[And yet there's no one so adored as he. No one so flooded with wriggling attention and lolling tongues, paws (small and large alike) clamoring at him in a greeting he can't easily escape. The gentle sounds of his commands having to vie for dominance when they're crammed into thin tavern walls beside scuffling footfalls that don't know how to stop. Won't stop. Can't stop. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Never will. Love you. Missed you. Love you, love you—
Though for what it's worth, Astarion isn't exempt from squalling affection, either— but bares her fangs and leans on a lowing growl to make her point, and the twins (for Ataashi knows her manners— ) scatter like bowled targets, whining as they excitedly careen back into their father's arms.
And yet when she shifts back onto her feet, sloughing fur and tail and muzzle in pursuit of the sleek, inviting lines of shamelessly uncovered skin at a moderate distance, Astarion decides to punctuate that bottom line with one raise of her arms overhead: stretching herself out experimentally till the soft hang of her breasts sways above tautpulled muscle. Comfortably letting cool air kiss at every inch of an unfamiliar frame, feeling larger than the room itself for how loud obscenity can be.
There is no one so adored as he.
And whilst his stories entertained on the way back to one boxy Lower City tavern (how many of these have they toured over the years? It's hard to count; creaky floorboards and straw-stuffed mattresses all blur together after a time, but the memories don't), Astarion finds herself inclined to pick up where she left off when both he and cold plaster bit into her on either side. Fitting him with a look run dark as daylight now, with a night sky clinging to this little room's lonely, cornered sill. It paints her white curls blue. Leaves her lashes shadowed around a pair of garnet eyes that glint oh-so-slavishly as they size up their next enticing meal.]
Does your prick still ache?
[Would be mean if it wasn't dripping with playful adulation, her arms folding as they sink back into slack tangles of wrists and fingers tucked in just behind her neck.
his little ICON I'm dying squirtle
Though for what it's worth, Astarion isn't exempt from squalling affection, either— but bares her fangs and leans on a lowing growl to make her point, and the twins (for Ataashi knows her manners— ) scatter like bowled targets, whining as they excitedly careen back into their father's arms.
And yet when she shifts back onto her feet, sloughing fur and tail and muzzle in pursuit of the sleek, inviting lines of shamelessly uncovered skin at a moderate distance, Astarion decides to punctuate that bottom line with one raise of her arms overhead: stretching herself out experimentally till the soft hang of her breasts sways above tautpulled muscle. Comfortably letting cool air kiss at every inch of an unfamiliar frame, feeling larger than the room itself for how loud obscenity can be.
There is no one so adored as he.
And whilst his stories entertained on the way back to one boxy Lower City tavern (how many of these have they toured over the years? It's hard to count; creaky floorboards and straw-stuffed mattresses all blur together after a time, but the memories don't), Astarion finds herself inclined to pick up where she left off when both he and cold plaster bit into her on either side. Fitting him with a look run dark as daylight now, with a night sky clinging to this little room's lonely, cornered sill. It paints her white curls blue. Leaves her lashes shadowed around a pair of garnet eyes that glint oh-so-slavishly as they size up their next enticing meal.]
Does your prick still ache?
[Would be mean if it wasn't dripping with playful adulation, her arms folding as they sink back into slack tangles of wrists and fingers tucked in just behind her neck.
She doesn't move elsewise.]