illithidnapped | INBOX II

That's playing unfairly.

[As if he minds. As if he isn't preening over each and every word, smirking down at his notebook as heat flares in the pit of his stomach. Each incident flits through his mind in a hazy amalgam of keen sensation and disjointed memory: Astarion sprawled out beneath him, pale and perfect, trembling in overstimulated desire and mewling out Leto's name between pleas for mercy, his eyes rolling back each time he was teased and edged and forced to be good. Or: Astarion with his arms folded behind his head, a reckless grin stretched over his face and his eyes gleaming white in the darkness, watching as those hands fucked every inch of Fenris. Fingers in her mouth, her ass, thrusting and diving and stretching as all the while, she was impaled upon his cock— bounced and rut and claimed, come dripping down her face and staining her thighs, her voice hoarse and muffled as he forced her to take more and more, a brutal gangbang all his own—]

Bad dog.

[And that's to say nothing of their fight. The inglorious humiliation of Astarion coming on his face; the vengeful glee of watching him rut and rock against Fenris' shin, only to be forced into his lap and onto the floor . . . oh, he lingers on that memory for far too long. Long enough that ink soaks into the parchment; long enough that when his mind flits to the bath, warm skin and slick fingers and endless intimacy tucked into soft words, he's long since had to cross one leg over the other for the sake of his own dignity.]

I said one, little cheater. Now what am I meant to do with you?

[Oh, gods, he wants to be home so badly. He deserves to be home; they both deserve to be able to pounce on each other after this. And yet he is not so comfortable with his own magic that he'll risk even an unguarded flame, never mind teleportation— so the long way it is. He'll start walking home just as soon as he can get himself under control.]

But if you're going to be so clever, my vampire, then continue to put it to good use. Tell me the real one now.

Edited 2024-08-15 03:52 (UTC)

[Ah see this is where play and reality collide— and divide. No waffling or wistful rumination takes over once crimson eyes fall across the bottom of that page and its punctuating inquiry. As with all things Astarion it's only the performative that comes on with a grand amount of hemming and hawing and sleight-of-hand adjacent noise. The mask. The masquerade— like eyespots feathering a tiger's ears.

The truth, on the other hand, has no such herald.]

Rialto.

[Of course it's Rialto. What else would it be? Leto's answer is the very same, without pause for thought or reflection. And that's not to say there haven't been other nights that were special— of course there were. Not just fun or thrilling, but intimate in a way that Leto hadn't known you could have, full of whispered words of devotion and touches that soothed his very soul. Nights where it felt like their souls tangled together as much as their bodies, endlessly intimate and achingly adoring.

And yet Rialto still stands out: a shining beacon of a night whose mere mention has Leto smiling warmly, endeared and in love.]

I have few treasured memories, but that is one of them. It will always be one of them. The way you looked as you stood in the sea, fireworks around us . . . the way you sounded the first time you told me you loved me.

[How I have loved you for so long, menace that you are, and the words seared themselves onto his soul, as permanent as any scar.]

And I think often, too, of the night that followed. All of it, from the things you showed me to the ways in which we talked . . . there is not a detail that does not remain clear in my mind. That was the first time

[Well, for a lot of things, actually. There's a pause, and then he scribbles beneath that unfinished sentence:]

I should not have asked you such a question when I am still so far away. You have me longing for you despite the fact I may die in these endless backalleys and dead-ends.

I suppose your vampiric repertoire doesn't include a way to shorten the distance between the Upper City and home, hm?

[Strewth— ]

Spoken as if we aren't in a constant state of pining, my little love.

[Hells and Maker both have mercy, he wracks his brain to scour in search of anything— anything at all— that might prove useful in capacity enough to ferry either himself to Leto, or Leto to him in reverse with the sort of urgency reserved for dire circumstance alone. It isn't that he can't regulate his own overspooled intensity (or, at the very least, this particular instance of it), but that eyes on the outside looking in could never understand what it feels like to be so thoroughly inflamed over memory alone. And it hardly matters whether he'd meant the vulgarity of entanglement in a Rialtan brothel's sheets or the way shore water (terryfing at first blush for a creature prone to hadal dread) reflected its bright touch over a set of handsome, sharp-edged features— bisected by gleaming stripes of silvered lyrium— because both are entangled past the point of borders holding weight. All he wants is to be close. To brook conversation in person rather than across the penned-in distance until nightfall overtakes.

Wolves? No— there's only one in Baldur's Gate aside from himself. Bats? He could better avoid sunlight in smaller guise, but that hardly minimizes said journey. And as for magic? Teleportation is out, thieving byways are more likely to invoke trouble rather than ward it, and as for the sewers?

Gods, no.

Still, he tries. Again and again, for far longer than he should, and the stretch where nothing else lies written is sole witness to it.]

Alas.

Scant little comes to mind at present, but sit tight, sober your pretty little self up— or better yet, don't— and I'll continue seeing what I can do.

Yet in the meanwhile, as I think fondly on how you looked with the blood of a would-be assassin still flecked across your throat and shoulders, panting at the thought of sinking underneath my jaws and oil slickened prick at both ends....

You still have a story to tell regarding what your earlier job entailed.

[Do you hear that, Astarion? A groan loud enough that perhaps it manages to cross miles, rumbled petulantly with no thought nor care for the amused stares it nets him. Leto grumbles loudly at his notebook and redoubles his pace, which doesn't really mean a whole lot when he keeps getting turned around.

But he can do this. Even while drunk, he can probably do this. And if he can't, the sun is closer to setting than rising, so either way, he'll be home soon enough.]

we shall what you can manage before I make my way home on foot. I am not sitting tight after you write about filling me at both ends. you owe me for telling you this, and I aim to collect when i see you next.

[And honestly? He does consider dodging the question again, if only because he'd much rather continue down this filthy line of thought. But this is the second time Astarion's asked, and he'll get concerned if Leto keeps avoiding it.

So, with a heavy (and unheard) sigh, his hand a little sloppier thanks to walking faster and writing all at once:]

if you need to know: i was hired as a temporary bodyguard for the week for a half-elf merchant princess who wished to attend varying events. what I was not told was that today was for her own pleasure. I have functioned as glorified bag holder for the past six hours as we went from varying boutiques and stores, buying outfits and jewels and perfumes and makeup and anything else you can think of. my opinions were consulted and promptly ignored, which is for the best, as I began to agree with anything she said just to shut her up.

Be told: apparently earthen tones are passé, and "cutout chic" is fashionable now. i don't know what that means, but she apparently did. now you know.

[She wasn't, honestly, a terrible person. Spoiled, but sweetly so; it's just that Leto isn't a damn servant.]

and i still have four days before i'm done. [Whiny little pup, but he's drunk, leave him be.] at least she means to attend a party later this week, so i can actually do my damned job.

[Oh if he doesn't laugh at first, in part because it's needed when he's so kept on the ropes of his own willpower at present, still pacing with intent to leave— and in part because it's utterly darling, that keen distress. Drunken and sincere and pampered and (rightly) expecting so-much-more for hired trouble.

But then:]

Cutout chic?????? Fashionable????

Is she a child? Is she delusional? [Wait— ] Just how much is she paying you for this?

not enough

[No, no, that's not true. That's very much the opposite of true, actually.]

a hundred gold coins a day, with traveling expenses included. which is why i could get you a present.

what's wrong with cutout chic?

what is cutout chic??

and she is not a child, but still young enough she and her friends giggle a great deal, so take that as you will. i will not call what they did making a pass at me, but it was unpleasant.

Edited (OH MY GOD TAG PELASE) 2024-08-17 04:58 (UTC)

[You know, there was a great deal more Astarion intended to say. Well— write, if semantics are involved, but yet again, his own reactive nature takes hold, and already he considers the merits of draining that creature dry.

Her and all her friends, in fact.]

Hollyphantshite is what it is. Untailored faff with holes punched into it in a crude imitation of class- why not just quit this, darling? She's obviously beneath you.

a HUNDRED GOLD COINS a day

i would not mind seeing YOU in clothes with holes in them

you would make them look good

she did not

i do not think a woman's form is flattered by the addition of cut out holes where her breasts should be, undershirt or no

[It's not cute!]

a hu

[ —OKAY. OKAY NO. NO NO NO, FINE. FINE, nothing is worth the price of his amatus' dear dignity, but—

Oh all things considered, it is far more tempting than it ought to be. If the job itself were finished, that alone would cover the cost of their rent for the next month at the very least. The temptation's there, but the will to concede overrides.

For now.]

Counterpoint: that woman.

Because in turn I'd also pay a great deal to see you sporting that particular raiment regardless of any and all fashion trends.

[Oh, see, now, this is a far more agreeable subject.]

Oh? You still need to go first. I have yet to see you transformed, and I would like very much to remedy that. If you're wearing something filthy, all the better.

But tell me: how much? Or, if it's more agreeable to you: tell me what you'd be willing to do to see it.

Naturally. I still owe you a great deal in that regard already, as I recall.

Is this your way of telling me you have a negotiable price?

you do.

and yes.

i like the thought of you having to earn a treat for once. any treat, cutout outfit or otherwise, but you get your way without earning it far too often.

besides: i have miles to go before i'm home. unless you want to play a more mundane game, entertain me. tell me what you'd pay for your prized diamond, hm?

[Uhf— ]

Nonsense. If there was ever a tally of which of us proves most spoiled, my darling, you would top with ease.

But then what don't you top with ease? Must be so hard for you right now, still at such a distance with your mind and sobriety in the gutter, dreaming of what I might surrender just to see you in a filthy little ensemble.

oh, i need not dream it

i can remember it with ease

you offer me anything and everything when you have the least little resistance. my fierce vampiric lord turned mewling slut the moment i demonstrate i can still pin you with ease whenever i wish . . . perhaps even easier now [the slightest pause, the slightest hesitation] with my magic.

[Move on, move on:]

and if it is hard for me to walk to you, it must be even worse for you: left home alone with too many toys and so much free time . . .

why don't you use one now for me? if i am truly more spoiled, then indulge me in my request.

[Hells damn it all, there's a certain blood-in-the-water quality to those moments when Leto truly gets worked up into a vulgar froth, and as keenly (happily, in fact) as Astarion does indeed bend to its grip, he always manages to forget just how crippling it can be. How decisively weak in the knees it leaves him.

Probably something to do with thousands upon thousands of festering attempts at courtship over the years, convincing him he's somehow well immune to a few whispered words.

And he is. He very, very much is.

But not from Leto.]

When there's no guarantee you'll actually make it home without a fanged intervention, you'll forgive me for not sinking to my knees atop the thickest thing we own the second that you ask. [Oh it isn't true: Astarion can damn well picture his rough-edged moon elf consort crawling home if need be— though given his penmanship Astarion also suspects that Leto isn't that far gone. It's just fun to play.]

Arrogant little beast that I'm beholden to, tell me first how long you think you'll be if I do give in and can't rescue you before sunset. Tell me just how far hunger will carry you. Tell me what you hope I'll greet you with—

or perhaps entrap you with the second you walk right through that door. And I'll tell you if you're right.

Edited 2024-08-20 01:55 (UTC)

bossy thing. you ask while not bothering to even elaborate what kind of ensemble you might want to see

[But no, no, he's into this now.]

you make it tempting to say "the thickest thing we own", you know— but i think i'd rather see you atop that one toy you tormented me with in the sex shop. the one that vibrates and changes temperature.

the thought of walking into the apartment just to see you with your legs splayed and your back arched, fucking yourself with that toy and begging me from the moment i cross the threshold to touch you, tend to you, fuck you and mount you in earnest . . . it's an alluring fantasy, amatus.

but if it's entrapment you're in the mood for, i would not say no to those ropes we bought that day too. you're vicious when you think you have me helpless, and all the more sadistic if you've been baited first.

an hour. perhaps less. that's how long it will take me.

am i right?

[That makes two of them that are deeply into this now.]

No—~

that's not the route I took almost

oh from the moment we were discussing fashion.

you what

[Scrawled more than anything, for in the next moment Leto's head is craning, glancing rapidfire up at the rooftops and all around him as he tries to spot— what? But it's so hard to say when the sun is still glimmering and his lover can turn so many things.]

[There is, after a time, not sound but a flicker of movement in the borders of those crowded streets: a shifting of shadow within shadow, only able to exist in the places where a low-hanging sun can't seem to fully reach— and within that obscurity, two hollow eyes, red around reflective pupils that shine brighter depending on where they flick. Easily waved off as a stray cat if not for height and starkness, let alone the visible lifting of a heavy cloak should Leto's eyes adjust.

Astarion. It must be. His lying con artist of a kadan, come to bring him home.

—only underneath that hooded cloak is a woman instead. White curls slung low across her eyes and around the borders of her face, offsetting kohl-kissed lashes that sit hooded once he's near. Her fangs glint white when she smiles, pulling high to one side.

And most of all, she smells of their wolf. Their home. Lilac and leather oil, bergamot and brandy, and the faintest whiff of transplanted lyrium.]

Took you long enough.

[Never mind she only just managed to track him down, and with only a few trace scorchmarks for her trouble.]

I— uh—

[Honest to gods, he forgets how to talk.

His brain is brought to a screeching halt from the mere sight of her, this ethereal creature that is his kadan and yet not all at once. His tongue is suddenly thick, his eyes darting about her face frantically as he realizes what she's done. Somehow he manages not to trip over himself as he heads from the street to the alley, dodging people in a daze as his eyes stay locked on Astarion.]

You—

[And he can't explain it. He can't understand why he's suddenly so flustered, the tips of his ears reddened and his eyes as wide as saucers, looking every inch the adolescent he appears to be as he stands in front of his mate— save maybe that she's so beautiful.

Stunning. Breathtaking. Astarion is always attractive, Leto swears, but this is so new. The sleek lines of her face are softened just slightly, her scarlet eyes more doeish than normal as she glances up at him through dark lashes. It's so hard to see the shape of her beneath her cloak (and trust he looks, eager to see all of her); Leto's eyes flick down, up, down, and then finally up again, his expression nothing short of delightedly bewildered.]

It's . . . when did you—?

[Murmured in Tevene, and the undercurrent is: it is you, isn't it? It must be. It has to be. She smells the same, looks the same down to the arrangement of freckles and moles, her hair longer but with the same curl pattern and her lips curved in the most familiar smirk— oh, it must be Astarion, and yet Leto's hand hesitates just once before cupping her cheek.

Small, he thinks in unconscious echo as he turns her head up to face him. Not absurdly so, but there's a difference there, and it thrills him to realize it. Small, their height difference suddenly widened by a matter of inches, her frame slighter and softer than he's used to. His thumb strokes gently over the curve of her cheek again and again, his body already angling to stand between her and the street in unconscious bid at protectiveness.]

How did you— when did you— how did you get here?

[Oh, gods, he sounds inane, but he can't help it, not when his mind is still struggling to play catchup with current events. He wants to kiss her and doesn't dare, not just yet, gripped with a shyness he still struggles to understand.

He also can't help the way he keeps trying to get a glimpse of her beneath that cloak: not crudely so much as avidly (and drunkenly) curious about how this potion treated his lover. More to the point: what bits of her it emphasized, and where, and how much. He wants to know, but . . . oh, to hell with it, he'll find out soon enough, he thinks, and focuses back up on her face once more.

Sincerely, then:]

You're so . . . you're beautiful.

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