bass-boosted whitney houston intensifies in the distance;

[doggish]

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[illithidnapped]

[It's infuriating to think about sometimes, what age actually means.

Not the number, or the role it plays specifically, but the concept itself: how easily it changes its chameleonic nature without even warning the one affected by that switch. The title of eldest son can mean pride, only to mean child, immature, disappointment, upstart, that much later. In the same set of years as a firstborn becomes an heir, he'll be called frustrating— and not just because he's just as headstrong as he was only a few months prior, but for the disobedience they themselves inspired by demanding his independence before he knew how to walk upright. His headstrong nature the linchpin promising that someday he'll fit the role defining aristocracy in a city full of humans, while also serving as the clearest source of agitation over his unwillingness to be a voiceless, thoughtless piece of furniture.

Oh, when he was a boy, it was cute. A sign of leadership already. Now— ? Now, he can't seem to do anything right, short of being a potted plant that remembers to button its collar all the way up. That doesn't actually enjoy drinking wine, but still compliments it and makes a show of appreciating its floral notes. That doesn't part his legs with a grin when they entertain Duke Echidiumand his salt-and-pepper charm. Father of twelve children barely younger than Astarion. Hands like a hearthfire.

'Your new bodyguard.'

Astarion raises his eyes from his plate to survey the elf standing stiffly in the corner of the grand dining hall again (as if he hadn't noticed him before now, though having indulged in appraising the marking-infested curiosity already, it's a transparent gesture now:) the move deliberate. Enmity etched into his face.]

I don't need a bodyguard.

[And he doesn't.

Why would he, after all? He's an elf grown, by mortal standards anyway. By human ones, which is all that matters in Baldur's Gate. He's not out in the field fighting; he's not taking on adventures or battling monsters; he's not even cleaning the gutters in Lower City streets; there is nothing- and there will never be anything- he needs defending from barring societal pitfalls that (quite frankly) no armored hand would do anything to protect him from in the first place.

If he falls dick-first into the Baron's third wife, or sets fire to one of the Duchy's favorite summer homes, common sense (or at the very least the ability to lie well) should've kept him well out of hot water long before then.

'You're not long from your inheritence, Astarion.' Which really just means shut up, Astarion.

'The Duke's purchased a pair of twins for his own firstborn, anyway. It won't take more than a summer for the rest of the Patriar to think of doing the same.'

Astarion's glinting stare narrows down into a knifepoint.]

So he's a fancy purse, then.

[A handbag. A well-bred cat. A fancy coach. A blouse dyed a popular color ahead of season, just to say they were there first.

'He is necessary.' His father stresses stiffly behind a curtain of silver hair that looks like riverwater undisturbed (all his predecessors have straight hair. His younger brother has straight hair) he never even bothers to look at Astarion while he eats.

Or talks.

'So is finishing your meal,' quietly insists the servant slipping behind Astarion, her rich voice rough as she refills his glass and nudges his own plate closer towards him in replacing it; her tone considerably warmer. His response to it the same, having lost the vicious quality of poised talons.




It comes back later that night, when his bedroom door opens far enough for Fenris to slip inside while Astarion's perched at the far end of his room before a mirror, fingers already tucked against the edge of his shirt to pull it free. He stops.]

I don't know if no one told you, but I'm going to sleep.

[His back hits the mirror as he turns, providing the means to cross his ankles and lean back against it, arms folding. He waits for Fenris to grovel before excusing himself, and when that notion falls through, his honeyed voice runs sour.]

That means you can go.

Tsk. Daft thing.

[doggish]

[Purchased.

The word sticks in Fenris' mind all night, irritating him throughout dinner and well into the evening. Purchased, and oh, he knows what was meant. He paid those twins a set sum, he offered them a salary and a room, something along those lines. Nobles don't really think about what they say; they think even less about how it sounds. A fancy purse his newfound charge calls him, and he isn't wrong, for that's how it sounds, doesn't it? An accessory. A delightfully exotic counterpart. A bodyguard and a nanny all at once, kept not because he's necessary but because he's fashionable.

But call it employment. Call it salaried. Call it anything but bought and sold— but he won't argue. He doesn't dare.

Besides: it's a bruise to his ego and affront to his pride, but it isn't dangerous, not really. After all the agony Fenris has lived through, he can afford a few misplaced words. Really, he ought to be grateful. He'd been wary enough when the job was described to him, but looking at his charge now . . . oh, he's little more than a whelp. A bratty firstborn who wants only to indulge in his hedonism and is sulking now that he can't— gods, the hardest part is likely biting his own tongue whenever the boy whines about any minor inconvenience.]

I suspect no one has told you that I am bound to your side day and night.

[There is a room somewhere in this grand estate that's ostensibly meant for him. He hasn't found it yet, and no one has bothered to show him. It barely matters. It's a place to keep his things, and given he barely has any, there's no point. But if there is a bed there, it is for show only. You will be his shadow, his employer informed him. Day and night.

There isn't a second bed. He'll have to ask after that. More than likely it's been forgotten, a minor detail he'll have to rectify himself. That's all right. He has slept on worse places than the floor. Fenris leans his back up against a wall, unintentionally mirroring his charge as he settles in.]

Perform your nightly routine, whatever that may be, and sleep. I will not interfere. But I am to be at your side constantly for the next few weeks.

[Until he learns to behave, his father had said dismissively. A semi-punishment for a young buck too headstrong to know better. Sooner or later those restrictions will loosen and Fenris given the far more preferable choice of standing guard outside Astarion's door— but then again, given the boy's proclivity for sneaking out the window, perhaps not.

His eyes flick up. And then, his tone perfectly neutral, adds:]

Do you understand?

[Daft thing indeed.]

[illithidnapped]

[How dare he.

For the narrowest band of incendiary seconds, that fledgling noble's visible demeanor finally matches his own rotten mood in perfect, undistilled unison: volatility strung hot around the rim of pearldrop eyes, a score of ugly creases crushed into folds between the pinched-up middle of his brows— capped off by a scowl that didn't dare once show itself during dinner, no matter how severe the scolding he'd been subject to.

Not a mask, just the truth, its heat leveled in a wordless threat lacking in teeth, and only for propriety's sake alone.

How dare he—

(After all, it's not as if the hireling is wrong, is he? There's a great deal Astarion can get away with at face value without incurring backlash, but nothing in a vacuum. If he shrieks that the elf tried to crawl into his bed and rape him, he'd only be swatted for— rightfully— trying to get rid of the beast after only a few hours, with most of that having been spent divided by half a room's worth of dining space; if he hurts the man, orders him to harm himself, if he tries to sic the other servants on him—

Well.

Same outcome, different path.)

It's a trap set out with live, wriggling bait. It's a test that he can't win like this, playing to his nature first, and everything else second.

So knowing where his supposedly empowered reach ends, Astarion's acidity doesn't last.

It can't last. Not without cutting his nose to spite his own well-defined face, and he's had enough cuts there to still feel the sting more than a week after his last adventurous little fiasco. Call Astarion woefully stubborn, fine, but he's not stupid, and he knows how to concede before sunk cost fallacy decides to take its pound of flesh.

(And besides. Besides— the creature is attractive enough, isn't he? For a lowborn thing, for an animal clinging to the coin in his family's coffers— he has a striking way about him beyond all those countless tattoos. The scars peppered here and there, peeking out beneath his armor when he shifts.

Hm.)]

2/2

[illithidnapped]

[Astarion snorts.

Or he sighs, maybe, the two actions close enough that it's hard to tell what he's aiming for beyond simple dissipation. The baseline uncorking of a figurative bottle.]

Fine.

[No part of tonight's unfolding signals fine in any way, shape, or form, but there has to be a middle ground somewhere, right?

Unfolding himself and soon turning back towards the mirror, Astarion studies himself in its glass for a few slow beats, before reaching back to untie the tangled mess of curls tucked in against the back of his neck— lifting their delicate span with only one hand (and wrist): exposing the line of his throat and a series of jeweled clasps (attached to a collared choker, its gilt trails laced completely into the collar of his open-backed shirt, the blouse that'd been covering it— loose and partially sheer for thinness alone— slipping down around his elbow, his waist), no trace of effort spent.

His head tilts, chin drawn closer to his shoulder. Lashes drifting down towards the ground without a single glance spared for the elf stood opposite his reflection (just his voice. Just his attention. Just— )]

Make yourself useful, then.

[doggish]

No.

[Crisply and swiftly stated, and he's proud of himself for how even his tone stays.

No, the freed man tells his master. No, I won't do that, and what can Astarion do to him? Nothing. Nothing. At worst he'll stomp his foot and go tattle to his father, and what will that get him? The man won't take it out on Fenris, not when his entire job is to babysit this brat. No, he says, and it's as if the world reels on its axis, for never once before now has the word slipped past his lips in response to an order.

No. No, no, no, and maybe some of that impudent glee is evident in his gaze. Maybe some of his heady relief shows in the fractional flicker of a smile that graces his lips, unintended but still there. He does not think about how it might be misinterpreted, for in truth all of his mind is simply lingering on how good this feels.

Like inhaling after a lifetime of holding his breath. Like the heady surge of power that had come from grasping a sword for the first time. No, and gods, but he savors it.]

I am your bodyguard, not your servant. If you cannot manage your ties and buttons, I am told there are others who can aid you in that.

[And understand: it's not that Fenris doesn't notice the pale elf. He is a beautiful thing, all soft angles and pale skin . . . it would be impossible not to notice the slender span of that throat. The gilt collar that wraps around it, starkly framing it even as it hints at more. The coy way dark lashes flutter against cheeks touched faintly with color, flushed from the wine at dinner; the sudden stark showing of skin, all the more alluring after the gauzy teasing of that shirt . . . oh, he notices him.

But Fenris is good at keeping such feelings to himself. And though his cock twitches in faint interest, his mind knows far, far better than that. Noticing such things will only get him in trouble. Pursing them . . . oh, what a foolish risk that would be, and all for what? A fuck that couldn't ever be worth it. Carnal pleasure sated for a single night and then—

No.

He cannot lose this job. He cannot. The alternatives are too dire, the stakes too high. It simply isn't an option— and so it won't be.

(Besides, Fenris thinks nastily, how good a fuck could it even be? A rich little brat who's too used to getting what he wants— oh, surely he's used to simply lying back and spreading his legs, chasing after his own pleasure with no thought of anyone else . . . surely it wouldn't satisfy).]

[illithidnapped]

[No, and the word is so edged on that bodyguard's tongue that Astarion briefly wonders how long the poor sap might've been holding onto that one: waiting for an opportunity to feel it tumble from his mouth.

But then again what lowbred thing doesn't wait for the opportunity to reject its betters? Astarion grew up surrounded by servants, he knows exactly how they work. (And think. And hope. And hate.)]

'Night and day' and you can't offer a hand to help me unless I'm dying?

[There's no twitch. No ripple in his mirrorglass stare. If he was incensed before, there's a placidity about him now— though not without its barbs, clearly (part and parcel of being in high society means control in at least some aspects of his temper, no matter how thin its margins). Coy commentary passed on as the pale elf turns his wrist around, keeping his own curls out of the way while he takes to unlatching those clasps on his own.

There's a practiced fluidity to it; it promises he's never— or at the very least not in a long, long time— asked for help in undressing.]

My father clearly overpaid when he bought you.

[doggish]

[The placidity is, if nothing. It's a shock, to be sure, for Fenris had braced himself for snarled out commands and seething threats— but perhaps he's cleverer than he looks. Perhaps this is little more than gentle testing of boundaries, pushing just to see where Fenris will draw the line. He does not mind that. Certainly there is hope to be found in the swift way Astarion undoes his clasps; better a noble that knows what he's doing than one that flounders.

And perhaps Fenris himself can be a bit more lax. There's no need to court hostility, after all— and perhaps Astarion's poor attitude is just the result of impositions suddenly laid. Fenris draws himself up, setting his sword down as he comes forward, ready to dryly comment as he tugs on ties—

My father clearly overpaid when he bought you.

— and freezes.

It's a pause that's barely there. A sudden swell of shock and rage that Fenris hastily shoves aside, though his heart is hammering in his chest, his lips longing to draw back in a snarl.]

He did not buy me. I am in his employment. I suggest you learn the difference.

[Fenris resumes his pace, closing the distance between them and staring at Astarion in the mirror's reflection.]

And whether or not he overpays me is his own business.

[And then, stiffly:]

What, exactly, do you require help with.

[It's not that he's dying to help, but on the other hand, he looks an idiot just looming here.]

[illithidnapped]

The ties. Here.

[So quick as to be glancing; his arched fingers doing the light work of pulling his own hair further aside while that collar shrugs low, already split down the middle like cracked fruit and sagging save for the ties strung into its base through linen loops. No part of him reacting to that bluster (however brief— however visible or invisible— through the thick sheen of that mirror), expectation runs as thick as blood in the wireframed lad's aristocratic veins.

And when you're counting on the world tilting on its axis just to give you a little shade, far too few (pleasant) things come as a shock.]

And yet you live here. Sleep here— at some point, I assume. Unless you're some sort of undead beast with no need for rest, bound forever to my side.

[A soft noise of amusement spared there, passing though it may be.]

If that isn't being bought.... [Well, what is?]

[doggish]

[He has a point.

Or— no, he doesn't. He doesn't, for Fenris knows this is different than enslavement. It might have the same taste and scent and shape of it (for oh, Astarion's father had bought him at such an obscenely high price, and Fenris is not paid so much as doled out a small allowance each week, with the rest of his pay going towards working off that debt), but it isn't the same. He was never allowed dignity as a slave. He was never offered such freedoms as a slave. Astarion and his family cannot force Fenris to perform duties outside of his chosen job, whether that means untying knots or spreading his legs—

It is different.

His mouth is a thin line, but with effort, Fenris forces his temper back. He is too old to be baited by such a little brat, who goads him for no more reason than he's upset at being reigned in.]

Simply because I take my rest here does not mean I am of the same caliber as whatever toys your father purchases for you.

[His voice is even. And though his hands are full of roughened callouses between azure lines, Fenris' fingers are surprisingly deft as he tugs at linen ties. The fabric knots in on itself; it takes more than a few seconds to pull each one free.

It's impossible not to glance down. Impossible not to notice the arched line of Astarion's back, nor the delicate secret space just above his waistband. And to that end, yes, Fenris notices. His eyes dart down, his lashes flickering as he drinks in the sight. But his fingers don't waver, nor do they reach to touch that which is forbidden. Just because his brat is a pretty thing doesn't mean Fenris is going to forget himself.

He catches Astarion's eye in the mirror as another loop falls free. The shirt falls off bare shoulders; almost imperceptibly, one corner of Fenris' mouth twitches upwards. I see what you're doing, whelp. And it isn't working.]

Mind me, now, little noble: I am tasked with keeping you out of trouble— and teaching you how to behave as I do. Throw your weight around too much and you will see yourself following whatever schedule I deem suitable, obeying what rules I decide to impose.

Be good, and we will get along.

Act out . . . and I promise you, I can make your life very rigid indeed.

[illithidnapped]

[His mouth (stained at its leftmost corner from supper wine) is already open to fire off a wry-yet-vulnerable appeal in the first few seconds while those fingers work, strong knuckles pushing inadvertently into his skin (his pulse slipping with every glance, making the whole thing a sort of joint-measure exercise): where for every knot come loose or every slid centimeter his heartrate resets a little more. And a little more. Distracted but not lost, he sucks in one shallow sip of air by the time that work is done, poised to exhale in the next beat— wrapping figurative thread around the needle of a confession designed to dredge up connectivity. Empathy. A fed passeri weeping from its perch about misery in Hesperides.

It dies when the shadow at his back levels its stare his way.

His shirt slips free and he barely feels it. Cold air takes the place of those knuckles. Thin cloth. Sheer linen. A shiver runs up his spine, and it's luck that nothing of it shows. Caught in the vicelock press of words like mind me, behave as I do, be good— caught in the medusine fix of those unblinking emerald eyes—

Everything else is just frosting.]

....hm.

[Ah, there's his belated exhale.

(Light.

Airy.

Smooth as the tip of a dagger pushed to tender skin.)

Treacherous mouth curling upwards at its edges well before he turns, leaving the both of them face to face instead.]

A babysitter with a spine.

[Be good, his brand new toy-that-isn't-one insists— but does he mean good as in the daylit definition? Or....perhaps he craves something more suited to the shadows where they stand....?

For a boy who's taken meals from two different sets of tables, he opts to frame that question in the way his own arched fingertips slide into leather beltloops, tugging once to bring them closer. Mirror cold against his naked spine— his thigh hooked rapidly between still-clothed legs, pushing them both into a sinful junction while his hands work to keep them anchored fast. Surprisingly athletic for his station.

(Oh, trouble, by any name.)]

How rigid would he like me, exactly....?

[doggish]

Siri call Astarion

Siri call Astarion

Siri tell Astarion to delete photos

Siri log into Instagram and delete photos

Delete photos

DELETE MOST RECENT PHOTOS

Siri call Astarion and tell him he is going to be in trouble when he gets home and then kill yourself

[illithidnapped]

[someone is laughing for a good five minutes before they finally get a moment away from that busy magisterial life, at least enough to respond.]

Instructions unclear.

Please move closer and speak clearly into the microphone.

[doggish]

[Why must you torment this old man.]

Vishante kaffas you stupid device how are you worse than just sending a letter

CALL ASTARION and tell him he needs to delete

no

no

no palindrome he is at work i assure you i walked him there myself i am simply attempting to use this phone no i do not need assistance it is responding well thank you it cannot be that hard it is simply stupid

call

astarion

cunning

CUNNING

A N C U N I N

[illithidnapped]

[Ooh look at that, it actually registered vishante kaffas!

(Also, you know why he must. This is the most fun he's had since— well, since last night actually.)]

Attempting to call CUNNING ANCUNIN.

>>error.

There is no known user by the name of CUNNING ANCUNIN.

Would you like to call Astarion Ancunín?

If you would like to call Astarion Ancunín please say yes.

If you would like to access Astarion Ancunín's instagram account please say instagram.

For additional assistance say help me please I am confused.

[doggish]

I am not confused you idiotic overpriced

Instagram

Instagram

I N S T A G R A M

[illithidnapped]

[If Astarion pays for this in retribution for the rest of his damned life, it'll have been worth it. Oh gods, he's in a fit in the middle of the commons; someone's going to think he's drunk, laughing this hard without another soul in sight.]

You have successfully logged in to INSTAGRAM. Welcome Astarion. What would you like to do?

For a list of commands, say: please help, I don't know how to operate a phone.

1/?

[doggish]

[doggish]

[doggish]

[doggish]

[doggish]

Done :3

[doggish]

ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE

[illithidnapped]

[Ahah— ! Found out at last.]

Oh sweetheart, don't be cross with me. I've had such a long day and this was the first thing that's brought a smile to my face all morning. ♡

[Which is true, yes, but also is the texted equivalent of rolling over and showing his belly for being caught red-handed.

Hi. Hello darling. Adore you. Just look how precious I am.]

[doggish]

I am not cross.

[doggish]

[You.]

We surpassed cross a long time ago. We surpassed cross within the first three seconds of your little joke. Cross was what you aspired towards with your first text message on this overpriced, pathetic piece of technology that is VASTLY more trouble than it's worth.