illithidnapped | INBOX II

[Just Fenris, just Dalyria— a VIP section within a VIP section, and yet another source of conflict within their little pack, no doubt.]

maybe.

or maybe she pitied him the way she pities everyone.

[Astarion doesn't want to think about it too hard. Fenris was right, after all, he is a jealous thing. Driven to showing teeth just to keep the only people he likes being near, few as they are.]

If we were in that universe defined by our physiology, would I still be yours....?

[The wording is deliberate.]

[Oh, his lonely boy. Someday, maybe, Astarion will understand just how beloved he truly is. For even sitting in this exclusive little area in this exclusive little club surrounded by only the most prestigious of the elite, still, Fenris has so much love in his heart that it takes nothing at all to ache in echoing empathy for that question.

(Would I still be yours, and he loves him for how he phrases it).

It's why that question sits there for only a few seconds before his reply appears:]

Always.

In every world. With any denomination, with any definition of elite or common, always, you will be mine. Little matter what stands between us, for there are few who can match my determination or your will.

[His eyes flick up, catching Astarion's own from across the room. I love you, and they do not say such things, it's true. They do not ever sit and think about the future (hazy and uncertain, for what future does a noble and an indentured servant ever have?); they dance around matters of the heart even as they swear loyalty (I'll buy your debt, I'll protect you, I'll help you). But there's something so deliberately heavy in the stare he levels Astarion's way, his eyes blazing with a smouldering devotion.]

Three hundred years, and there is no other I would seek out the way I would you.

[It's good the club is dark. Better that he's half-hidden underneath his only friend, where the paleness of her unfurled hair hides the bulk of how red he's gotten: just a mess of alcohol-steeped affection, besotted enough that it wells up in his throat. Saturates the borders of his eyes, blinking more times than he needs to just to clear the tripled outline of his screen. Bring it back down into one.]

We should run away together.

[Isn't dancing anymore, is it?]

[He forgets to breathe.

Just for a moment. Just long enough for the shock to spiderweb through him like the first fateful crack in a glass seconds before it shatters. His eyes dart from the phone to Astarion and back again, his ears pinned back and all of him so openly stunned in a way he never is. Until at least he manages to smooth out his features, resuming the mask of a stoic bodyguard.]

Why?

[He asks because Astarion has seen his face. Because there can be no mistaking the devotion in his last message. Because they both of them are such lonely things, and Fenris has too cynical a heart even now to fully believe that any noble— no matter how earnestly he might mean it right now— would ever choose someone like him over all the wealth and power and prestige that their position brings.

And yet here Astarion is, saying just that.]

And where?

Edited 2026-04-08 03:53 (UTC)

Anywhere. [Because it's easier to answerv than its predecessor. Denies the logistics and adhered logic involved in trying to plot a course that wouldn't end in some kind of disaster in short order. Ignores the fact that he's no idea how it is to be poor, to have to truly scrimp for his next miserable meal, and that the two of them are so recognizable that they'd be easier than anything to track.

Dalyria would shelter them, but Violet and Petras? Aurelia? Yousen? Leon?

No, he's not sober enough for foresight— just sincerity. Just the way he always feels, let loose without its leash. It shows when they lock eyes, however brief; Silver irises focused, lit from underneath by his own phone's equally pallid glow, unblinking. Unafraid. (Where Fenris' ears slide low at a backwards slant, Astarion's sit forwards, all of him squared towards his guardian.)]

Those stories are about devotion, right? Compulsion and physiology just the vehicles for being near the person that you love.

If I can't bite you or be bitten by you to prove it, then I'll have to do something else.

[There's no lie in that expression. No merciless sadism in the slant of his smile or cruel humor glinting in his eyes. This isn't a joke at Fenris' expense— and it's important he tells himself that, for it would be so easy to fool himself into thinking otherwise. To let his cynical heart jeer that no noble, no matter how devoted, would ever say such things; to think of all the stories of fools who dared to dream that those pretty words of devotion spoken in bed amounted to anything in the morning light. He's acting like them, he knows. Believing that Astarion is the exception, not the rule, and he'd scoff if it was anyone else, but—

Astarion is different. He cannot make himself believe otherwise, no matter how his heart trembles in fear.]

You love me?

[Gods save his fool heart, for he regrets it the instant he types it out— or, no, that isn't right. He doesn't regret it. He's terrified of how vulnerable such a stupid question makes him, but he cannot bring himself to regret it. Not when Astarion said the word first.

And oh, this isn't how it should be. This isn't the way this ought to go, but maybe it's the way it was always destined to. In other worlds, in other times and places, perhaps it would be something more romantic, but their relationship has been marked by secrecy and guarded hearts from the start. Texting is easier than speaking, even after a year.]

[Sometimes there are exceptions to the rules. Sometimes, for a bleak-hearted stripling that's been spoiled by wealth and yet jilted by the living time and time again, someone comes along that changes his presumptions. His worldview. The idea of use or be used doesn't exist here, and whilst it's true that Dalyria was kind first, she was also kind to everyone— which made it hard to see as anything but one more mask. Fenris, on the other hand, never had one to begin with. He obeyed if he had to, yes, it just came alongside a scowl. A glare. A dour bitterness that wouldn't adopt people-pleasing by any name or make. He had no obligations; he didn't lie.

He doesn't lie.

It makes Astarion feel self-conscious, suddenly. Too aware of how heavy Dal's head is on his arm, and how the words You love me? are practically emblazoned on a bone white screen, stark and blaring outwards in her eyeline. It recasts the startled look Fenris had aimed his way as something less than pleased— maybe rattled. A beneficiary of a lordling's fond familiarity now cast in a role he never wanted, or perhaps fears, or perhaps— perhaps he has no idea what to do with, for what does he ever have control of in this life?

Between the two, it tempts Astarion to tilt his phone away, in case Dal wakes up— or if she's already awake, pretending out of kindness not to see his utterly moronic fumble to end all fumbles.]

I

[....]

is that all right? [Cut short by the sound of stirring right beside him, either real or imagined— his phone almost skittering out of his hands.]

[In Astarion's hands, his phone buzzes almost immediately— but oh, whatever answer Fenris gave will have to wait, for Dalyria is stirring. Someone laughed a little too loudly near them, their voices carrying just a bit too clearly; for a moment she squints blearily up at . . . oh, Astarion. Astarion looking down at her with such an overwhelmed expression that for a moment she tries very hard to rouse . . .

. . . and then decides that if he really needs her, he can wake her up properly. The bass is still booming, people around them are chattering— she can't have been asleep for more than a few minutes, and she needs a bit more time before she can go out and dance again. And given he isn't shoving her off, well. He'll serve as pillow for a little while longer. With one uncomprehending glance at his phone, she growls out her only commentary: 'Too bright,' sullen and mumbled, before closing her eyes and falling asleep once more.

The entire exchange barely takes a minute, but it feels like an eternity for Fenris. Maybe for Astarion too, for at least Fenris can see why his beloved is so delayed.]

yes

[That, first and foremost, sent so hastily he nearly drops his own damned phone.]

yes

i simply

yes

but you told me once that it was a forbidden word. that it was akin to handing anyone who overheard a loaded gun.

[Oh, he remembers every word of that warning. I own you. Whore. Bitch. I want to ruin my life as fast as possible and let everyone have a nice clean shot at it. None of it directed Fenris' way, all of it stated as a firm reminder of the world that his darling boy inhabits. He's breathing too heavily now, his eyes locked on Astarion's every movement as though every fumbling attempt to tilt his phone away might give him some insight as to what exactly he means by this.]

tell me. if you mean it. do not couch it behind half-sentences.

[He shouldn't pursue this. He shouldn't encourage this. He should be wiser, smarter, more aloof, more cynical— and yet his thumbs tap out the letters too fast for his mind to catch up, a starvation three centuries in the making gnawing in the pit of his belly.]

tell me you love me.

[There's ringing in his ears. His pulse is there too, for however long (an eternity, that's how long it takes: an outstretched, heart-attack inducing eternity) until Dalyria yawns and sinks down with an unaware mutter into sleep. And when it's over his chest aches, needle sharp— empty in a way that suctions in sensation till he feels like he can't breathe. Can't recover. Can't spur his heart into finding its rhythm before the end of it and him by proxy, which would be so damned fitting, he thinks, considering it's his heart that's gotten him into this whole mess.

No, not just him, now:]

I love you.

[At the end of a ridiculous conversation. In a shitty club with overpriced drinks and too loud music. With his best friend slumped against him and near-drooling on his shirt, barely a handful of degrees away from waking and seeing everything he's typed in secret.

It doesn't change a thing.]

I love you, Fenris.

[No half-measures. No obscurity. No lies. What's true is destined to come crawling to the surface with inevitable strides no matter how deeply it's been buried; if they hadn't met it here, it'd have happened tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.]

And I've known you long enough to trust you won't shoot yourself with it, now.

Or me.

[It almost doesn't feel real. He has to read it over and over, some part of his brain desperately trying to find some hidden meaning behind the words, flinching away in desperate self-preservation— but no. No, there's nothing but the truth. I love you, so stark and bare and real that he can barely absorb it. I love you, and he's never had the words directed at him before. It changes nothing (it changes everything); the feelings were there before, unspoken but so ardently felt (but it feels like the world is reeling in the best way, everything suddenly changed on the hinges of three words).

And he can't type it back.

He tries. Again and again he tries, but the words look small and stark and stupid next to Astarion's. I love you too, and it isn't enough. Some core part of him won't allow it, not like this. I love you too, and the words thunder in his ears, pulse in his throat, echo with every deliberate step he takes as he lifts off the wall and weaves his way through the club. I love you too, rehearsed in every intonation he can imagine as he weaves his way through drunken clubbers and overzealous dancers, his eyes locked on Astarion all the while, I love you too, I love you too, I love you so much more than I ever thought I could, I love you more than I ever knew I was capable of, I love you for your empathy and your intelligence, for your ability to care, for the way you look at me as a person instead of an object—

I love you too, whispered hoarsely in the back of his mind by the boy he once was, small and unbroken.

He leans over the back of sofa, one hand gripping Astarion's shoulder as his mouth brushes against the crook of his ear: every bit the dutiful bodyguard alerting his master of some inane development. Only Astarion will feel the way his fingers latch on tight, warm against sweat-damp skin; only Astarion will hear the way his voice trembles as he breathes in his ear:]

I love you too.

[The shudder in his voice wends its way around the tip of Astarion's ear, bedding down in the crook where earlobe meets nape, meets collar, meets the shiver rolling up his spine that almost shakes Dalyria off his lap entirely— catching her at the last second before gravity tales hold. A sudden jerk of attention split between his bodyguard and the pseudo-sibling in his arms, looking for all the world like a lost little puppy. Too unsure of where to put his hands, his eyes— himself.

So he splits the difference.

Drops his phone and reaches out for branded knuckles before Fenris has gone, still holding onto Dalyria with what's left. There's nothing left but panic in his gaze; afraid to let go, not knowing what to say to excuse a move like this (as if he's not the one driving this exchange. As if he's not a drunken noble, able to demand near anything from anyone, his own guard dog included).]

—how did it go again?

[Almost splits in adolescent lungs, forcing him to clear his throat.]

The play we watched. The bit I liked from it—

"In every world. With any denomination, with any definition of elite or common...." [If anyone asks, that's what it'll be. Just a play. The kind he wants to quote and so needs to hear it spoken over and over again.]

"There is no other I would seek out the way I would you."

[Oh, darling boy. Precious, panicked thing, so terrified that somehow it might all slip through his fingers— or is that Fenris himself? For his own heart is thundering in his throat, his fingers clinging back with such desperation that his knuckles have gone white. Craning over the back of the couch like this is uncomfortable and he doesn't care; he hasn't moved an inch and won't, not unless the club suddenly comes crashing down around their ears. Right now any movement feels tantamount to walking on creaking ice; Maker only knows what will send either of them plunging through.]

You forgot a line.

[A stray curl of hair brushes against his chin as he speaks; the scent of Astarion's cologne fills his senses, floral and familiar. It's so hard not to turn his head and bury his face in his hair the way he longs to; instead he shifts his fingers only slightly, weaving them between Astarion's own.]

"Not once has it ever happened before. Not in three hundred years".

[He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry, and adds:]

Did you believe him when he said it?

I believe everything he said. [Brings them closer. Leaves them touching through the pressure of the air trapped just between their outlines as if it was pure contact. Empty space alive beneath the bassline's arrhythmic undulations, an extension of their bodies. Of their wanting.

And the weight of hesitation's antithesis as it all but leaps out of his throat.]

Anyone who can't trace the candor he always wielded right back to the start of his arrival might as well admit they weren't paying attention— probably wanking off or sleeping their way through: he wouldn't have lied about this. Not to make sentiment sound prettier. Not when it's already beautiful.

His paramour didn't stand a chance.

[Now at last he chuckles softly, surprised and yet not all at once. He can still remember the way Astarion had looked at him in the gun range, after all: so stricken and shocked and overwhelmed by the first bit of protectiveness that wasn't explicitly demanded by his father. Little love. Little lonely heart, shuddering beneath the barest bit of kindness.]

Nor did he. Perhaps it took a little longer, but . . . I would wager that when he fell, he fell hard.

[Gods, he wants to kiss him. No longer does that panic consume him; now it's adoration that makes him long for what he can't have. His tongue flicks out, tracing along his bottom lip in subtle echo, wishing desperately he could close the sliver of a gap between them and pour every bit of adoration he feels into it.

Instead, another chuckle, his breath warm against Astarion's lips:]

Though there was a single exception to his candor: I imagine he noticed just how attractive he was right from the start, no matter how he denied it. He was not blind.

Mm. He was a little blind. [Astarion smirks, still submerged in deep affection, betraying the coarse quiver rolling up his spine. The prickling across his skin that feels both electric and numb all at once, and craves that fading phantom of a kiss— that faint humidity that he only need lean forward just to chase, and—

Dalyria snuffles against his shoulder, jerking his head back in her direction for a moment. First there, then a careful glance around the room to look for Violet or Aurelia (both bickering with Leon about something in the crowd, their bodies angled away), thankfully distracted. It isn't that he wouldn't let them unearth the truth if it came to it, it's that he doesn't actually trust more than half of them to keep their mouths shut the second they grew furious with one another, or were bribed, or drank too much, or—

He squeezes Fenris' fingers in his own, strong knuckles biting back against soft skin. Another slanting smile, levered upwards on one side around a flash of white teeth.]

It took him longer to figure out which one of them had the bigger cock.

[Thank the Maker for Dalyria, for she serves as potent reminder of just why they can't indulge as they'd like just yet. Somewhere in the distance Petras is strutting about, pleased beyond reason that they're all out for his birthday; somewhere not-so-distant Yousen likely lurks, taking in all the details of his companions as he always does.]

How many times must I tell you? It isn't in how big it is, but whether or not the brat in question knew how to use it. And he flashed it enough that first night that at least one of them was aware.

[And Astarion does know how to use it, so before he can point that out, Fenris smoothly adds:]

But you're overdue for a break, I think. When was the last time you drank anything save liquor? Come. I will accompany you— and to the bathroom, if you need it.

[Excessively cautious, perhaps, but no one can blame a bodyguard for wanting to protect his charge— especially in such a crime-ridden city as Baldur's Gate. And even if they could, gods, Fenris doesn't care anymore. If he cannot get Astarion properly alone for another few hours, they can at least have time enough to whisper those words properly somewhere. I love you, he thinks again, and dares to pry his fingers away just long enough to brush his knuckles against Astarion's cheek.]

And you can tell me more of all the nuances you picked up during that play. All the moments you wished to share with me . . . I would hear of them all.

[It's a good thing the bass is so loud. That the area they occupy is so secluded and the club around them so alive with an electric sense of gravity. They aren't subtle creatures, after all. Never mind that coy words and stolen glances and passing contact is the sort of thing that bars like this are known for— anyone not drunk or high enough to see stars would clock it in an instant as more of the usual fare— but for now they're lucky: Dalyria dozes drearily in the lap (then loungechair) that she lays on; the others still bickering in their corner facing off the other way. Maybe Yousen sees them. Maybe Leon. Then again maybe not. It's late enough those things don't matter much when you're a tipsy, spoiled brat used to fucking all the help. One more instance in a long line of them.

And yet nothing could be further from the truth.

He's never said I love you to another soul. Not the way he whispers it in Fenris' ear the second the door locks tight behind them. Never thrown his heart into the measure of his drink-numb hands as they trace the borders of his lover's jaw, aching and clinging and hungry. Each kiss more savage than the last, defined by teeth and tongue and the docile neediness of a desperate pup. Young, but even if he wasn't it wouldn't change the fact that this is the only time he's felt this way.]

I love you, Fenris. [He mutters, his lips both chapped and flush at the same time. Sweat stinging at the corners of them, but it's sweet across his tongue. Still tastes like the bourbon cherry he had a half an hour ago, and smells like Fenris' usual scent.

If he could drown himself in it, he would. Bottle it up and drench his clothing in it, so that even when they weren't together, he'd still have him near.] I love you.

[Three words. That's all he musters up for depth of commentary. Over and over again, devoid of eloquence, he can't stop saying it in place of something grander. More dramatic. Sweepingly romantic, like the poet Astarion always fancied himself before. I love you, I love you, I love you— short-form, now. Blunt as a slam recital, and the sort he'd be booed off stage for chanting.

Only in the break from all that contact does a different thought rattle loose, abrupt in referencing Fenris' earlier excuse for coming here (and earnest; oh gods, he's so so drunk):]

....I didn't bring any water.

[I love you, and it doesn't matter how many times Astarion repeats it, for it won't ever be enough. Every breathless intonation rings in his ears as he commits them to memory; each one suffuses through his body and wends its way into his soul, caressing scars so deep and ancient he'd long since forgotten they were there. I love you, and he echoes it each time, his voice rough and his lips slick as he frantically return every desperate kiss. He grips lithe hips with hands that tremble, yanking Astarion in close (there's no space between them and still he pulls him in close, hips knocking and thighs sliding between one another, determined not to leave a single inch between them).]

I love you. I love you— I love you, perfect thing—

[Because he's the only person in three centuries who's ever given a damn. He's the only one, the only one who's ever looked at Fenris as a person instead of a weapon. Because he whispers those words and hands Fenris a blade aimed straight at his heart, trusting that he won't hurt him— use him— act like a savage beast or every opportunistic tutor that had come before. I love you, and the words feel so good to whisper that it hurts, a clawing desperation in his heart and his throat, insisting with every fierce kiss and hungry touch that it isn't enough— that it'll never be enough— fingers knotting in his shirt just to slip beneath it, tongues tangling only to draw back to whisper it again—

Until there's the barest pause, and with chest heaving, Astarion whimpers that out.]

My poor amatus.

[Crooned out teasingly, though the firm grip he keeps on Astarion's hips ensures he won't fall. Darling thing. Adorable, drunken, besotted thing, and Fenris loves him all the more for how messy he looks as he draws back. Mouth reddened and curls in his eyes, all of him so wonderfully disheveled.

Mine, he thinks, the thought gentle. Mine, not to possess or claim, but to keep close and protect. My heart. My love.]

No one will notice, I promise you, and I will find you some when we emerge. [For he will need water, especially if he doesn't want to throw up by the end of the night. But perhaps not just yet, he thinks, and idly flicks his thumbs over the jut of his hips.]

But I refuse to stop telling you just how much I love you— not until I know you'll remember it even tomorrow morning, when all the rest of tonight seems a blur.

[A playful little nudge of his nose against Astarion's own, knocking against him in a blatant bid for attention. Then, with far more sincerity:]

I love you. And I will tell you tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that . . . so long as you do the same.

INBOX II

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W A I L S!!!!!!! JUST FUCKING W A I LS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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