INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[doggish]

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?

[illithidnapped]

[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.

[doggish]

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.

[illithidnapped]

[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.

[doggish]

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?

[illithidnapped]

[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.

[doggish]

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.]

[illithidnapped]

[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.]

[doggish]

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.

[illithidnapped]

[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.]

[doggish]

[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—

[doggish]

['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?']

[illithidnapped]

[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?

[doggish]

[On the one hand, Leto is impatient. He's tipsy bordering on drunk and his libido is roaring, his teenage body sitting up and howling for the sight of his suddenly curvaceous amatus. He wants to kiss her, touch her, spread her thighs open and lap at her little cunt until she wails in eye-rolling pleasure— and for every word that slips past Arylnn's lips, his temper rises, his impatience sharpening like a knife.

On the other hand: it is a treat to see Astarion sharpen her claws.

She so outstrips the little princess that it's more akin to a cat playing with a mouse than a real competition. Her opening remarks are barely swats at all, and yet even as Leto watches, Arylnn's mouth thins. It's a subtle tell, but a tell all the same.

'It's Silverhand, she corrects with a thin smile. 'You obviously don't know much about fashion,'

Her eyes flick lazily from the gauntlets to the varying layers Astarion wears, all of it hidden beneath a cloak. 'But it's not your fault. Believe me: in a year, you'll find plenty of knockoffs and you can enjoy it too. Maybe even wear it to . . . what was it you said? Some kind of entanglement with a merchant prince? Which one?']

[illithidnapped]

[Clever girl. And if Astarion weren't so much as half as practiced at this dance as she is after two full centuries of it, that final question would prove disastrously sharp-edged.

As things are, however, dear little Arlynn's left herself an unintended opening. A chance to parry (not to mention insult) and dare the poor creature to tip her hand by demanding that desired story a second time, once Astarion sets her cloaked back against the shadowed wall behind her— and grins.]

Ah, it is so hard to keep track of all the minor houses these days. I'm afraid I've lost the stomach for committing my memory to everything that doesn't last....

[And with a glance towards the group— ] Oh but it's almost dusk, isn't it? You lot must be in the midst of a sea of terribly important business here in the Upper City before nightfall, tsk— and here I am shamelessly keeping you preoccupied.

[doggish]

[One of her little friends does gasp at that: a tell for that slight on how swiftly houses rise and fall, and one that's swiftly hushed by the rest of the group. But it's another point scored, and Leto doesn't bother to bite back his own smirk.

'Actually,' Arlynn says, staring sharply between the two of them, 'that's exactly why we came over. We're off to a party at the Vanthampur estates— he's a nobleman,' she adds patronizingly to Astarion. 'But we need a chaperone, my father says. So—']

I am not available.

[He answers swiftly, though for sake of employment, he tries to keep his tone from utter flatness.

'You're not busy,' Arlynn counters with another little glance at Astarion. 'I know you aren't. Anyway, I thought you might say that. But Father says he'll pay you a day's salary per every hour you accompany us. Maybe even double that, if I say you did a good job.'

And that— that isn't fair. It isn't fair because to make three hundred gold coins an hour will set them up for the rest of the year; it isn't fair because they are poor enough that such an offer does make Leto hesitate, albeit momentarily. One hand tightens on Astarion's hip, his expression conflicted for all of a second—

Before it hardens.]

My answer is still no.

[Oh, it's sore to give that up. It's so hard, but it's worth it for the elf next to him. You are worth more than that, you are worth more than anything, and she is, she is, and no amount of money will change that.

There's a teetering moment where Arlynn clearly tries to decide if she can order Leto into it before realizing it isn't worth the effort. With a scoffing little laugh, she rolls her eyes. 'Fine,' she says, all that sweet prettiness gone from her tone. 'Have it your way. But don't forget you're paid to make me happy— and whether or not you get any kind of bonus is up to me. Oh: and I want you at the mansion at seven tomorrow. I have plans.']

Fine.

[It's cold, now. Cold and sullen, his expression flat as he watches flounce off. It's stupid to be riled by such a child, but it reminds him too much of Hadriana and her ilk— and gods, but he has never liked being ordered around.

But there are better things to focus on.

With a sharp exhale, Leto turns back to his mate, his hands tentative as they slip into her cloak and glide along her torso.]

Idiot. But she need not trouble us anymore. And you . . .

[Oh, her. Beautiful and soft and seductive, and Leto's eyes soften by measures as he drinks her in once more.]

You deserve all my attention, pretty thing that you are. Clever thing, to come out so far and see me. And to wear these . . .

[He catches one hand, his thumb stroking over familiar clawed gauntlets.]

They suit you.

Perhaps we'll trade outfits before the night is done, for it has been a long, long time since I used these on you.

[illithidnapped]

[Twice his day's salary per hour. Double that. Maker have bloody mercy, she could buy Astarion's honeyed flattery with that if she wanted to— her hood-masked eyes turned wide in those seconds that it takes for conversation (the term loosely used, in this particular instance) to depart on the heels of Arlynn's gathered flock.

Forgotten in the next breath when palpably strong fingers hook in flush around her ribs, displacing thinner silk; proving in the gliding ease of contact that there's nothing— nothing at all, in fact— underneath its darkened shape.

Like that, it's easy to bend to it. Easy to forget her ire, or the hungry, childish glint that noble's gaze each time she turned it Leto's way. Easier still to press those gauntlets up along the meridian of Leto's chest in shadow, more than relieved to see dusky cloud cover rolling in against an orange-colored sky somewhere behind him, looming through the scarce breaks from buildings overhead.]

You'll have to win them from me first. [Proves itself an all too familiar tease, wrinkling the delicate tip of Astarion's nose.

And then, a touch more soberly:]

Are you all right?

[doggish]

Yes.

[No, that isn't honest. Leto's eyes dart away even as he arches into that touch, drawing closer physically even as some part of him squirms fussily beneath emotional honesty. An old reaction, and one he is learning to get past. That is to say: his hesitance lasts only half a second before he focuses on her once more.]

I will be, anyway. She didn't get her way, after all— and annoyance or not, it's still pleasing to be able to say no. Whatever comes tomorrow will be its own challenge, and besides . . .

[He smiles faintly and slides one hand into her hood, gently pulling it back as dusk settles around them.]

I have something far better to focus on than her and her foolishness. Like how easily you tore her apart, vicious thing . . . and how much I would pay to watch you truly at work. Watching you prowl among socialites and tear them down to size makes attending one of those gatherings sound suddenly appealing.

[He takes another step forward, ducking his head down to nuzzle against her, bumping noses and brushing their lips together in something a little less than a kiss.]

Especially if you look like this while you're doing it . . .

[Hm. Leto's head ducks down, his teeth nipping gently at the line of Astarion's jaw.]

Mm, but why don't you make me feel better, hm?

Tell me how you'd humiliate her.

[illithidnapped]

She'd never get her way. [Isn't a platitude, though it slips out with ease under the restless edges of those teeth; chilled breath worked against his ear for both the angle he's set in on, and the strange difference in his comparative measure when he's stooped over her like this— her lips pulled upwards around an elongated fang, grinning and gasping all at once. Careful with those gauntlets, and with her effort to only take in as much air as she needs to speak so as not to draw attention, and— ]

You don't need me rushing to your defense to make it so, but.... Ah— [Is a quickened hiss, one that weaves its way in closer. More flush than all the rest. Some paltry bid at staying silent when her stomach's drawn in tight enough to choke beneath her lungs, and her knees feel selfishly inclined to forfeit.] mind yourself, wicked little thing.

[Said the vampire that punctuates that sentiment via fanged chastisement.]

I'd turn into a wolf if need be just to keep watch over you at her side. [It's the first image that came to mind. She's no idea why— just distracted, most likely. Pleasantly, dangerously distracted.] But given a soirée worth its imported Waterdavian salt, oh, darling, it'd be so easy to steal something enviable. Wear it in a way that makes it enviable, all her precious cutouts included.

And after my fashionably late arrival does everything its meant to when it comes to garnering attention, I'll spend the rest of the evening sniping every last favorable mark right out from underneath her powdered nose. [Another nip. Another scoring kiss.] Anyone that looks fondly on her will find themselves snubbed, and those who convert—

[There's a quickened gasp.

A sudden exhaled noise in the aftermath (that's as much to do with his attention as it does her own incited thoughts), palm-pressure doubling itself as she presses him back by a forearm's length at most: curls a tangle across her gleaming, all-too-transparently elated eyes. Accompanied by perhaps the most devilishly elated expression to date.]

—she said she has plans tomorrow.

What plans? Do you know?

[doggish]

[Single-minded little wolf, he whines as he's pushed back. It's an instinctive cry, a split-second protest as his growing fantasy is abruptly interrupted. He doesn't want to linger on the thought of that brat; he wants to sink to his knees. He wants to pry open those trouser laces with his teeth and drag her panties down to her knees just to reveal her cunt: flushed with heat and slick with arousal, swollen and eager and in desperate need of a clever tongue. And he'll give her that, oh, yes: he'll wedge himself between her thighs and eat her out until she's begging him to stop— her fingers fit between fierce fangs and her thighs shaking as she tries to keep some semblance of propriety, that cloak the only thing that keeps her from total debauchery— panting, mewling for him as she drips onto his waiting tongue, alternating between frantic pleas to stop and begging him for two thick fingers to spear her and spread her open as he suckles on her needy little clit—

He's salivating.

And so it takes him a moment to reorient. One bewildering blink down at her before he manages to understand what she's asking— and what that gleam in her eye means.]

Ah—

[Gods, give him a few seconds . . . it isn't just that he has to pull himself out of his fantasies, but actually remember all the inane chatter of today. His hands fall down to grip her hips, his thumbs playing unsubtely at their hem as he thinks.]

It's a birthday party.

[Oh, that's right . . .]

For one of the Gist daughters. A masquerade. It doesn't begin until that night, but she and her friends want to spend all day getting ready. Or paying other people to get them ready, more likely. I believe she's going as some kind of gilded cat.

[But oh, he knows what Astarion is getting at . . . and gods, but he wants to see it. He wants to watch her at work, swanning around and viciously undercutting every coy remark, stealing Arylnn's friends and making her miserable. It's petty and mean and he doesn't care, not right now. A sharp grin flashes over his face, his back arching as he pushes tentatively against Astarion's hands, feeling the pinprick bites of his own talons against his chest.]

Will I see you there, vicious thing?

[illithidnapped]

I should make you wait and find out.

[Lays pressure on those claws, this time more direct. More controlling. A match for the savage show of jagged incisors revealed more fully by the second.]

About everything.

[Careful, the prickling pressure she applies as it latches onto thin leather. Thinner cloth. A tiger sharpening its whetted touch.]

Whether you'll see me there. Whether I'll find my way to you— possibly even in the middle of my hunt. How we might steal away for minutes at a time. Little glimpses in unwatched corridors: your knuckles slid beneath my dress.

[Her purr nearly echoes when it slips its noose, drawing closer to his throat.]

....what I might taste like.

Feel like.

[doggish]

[Oh. Oh, and two things happen at once: his ears flush as his eyes go dark, emerald swiftly replaced by onyx even as frustration crosses his expression. Gods don't and yes please twisting together all at once, his salivating eagerness only stoked by this new game of keep-away. The thrill of stealing away with her after a full day of starved longing, half-hidden behind a pillar with her skirt rucked up and her thighs parted, her cunt dripping onto his tongue as she grips his hair and grinds against him—]

Fasta vass, Astarion—

[And yet he still wants her now. Badly enough that he leans his weight forward, ignoring the pinprick pain of his own claws biting into his skin (little droplets of blood welling and soaking into his clothes) in favor of crowding her as much as he can. His head ducks down, his teeth worrying at one upturned ear as his hand splays along her hip.]

You did not come all this way just to tease.

[Asserted as his hand slide behind her, fingers groping eagerly at one satisfyingly full cheek. Just as pliant and eager as he remembers, and yet with a softer swell that he savors as he squeezes. It's half to tease and half to test the boundaries, seeing how much she means to keep him on a leash.

His voice lowers, his breath hot against her ear as he continues:]

You wish to make me wait? But you're such a ravenous thing on the best of days, and now . . . I remember what it is to be like this, amatus. So aware of how empty you are, your cunt slick and aching for for anything thick and hot to fill it . . . and all the while, your body's become a virginal thing again. Every sensation is new and all the more electrifying for it— did you play with yourself beforehand? But you always want me more than you ever want to touch yourself.

[Gods, and he arches his back, hips inching forward without ever once touching her.]

Make me wait if you wish— but you'll be craving me as much as I am you. It's my hands you'll long to feel spreading your thighs. It's my tongue you'll fantasize about lapping at your cunt, coaxing you into as many orgasms as you can bear before you beg me to stop.

[illithidnapped]

[Virginal. Virginal. Oh what a shameless damned cheat he is for that galvanizing truth, as it if might yet be palpable. Tangible. That if she clenches her thighs shut tight enough (she isn't), she might just sense that part of her that unlike her other self, doesn't know the map of curtained rooms that reek of perfume, or the countless blunted fingers that never did. All in ways she never considered before now given the impulsive urge to drive a shiver up his spine and force his cock to go thick against the inseam of his slacks.

It's dangerous. Electric. Rattles with an intimate hunger that has fabric clinging to the inner junction of her thighs....]

You're right.

[She gives him what he hunts for when she hitches into his palming grip. Into the line of his hips and the not-quite present shape of stirring promise. How it nestles tight and warm and right against changed contours.That's the cruelty of it— the fun of it. What she expects, right down to the simplest of touches (it should be their cocks meeting. A heady stirring that works up into a swell. And yet instead, he moves in closer to pull flush. To offer friction that crawls inward like an invitation before it coils. Cinches.) Every inch he takes, she melts around it. Surrenders to it. Letting him in to feel what he can't see when she's dressed in everything that doesn't fit her, swaddled in a sun resistant cloak (even his leggings she'd stolen and tied off across her hips, and when none of her shoes fit well enough to wear, it's why the soles of her feet are scalded— why they snarl under pressure— but ask her if she cares). She's living without drawing breath. riding this to the very brink. He can buck and froth all he likes, and ruck his spine into a bow between her hips, impatient, but the reins are in her hands. Her grip the one that leads.]

I didn't come here for anything but you.

[The gauntlets don't fit her well; it's the pads of her fingertips that push in when she tries to wedge them closer.]

And believe me, I am certain that the next few hours will be torture when all I crave is the knowledge of what it might feel like to hike my leg and slip you in beneath my smallclothes— or to melt around you as you mount me in three places, rather than two....

[Gods. Gods her next exhale is a sharp one— a keening whine for how her belly's taut with urgency. A scathing need to drive him to the ground and take what's squeezed against her.]

But when I think about tomorrow, and how you might salivate to see me and stay silent as I meet your eyes— waiting for your chance to slip off and be paid solely to wet your tongue and sow chaos amongst a herd that thinks you on collared leash without lifting so much as a single [—snap— and her teeth click at his ear] finger [—click— and she's courting at his throat] of your own. [And the last move that assails him is her body crowding his: grip parting to leave room for the unbridled pillow of her chest.]

I want you to be good for me. To be well-behaved and swallow down all those urges knowing that the end reward will be that much sweeter.

[It's her mouth at his chin, craning up to reach it. Her eyes chasing his, no matter where his focus rests, red eyes darker and deeper than a lurid flood.]

Do you think you can manage it, my darling catulus?

[doggish]

[Of course he can. Of course he will. Yes the only answer that could exist no matter the question (get on your knees for me, show me your tongue, beg for me, bark for me). Yes, he'll temper himself, he'll wait— for just as she always does, Astarion manages to make the promise of later sound so much sweeter than now.

He wants that too, you see. Tomorrow promises to be a humiliating affair, but to be able to turn it all on its head and spite Arylnn and all her little friends suddenly makes it all so much easier. Tomorrow night, Leto thinks distantly, he'll steal away. He'll chase after a masked figure with silver hair and (her breasts are so soft against his chest) a curvy figure, hunting her down and pinning her in place in some forgotten hallway, her skirts hiked up around her hips and her thighs shaking as she squeals from the lapping of his tongue. He'll debauch her. Debase her. He'll eat her out until her shaking thighs can't support her anymore and then hoist her up just to fuck her in both her dripping holes, plunging his cock in deep and making her learn the shape of him (only him, only him, his pretty little quarry virginal and oversensitive despite all her bold talk).

It'll be worth it.

But that doesn't mean he has to be on his best behavior right now.]

Oh, yes.

[He rumbles it out— and then quick as a flash, shoves his thigh forward to wedge between hers, hard muscle pressing upward so insistently. He snares her hands at the same time, gauntlets rattling as he forces her wrists together and pins them above her head, watching with no small amount of interest as her breasts lift and bounce against his chest as he does.]

But I want the promise of something more.

[Now he catches her eye, his gaze just as dark and ravenous as her own are. Heat burns in the pit of his stomach, desire for her making his next exhales more labored than strictly necessary. He nudges his thigh up, grinding slowly and steadily against her cunt.]

I want to watch you flit about and play the coy seductress, knowing all the while that you're growing more eager by the second for me.

[He needs only one hand to keep her pinned; the other catches her chin again, his thumb stroking first at her bottom lip, then pressing inwards, feeling out the shape of her fangs.]

Wear a toy in one of those pretty holes. Plug yourself in anticipation or keep yourself on edge all night with one that vibrates. Wear something lacy beneath your clothes— or wear nothing at all. I'll let you pick, since you're the one in charge here.

[And she is, oh, yes, but that doesn't stop a lazy grin from stealing over his lips. Are you, pretty thing?]

Do that, and I'll be as good a boy for you as you wish.

[illithidnapped]

[His eagerness is the kindling that invites fantasies of what the future might bring (whether an hour for now, or weeks, it hardly matters)— trampled by a starburst pop of dazzling synaptic fireworks that shatter the whole of her vision as she hits the wall— feeling the hardened weight of a pinning grip across her wrists in wicked contrast to the places where air seeps in across bare skin through a loose shirt. The front of its criss-cross lacing having been forced slack and open, now incapable of clinging at that severely obtuse angle to anything but the stiffened tips of her breasts. The ones that pant. That well against him when they heave, rucking lacework and clothing caught between them in the crossfire. Sharp fangs nipping at tattooed fingertips. Viperishly quick.

The back of her neck is sweltering. Pinprick trickles of sweat lapping at pale curls in unseen places, masked by that clinging hood.

(And still she thinks of him on his knees with fire in his eyes and scorching heat inside his belly. Lust slung thick and twitching between his thighs as she directs his chin this way or that with gilded heels. Honeyed words. A waiting hound, salivating and breathing through an open mouth with a hunger for his next command, thinking this might be it. Oh in the next beat, surely she'll tell him to up and use his tongue. His aching cock. His teeth. Please, Astarion.)

But it's his urge to bargain that excites. Opens up her own jaws to fit his heavy thumb into dark, damp space. Breathing on it. Suckling it. Biting, scraping—



Above them, a pair of shutters rattle violently as they're snapped open in pursuit of what counts as fresh air in cluttered streets like these. She's grinning when her eyes twitch up to meet their shadows, measuring— oh, it's high overhead. Far enough they're not likely to be noticed or shooed off.

Yet.

So when she bites down this time, she bites down hard with the blunt corners of her teeth. Tugs on it like one of those mischievous pups before breaking away, and writhing harsh across his thigh. Locking in her legs around it, though her feet can't find the floor.]

You expect me to charm and sabotage with a toy stuffed underneath slim lace? Do you imagine I'll resurrect the dead as well?