumbers in the first place?

there are methods of waking a person up that do not involve you putting something phallic by my mouth

[The problem is: it's objectively a hilarious joke, just not when it's him. At least today. At least now, when yes, he is, in fact, a little cranky, thank you very much.]

the pups do it by licking me

you might learn from them

Is this a formal request, or an I-woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-coffin-and-now-I'm-going-to-grouse-about-the-first-thing-that-comes—literally—to-mind sort?

im not

[Mmph. A pause, and then:]

can it not be both?

[. . .]

i do not mind it sometimes. but it's embarrassing. especially if others can hear.

[Moody pup. Let him get this straight— and outside of text format, for he can tell when his adolescent heart is in a mood, and better favors the context of intonation on those shores:]

Sooooo....[Long so. Tailing so.] You don't mind them hearing you moaning your little heart out— except for when you do mind it. And the metric for this is....

Sometimes.

[Also: here's hoping you're not anywhere this'll be overheard.]

Venhedis—

[The good news: their stones of far speech are still in peak working order, every syllable crystal-clear and easily heard even in a crowd. The bad news: their stones of far speech are still in peak working order, every syllable crystal-clear and easily heard even in a crowd.

At least it's easy enough to duck down a side-alley. And the laughter that had followed him was exceedingly familiar.]

I mind it, I simply have accepted the realities of living communally once more, and try not to descend downstairs too quickly after we rut. But it is one thing to know what I'm doing in the moment. It is another to not realize it until it's already happened.

[The words are right, but the tone is clipped, as is so often the case when he's in a mood like this.]

It matters little. Forget it.

Aht—

[Tepidly endeared click that it is— tongue hitting the jagged backs of all his fangs— it's a temporary stay as well; something to keep his precious little heart on the line while he knows he's half a second away from being hung up on.

In other, tactfully unused words: I didn't say I'm forgetting anything. Least of all your fuss.

Your abundant, genuine....probably hormonal fuss.

~~....not at all exacerbated by the fact that Astarion chose now to unexpectedly air their lingerie.~~]

I'm only trying to help, you know.

[Says local instigator.]

Edited 2024-03-03 08:39 (UTC)

No, you’re having fun at my expense and patronizing me while you do.

[It’s an instant retort, snapped out and unfair both, Leto knows. It isn’t really Astarion’s fault that little tongue click agitates today when it normally settles him. It’s certainly not his fault Leto’s temper is flaring, but here they are.]

Twice over now.

And yet is that or is that not what I do, my fussy little darling? [Beckoning to the borders of his temper: come now. Come on, come nip instead of showing teeth, fierce thing.]

Shall I change my stripes for anything less than your adolescent whims?

It is not a whim, do not act as though this is some new preference— and don't call me that. Acting even more patronizing is not helping your case.

[It's too sharp, too snarly . . . like Ataashi nowadays when the pups play too rowdily near her, her upper lip peeling back and her warning growl rumbling low in her throat. Far past the point of knock it off and entering into the territory of or else.

In the distance, the faintest hint of voices; Leto's own becomes quieter, though no less snappish.]

I am in no mood to be treated as though I am a damned child simply because I do not want an entire city to know what we get up to.

[He sees the warning for what it is. Hears the coarseness in that tone, a promise of trouble brewing with the opportunity to back away from it through deferred capitulation.

But that won't help either of them right now.]

Maybe I don't want to help my case half as much as I want to figure out yours.

There is nothing to figure out.

[Gods, he knows he’s being an asshole at this point. Objecting to Astarion’s patronizing diminutives is one thing, but it’s never a good sign when he’s throwing someone’s words back at them. He glances away, collecting himself for a moment. Then, his tone a little more tempered:

Is it so hard to understand I do not like being treated like a child when I tell you I dislike something?

[But that’s a symptom, not a cause.]

[He should probably be paying attention to those growls instead of cooing over Leto like he does when Ataashi's threatening to tear her knitted-and-inanimate-and-sock-shaped prey to shreds.] Not particularly, no. Not in theory, anyway. But when it comes to tetchy little outbursts like this, I've found logic doesn't factor in half as much as it should.

Not that I mind them: it's such a thrilling tease to— even figuratively— see those pretty little milkfangs of yours come out.

[He's batting his lashes oh so sweetly, and you know what? Somehow: it actually carries. Something in his songbird tone; the old familiar lilt of it, not often used these days.] A treat I do always savor.

Astarion.

[It's sterner now. Older, strange as that sounds. Perhaps it's a response to that familiar lilt: an echo of who they used to be. Stop fussing so much, stop lingering in the past, that pretty voice urging him gently and genuinely, spoken as they'd huddled together in the middle of the night or lingered in the sun in his study. Come now, it isn't so bad, not dismissing his hurt so much as gently nudging at his tendency to linger in bitterness.

And this is not then, but now. He is no longer middle-aged, and Astarion no longer an elf. But he hears it, and something in him responds.

So: no more fussing. No more petulantly stomping his foot and flashing his fangs, seething rage so easily rising up within him— an overreaction for what ought to be mere irritation. And really: he is picking a fight. He knows he is. He doesn't like the patronization when it comes like this, doting and saccharinely sweet, but this began with his snapping randomly at his amatus.]

Enough.

[Not a dismissal so much as a firm line in the sand: enough with this petty squabble that isn't a squabble at all.]

I am aware it was an unfair outburst, my own dislike of our sex life being overheard notwithstanding— but do not make it worse like this. Answer me as an adult or wait until I return home.

[Oh there he is, the fighter from Thedas with a glare that could cut sinew and a voice to make even the surliest slavers shiver. A little long-buried, perhaps, but not long-lost; the call and response of habitual language, beautiful as music to his careworn ears.]

Awake at last, thank the gods.

[Hello again, sweetheart.]

I really didn't want to have to keep that up forever— it is exhausting turning back to old tricks.

[Playful as a fox through intonation (and utterly rapacious, thank you very much), and most importantly: not at all about to acknowledge the fact that Leto is absolutely right on all counts in his scolding.

Less fun, that part.]

[He exhales slowly in something that isn't quite a sigh— and trust that whatever notes of aggravation thread within it are mutually shared. He's as displeased with himself as anyone, annoyed by his own uncontrollable irritation and sudden habit of nipping at anyone who gets too close (and too often, that's Astarion).

Still. The patronizing does need to be addressed sooner or later.]

You—

[Mm, nope, try again. Another breath, gods, it is so hard to keep a lid on his temper sometimes. And trust he'll get to that patronizing conversation in a moment, but first, gruffly (ruefully):]

Tell me when this period of adolescence ends again?

[If one exuberantly charming resident vampire was afraid of being bitten over something like proximal closeness— well, he wouldn't be here to begin with. And that goes twice over for every scolding, too, even if he is doing his damndest to turn it into a crowish game of keep-away.

(Although that sigh from Leto's end....

....hm.)]

Oh, not long. Not long at all, my darling—

[A tepid beat, and then:]

Only until you reach one hundred.

[And really, he's not teasing him for once: it's just the naked truth.]

[It's really a show of maturity and self-control that he doesn't whine the way he wants to when he hears that.]

Gods. Sixty more years of this . . .

[Ah, and here, now, he remembers who he is— for any adolescent elf would surely view six decades as little more than the blink of an eye, not an entire lifetime.]

How does anyone stand it? It's only a handful of years for humans, and that alone is nightmare enough. [And it's stupid to compare, but he can't help it.] I do not know how elves manage to endure.

[And then, with an unseen twist of his mouth, he adds:]

I do not know how you will endure.

[He's joking, sort of. Kind of. It's not that he thinks Astarion is at risk of leaving, no, but . . . gods, he gets so impatient with himself some days, and he cannot imagine it's any easier on the other side.]

[His laugh is warm. Fond. It comes on easily, not a glimpse of an act in sight. Sound bottled with the brightness of play, rather than the extension of it.]

You say that like you're not one of us. [Trust he knows there is a difference, he'd felt the brunt of it in Thedas, but the truth of it is— ]

You make it so damned easy to bear.

Edited 2024-03-15 22:42 (UTC)

[Gods, and despite himself, his face softens into a smile. He would have been fine without assurance, for he knows their love is far stronger than a few prickly moods— but still, there's something lovely about getting it.

And in turn, it makes it easier for him to settle, some of those hackles lowering as his voice warms.]

Te amo.

[It's easier to say in Tevene than Common sometimes. But ah, on the subject of being one of them . . .]

Does it feel . . .

[Mm, no. What is he trying to say?]

What does sixty years feel like to you? I cannot . . . truthfully, I cannot even fathom such a span. I know I will continue to age, and that I will hit not just one, but two, three, four centuries, but in truth, it doesn't feel real. Sixty years . . . that seems a lifetime to me.

Does it . . . is it a long span for you?

Tsk.

[Te amo te amo, and it's only because his ears are red and ringing with a frankly adolescent amount of adoration of his own that he doesn't start grumbling about lifetimes and what it really means to be old. Hells' teeth. If he didn't already feel as if he were robbing the cradle thanks to all those rowdy cubs his lover likes to run with....

Though then again.]

Te amo, you impatient little sweetheart. [Sharper than the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, wryness is a present player in their chat.

(Ten years with Cazador was horror itself, to say nothing of the approximal two hundred more that followed, too many of them missing. It felt endless. Muddy. Crushing. Three years in freedom, though? A blink. A sip— and there's some part of him that fears if things go wrong, that'll be all he gets. Three years of perfect freedom traded for one more unending promise of enslavement.

He can't talk about this, not directly— his perceptions are as mangled as his thoroughly broken mind. He's not the right source.

But he's not the wrong one either.)]

Huffing about sixty years. A hundred years. You think adolescence for half a century is a nightmare? Some of us have been stuck this way for an eternity and counting, thank you very much, and you don't hear us complaining about it day in and day out.

Oh?

[Interested oh. Surprised oh. Somewhat amused oh, in truth, and Leto notes that emotion as it fills him for no other reason than it would be so damned easy to go the opposite way. To flinch back, remembering revelations about siblings and long-kept secrets— and it's not that his mind doesn't go there, understand. Just that he trusts in his amatus enough to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume this more a vague guess than a long-held secret.]

You have a guess when you were turned . . . is that based on something you remember, or general level of maturity?

[He's teasing.]

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I just keep losing it about that Tinawhine lmao

HAHA GOOD

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