INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[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?

[doggish]

Oh.

[His tongue clicks against the back of his teeth as he breathes the word out, a disappointed little tsk even as he watches her writhe for him. She's so hot wedged against him, her feet dangling in the air and gravity doing half the work as she grinds and ruts and rocks against the hard line of his thigh. Again and again his hips roll forward, his leg pressing up steadily with every pass, a tempered reaction to her wriggling: up and down, up and down,, every pass maddeningly steady. Positioned like this he can even feel the shape of her through thin fabric inclined to cling, soft and plush and growing wetter by the second, eager thing that she is.

(A window slams open above them, and though some part of Leto instinctively recoils, oh, what does he care for who might overhear right now? When he has Astarion squirming and eager beneath him, her crimson eyes bright with excitement and a new game to rile them both up, oh, the whole world could watch for all he cares. She imagines him a hound on a leash, and he will not deny the comparison, not when he heels for her so easily— but he's a hound starved. And right now, Astarion thinks it fine sport to play keep-away with an entire feast).]

My apologies.

[His tone mockingly sincere if not drifting absently towards the end, for now his eyes have slid inexorably downwards. Leto stares with salivating starvation at the soft curves pushed up just for him, overspilling their laces so much they’re merely suggestions of fabric, there to preserve a semblance of modesty and not much more.

What he wouldn't give to duck his head down right now. One swift flick of his teeth and that shirt would fly free; one lap of his tongue and he’d show her just how sensitive she’s become. Lapping and licking and nipping eagerly at her until she begs him for more, for mercy, for his cock, for anything oh gods Leto please—

Tomorrow, Leto thinks, and finally flicks his eyes back up to hers.]

If you aren't capable of it, that's another thing entirely. I would not dare ask you to embarrass yourself.

[He tips his head down, his teeth nibbling gently at the line of Astarion's ear.]

Put on a pair of black panties, then, if that's all you're capable of . . . you'll still out-scandalize every person there.

[But oh, there, and he bites down sharp before he adds in a throaty murmur:]

Just remember I wore a plug for a week for you once. But perhaps I simply have better control . . .

[illithidnapped]

[He has the shape of her, yes, but not the sight— which serves as leverage when she otherwise has none, has nothing canting up like this. Serves as something to cling to when he corners her in every sense, playfulness incapable of taming temptation or their own demanding fervor. Sensation left ragged and obeisant. Left riled. Competitive. Inflamed. There is nothing she can do to force him to his knees, even in foreplay; no chastisement she can lay down save for the snap of her teeth or the wetted squeeze of her legs around lithe contours. Distance shrinks whether she begs him close or scolds him, and with it, so atrophies what persists of her brittle-boned resolve.

Time slows.

Pretense ages.

If they stay here much longer, oh they won't be leaving this alleyway until she's laid him flat and rut him like a beast.]

And a grand total of many less precariously sharp socialites to charm in close quarters whi....

[Never mind the open shutters that drape their shade across hunched shoulders. Painted plaster. Strands of white fringe and downturned ears. She groans, the noise expanding in her throat, thinking of that blissful week when— ]

—fasta vass!

Fenris—

[Fuck. Fuck. One part pleasure two parts need. She squirms until her ankles and toes twist, her body wracked with urgency that's winning out. Crushing her. Smothering, and scented of the Weave and well-spiced brandy. Her mouth makes for his own, trying to reach him with that difference in height, and when she's close (close close close....)




Mist floods his throat. His nostrils. In the same second that she almost let him (and her) sink into streetbound subsumation, she's torn herself free of his grip as only a vampire can.

The sky's become a vivid violet streamed with darker grey, no more orange clinging to its belly where it meets the Sword Coast sea. And a few feet away, shaking her hind foot to stubbornly dislodge a clinging bit of clothing, a white wolf snorts with her nose proudly lifted and her ears pinned irritably back.

Bad boy, Leto.]

Control.

[Is a haughty snort. A flick of her tail. (And one more shake of her paw— get off, pants—)]

Unless you want your employer to circle back in the hopes of glimpsing you once more only to stumble upon us dry humping in an alleyway, you devourable menace of a beast— come. Return home with me first. We can finish drafting up your contractual demands there.

Preferably where I can bare much more for you than a fur coat.

[doggish]

[He's not proud of the needy little whine that slips past his lips as he slumps against the wall, but it happens nonetheless. He's salivating and straining at his pants, so achingly desperate that he'd promise her anything if only she'd come back to his arms— and yet known even as he turns that she's absolutely right. Impatient pup, they'll enjoy themselves far more at home for more reasons than one, even if all he gets to do is look at her in all her glory— oh, it will be worth it a thousand times over.

But it's so hard when his cock is throbbing against his thigh, precome long since soaked into his underwear.]

Fasta vass . . .

[A mumble as he rubs one hand over his mouth, ruefully eying the white wolf currently trying (with as much dignity as she can muster) and failing to kick off his leggings. It's honestly fairly cute, if not exactly the sight he's longing to see just now. Leto exhales slowly, then lifts himself up off the wall.]

I am reminding you of this the next time you dare call me a tease.

[He says it pointedly as he reaches for her, tugging those leggings off (easy, easy, a moment's tricky work untangling her claws with thin fabric) and then subsequently gathering the rest of their discarded clothes. At least they'll hide me, he tells her with a little grin as they come out of the alley and turn towards home. It's a brisk pace he sets, his mind hastily counting down the blocks, the streets, the minutes— but even with his impatience, it's still nice to walk like this.

Admittedly, it isn't quite the same as when they stroll down the street hand-in-hand, but he's missed his Astarion all day. Getting to spend time with her, wolf or vampire or otherwise, is always a treat. He even feels some of his hunger ebb as they speak here and there, Leto telling her more about his day and hearing about her restless night.

But then they're home. They're home, and—

And there are pups to greet. Beloved, beloved pups, whom he loves very much. So much. So very, very much, and it's good to remind himself of that as he has to kneel down and soothe their overexcited barking. Their stumpy bodies wiggle furiously as they leap between Leto (always a thrill when he arrives), that pile of clothes on the floor (a delightful mixture of scents to explore), and this wolf-that-is-but-isn't-but-IS-curly-dad (which is so utterly bewildering that they can't seem to decide what to do). Which is all very cute, but not when he's so close to seeing his Astarion naked in all her glory.]

Settle— settle—

[Has anyone ever suffered more than he has today?]

his little ICON I'm dying squirtle

[illithidnapped]

[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.

She doesn't move elsewise.]

SO HUFFY

[doggish]

[Fasta vass.

His mouth has gone dry. Everything suddenly comes at a distance now, from the still-snuffling twins (mouthing at his absently scrubbing fingers) to the noises of the inn all around them. His mind wiped blank, all the frustration and humiliation of the day gone in an instant, for none of it matters in face of her.

Stunning as she glows in the moonlight. Jaw-dropping in her breathtaking beauty. So ruinously desirable and utterly fuckable with swaying breasts and plush heat that Leto damned well forgets how to speak in those first few moments. His eyes keep drifting, soaking up every detail (the stiffened peak of her nipples and every sway and bounce of her breasts; the soft plush swell of her slit tucked between soft thighs, a coy tease even now). It's slow at first, his eyes hazy as he drinks her in—

And then darker as her words finally permeate.]

You, [he says, and rises slowly to his feet,] are playing a very dangerous game.

[His voice is low and gravely, his tone as sharply playful as her own. Leto heads for the foot of their bed, not taking his eyes off her for a second as he rummages blindly in his trunk, questing until he finds— ah. Something he swiftly hides in the palm of his hand and then behind his back.

In two swift strides he's closed the distance between them, one hand outstretched— not to grab and grope and take, but to keep her still as he glides swiftly around her. His fingers are searingly hot as they wrap around the front of her throat, his body fitting in tight behind her own; he tugs her close and bites back a shudder for the inevitable grind of his trapped prick against her ass.]

Yes, my prick still aches, little lupa. I cannot tell you how badly I want to bend you over that bed and impale you on my cock until you beg me not to stop, showing you all the ways in which this body can be pleasured . . . worshipping you, perhaps, if you manage to be good. Keeping you taut and trembling for hours on the tip of my tongue, bringing you to orgasm again and again until you've drenched the sheets and still beg me for more . . . yes, I want it.

[He rumbles the words against her ear, his voice dripping with barely smothered desire. Almost imperceptibly, his fingers tighten around her throat— and she feels it, he knows. His hands are hotter than a hearthfire compared to the chill of her skin, and naked as she is, she must be so aware of every point of contact between them. The broadness of his chest and the rough linen of his shirt, the cool press of metallic buckles and rough fabric only emphasizing every single difference between them.]

And I know I won't get it until tomorrow.

But.

[A sharp nip against the shell of her ear before he drags his mouth down, kissing and biting his way down her neck without a care for how rough he's being.]

You painted yourself into a corner. Are you going to pose for me all night? Perch on that bed and spread your legs, touching yourself just to taunt me with what you won't give me . . . I will not say I would mind it. But I suspect you'll grow bored of such a ploy.

[His other hand rises, something small and rectangular with a single button and a gleaming lens held in his palm.]

You wish to be on display? Then let us show you off, lupa.

[A sharp grin as he adds:]

Now close your eyes.

[Click—]

[illithidnapped]

[Lupa.

Gods but she shivers at the sound of that. Loves it at her core the way she loves that hand against her throat and his body caught behind her forming a trifold sense of stacking compression. The anchor that lets the soft clicking of that camera's shutter roam in places that they can't. Places that if she shuts her eyes (and she does as she's told solely for the thrill of it) she can very well picture with ease in absolute reverse: glassy front mirroring the rise and fall of her tender chest, or the faint kiss of avid slick leashed between her inner thigh and the soft bead of her clit where it rests at the very crest of a faintly parted slit....

Her groan is tight where her throat (and her lungs) feel pliantly slack. Mouthwatering in the surest sense, there's no cap on the temptation to perform exactly as he implies, posing and stroking ( —is that still the term?) at herself till dawn with him laid rapt beyond her heels, unable to do anything but pant. Grit his blunted teeth. Whisper again and again what he'd do to her if given half a chance.

....Much like this, she supposes, rocking back into the full breadth of him.

Slipping her right leg to rest more openly for show, baring scalding contours in ways that let them shine....]

....how many of these are you going to take, my restless coniunx?

[doggish]

[Posed like this, he drinks in only tantalizing glimpses of her. Lurid previews told through the slow materialization of each portrait: one that's composed of soft curves pushed up and stiffened peaks jutting in the moonlight, the view broken only by a few stray fingers that coyly caress one nipple. Another as the camera drifts downwards: capturing the moment when she parts her thighs, drinking in shining, slick contours, wetness smeared on her thigh and a sudden stark shock of flushed red and pink coyly peeking out from pale skin.]

Oh, now she wishes to hear my opinion . . .

[Playfully growled as he mouths his way down the line of her neck. The truth is (and don't they both know it) no matter how he strains at his leash, he still relishes it wrapped around his throat, thrilling in how much slack he might gain through audacity alone. Again and again he nips at pale skin, suckling bruises up and down her neck that fade beneath his lips and biting all the harder to renew them.

And he lingers against her bitemarks. Each time he comes back to them, his teeth sinking in deeper, his tongue laving over ancient scars— mine, mine, and he has no hope of permanently replacing them, but there's something so satisfying about pulling back and seeing welling redness and slick saliva smeared over Cazador's claim.]  

Until you stop me.
 
[Click, one bright flash before another portrait drifts out. Another view of her, her nakedness stark as it presses against his clothed frame, her body engulfed by his.]

Until you allow me to do more than just look.

[The hand wrapped around her throat slips down. Calloused fingertips caress their way slowly along the centerline of her torso, drinking in soft contours and newly mapped skin. He takes his time with it, fingers gliding between her breasts, certain not to touch what he hasn't been allowed— and yet there's so much of her that isn't off-limits, isn't there? He traces idle patterns against the coolness of her skin, teasing beneath the hollow of her ribs, the curve of her hips— not taking, not stealing, but simply appreciating her in all her facets. Pretty thing. Gorgeous thing. Untouchable, unknowable thing, hungry to be worshiped and longed for . . . his hand is so broad as he cups her hip, thumbing at the jutting line of her hip. Little kitten licks against the side of her throat as he feels the subtle swell of her belly and slides his palm down just beneath it, right above where her subtle mound swells—

And presses.]

Until you let my fingers slip between those thighs and finger you until you're shaking with unslaked hunger . . .

[Another doting kiss. Another subtle push with the heel of his palm as his cock rolls against her ass, grinding just once—

Before he steps back.]

But until then . . . why don't you pose for me, hm? Show me what I am missing with all those new curves of yours.

[illithidnapped]

[What a mate he is, nosing at her with all the churlish insistence of his age: testing boundaries and borders and hoping he might find its iron gate nothing more than painted fenceposts— flimsy enough to expertly slip through. Not meanly. Not brutishly, or with no concern for the reason they'd been staked down in the first place, but rather draped with the sincerity of wolfish hunger. What the pups do with tins of treats wherein they stretch their paws high against shut lids and gently, gently press to see if it isn't well-secured, and appealing to the laws of physics that grander outside forces do the rest. Not a scrap of wickedness in sight, save for the growling of their bellies. Tightly locked muscle and fixated stares. All harmless.

Just hungry.

And Astarion can't blame anyone for that.

Deliberate in her own rise towards his fingers, unable to resist the pleasant pull of friction they provide. Fencing in her focus by pure, compulsive proxy, it funnels down like rain into the channels of her contours— the places where his fingerprints stick, run flush, run tight— where supple skin meets velvet slickness, and even lifelessness goes flush with fervent warmth. Its wordless confessions of interest speaking loud within each picture; the snap-click of that captive camera working like a maddened archivist-et-translator, pouring paper after slip of paper out onto the floor.

She groans.

She sighs.

Tilts her head towards him as her body cranes closer to his prick—

And then he's gone. Drawn back, away from the bliss of their entanglement, and her own hand swipes out low towards that camera in response.]

Don't you dare act coy after that, you filthy little tease— [drags from her a sharp-rimmed scoff, all teeth, that like the rest of her moves to hunt him down: crowding his larger form with her own diminutive silhouette against a nearby wall, so that he's nowhere left to run if he doesn't chance a swift withdrawal before then.]

[doggish]

[Oh, there's not a chance of him darting away, not when she's so unashamedly naked and eager to tease— Leto laughs as he willingly surrenders both the camera and his autonomy, trading both for the chance to sling his arms around her waist and drag her in close. Before she can protest, one strong thigh fits between her own, lean muscle pressing up just as insistently as it had in the alleyway. Crass, perhaps, to use the same move twice— but judging by the heated slick that gathers against his leg, Leto suspects Astarion won't mind.

Fingers splay against her lower back as his eyes flit down, fixating unashamedly on the sudden pillowing swell of her breasts against his chest. He's salivating, he realizes without an iota of surprise, and tips his head, his tongue flicking out to lick at his lips just once.]

I'm the tease?

[Gods, he can feel every place their bodies connect: stiff peaks straining against his shirt (his fingers ache to touch, to grope and fondle and pinch until she cries out in needy desire) and her lithe form aligned with his own. He pulls gently at her hips, guiding her into grinding against his thigh; his own hips roll at the same time, his cock straining and stiff as he ruts against her hip, every slow rock ravenous punctuation to what he's saying.]

Little vampire, remind me: who among us demanded we wait until tomorrow to rut, hm?

[He ducks his head, fledgling teeth sharp as he nips just beneath her jawline and noses at cool skin.]

You hold my leash between your fingers and collar me, put a muzzle on me, tell me to stay and be good— and now you claim I'm the one who withholds? Posturing as if I would not get to my knees in an instant and worship you if only you were to give me permission . . . my hypocritical amatus, you cannot have it both ways.

[And oh, he can't resist: his hands slide back, fingers smoothing over the swell of her ass in open appreciation— and then dig in eagerly, squeezing and groping soft, supple muscle, eager to take as much as he can before he's inevitably scolded away. He spreads her open, his cock twitching as he imagines the vulgar sight he cannot appreciate: Astarion with her back arched and all of her perfectly on display, spread open and slick and vulgar in all the ways he can't fully savor just yet.]

So pick, pretty thing.

[His voice low and rumbling, his breath so hot as he murmurs in her ear.]

Do you want me panting at your heels or on my knees? For I am at your command.