illithidnapped | INBOX II

[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.

[If she had anything but the crude mimicry of cool breath to give in those moments bridging his approach to the soft, circling slide of his thumb across her cheek, it'd be gone by the time her jaw crooks higher in his hold. This exact fantasy just a stray concept until now, when the present views and sensations twist together to drive reality home with all the potency of a perched knife in steady hands. Stolen by it all.

He's tall. He's flustered. It strikes like flint.]

You always know just how to flatter. [Comes through in a voice she doesn't recognize. In a purr she does. Cadence overriding a hightened lilt that actually fits her characteristic delivery for once, though it doesn't make it any less of a shellburst shock each time she hears it, marveling at everything. Drinking herself in through all present disbelief; the strangest mirror, when she's had none to check herself within. Only the weightlessness in her limbs and legs. Only the heaviness across her chest, and the arresting lightness between her thighs— ] Maker's Breath.

[There it is. Just once while she still can. An acclimatizing exhale. A quickened reset. As much for his sake as her own, left hot along the high tips of her ears. The back of her slim neck, held high to meet his knuckles.]

I take it that this means you've no complaints about my choice in pursued play? [Into his touch, then, a partial press forwards onto the balls of her feet, until the sinking outline of her hood threatens to swallow his hand whole— to say nothing of the rest of that cloak, and the layered clothing underneath: she swims in stolen clothing. Hers. His. A pair of taloned gloves strung looser than a second skin around her fingertips, and she fits one set of them against his elbow. His blocking frame keeps the sun at bay, but she's careful not to let too much of herself show for the risk stray sunlight poses, ashen burn a lingering prickle at her heels. Hello, little love.

Ah— correction. Large love. Very, very large love.]

Edited 2024-08-23 04:25 (UTC)

[It's her, it's her, it's her, the thought echoing in time with his thundering pulse and sweetly underscored by the lilting cadence of her voice. It's her, Astarion, my Astarion, and yet still, he might have spent minutes gaping at her in if not for that sweet reset. He exhales softly in delight, his ears flicking to hear that echoed Tevene—

And with it comes a shift, slow and subtle and yet undeniable for how it changes his countenance. His eyes go dark as his chin tips down, his eyes slow as he drinks her in inch by unsubtle inch. Hot exhales come slower now, his posture stilling as his muscles tense in anticipation— and then, with heavy deliberation, Fenris takes a step forward. And then another, his hand slipping into her cloak to wrap around her waist, pushing her until he crowds her against the wall. One leg slips forward, wedging mercilessly between her own, the line of his thigh pressing firm against welling heat. Soft and plush even through layers of clothes, and with a little grin he nudges his thigh up, grinding experimentally against her.]

Just the opposite.

[His voice has dipped down low, rumbling in the base of his throat. She's so pretty like this, her skin all but glowing in the near-sunlight and her lips curled up in such a coy smirk. His thumb strokes against her hip as his other hand slides down to catch catch her chin, keeping her face upturned.]

Beautiful thing . . . did you risk the sun just to find me?

[His thumb rubs slowly against the swell of her bottom lip once, twice, before he ducks down to brush his lips against her deadened pulsepoint, his words pooling hot against her skin.]

And now that you have . . . what do you suggest, hm? That I carry you to a brothel so that I can pin you to the bed and tease you with my tongue until you beg me to fuck you? Or that we stay out here and ru—

['Leto!' a girl's voice cries, and all at once his expression drops.]

Fasta vass—

[There's a pretty little thing across the street, waving to try and catch his attention. A blonde half-elf, her arm straight up in the air and her fingers wiggling in an obnoxiously cutesy way. She wears a green dress with, indeed, cut-outs in particularly strategic areas, her breasts and hips peeking out to reveal a white slip. She's accompanied by a little posse of similarly dressed girls, all of them with similarly styled hair, all of them decked out in an assortment of subtle golden jewelry and carefully applied makeup.

She leads her pack across the street, and with a low groan Leto straightens up from his conquest.]

My employer . . . I will be rid of them.

[But the moment she reaches the alley, she's chattering brightly, her eyes darting from Astarion to Leto and back again. 'Is this your girlfriend?' she cries, sounding for all the world as though she's delightedly interested. And yet there's something just a little calculating behind her eyes as she adds, her gaze flicking to Astarion: 'Why didn't you ever say you had one? Don't tell me you're embarrassed! And she's so pretty . . . you could have mentioned her today, you know!']

I was not—

['He's so shy,' she says at Astarion with a little giggle. 'And so gruff! How do you get anything out of him? Oh! But I'm being silly— my name is Arlynn Silverhand, of the Silverhand clan. And you must not be from around here . . . I've never seen clothes that . . . interesting before. Did you just come in from the countryside?']

[A gesture Astarion is careful not to return, if only for the fact that reaching out would stretch too close to direct light. (Also, because she doesn't damned well want to, but in the grand scheme of self-preservation and resentment, it's mostly the first that drives her present reasoning:) borrowed gauntlet lifting only two of its fingers in casual salute while enmity makes its way up onto her shoulder, crosses the back of her neck beneath collar and cloak, and dens down into the edges of a sharper smile.

What luck.]

Astarion [slinks its way out of the shadows in her stead] and so charmed to make your acquaintance. After all, I've heard so much about you my dear Silversong— though I'm ashamed that you've caught me in such a disheveled state after an earlier mishap with a visiting merchant prince.

[Alas, comes with a smile. A canting feint of her chin towards her shoulder, hood dipping morosely over her eyes.]

Oh but look at you that dress. Where in all the realms themselves did you ever find it? I've never seen anything of the sort in all my years.

Are you starting a new trend?

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